Terminal Run

The tachometer needle reached thirty RPM and the ship’s depth immediately clicked upward to 145 feet, then to 141. Pacino pushed his bow plane pedals down, the first line of defense. If he could maintain depth with the bow planes he would only be a few thousand pounds light, but if he needed the stern planes and the bubble, the situation would be much worse. At zero bubble, the ship was back at 150 feet with a four-degree dive angle on the bow planes At seven-tenths of a ton per degree, Pacino calculated he was light by almost three tons, or six thousand pounds. His buoyancy calculation had been off by tons, dammit. There was a good chance Catardi and Schultz would send him back for another week of under instruction watch for a blunder that severe. He lined up the trim system, flipping the manual toggle switches to open the hull and backup valves to depth control two, and pushed down on the joystick to the flood position, watching the manual tank level indicator until it rose another five percent, then released the joystick and secured the hull and backup valves. He zeroed the bow planes The ship was steady on depth at 150 feet. He exhaled in relief. At least he hadn’t “lost the bubble,” the submariner’s term for a drastic loss of depth control, but which also meant losing one’s cool under pressure.

“How’s your trim, Dive?” Crossfield asked from the command console, his voice amused.

“Ship has a satisfactory one-third trim, sir.”

“Very well, Dive,” Crossfield said. “You might want to thank Chief Keating for the inadequate compensation he entered before you took the watch.”

So, Pacino thought, he’d been set up with a light submarine by Keating.

“Conn, Sonar, no sonar contacts this leg,” Sonarman Reardon’s voice crackled in Pacino’s headset.

“Sonar, Conn, aye, clearing baffles to the right.”

“Conn, Sonar, aye.”

“Dive, right five degrees rudder, steady course east.”

“Right five degrees rudder, aye, sir, my rudder is right five.”

“Very well, Dive.”

Eventually the gyrocompass rose wheeled its way past 080 degrees true. “Passing course zero eight zero to the right, ten degrees from ordered course,” Pacino called.

“V’r’well, Dive.”

“Steady course east, sir,” Pacino reported. There was silence in the room. Pacino took a tense breath, knowing the next few minutes would be the worst. If he came up to periscope depth too steeply, he could broach the sail, but if he came up too sluggishly, the OOD wouldn’t be able to see the surface, and they could be run over by a deep draft merchant without even hearing him.

“Conn, Sonar, no sonar contacts in the previously baffled area,” the sonar chief, Chief Reardon, reported over Pacino’s headset.

“Dive,” Crossfield called with a flourish, “make your depth six seven feet!”

“Make my depth six seven feet, aye, sir,” Pacino acknowledged. As he pulled back on the bow plane pedals another alarm shrieked in the cockpit. “Loss of auxiliary hydraulics, sir,” he said, checking the hydraulic lineup. Perhaps main hydraulics were back on-line, but when he shifted the hydraulic spindle valve handle, he still had no power. “Emergency hydraulics engaged, sir.” Pacino reached back to the center console for a vertical lever behind and to the right of the throttle, the bow planes now only controllable by the emergency lever. But it didn’t position the bow planes like the pedals, it was a lethargic “rate controller.” He would have to hunt for the position that would put the planes on the right angle. Sweat broke out on Pacino’s forehead as he pulled the emergency lever back, pulling the bow planes to an up angle of ten degrees, and as the ship’s angle rose, pushed them back to up five degrees. He took a moment to grab another emergency hydraulic lever to nudge the rudder over to maintain course east, then back to the ship’s centerline.

“Emergency hydraulics tested, test sat,” he called out.

“Very well, Dive.” Crossfield’s voice was muffled by his periscope helmet.

“One two zero feet, sir,” Pacino called, the sweat soaking his eyes now, the gauges on the manual displays blurry. “Passing one hundred feet.”

The up angle was too steep, Pacino realized. He pushed the emergency lever forward, easing the bow plane angle, trying to get the bubble back down.

“Ninety feet, sir.”

Pacino struggled, the angle now too flat. He was roller coastering the ship, he thought in chagrin. He reached for the emergency lever for the stern planes and pulled it back, getting the bubble back to an up three-degree angle. He was soaked in sweat now, even his long sleeves dripping.

“Eight zero feet, sir.”

He had to get the angle back down, or he’d broach the sail. He pushed the stern planes down, grabbed the emergency lever for the bow planes and pushed them down to a two-degree angle, then reached for the stern plane lever again and put the stern planes to zero, again reaching for the bow planes and pulling them back to up one degree.

“Seven five feet, sir!”

“Scope’s breaking,” Crossfield called. “Scope’s breaking. Get us up, Dive!”