Warshot (The Hunter Killer Series Book 6) by Don Keith (dark books to read TXT) 📕

ships waited out in deep water for their turn to enter the Sand Island Terminal.

Brian Edwards, captain of the US Navy’s nuclear-powered submarine George Mason, took it all in from his perch on top of the submarine’s sail. It was a time for calm reverie and relaxation before the hectic activity of entering a new homeport for the first time. A rare opportunity to enjoy the beauty, the pure peace and quiet of a dawn at sea.

“Captain,” Lieutenant Bill Wilson, the officer of the deck, called out. Always the interruption, Edwards thought. Always. “Messenger to the bridge with your coffee and the message traffic.”

Edwards nodded and returned to watching the distant horizon. Such vigilance was part submariner caution, the need to know about everything in his immediate world, and part fascination with the broad, open expanse of water that surrounded his warship. But he also wanted to keep an eye on something else going on at the moment. He occasionally glanced down into the bridge cockpit where Bill Wilson was busily teaching Ensign Sam Walters the intricacies of driving a submarine while on the surface. Walters was the newest officer in the George Mason wardroom. Fresh out of SUBSCHOL and the NUCPOWER training pipeline, he had reported aboard just as they were leaving Norfolk for the trip to George Mason’s new homeport in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii.

The messenger with the coffee, Seaman Strutt, appeared at the top of the ladder. With the lookout and the two junior officers already in the cockpit in the sub’s sail, there really was not room for him to come all the way up into the daylight. He had to be satisfied with seeing the pale blue sky looking up from their feet. Strutt handed up the aluminum message board and cup of coffee for Edwards before taking one last glance at a clear sky and breathing in a deep draw of fresh air. Then he disappeared back down the ladder.

Edwards was idly leafing through the admin traffic and sipping his coffee when the 7MC speaker blared, “Bridge, Conn, XO to the captain. We are in voice comms with Pearl Harbor Control. We are delayed an hour for on outbound carrier. Also, we will do a PERSTRAN at Papa Hotel. Commodore Glass will be riding into port with us.”

Joe Glass had been Edwards’s skipper on Toledo when Edwards was XO of that boat. Now Glass was Commodore of Submarine Squadron Seven, based at Pearl. That once again made Glass his boss. Edwards smiled. It would be good working for Joe Glass again. And it appeared the commodore was looking forward to taking a very short cruise on a submarine again.

But right now, they had an extra hour to kill while they waited for an aircraft carrier to exit the harbor. Free time while underway and on the surface was not to be squandered, even for something as enjoyable as sightseeing off Diamond Head.

“Mr. Wilson,” Edwards called down to the pair in the cockpit. “Please call below and have the XO get Oscar ready for a swim. Then discuss man-overboard procedures with your eager trainee.”

Wilson grinned. “Yes, sir. We’ve already discussed the Y-backing and racetrack maneuvers. I was just covering the Williamson turn now.”

Edwards smiled as he watched the young lieutenant swinging his hands around, explaining to the even younger ensign the complicated maneuver for bringing the big submarine around one hundred and eighty degrees so that it steamed right back down the precise same track that it had just covered. That way, if they lost sight of Oscar, or did not know where Oscar fell overboard, they could retrace their steps across the vast ocean until Oscar appeared right off their bow. At least that was the theory.

Seaman Strutt appeared at the top of the ladder again. This time he handed Oscar up to the lookout, who, in turn, gave him to Edwards. Oscar was, in reality, a large plastic trash bag with a crudely drawn face and the letters “OSCAR” written in magic marker. The bag was weighted so that it would float upright and not go skittering across the wavetops, all to adequately simulate some unfortunate crewmember who might fall overboard.

Edwards threw the dummy off the sail. It bounced once on the main deck and then fell into the sea. Once sure it had splashed down, the lookout yelled, “Man overboard, port side!” and began pointing at the green trash bag bouncing along the submarine’s side.

Ensign Walters grabbed the 7MC microphone and shouted, “Man overboard, port side! Left full rudder! All stop. Stop the shaft.” So far, so good.

As the rudder swung over, George Mason’s stern pushed away from where Oscar floated as the pump jet propulsor spun to a halt, lest the poor "man overboard” should abruptly and tragically end his days by getting run through a giant Cuisinart.

Oscar fell astern of the submarine as the 1MC blared, “Man overboard, port side. Man overboard party muster at the lockout trunk.”

Chief Schmidt, the pilot, sitting at his station some twenty-five feet below the bridge, was reporting, “Passing heading two-seven-zero, my rudder is left full. No ordered course. Passing two-six-zero. No ordered course.”

The sub began to sluggishly wallow in the waves as she slid to a halt. The 7MC blared, “Hold Oscar visually, bearing one-three-two, range three hundred yards.” The reports were coming fast and furious. Edwards squatted down so that he could more easily coach the now flustered ensign.

“Mr. Walters, let the rest of the crew do their jobs. You just need to drive the boat. What do you think the pilot is telling you? Don’t you think he needs a course to steer?”

“Oh. Uh...yes, sir.”

“Well, then, let’s get some speed on and drive around to pick up poor Oscar,” Edwards suggested. “Why don’t you come to ahead full. When the heading comes around to sixty degrees off your old course, shift your rudder and order the reciprocal course. With this boat’s advance and transfer, that will