Voyage of the Devilfish

Pacino was hanging from a stainless steel rod above the number-two periscope. The depth gage reeled off the depth—750 feet… 500 … 300. Devilfish was rocketing to the surface. Pacino glanced at the sonar repeater. He might evade the torpedo but he might have made things worse — once they punched through the thermal layer, if there was any kind of shipping above it was about to get 4500 tons of nuclear submarine rammed into it at 40 knots. The force of such a collision would surely sink both vessels. The USS Diamond was an ugly surface ship, a typical salvage vessel. She was the range-safety ship for the day’s highly realistic submarine-versus-submarine torpedo-shot exercise. Her sonar showed Devilfish had gotten off the first two shots, the USS Allentown had been slow to get off a counterfire but had nearly sunk Devilfish. Both of Devilfish’s torpedoes had hit their mark, but as the Allentown”s torpedo zeroed in on the Devilfish the sonar officer on the Diamond pulled off his headset and shouted, “Devilfish is emergency-blowing, bearing north.”

The pilothouse, in a near-panic, put the rudder over hardright to head south and away from the submarine emergency-blowing to the surface. The wake boiled up at Diamond’s stern as she tried to run from the area. The offwatch crew gathered at the fantail aft to catch sight of the sub about to come screaming out of the depths. Suddenly the sea directly astern of the retreating Diamond exploded, a tower of foam leaping in a column from the water. Following the foam, a streamlined nose leaped from the ocean. Almost in slow motion, the rest of the cylindrical shape came out of the sea, black on top, dull red on the bottom. In less than a second the massive three-hundred-foot-length of 32-feet-diameter steel shape came roaring out of the water at a 50-degree angle, jumped completely out of the sea, a spray splashing over the salvage ship as the submarine’s huge brass screw became momentarily exposed. The behemoth fell crashing back to the water, a tidal wave coming over the transom of the Diamond, soaking the men at the rail and nearly washing one overboard. As the Devilfish bobbed in the water in a field of white foam and angry bubbles, most of the drenched Diamond crew cheered in appreciation… it wasn’t every day they saw a submarine so blatantly break the rules and win. One soaked chief petty officer turned to another: “The captain of that sub is going to pay for that stunt with his dolphins.” The other shook his head. “No he ain’t. That there’s the Devilfish — she cheats at ever’thang. Gets away with it, too.” Abruptly the angle came off the ship, throwing Pacino into the back of the Diving Officer’s seat. Although he and his crew had won, he couldn’t shake a sobering thought: Would the tactic have worked against a real Russian torpedo? He relinquished the periscope to Officer of the Deck Lieutenant Brayton and spoke to the crew.

“We seem to have been successful in evading the torpedo. We’ll have to wait and see if the Diamond confirms a kill for us on Target One. Carry on. Helm to Maneuvering, switch main reactor coolant pumps to slow speed. All ahead one third, right fifteen degrees rudder, steady course two seven zero. XO, secure from battle stations.”

Near Pacino on the periscope stand a speaker came to life, static sputtering out of it. Pacino stooped down and turned up the volume. It was a human voice booming through the depths.

“Deep… deep… deep… coming up… echo…” It was the underwater telephone, the UWT, an active sonar system that transmitted voices instead of pings or pulses. The coming-up call indicated another submarine was coming up to periscope depth or to surface.

“Put the scope on it,” Pacino said. The Officer of the Deck turned the periscope over to Pacino and waited for the USS Allentown — their opponent this afternoon — to surface. Pacino’s mission had been to sneak up on the attack submarine and fire a Hullbuster shot without being detected. But even being tipped off beforehand hadn’t helped the Allentown, Pacino thought. She didn’t even know the Devilfish was there until the Hullbusters went active. Commander Henry Duckett of the Allentown had been Michael Pacino’s old squad leader when he was a plebe at the Naval Academy. Duckett had, in fact, made life miserable for Pacino, to the point of nearly hazing him out of Annapolis. But today Duckett commanded the Allentown, a new Los-Angeles-class attack submarine. And today, the Devilfish, the older Piranha-class attack boat, had snuck up on her, scored two hits and evaded a 50-knot attacking torpedo. Not too shabby, Pacino thought. The UWT sputtered to life again: “Devilfish, this is ALLENTOWN. Over…” Pacino recognized the voice. Duckett. He turned the periscope back over to Brayton and picked up the microphone, hit a toggle switch and spoke, his voice that echoed back at him sounding like the voice of a giant bouncing off the ocean floor.

“Allentown, this is Devilfish. One in, over.”