Terminal Run

Without thinking Pacino grabbed the throttle with his right hand and the bow plane lever with his left, advancing the throttle to where ahead full should be, and pushing the bow planes to full dive. He grabbed the stern plane lever with his throttle hand and pushed the stern planes to a ten-degree down angle, then lined up the trim system to flood and jabbed the joystick down. He held the joystick with his left hand and reached out to advance the throttle by another ten RPM, then pulled the stern planes back to up five degrees and the bow planes to a ten-degree rise. He released the joystick lever, one eye on ship’s depth, and called out, “Emergency deep aye, ahead full, flooding, down bubble ten degrees.”

A selector switch on the yoke piped his boom microphone into the 1MC ship wide announcing system. He punched the key and heard his amplified voice in the overhead echoing through the ship, “Emergency deep, emergency deep.”

He struggled with the planes until the depth was steady at 150 feet, then pulled the throttle back to turns for ahead one third. “One five zero feet, sir!” The sweat had returned, and in seconds he was soaked again.

But the drill was over, and he had made it. The console buzzed. Pacino punched the squelch button. “Auxiliary hydraulics are back on-line, sir.” Another buzz. “Main hydraulics are back.” He switched the cockpit back to main hydraulics, the nightmare with the emergency levers over. A whirring noise sounded and the screen displays changed, a half-dozen flat panels coming to life. “Cyclops ship control is back online.” He put the visor back on, the ship animation display returning.

“Very well, Dive. Make your depth seven hundred feet, all ahead standard, steep angle.”

Pacino acknowledged, pushing down the control yoke and advancing the throttle, the ship’s down angle plunging to down twenty degrees. For two minutes he hung on the straps of his seat until the Cyclops animation indicated 650 feet. He pulled out at 700 feet and checked the display.

“Seven hundred feet, sir,” Pacino called to Crossfield.

“Mr. Pacino, turn over the dive to Chief Keating.”

Pacino gave his briefing, released the watch to Keating, and climbed out of the cockpit. He was surrounded by the ship’s officers and chiefs, from the captain on down, the crowd suddenly bursting into applause, Catardi’s smile lighting up his face. Even Crossfield was grinning at him and clapping. And Lieutenant Alameda, her normally sour expression gone, was actually beautiful when she allowed herself to smile.

“Gentlemen,” Catardi announced, “I give you Midshipman Patch Pacino, the newest qualified diving officer of the watch, and a damned fine one at that.”

“Hear, hear,” Duke Phelps added.

“Amen, Mr. Patch,” normally surly Chief Keating said with a wink.

Pacino smiled weakly, aware that his coveralls were soaked with sweat. He felt his face flush, embarrassed, knowing the awkward approach to PD could have gone much better. He’d kept Crossfield’s view underwater for a full thirty seconds.

“A fine job, Patch,” Catardi continued. “No one aboard has ever handled the Piranha quite that well in the face of so many casualties. Pay up, everyone. You too, Chief Keating.”

Pacino stared as hundred-dollar bills changed hands, the whole circle of men passing the money to the captain. Keating grinned at him as he passed five twenty-dollar bills over his shoulder to Catardi.

“What the hell?”

“These unfortunate unbelievers all bet you’d either broach the sail or have to ask for a two-thirds bell to get up to depth. Or that you’d lose the bubble completely.” Catardi grinned.

“Probably because not a single solitary one of them ever made it to PD on emergency hydraulics with no Cyclops while six tons heavy with a double trim system and drain system malfunction. Any one of these people would have hung up with the scope awash for two minutes and then given up and added power to dry off the periscope. Like I said, we’ve been waiting for you.”

Pacino smiled again, aching to get to the officers’ head to strip off the soaked coveralls and take a shower. As he turned to go Chief Keating called him back to the ship control console.

“Yes, Chief?”

“Sir, sorry I called you a nonqual air breather Keating said gently. “You can breathe my submarine’s air anytime, sir.”

Pacino felt a lump in his throat. Oddly enough, it was one of the highest compliments he could remember receiving.

“Thanks, Chief,” he said, turning and leaving the control room.

He knew he’d be back in three hours to take his first watch on his own, no longer under instruction, but as a qualified watch stander

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