Attack of the Seawolf

“Sir, we’re at fifty percent power. Shall I reduce speed to ahead two-thirds while maneuvering energizes the pumps?” The Reactor Plant Manual required a power reduction before starting the pumps, or the power surge from the cold water could cause a reactor accident, overpowering the core and melting the fuel.

The only situation that allowed the requirement to be ignored was a tactical emergency under the orders of the captain.

What the hell, Pacino thought. It was a tactical emergency of sorts.

“No power reduction, Joseph. Shift to forced circulation and order all ahead flank.”

“Aye, sir.” He clicked the microphone.

“Maneuvering, Bridge, shift to forced circ, remain at all ahead full.”

The bridge box sputtered with the Engineer’s astonished voice.

“SHIFT TO FORCED CIRC, BRIDGE, MANEUVERING, AYE, COMMENCING FAST INSERTION … BRIDGE, MANEUVERING, REACTOR IS IN FORCED CIRCULATION, ANSWERING AHEAD FULL.”

“Helm, Bridge, all ahead flank!”

“ALL AHEAD FLANK, BRIDGE, HELM, AYE BRIDGE, HELM, MANEUVERING ANSWERS ALL AHEAD FLANK.”

The deck shuddered. The roaring bow wave climbed even higher up the sail, spraying salt and foam on the bridge crew. The flags flapped on the pole aft. The periscopes spun as the navigator took visual fixes on the way out. The scenery slipped by as Seawolfs main engines propelled her out at flank speed.

Pacino’s spirits seemed to skim the waves with the wind and the bow wave. Damn, he was at sea again, and in command. Hold on, Sean, he thought, we’re on the way.

Pacino climbed down from the flying bridge into the cockpit, scanned the horizon for contacts, drank a mug of coffee passed up from the galley and watched as the coast of Japan faded away astern. Soon the ship reached Point Alpha, the dive point, and Pacino climbed back down the bridge-access trunk after one last look at the world above, one last breath of fresh sea air, knowing, as always, it might well be his last.

CHAPTER 12 FRIDAY, 10 MAY 0705 GREENWICH MEAN TIME

WESTERN PACIFIC OCEAN DIVE POINT, 150 NAUTICAL MILES SOUTHWEST OF YOKOSUKA

USS SEAWOLF

1605 LOCAL TIME

The control room crew seemed tense, the room buzzing with the murmured voices of the watch standers

Pacino stood in the forward starboard corner of the room, near the attack center, and watched the periscope video monitor, the television that showed the view out the number-two periscope. The sea was empty of traffic. The officer on the periscope, Jeff Joseph, was the Contact Coordinator, responsible for keeping them from colliding with a careless supertanker.

Standing on the periscope stand, the conn, was Officer of the Deck Lieutenant Tim Turner. Turner, an affable young officer, was of medium height and build. His hair was moussed straight up from his forehead, mimicking the style of a current rap star. His eyes conveyed both joviality and confidence. It was hard to imagine him smashing his girlfriend’s new gift sport scar into a dumpster, the way the CINCPAC gossip sheet reported it. Still, he would bear watching — a man who could lose control in an argument with a girlfriend could crack in combat — but then, Pacino reminded himself, he himself had not always been Mr.

Tranquility at home.

“Captain,” Turner now said, “we’re ready to submerge. Sounding is seven hundred fathoms. No contacts.

Ship is rigged for dive. Ship’s position is three miles southeast of the dive point by GPS NAV SAT ESGN agrees. Ship’s course is two four two, all ahead two thirds. Request permission to dive.”

“Offsa’deck, submerge the ship,” Pacino ordered, feeling excited to be giving the order for the first time in years.

“Diving Officer,” Turner called, “submerge the ship to one five zero feet.”

The diving alarm sounded — still the OOH-GAH OOH-GAH of Hollywood, but electronically generated and distorted. Then on the Circuit One: “DIVE, DIVE.” The Chief of the Watch opened the main ballast tank vents by selecting one of the electronic options on the computer control system displays of the ballast control panel. Other than a slight hiss, there was no sensation that the ship was submerging.

Pacino looked at the periscope television monitor.

Turner had taken over the number-two periscope, now the only mast raised, and had trained the instrument forward to the bow. On the screen, centered in the periscope view’s crosshairs, an angry plume of vapor flew into the sky as the forward main ballast tanks gave up their trapped air and admitted water, making the ship heavier.

“Venting forward,” Turner called, training the scope aft.

The aft view showed the same plumes of vapor coming from the cylindrical deck just forward of the rudder.

As the venting continued, the deck settled into the waves, the white foam climbing steadily higher up the curving deck until the surface of the hull peeked through only every third or fourth wave. Finally, the deck aft vanished in the wake, which slowly calmed from its violent white foam to a light blue.