Attack of the Seawolf

A foaming wake boiled up around the bows of the tugs as they backed down and entered the channel, standing by in case the Seawolf found herself in trouble.

Pacino clicked the microphone attached by the long cord to the bridge box: “Control, Captain, I have the conn. Lieutenant Commander Feyley retains the deck.

We are getting underway. Navigator, log that we have cast off the tugs and are going without the pilot.”

The navigator’s voice came up from the speaker in the cockpit, confusion plain in his acknowledgement.

Pacino nodded. He had gotten the crew’s attention.

“ON DECK,” Pacino said into the bullhorn. “TAKE IN ALL LINES.”

He watched as the line handlers on the pier passed the heavy lines over, freeing the submarine from the pier. As the last line came over, the USS Seawolf was officially underway, no longer pier bound Pacino smiled.

“Shift colors,” he commanded. Bill Feyley pulled a lever sounding the ship’s horn, loud and deep enough to be worthy of the Queen Elizabeth, the earsplitting blast sounding for a full ten seconds. At the same time the phone talker hoisted a large American flag on a temporary flagpole aft of the flying bridge, the wind from the north flapping the fabric.

Pacino watched the ship from his vantage point on the flying bridge. The current from the channel was pushing the stern away from the pier, the distance between the ship and pier opening slowly, now perhaps ten yards. Pacino clicked his microphone.

“Helm, Bridge, all back full.”

“ALL BACK FULL, HELM AYE, MANEUVERING ANSWERS ALL BACK FULL.”

The pier faded away from the bow as the ship’s main engines pulled the massive ship backward into the channel. The channel current pulled the stern further away from the pier.

“Helm, Bridge, right full rudder,” Pacino ordered as the ship was halfway sticking into the channel, half into the slip beside the pier.

The helmsman acknowledged and the rudder, far aft, turned in the white wake of the stern. Slowly the ship’s stern came into the channel. The ship was again parallel with the pier and still turning so that the stern was pulling upstream into the channel current. Finally the ship’s bow, the sonar dome, was clear of the pier.

“Helm bridge, left full rudder, all ahead full!”

The helmsman answered, and the ship shuddered as it made the transition from full turns aft to full turns forward. Seawolf responded to the rudder, the nose cone avoiding the pier to the south of Pier 4 as the vessel moved into the channel and a violent white foamy wake boiled up aft at the rudder. Out of the corner of his eye Pacino could see Feyley and Joseph staring at him as if he had gone around the bend. The piers to the west slid by as the Seawolf picked up speed. The tugs soon vanished astern.

Seawolf was on the way.

Pacino picked up the bullhorn.

“ON DECK, LINE HANDLERS RIG FOR DIVE AND LAY BELOW!”

Below, the line handlers scrambled for the forward compartment hatch,

seeing the water of the bow wave climbing the hull. The last one shut the hatch behind him, clearing the deck.

“Helm, Bridge, steady course one six five,” Pacino ordered.

“Navigator, recommend course to bring us to the center of the channel.”

The ship continued to accelerate, the water climbing up the sonar dome until the deck forward of the sail vanished, the water beginning to spray up the leading edge of the sail.

“BRIDGE, NAVIGATOR,” Keebes’s voice announced from the bridge communication box, his tone sounding nervous, “RECOMMEND COURSE ONE SEVEN TWO TO REGAIN TRACK. DISTANCE TO NEXT TURN, FIVE THOUSAND YARDS, NEW COURSE ONE SEVEN FIVE.”

“Helm, Bridge, right two degrees rudder, steady course one seven two.”

Pacino handed the microphone to Lieutenant (j.g.) Joseph, who still looked shocked.

“Mr. Joseph, you have the conn.”

Ahead of the ship, in the wide channel that opened south of the naval station, several dozen small sailboats sailed back and forth, as if intentionally blocking their passage.

“Helm, Bridge, all ahead one third,” Joseph ordered.

The ship began to slow, the bow wave receding.

“What are you doing?” Pacino asked.

“Sir, look at the sampans. We have to slow down, we don’t want to collide with them.”

Pacino frowned.

“Order up all ahead full. They’ll get out of the way.”

“Helm, Bridge, all ahead full,” Joseph ordered.

The sail beneath Pacino’s feet began to shudder as the ship’s main engines again surged forward, the bow wave again roaring forward of the sail, the wake again boiling white aft. The noise of the bow wave became so loud that the officers would have to shout at each other to be heard.

Ahead of them, in the channel, dozens of boats, jamming the seaway ahead, caught sight of Seawolfs bow wave and scurried out of the way in panic. A hole opened in the seaway, and the submarine moved through it, the boats bobbing violently in her wake.

“JOOD, shift the reactor to forced circulation.”