Attack of the Seawolf

Pacino looked at the cockpit. It was just a cubbyhole in the metal of the sail, formed by lowering clamshell doors down to expose an unused volume at the top of the bridge trunk. A small communication box was fastened to the forward lip of the sail. Beside it was a gyrocompass repeater. Above the lip of the sail was a Plexiglas windshield. Pacino leaned out over the starboard side of the bridge and looked at the pier below. The view from the top of the sail gave him the kind of perspective an old time square-rigger sailor would have from a masthead’s crow’s nest. Pacino looked forward down the length of the concrete pier, the water in the slip empty except for Seawolf. At the end of the pier a lone figure walked, a heavyset man in a khaki officer’s uniform. Pacino picked up his binoculars.

The man was carrying a duffel bag, was nondescript except for a thick mustache. He was bald, his khaki garrison cap barely covering the skin of his head. He was built like a cylinder.

“Captain,” Feyley said, putting down a phone handset, “Commander Lennox is on the way. Pier guard said he has orders to come aboard.”

“I’ll meet him on the pier,” Pacino said, lifting his leg over the bridge coaming and finding the ladder rungs set into the flank of the sail. He lowered himself down the two stories to the topside deck and saluted the aft flag and the topside sentry, then walked over the gangway to the pier.

“SEAWOLF … DEPARTING!” rang out the Circuit One deck loudspeaker. It took a moment for Pacino to realize the sentry’s announcement was talking about him.

Pacino walked down the pier to the commander, who stopped and saluted.

“Kurt Lennox, reporting as ordered, Captain.”

Pacino waved a salute and shook Lennox’s hand.

“I’m Captain Pacino. Come on down. Commander.”

Pacino pointed to the ship and the two men began walking toward the gangway.

“Were you briefed on the Tampa situation?”

“Situation? I was just pulled off leave and told to report aboard. I figured something happened to your XO and you needed an emergency replacement. What happened to my ship. Captain?”

“Typical Navy not to tell you. Security too tight, I guess. Kurt, I can’t tell you specifics until we shove off, but I can say now that your boat is in big trouble. Seawolf is going to help out, and you’ll be part of that.

That is, if you want to be.”

Lennox’s face hardened.

“So am I your XO sir?”

“I’ve got something else in mind. Let’s get you below and settled in. Once we’ve cleared restricted waters I’ll brief you and the officers.”

As the men neared the gangway, Lennox pointed down the pier.

“What the hell is that?”

Pacino turned. A half-ton truck was bouncing down the pier, two dozen rough-looking men hanging out the open sides of the bed, stuffed in with piles of equipment — diver’s tanks, packaged weapons, pallets of explosives, and crates of ammunition. The truck drew up to the gangway and the truck’s cab door opened. A man emerged and stepped down to the pier, walked up to Pacino and stopped. He had long black hair peppered with gray and drawn back into a ponytail. A handlebar mustache was over a beard that extended halfway down his huge chest. His biceps bulged out of a leather jacket cut off at the shoulders, numerous tattoos on each arm. At his wrists he wore leather spiked-dog collars. He sported dirty faded jeans and cracked and dusty cowboy boots. Behind him in the truck several men hooted and shouted at each other, all dressed like bikers. The character in front of Pacino took out a wrinkled pack of brown cigarettes, flipped one out and lit it with a wooden match struck into a flame on his zipper. After puffing smoke toward Lennox, he flipped the match to the pier.

“You the captain?” he asked in a throaty drawl.

Pacino spoke up.

“I’m Captain Pacino, USS Seawolf. Who the hell are you?”

The man puffed the cigarette as he looked over the hull of the submarine like someone about to rent an apartment who wasn’t too sure he liked what he saw.

“I was hoping this’d be an old missile boat refitted for divers. It will take us all day to get out of the hull of this bitch.” He looked at Pacino, sizing him up.

“Name’s Morris. Jack Morris, Commander, SEAL Team Seven. Those are my shooters. Get some of your boys up here and help us load this shit in your boat there. Captain.”

Pacino ignored the order.

“What in hell are you dressed for?”

Morris laughed.

“They didn’t brief you too well.

This outfit is a counterterrorist unit. Captain, flown in special from Virginia Beach. My unit is using ‘modified grooming standards,” which means we need to look just like terrorists. And we do a pretty good job, if I can judge by the look on the pier guard’s face.”

Pacino smiled, waving over Lieutenant (j.g.) Joseph.