The submarine Al Akrab, Mayport Fleet operating areas, Tuesday, 15 April; 0435
“Sonar, this contact continues to close us?” The Captain swung the periscope around, from south to west, straining to see some lights in the darkness above.
“Yes, Captain. The three around us are dead in the water; generators, but no mains running. This one closes at slow speed, from the southwest. He is passing through rain squalls.”
“Yes, I know. I can see the lights from the three, but I cannot see this one. Prepare to secure snorkeling.”
The order went aft over sound-powered telephones. After a moment, the sound of the big diesel engine changed, as the generators were taken off the charging circuit. They had been snorkeling since 0100, continuing the pattern of finding some fishing boats, positioning themselves so that the fishermen were initially between them and the coast, and then coming up to periscope depth, sticking up the snorkel mast, and lighting off the diesels to recharge the battery. If there were hydrophone arrays on the bottom near the naval base, they would not hear another diesel engine light off amongst all the other diesels of the fishermen who carried out a nightly pattern of moving and drifting. The relative position was important only for the initial light-off; after that, they only had to stay near the fishermen to mask the diesel. After three hours, they were now surrounded on three sides, north, east, and south, by the commercial fishermen, who were blissfully unaware of the 3000 ton fish lurking nearby. This night they had the added
advantage of passing rain showers, which further muddied up the sound picture.
The Captain took another full circle look with the scope. He could see the lights of the nearby fishing boats lying a few miles away on three sides, white spots on tall booms, topped by red and white hazard lights. He had lingered in this area for the good sound masking, but the new contact approaching from the southwest was going to spoil the temporary nest. Time to go. And since there were nets down on three sides, he would have to make his exit initially to the southwest before turning back out to sea, east away from the coast into the safety of the Stream.
“Down scope.”
The periscope hissed down into its well, the arms folding up with a metallic snap.
“Secure snorkeling.”
“Secure snorkeling, aye.”
Immediately, the sound of the diesel died away, and everyone felt a squeeze on their ears as the pressure changed in the boat.
“Main air induction valve cycling. Main air induction valve is closed; lowering snorkel mast,” reported the diving officer.
The lights on the hull apertures status board went from red to orange to green, indicating apertures closed and locked. The pressure in the boat stabilized. Everyone in the control room opened and closed their jaws several times to equalize their ears.
“Main control reports the drive motors aligned to the battery, turns for three knots, ready to answer all bells. The diesel engines are secured.”
The Captain rubbed his eyes and thought for a moment. The watch was waiting for a course order, as the boat crept along at three knots at sixty feet. He saw the Musaid shift on his chair, his eyes haggard from his continuous watch in the control room. He would have to do something about that; the senior chief was making a religious vigil out of this. He missed his shadow. His edict was taking other tolls
around the boat as well. He brushed away the intruding thoughts and concentrated on the surface picture above.
“Come left to course 230, speed six knots; make your depth forty-five meters.”
“Course 230, speed six knots; making my depth forty-five meters, aye.”
The sub tilted downward, and the shafts vibrated slightly as the engineers responded. The planesman kept his planes aligned in the shallow dive position, the foreplanes on the bow tilting down, the after planes slightly up, like an airplane making a dive. The diving officer was using the boat’s speed to settle down to the ordered depth, rather than flooding tanks.
“Bearing to the approaching contact.”
“Sir, bearing is 250, but the bearing is indistinct due to surface weather.”
“Very well; course 230 is good enough separation.”
“Passing thirty meters,” announced the diving officer.
“Very well,” responded the Captain. He grimaced to stretch the muscles in his face. He too, was tired.
Snorkeling required precise depth control, or else the boat might dip a few feet under the surface, which caused the float valve in the snorkel pipe to slam shut, pulling an instant vacuum in the boat as the engines drew on the boat’s atmosphere rather than the outside air to sustain combustion. When the pipe broke free, there was yet another hard pressure change. The snorkel pipe system was identical to the tube used by skindivers to keep their heads just below the surface. It operated on the same principle—if the top of the tube went under, a ball was forced onto its seat to prevent water ingestion. It was very hard on the crew if depth control was not just about perfect, which, in the Al Akrab, meant that the Captain had to be present in the control room. There was also the added danger of sticking the snorkel mast too far up, which might attract the unwelcome attention of a passing radar. They needed three to four hours a night to keep the battery up to 98 percent. In normal circumstances, the Captain could leave snorkeling to the watch, but there were too many possibilities for
things to go wrong, either with depth control, surface contacts, or even a problem with the diesel. And the consequences of error were now severe enough to warrant his presence. He was beginning to wonder what he would do if someone else made an egregious error, and he had to follow through on his threat. He now realized that he would have to speak to the crew; he had to defuse this building crisis, a crisis of his own making. The red rimmed eyes of the Musaid reproached him every time he looked across the control room.
“Depth is forty five meters; the trim is stable; we are steady on 230.”
“Very well. Bearing to the approaching contact.”
“Bearing is 255, drawing slowly right; doppler is up doppler.”
“Very well.”
Good, he thought; drawing right meant that he would pass near the fisherman but not under him, in case he was dragging a net. But the net was not likely, as the boats seemed to go much slower when seining than this one was going. Someone coming out to join the rest of the crowd.
“I will have some tea,” he announced to no one in particular. The messenger of the watch scrambled aft to rouse the cook.
The Submarine Al Akrab, submerged, 15 April; 0455
They had ten seconds of warning as the Rosie III’s net tow cable screeched its way along the submarine’s side from the bow to the base of the conning tower. Then the submarine lurched into a momentary up angle as the off-axis pull of the cable and the fishing boat above exerted a sudden 80 tons of force. Everyone in the control room went sprawling except the sonarman, the planesman and the helmsman, who were all belted into their console seats. The Captain’s hot tea splashed down the sonarman’s back, evoking a howl from the startled sailor, but his cry was overwhelmed by the
noise of unsecured gear crashing about in the control room and the hideous screech of the wire cable against the steel outer hull of the submarine. The lights in the control room blinked off, then back on, and a cloud of dust billowed momentarily above their heads.
The Al Akrab quickly levelled off, causing a second round of scrambling as men tried to regain their balance. The submarine, displacing almost three thousand tons submerged and going ahead at six knots, had pulled the 80 ton fishing boat under in less than thirty seconds, assisted by the fishing boat’s autopilot, which had tried to compensate and instead had sealed the boat’s fate by commanding a turn which had become her death spiral.
The Captain was the first to recover his wits. He half rose from the deck, wedging himself into a semi-upright position by the attack director as the submarine levelled.
“All stop!” he roared. “Right full rudder! Maintain up angle on the boat!”
The planesman pulled his yoke all the way back, trying to maintain the up angle caused by snagging the tow cable and the net. The simultaneous right turn had the effect of turning the face of the conning tower into the direction of the pull, allowing the net and cable to be stripped off with a great metallic, slithering noise. The momentary up angle on the boat kept the tangled mass out of the submarine’s screws; the steel cable in the screws would have been fatal to their own survival. The Captain heard the mess pull free, and moved quickly to restore dynamic stability. An ominous rumbling, bubbling sound could be heard aft for a few seconds.
“All ahead together, standard! Rudder amidships! Steady as you go. Depth?”
“My depth is passing through thirty meters, Sir!”
“Make your depth twenty meters.” He pulled himself fully upright, and grabbed the intercom box, as the boat once again began to level off.
“Main engineering, report!”
There was a moment of silence, punctuated by the noises of the watch team in the control room regaining their feet
and their efforts to pick up some of the equipment rolling around in the control room. The Captain felt an enormous pit in his stomach at the thought of what had just happened. Without ever having experienced such a thing, he knew that he had snagged a fishing net. He wondered if they had capsized the boat above.
“Sir, main engineering reports all systems functional. We are doing the compartment check now, but there is no report of flooding or fire.”
“Very well.” He switched off the intercom. “Depth?”
“Sir, my depth is twenty three meters, coming to twenty meters.”
“Recommend we slow to three knots, Sir,” said the Musaid, from his corner perch by the diving officer’s station. Idiot, thought the Captain. I ordered a standard bell, and then failed to take it off. At twelve knots, we could broach at this depth.
“All ahead slow together, make turns for three knots. Prepare to surface.”
The watch team jumped to configure their boards for surfacing. He looked over at the senior chief, and nodded. Thank you for thinking when I stopped thinking, the look said. The Musaid, his mahogany face impassive, nodded back. Voices could be heard throughout the boat as the crew picked themselves off the decks and restored order. The Captain watched the depth gauge and the pitometer log, waiting for the speed to come down to three knots. When it finally did, he ordered the scope up, and took a look around as it broke the surface above. Darkness. Darkness and rain; he could see the trails of raindrops sweeping across the glass optics of the periscope. Twice he thought he could see white lights on an easterly bearing, but they might have been raindrops on the scope. He swung the scope through 360 degrees, crabbing around the shining brass column. Still looking around through the scope, he called to the sonarman.
“Sonar, what do you hear?”
“Rain, Captain. Nothing else.”
“Bring up the ESM mast.”
Behind the periscope rose another steel tube, this one with an electronic listening array mounted on the top. The watch officer across the control room energized a panel as the ESM mast came up, and three oscilloscopes wavered into life. A junior officer slid into the console seat, and adjusted the displays.
“Search for radar—airborne or surface ship radar.”
“Sir, I detect a Raytheon device, bearing 095, classifies as a fishing boat radar.” The petty officer twirled two knobs as he searched the spectrum. “Another at 140; nothing else, no naval emitters.”
“Very well. ESM mast down.”
The Captain rotated the periscope to 095 and then to 140. He still thought he could see white lights, but the heavy rain obscured everything. Now he had to decide. He had given the order to prepare to surface because he had to know what had happened to the fishing boat. But the green digital clock display in the scope told him that it was only an hour until nautical twilight. Should he wait until daylight to see what he could see? He thought he had seen lights; in rain, it meant that the three fishing boats were probably not more than five miles distant; one at least had his radar on. But would anyone be looking at the radar while handling nets? Pulling his face away from the scope, he saw his Deputy watching him from across the main plotting table, a neutral expression on his face. He probably wonders who will be shot for this. He is frightened, thought the Captain. So am I.
“Down scope! What do you recommend, Deputy Commander?”
The startled Deputy looked uncomfortable for a moment, but then appeared to stiffen his resolve.
“Sir. We should surface, I think. Yes. We need to examine the conning tower for damage, and we must find out if we capsized that accursed boat. And if there are survivors.”
The Captain’s eyes narrowed, and he swallowed. Survivors. Yes, he had forgotten that possibility. Some of the control room crewmen were looking at him. Survivors.
“Up scope.”
The periscope came back up, and he looked around again, going slowly. No lights. More darkness and rain. A flash of lightning startled him, causing him to flinch with a muttered curse. The officers watching him in the control room saw his eyes reflect the blue-white flash from above, as if he had looked at a welder. The flash momentarily destroyed his night vision.
“Down scope!”
He subconsciously waited for the rumble of thunder, which they could sometimes hear at periscope depth. Decision time. Dawn was coming.
“Up scope! Surface,” he commanded. He pressed his face to the optics as they rose and continued to watch through the scope, turning it constantly, as the boat tilted up, her ballast tanks blowing noisily. He did not look away from the eyepieces until he felt the boat level on the surface, the wash of a heavy rain squall audible now above them. While he scanned the dark horizon he listened subconsciously to the routine reporting sequences of valve lineups and the final announcement from the diving officer.
“Sir, the boat is stable on the surface.”
He pulled his face back from the periscope. The watch officer was looking at him. “Sir, do we want to take a sweep with the radar?”
The Captain glared at him, transferring his anger at what had happened to the hapless watch officer.
“Don’t be a fool! The one thing that can confirm our presence here, even more directly than a visual sighting, is an intercept of our radar. There is an entire naval base full of ships who might pick that up.”
He was shouting now, and the men backed away from him.
“I have told all of you a thousand times: the radar is a fire control device! It is for killing, not for looking!”
He felt his hands gripping the periscope handles painfully hard. Control, control, get yourself under control.
“No,” he growled, restraining his breathing. “We must
use our eyes.” He turned to look directly at the watch officer.
“We must use our heads, above all, our heads.”
He looked around at the white faced men in the control room, staring at each one, seeking their assurance that they understood the peril of any emission from the submarine. There were nods. He turned back to the watch officer.
“Open the hatch. Watch officer, we shall remain on the battery. Helmsman, reverse course 180 degrees. I want to go back down our track. Increase speed to five knots.” He turned to find the Musaid.
“Musaid, assemble the special team. Make them ready to come on deck through the forward hatch at my command. Deputy, reconstruct our track for the past fifteen minutes; I wish to retrace it exactly. Adjust the course so that we do. Fire Control, raise the ESM mast. Keep the ESM system manned, and alert me at once to any military radar intercepts.”
As the control room watch scurried to carry out his orders, he walked forward to the conning tower ladder, and began to climb. Two lookouts scampered up the ladder ahead of him. A stream of warm and wet fresh air flowed past him into the boat as he neared the open hatch above. Salt water pattered on to his face. The noise of the rain was more pronounced in the conning tower.
His eyes were not night adapted when he rose up into the conning station, making him doubly blind. The rain rebuked him, soaking his face and hair, and then his uniform. He had not thought to get raingear. The two lookouts on either side were equally blind, having preceded him from the white light of the interior. The three of them waited patiently as the boat came around in a slow turn, the noise of the rain drowning out any other sound. Without the diesels, the boat was silent as a ghost, a dark shadow in the sea.
After five minutes, they could begin to see again. The Captain leaned over the front of the conning tower. He realized from the way that the rain blew over his face that the windscreen mounts were gone, as well as the pedestal
for their running lights fixture. There was one scrape mark running up the full height of the conning tower, the bruised steel glinting in the rain. He thanked Allah they had not had a scope up. The rain suddenly began to diminish, and the visibility began to extend in every direction. As the rain dwindled, all three reached for the binoculars the lookouts had brought up with them. After a few more minutes, he could begin to see the twinkling lights of the fishing boats on the eastern horizon. He also sensed that the sky was beginning to lighten in the east.
“Captain,” came the quiet voice of the Musaid over the intercom. “The special team is assembled under the forward hatch.”
“Very well. Keep them ready. Night adapt their eyes.”
The special team was a seven man squad of naval infantry. They lived by themselves in one corner of the forward berthing compartment, having little to do with the rest of the crew. They were big, silent, and hardened soldiers, disdainful of all sailors. Trained in the Palestinian commando camps, they spent most of their time doing physical exercise and cleaning their AK-47 assault rifles. Their leader was a ferocious looking black Algerian from the Atlas mountains. A few words from the Musaid, and they would deal with any survivors.
“Captain,” came the Deputy’s voice over the intercom. “We are on the reverse of our track. At this speed it will take ten more minutes to cover the area of the—ah—incident. We have about thirty minutes until nautical twilight.”
“Very well, come up to seven knots.”
The speed order was acknowledged. Now, he thought, how do I find one or more men swimming in the ocean, if there are any. He swept the area ahead with his binoculars, as did the two lookouts. Thirty minutes to nautical twilight, the official time for star fixing, when the horizon would be just visible against the night sky. The air was cool and the visibility clearing rapidly in the wake of the rain squall. It must have happened very quickly for them. A light. He needed to show a light. Men in the water would make themselves visible if they saw a light. He ordered the control
room to raise the search periscope, train the optics down into the water, and then to turn on the periscope interior tube light and begin sweeping the periscope from side to side. The prisms in the periscope would project a beam of dim white light down into the water. It would not be visible to ships or boats on the horizon, but, thirty five feet below, on the surface of the sea, a swimming man might see it.
He heard the tube hiss up to full elevation behind him, and begin to swivel from side to side like a cobra seeking prey. He kept his eyes pressed into the optics of his heavy, Russian binoculars in order to keep his night vision intact, and continued to scan the arc of black water ahead.
They had gone for six minutes back down their underwater track when one of the lookouts touched his sleeve, and pointed in the direction of the port bow. He trained his binoculars in that direction. There. He saw something white in the water. The pungent smell of diesel fuel was suddenly noticeable. The Captain reached for the intercom switch.