Terminal Run

The gangway silently rose off the deck and retracted into a pier structure, only the singled-up lines keeping Hammerhead fast to the pier. The three officers lowered themselves down the forward access trunk ladder, the sensations of the ship making McKee smile. The harsh electric smell, the bright fluorescent lights, the growl of the ventilation system, and the whine of the inertial navigation binnacle made it seem like coming home. Judison led them to the V.I.P stateroom, where their bags were already loaded on the train-compartment-style bunks.

“I’ll let you two get settled and meet you on the bridge,” Judison said, shutting the door behind him.

Karen Petri looked up at McKee, noticing him looking at her, and she smiled shyly. “Not much privacy here, is there, Kelly?”

“Does it bother you?” he asked.

“No. It’s cozy. I just thought maybe it was making you nervous.”

McKee laughed. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad to be here,” she said quietly.

A knock rapped at the door, and she rapidly turned away from him to rummage in her bag.

“Yes?” McKee said.

“Sir, the captain sends his respects and invites you to come to the bridge. The ship is getting underway.”

“After you. Captain Petri,” McKee said, He smiled as he climbed to the top of the bridge access tunnel and on top of the sail to the flying bridge. He had a good feeling about this run. He clipped off the end of the Cohiba with an engraved cutter given him by the old Devilfish crew and lit it with a Hammerhead lighter, the cigar firing up to a mellow glow. He handed cigars to Captain Judison and the two junior officers down in the cockpit, and puffed the stogie, feeling happy for the first time in months as the land faded away behind them and the buoys of Thimble Shoal Channel passed by on either side of the ship.

When they cleared the Port Norfolk traffic separation scheme and turned to the southeast, he went below with Judison and Petri. After he changed into his submarine coveralls-the sleeve patches showing the emblem of SSNX-1, the Devilfish — he joined Judison in the wardroom to look at the charts of the op area, and to collect his radio traffic from the ships of the squadron that had already submerged and were flanking their way to the Cape of Good Hope, South Africa, where they would sail into the Indian Ocean. After a voyage of a week and a half, they would be in-theater, the first mission to get in close to the Royal Navy battle groups and submarines, the second the sinking of anything still afloat after the eastern Indian Ocean submarines and Admiral Ericcson’s surface fleet fought it out with the Reds.

He poured himself a cup of strong coffee and leaned over the chart display with Judison and Petri, the deck shaking with the power of the flank bell, the ship rolling and pitching in the waves of the Atlantic. McKee smiled, back in his element.

A hundred and fifty nautical miles north-northeast of the Nung Yahtsu, the United States Navy fast-attack nuclear submarine Leopard sped deep beneath the waves at an engine order of all-ahead flank. The needle of the reactor power meter remained steady on the dash, marking one hundred percent power.

The propulsor thrashed in the sea at 240 RPM. The steaming engine room howled with the power of the main engines and the two ship service turbine generators powering the gigantic reactor recirculation pumps. At this speed the ship flew through the water like a bullet at just over fifty knots, almost fast enough to outrun a conventional torpedo. The decks of the vessel shuddered violently at the flank bell as she sped southward to intercept the Chinese battle group

In the first moments of the maximum-speed run, books had been shaken off bookshelves, cups vibrated out of pantry cupboards, and anything on a table not strapped down would walk its way to the edge. It was not the gentle bumpiness of a backcountry dirt road in grandfather’s pickup, but more like the old-fashioned muscle toning machines with the strap that jiggled the body frantically. The power of the screw at flank would set the teeth buzzing. The psychologists had assumed that the vibration would lead to crew fatigue, but exactly the opposite was true. The shaking hull reminded every crewmember aboard that the ship was headed for something vital, that she was speeding on to her destiny.

Captain Dixon walked into the control room and looked at the chart. “What time are you slowing?”

“Top of the hour, sir,” Lieutenant Kingman said. Kingman was the damage control assistant, one of the chief engineer’s right-hand men.