Attack of the Seawolf

The ship again took on an up-angle as Tarkowski drove to the surface. Murphy watched as the young lieutenant commander raised the type-20 periscope and began rotating it in furious circles, looking above for surface contacts. On the forward bulkhead of the room a television monitor showed the view out the periscope, complete with crosshairs and range divisions.

Murphy watched, seeing only the underside of the waves high above as the ship ascended.

“Eight zero feet, sir,” the Diving Officer called from a seat behind the airplane-style controls of the ship control panel. The underside of the waves in the television screen grew closer. Tarkowski continued circling at the periscope, trying to avoid colliding with any surface ships.

“No shapes or shadows,” Tarkowski said, his words muffled by his face being pressed against the periscope.

“Scope’s breaking … scope’s breaking …”

On the television, the view was white as waves broke against the periscope lens, the foamy water blocking vision.

“Scope’s clear.”

Suddenly the foam vanished, and the view showed the crisp blue waves of the Pacific spinning by as the periscope was rotated in three full circles.

“No close contacts,” Tarkowski called out, slowing his periscope search to find more distant contacts or aircraft.

“Raise the snorkel mast,” he said to the Chief of the Watch.

The sound of hydraulics clunked as the snorkel mast came up. The forward part of control was hectic for a few moments as the ship control team lined up the system to suck air into the ship from the surface above so that the emergency diesel generator could sustain the ship’s survival electrical loads while the nuclear reactor was down.

“Commence snorkeling,” Tarkowski ordered.

“COMMENCE … SNORKELING!” rang out over the ship wide PA. circuit, just prior to an earsplitting roar from the decks below as the massive emergency diesel engine came up to full revolutions.

“Let me look,” Murphy said to Tarkowski, who was still doing slow circles on the number-two periscope.

Murphy took the periscope, putting his right eye on the rubber eyepiece, the sharp blue of the Pacific coming into sharp focus, the gentle waves coming toward the cross haired view, the sky and clouds above a beautiful seascape. Murphy smiled, wondering what could be better than command at sea, command of one of the most remarkable nuclear submarines ever built.

CHAPTER 2 WEDNESDAY, 1 MAY 2230 GREENWICH MEAN TIME

WASHINGTON, D.C. THE WHITE HOUSE

1730 EASTERN DAYLIGHT TIME

The Cabinet room was frigid in spite of the broiling May afternoon sun streaming in through the tall windows facing south to the White House lawn. Admiral Richard Donchez suppressed a shiver as he crossed his arms over his ribbon-covered chest. Donchez was in his mid-fifties, young to hold the rank of full admiral.

He was slim as a midshipman but completely bald, his head shining in the bright lights of the room’s chandeliers. As if to compensate for his lack of hair, his eyebrows had grown bushy with age, gray mingling with black. His dark eyes were set between rows of smile-wrinkles from years of squinting out a periscope.

Donchez’s submariner’s dolphins sparkled above his ribbons — solid gold, a present from a family friend when he had received his fourth star.

Donchez was the Commander in Chief of the U.S.

Pacific Forces, CINCPAC, and as such had three main subordinates — the commanders of the Pacific Fleet’s surface, air and submarine forces. Vice Admiral Martin Steuber, the man on Donchez’s right, was Commander Submarines Pacific Fleet, COMSUBPAC. In Donchez’s opinion Steuber was under qualified for the job; he could name a dozen men more suited to commanding the Pacific Fleet’s submarines, but at that level the Navy,

Congress and the Department of Defense had more say in promotions than the Navy’s officers. Politics. The way things were.

Steuber was thin and balding, with large brown rimmed glasses perpetually perched on the tip of his nose. In Donchez’s memory Steuber had never worn any expression except a tight-lipped frown. Donchez was tired of the man. When they had flown together from Pearl Harbor the night before, Steuber had tried to chat the whole damn flight, repeating his theories about the Chinese Civil War and how the Communists were going to win the struggle against the insurgent White Army. He didn’t say why and Donchez didn’t ask. He realized, though, that the Chinese crisis undoubtedly was the reason President Dawson had called them to Washington.

As Donchez waited for the President to arrive, he stared out over the lawn at the row of helicopters parked on the grass. Finally the room’s north door opened and Dawson and the Secretary of Defense and Secretary of State entered. Newly elected. President Bill Dawson was a big man with a distinct paunch.