Terminal Run

The two walked in the dim red lights to the control room on the middle-level deck, which, unlike the upper level, was completely dark. The instrument panel of the enclosed ship control station was the only illumination in the forward part of the space. In the darkness Pacino could barely make out the silhouette of a man wearing a bulky helmet standing behind a console, Ensign Breckenridge.

“Sir,” Pacino reported, “bridge and sail rigged for dive by Mr. O’Neal and checked by me.”

The two reassumed the watch. Pacino was ushered to the chair at the command console and instructed to put on the Type 23 periscope helmet.

“Well,” a Boston accent said from behind him, “I’m ready to hear the junior officer of the deck’s report.”

“Mark the sounding,” Pacino called into the Type 23 helmet’s boom mike. The display came up, a breathtaking three dimensional view, as if Pacino’s head were back up on the sail.

“Six five four fathoms!” O’Neal’s voice replied.

“Captain,” Pacino said, gulping, hoping he’d remember all that O’Neal had taught him. “Ship is on course one one zero at all-ahead flank making three zero knots. Ship is rigged for dive by Chief Cavalla and checked by Mr. Breckenridge, sail rigged for dive by Mr. O’Neal and checked by me. We are two minutes from the dive point, sir, with ship’s inertial navigation tracking the GPS nav sat confirmed by the navigator with a stellar fix. The diving officer is stationed. We hold no surface contacts by visual or sonar. Sounding is six hundred fifty-four fathoms. Request permission to submerge the ship, sir.” Pacino breathed, hoping he hadn’t forgotten anything.

“Very well. Junior Off’sa’deck,” Catardi said. “Submerge the ship to one five zero feet.”

“Submerge the ship to one five zero feet, JOOD aye, sir.” Pacino waited, breathing heavily, his heart hammering again.

“Thirty seconds to the dive point!”

“Very well, Quartermaster.”

“Mark the dive point!”

“Diving Officer.” Pacino called, his voice steady despite his nerves, “submerge the ship to one five zero feet!”

The diving officer sat in the ship-control enclosure, a station resembling a heavy jet cockpit with two seats, a central console, and consoles surrounding the seats. The diving officer was a chief petty officer in charge of the torpedomen, a burly woman named Marshal!. She acknowledged, her voice growling back, “Submerge the ship to one five zero feet, Diving Officer, aye, sir.” She picked up the 1ME microphone and her voice rang out throughout the ship. “Dive! Dive!” She reached into the overhead for the lever to the diving alarm.

Pacino jumped, startled at the sound of the diving alarm horn howling a deep OOOOOOOOOOH-GAAAAAAH just above his head.

“Dive! Dive!” the chief’s voice announced a second time.

“Helm, all ahead two-thirds,” the chief called. She had control of speed during the diving evolution, O’Neal had said.

“All ahead two-thirds, aye, easing throttle to ahead two thirds, indicating turns for ahead two-thirds,” the helmsman called.

“Very well,” the diving officer said. “Opening forward main ballast tank vents.”

“Train the periscope to zero zero zero relative,” Toasty O’Neal whispered to Pacino. He did and saw an odd sight, four geysers of water screaming vertically up out of the bullet nose. “Now call, “Venting forward.” “

“Venting forward,” Pacino said.

“Venting forward, aye, sir,” the chief said. “Opening aft main ballast tank vents.”

Pacino turned his view to look aft and witnessed the same phenomenon of an eruption of water from the aft hull, four fire hoses pointed upward. The venting was so violent that it took thousands of gallons of water upward with the air, he thought.

“Venting aft.”

“Venting aft, aye, sir. Rigging out the bow planes A moment passed. “Bowplanes extended and locked. Helm, take control of your bow planes

“Bowplanes tested, tested sat,” the helmsman said.

“Helm, ten degrees dive on the bow planes

“Ten degrees dive, aye, my bow planes are down ten degrees.”

Pacino watched as the bullet nose of the bow burrowed deeper into the water, the geysers now submerged, some vapor still shooting up through the waves, until there was nothing forward except ocean. He trained his view aft, at the waves rising up the cylinder of the hull. The hull peeked out only between waves, then vanished under the water.

“Decks awash,” Pacino called.

The aft hull exposed itself one last time, then was under, the white wake smothering the vessel. “Hull submerged.”

“Hull submerged, aye, sir. I have the stern planes stern planes tested in rise, tested in dive, stern planes tested sat, I have the bubble, sir, and stern planes to ten degrees dive. Proceeding to ten-degree down bubble. Flooding depth control one to the halfway mark, flooding commenced. Tank at five zero percent, hull valve shut, backup valve shut.”

“Very well, Dive,” Pacino said, acknowledging the chief.