Voyage of the Devilfish

“Allentown’s surfacing. Captain,” Brayton reported from the periscope.

“Devilfish, this is Allentown… report Uniform Whiskey Mike… I say again… report Uniform Whiskey Mike… over.”

“her!” Pacino snapped to Rapier.

“Uniform Whiskey Mike” was NATO code for “you missed me.”

“It’s bullshit, Cap’n. We kicked his ass,” Rapier said.

“Allentown, this is Devilfish,” Pacino said into the microphone! “negative Uniform Whiskey Mike, repeat, negative Uniform Whiskey Mike. Duckett, I hit you fair and square. Twice.”

“Captain, look at this,” the Officer of the Deck said from the periscope. Pacino took the scope as the OOD mumbled! “Low power on the horizon, bearing two three zero.” On the television periscope-repeater Pacino’s crosshairs were centered on the sail, the conning tower, of the USS Allentown. And sticking in one side of Allentown’s sail and out the other was one of Pacino’s torpedoes that had impaled the rear part of the sail.

“Off sa’deck, line up the periscope still camera. We need a few pictures of this for posterity,” Pacino said.

“Lined up, sir,” the OOD replied. Pacino moved up to the UWT transmitter: “Allentown, this is Devilfish. I say again, negative Uniform Whiskey Mike… advise you to check your sail… it’s got a Hullbuster sticking clean through it…” Duckett’s aggrieved voice was recognizable in spite of the UWT distortion: “Devilfish this is Allentown. Cheaters never prosper. Out.” Pacino keyed his mike.

“Allentown, this is Devilfish. Old budd, don’t you know? YOU AIN’T CHEATIN’, YOU AIN’T TRYIN’. Devilfish out.” The Allentown rolled in the gentle swells on the surface. Her Officer of the Deck stood in the cramped bridge cockpit at the top of the sail and scanned the horizon with his binoculars. The ship was stopped, waiting for its opponent the Devilfish to head toward the traffic-separation scheme outside of Thimble Shoals Channel. The sun was low on the horizon, the Atlantic air cool and fresh after two weeks submerged. Lieutenant Ron Graves, the OOD, picked up a microphone at the forward lip of the cockpit. “Control, Bridge, raise the radar mast and bump up the Bigmouth antenna.”

The communication box crackled with static and a loud distorted voice said, “BRIDGE, CONTROL, RAISING RADAR AND BIGMOUTH.”

The OOD replaced the microphone and again trained his binoculars on the shrinking form of the Devilfish as she sailed to Norfolk. He waited for the thunks of hydraulics raising the masts from the sail, but all he heard was a brief grinding noise from aft. He dropped his binoculars and turned to look behind him. Neither mast had risen. He was about to call the control room again when the bridge communication box sputtered to life.

“BRIDGE, CONTROL, CAPTAIN TO THE BRIDGE.”

“Captain’s coming up. Bridge aye.” The OOD wondered how the skipper could know so soon that something was wrong. He stepped to the far starboard side of the cockpit and hinged up the deck grating to the access tunnel, which plunged down thirty feet to the deck. Captain Henry Duckett hauled his bulky frame up the tunnel with surprising speed. Large and solid, Duckett was large enough to force his men to duck into side rooms whenever he walked down the ship’s narrow passageways. Solid enough to make the offensive line of the Allentown’s inter-squadron football team the terror of the fleet piers. He was also not known for his sweet temperament. Now he pushed the OOD out of the way, leaned far out over the starboard lip of the bridge and peered aft.

“I’ll be god damned.” He shouldered past Graves and climbed back down the access tunnel. “Damned fiberglass sails.” His voice floated upward. “Goddamned Pacino.”

“Good afternoon to you too, sir,” OOD Graves said, looking down at the retreating form of his captain, then leaned over the starboard side of the cockpit to see the current source of Duckett’s foul mood. Not ten feet behind him, protruding horizontally from the fiberglass flanks of the black sail, was the stern of a Mark 49 Hullbuster torpedo, its propulsor blades still spinning. There would be hell to pay.

CHAPTER 2

MONDAY, 13 DECEMBER

SEVEROMORSK NAVAL COMPLEX, NORTHERN RUSSIA

CONSTRUCTION DRYDOCK

THE SEVEROMORSK NAVAL COMPLEX NEAR MURMANSK