USS Washington, SSN 787, “the Blackfish”
Deployed with the USS Ford carrier strike group steaming northeast
North Atlantic
1427 local time
Every once in a while, Lieutenant Commander Dennis Knepper would feel overcome by the strange sensation that he needed to pinch himself, because no way was this his life. He had to be dreaming. Walking onto the conn of the Blackfish today—America’s most deadly and stealthy fast-attack submarine—qualified as one of those times. Was he really cruising six hundred feet below the surface of the Atlantic Ocean? Was he really the second-in-command of a four-billion-dollar nuclear-powered warship at age thirty-three? Were one hundred and twenty-eight souls really depending on him to maintain order, discipline, safety, and quality of life for the next one hundred and seventy-eight consecutive days on deployment?
Yes, yes, and yes.
With a little smile, he went ahead and pinched his cheek anyway.
“XO, if you need a cup of coffee, all you have to do is ask,” the control room messenger, Culinary Specialist Third Class Sullivan, said with a big ol’ Cheshire cat smile spread across his face. “It’s just like Starbucks. I can get you whatever you want. Black and bitter? Blond and sweet? A mocha . . . You name it, sir. Sully’s got your back.”
“Black and bitter? Blond and sweet?” one of the JOs said. “You a barista or a fucking pimp, Sullivan?”
“All right, all right, fellas,” Knepper said, chuckling. “Let’s dial it back. The OOD has sensitive ears, and she doesn’t appreciate crass innuendo and language.”
“That’s right,” Juggernaut said. “I don’t tolerate any bullshit on my watch. Especially fucking cursing.”
This tongue-in-cheek pronouncement got a laugh from everyone in control.
And all is right in the world.
One of the greatest things about being a submariner was the banter. STEM sarcasm, jokes that somehow served as both compliments and insults, and ironic observations about submarine life in general and life on the Blackfish specifically, made every day underway hilarious and interesting. But the humor didn’t mean the crew didn’t take their jobs seriously—in fact, nothing could be further from the truth. Every man and woman on board would give their life for each other. Nowhere was this better represented in the Navy than in the submarine community, where every single crew member was cross-trained in firefighting and damage control and a Culinary Specialist served as control room messenger. Underwater, there was no cavalry to rescue them in the event of an accident. If the proverbial excrement hit the rotating apparatus, the crew had to save itself. Earning one’s dolphins, aka “fish,” was more than a badge of honor. To wear a submarine warfare pin was a pledge that one was willing and able to risk their life for their shipmates. Competency was independent from rank and gender. And on the Blackfish, they took it one step further. There were no gold officer dolphins or silver enlisted dolphins—every pair of dolphins earned on this ship, regardless of rank, were painted black.
On the USS Washington, a crew member didn’t earn dolphins . . . they earned their Blackfish.
Knepper walked over to stand next to Juggernaut. “How’s it going?”
“Living the dream,” she said. “I was just about to head to PD to catch the top-of-the-hour broadcast. Are you planning to hang out while I do?” she asked, referring to an ascent up to periscope depth.
“Have I told you lately that I’m jealous? If there’s one rub about being XO, it’s that I don’t get to take the boat to PD anymore. I miss those days.”
“If you want the conn, sir, all you have to do is ask. I’m happy to have you as my U/I,” she said with a wry smile, using the acronym for unqualified under instruction watch standers.
“I’d hate to embarrass you in front of your watch section with my perfect execution,” he quipped back.
“ ‘Embarrassment’ is not in my vocabulary,” she said. Then he announced, “All stations, Conn, make preparations to go to periscope depth. Pilot, make your depth one-five-five feet.”
Immediately upon this pronouncement, the mood in the control room shifted. Like a soldier ordered to attention, all chatter stopped. The opportunity for banter was over; it was time to go to work. The senior watch standers at each station responded their acknowledgment in practiced, rapid-fire fashion.
“Make my depth one-five-five feet, Pilot, aye.”
“Sonar, aye.”
“Fire Control, aye,”
“Quartermaster, aye.”
“Conn, Radio, aye,” came the final acknowledgment over the control room speaker from the radio room.
Knepper watched the pilot enter the new depth of one hundred fifty-five feet into the interface on the ship’s control station, and the Blackfish tilted up as the computer determined the optimal amount of bow and stern planes angle to change depth. For a submarine, going to periscope depth was an evolution that put the boat in a compromised position. For a Virginia-class sub operating deep, the risk of collision with another vessel or being counter-detected was practically zero. Going to PD, however, meant traveling to the surface and breaking the waterline with the periscope—or in their case, the photonics mast. The entire evolution was conducted at a slow speed so as not to leave a visible white wake, or “feather,” from the mast cutting through the water that could be detected by ships, aircraft, or satellites. The slow speed also made the Blackfish less reactive and dramatically reduced its capacity for evasive maneuvering. To prepare for the evolution, the Blackfish typically made a stop at one hundred fifty-five feet to clear baffles, reassess the surface contact situation, and decide upon a final course and speed for the trip.
Once on depth, the boat leveled out and the pilot reported, “Officer of the deck, the ship is at one hundred and fifty-five feet.”
“Very well, pilot. Contact manager, report all contacts,” she said, stepping over to look at the contact management plot.
“Officer of the deck, we hold four sonar contacts—Sierra One, the USS Ford CVN-78, bearing zero-nine-one, range eight-two-hundred yards, on parallel course of zero-two-five at fifteen knots. Sierra Two, USS Mason DDG 87, bearing zero-seven-one, range eleven thousand yards, on course zero-two-five at fifteen knots. Sierra Three, USS Gettysburg CG-64, bearing zero-eight-two, range five-four-hundred yards, also on course of zero-two-five at fifteen knots. And Sierra Four, merchant vessel bearing two-nine-two, range nineteen thousand yards, on course zero-seven-three, making eighteen knots,” Lieutenant Junior Grade Rucker reported, giving her the complete contact picture of the carrier strike group that they were escorting, as well as a lone, and distant, contact heading east.
“Very well,” she said. “Pilot, come right, to new course one-four-five.”
“Come right to new course one-four-five, aye.”
Knepper watched as the pilot entered the new speed request into the digital engine order telegraph, which transmitted the new speed demand to the propulsion plant operator in maneuvering, which was located in the engine room. Next, he entered the new course into the SCS and the ship’s computer calculated the optimal rudder to execute the turn without cavitating or sinking out of the depth band as the submarine slowed. The sub heeled slightly to starboard, leaning into the turn like an aircraft would.
Knepper watched the broadband sonar screen—the trace lines for contacts Sierra One through Four changing as the boat turned. Once they steadied on the new course, the two fire control technicians would firm up their solutions on all four contacts having two legs of data to work with. Driving a submarine and managing contacts by sonar was, at its core, a geometry problem. But the maneuver was not just to help the contact manager and FTs hone their solutions. By turning sixty degrees to starboard, the OOD was on a new vector where the Blackfish’s hull-mounted wide aperture array sonar panels could now peer into the sub’s “blind spot.” If a contact was hiding in the baffles, then a new broadband trace would appear on the display in the range of relative bearings that had previously been blocked by their own ship.
As the Blackfish steadied on to the new heading, Knepper saw nothing new or of concern.
“Officer of the deck, ship is on course one-four-five making turns for five knots,” the pilot reported.
“Very well, pilot. Sonar, Conn, report new contacts.”
“Conn, Sonar, sonar holds no new contacts,” the sonar supervisor said.
Juggernaut turned to look at Knepper and said, “XO, I plan to go to PD on course zero-two-five.”
As a fully qualified watch stander and experienced OOD, she didn’t need to get his permission, but the comment was meant to be a professional courtesy. Her boss was on the conn, and she’d shown him respect by offering him an opportunity to provide input or guidance on her decision.
“Agreed,” he said simply.
She could have decided to come to PD on the current course of one-four-five. Tactically, there was nothing wrong with that, but the carrier strike group was steaming north at twelve knots, and so every minute they wasted going the wrong direction was multiple minutes it would take them to catch up. By going back to the Ford’s course of zero-two-five, they would still fall behind, but at least be doing it slower.
“Contact manager, do you have what you need?” she asked Rucker, referencing time on the new leg to dial in their contact solutions.
“We’re good to go, ma’am,” he said.
“Very well. Pilot, come left to course zero-two-five. Raising number two scope. Up,” Juggernaut said and used the Xbox controller on the OOD workstation to raise the port photonics mast.
The moment the photonics mast exited the housing on the top of the sail, the right-hand monitor on the OOD workstation came to life with a dark blue underwater view of the Atlantic. Bubbles and flotsam zipped by the lens as they turned. As soon as the heading indicator on the display read 025, the pilot reported as such.
“Very well. Pilot, make your depth six-three feet,” Juggernaut said, staring at the scope display with the Xbox controller in her hands.
The pilot acknowledged the order and called out depth in increments as they ascended, his voice the only one in the otherwise silent control room: “Passing one hundred feet . . . nine zero . . . eight zero . . . seven five . . . seven zero . . . six five . . . On depth at six-three feet.”
The moment the periscope camera broke the surface, Juggernaut completed a twenty-four-second-duration, three-hundred-sixty-degree sweep in a clockwise direction, scanning just over the white crests of the three-foot wave action.
“No close contacts,” she announced in a loud, clear voice, and the conn took a collective breath of relief.
While the risk was small, a submarine could collide with a surface vessel that was at sea anchor or dead in the water while coming to PD. A surface ship that wasn’t moving and running its engines had no broadband signature or narrowband frequencies for the Blackfish to detect. Not until the scope broke the surface and the OOD completed the safety sweep could everyone truly relax.
“Conn, Sonar, holds no close contacts,” the sonar supe announced, backing her up using the ship’s ears to complement the visual survey.
Knepper glanced at the clock, which read two minutes before the hour. Juggernaut had executed a perfect PD trip, getting the sub up safely and in time to receive the satellite broadcast of the Blackfish’s dedicated traffic as efficiently as possible. If they missed it, they’d have to try again and go back to PD in an hour.
“Radio, Conn, do we have any outgoing traffic?” Juggernaut asked over the open mic.
“Conn, Radio, that’s a negative,” the report came back on the 27MC.
“Radio, Conn, aye,” she said as she trained the scope to look at the USS Ford, which, thanks to its massive size and giant freeboard, was visible even at the current range of nine thousand yards. “Visual observation on Sierra One, bearing mark.” She used the “pickle” button on the joystick to send a bearing to fire control. Then she zoomed in to the maximum magnification.
“Looks like they’re conducting flight ops,” Knepper said, watching a black cross that he knew to be an F/A-18 arc into the sky from the carrier.
“They’ve been at it for over an hour. We can hear the catapult strokes,” the sonar supe said.
“Really?” he said, cocking an eyebrow.
“Yeah, do you want to take a listen, XO?” the supe said, holding out a pair of headphones from the console beside him.
“Sure,” he said and began to mosey that way, only to be interrupted by the radioman.
“Conn, Radio,” the radioman said on the control room speaker. “Is the XO on the conn?”
“He sure is,” Juggernaut answered.
“Request he come to radio? We’ve got a new alert he’s gonna wanna read, ASAP.”
“Roger that, I’m on my way,” he said.
Listening to flight ops on sonar would have to wait.
Apparently, something big had happened, and from the gravity of the radioman’s voice, it sounded important.