Voyage of the Devilfish

“Officer of the Deck,” Pacino called. “Time to head home. Come around to the west and clear baffles before you steady on course. I don’t want the VICTOR sneaking up from behind and following us home.”

“Come around to the west and clear baffles. Officer of the Deck aye, sir,” the lieutenant said. “Helm, right five degrees rudder, steady course two seven zero.” The lieutenant picked up a microphone and spoke into it. “Sonar, Conn, clearing baffles to the right.” The speaker crackled, sending the voice throughout the control room. “CONN, SONAR, AYE.” Pacino stared at the sonar console, wondering where the Soviet submarine was. A radioman came to the control room and handed him a metal clipboard with the incoming radio messages. The first page was Pacino’s own familygram, typed by the radioman on the inside of a blank Christmas card. Pacino grinned as he opened the card. “Nice touch.”

DAD — ANNAPOLIS IS A PAIN. I KNOW, I KNOW — I’M SUPPOSED TO HATE PLEBE YEAR. I’M HANGING ON FOR CHRISTMAS. AND FOR YOU AND STINGRAY TO GET BACK. SEE YOU THEN. GOOD HUNTING AND TAKE CARE, MIKE

Pacino left the center of the control room and wandered back to the navigation alcove; he wished he could have been more of a father during his son’s first year at the Naval Academy, but Stingray had been at sea so much he’d only been able to make a few calls and send the occasional letter. Still, Pacino thought, nothing would stop Michael from being an officer. He’d hang in there, graduate and maybe fly a jet off an aircraft carrier — or even follow his old man’s footsteps and join the Silent Service. Michael would be okay. He had to believe that.

* * *

“Tubes report ready. Captain,” the Weapons Officer reported to Novskoyy.

“Firecontrol ready. Captain,” his First Officer called out.

“Shoot tube one,” he ordered, and felt the deck lurch beneath him as the heavy 53-centimeter torpedo was ejected from the ship. “Shoot tube two.” After the second lurch,

Novskoyy leaned over the firecontrol console to watch the target disappear…

* * *

The force of the torpedo explosions threw Pacino into the ship-control console. His head spurted blood over the central panel. Before his eyes the depth gage turned faster and faster, its normal slow clicks accelerating to a mad buzz. The numbers spun by: 1300 feet, 1350, 1400. The ship’s crush-depth approached rapidly. Pacino heard the hull creak and pop around him. He heard a scream and water roaring into the room. The lights went out, and soon the deck was so steeply angled downward that the forward bulkhead, the wall, had become the floor. The depth gage continued to buzz off the depth. Pacino’s eyes became unfocused. For a second he thought he saw his son Michael standing in front of him, tall, tanned, handsome and proud in his fourth-class midshipman’s uniform.

GOOD HUNTING AND TAKE CARE.

Pacino took his last breath as the compartment around him imploded in slow motion, the wave of water and crushing steel coming at him like a huge thrusting piston. Blood and icy seawater filled what had been the Stingray’s control room.

* * *