Voyage of the Devilfish

“Bingo. Novskoyy’s on board the OMEGA. The mission, as we understand it, is a one-week trip under the icepack. Sea trials. And the admiral is along to see how his baby performs. He designed the OMEGA himself.” Pacino sat back in his chair. Suddenly he understood the urgency of the OP. And for him in particular. The son-of-abitch who’d killed his father was aboard— Pacino jumped as the phone rang. Donchez nodded at it.

“It’s for you, Mikey.” Pacino shook his head. How would Donchez know who the phone was for?

“Pacino here.”

“Captain, XO here.” It was Rapier. ‘They said you were in a briefing but they put me through anyway.”

“Go ahead,” Pacino said, looking at Donchez.

“Sir, we’re moored at berth 7.1 took the liberty of bringing on shorepower and ordering the reactor shutdown… Something very strange is going on here. The squadron sent over some guys from the tender with about ten forktrucks full of food. They’re loading it aboard right now.” Pacino stared at Donchez, who returned his look. “Yes, XO. What else?”

“Arctic gear, sir, four pallets. Squadron wants to load that on, too, in the ship’s office and the fan room. I told them to hold off until we talked. There’s also a truck here with five torpedoes. They’re painted red instead of green.

Tender says they’re a new weapon system. Mark 50 torpedoes.

They call them Hullcrushers. Squadron Weapons Officer is here and wants permission to load them aboard. I said hell no. Sir… you got any orders for me?” Pacino didn’t hesitate. “XO, you have permission to load weapons and Arctic supplies. And notify the crew that all liberty and leaves are cancelled. We sail at dawn tomorrow. While you’re at it, request a clearance message from COMSUBLANT for transit—”

“Sir, I’m holding the clearance in my hands right now. I suppose you’ll be letting me know what’s up?”

“It’s a secure phone,” Donchez broke in.

“XO, Devilfish will be getting under way for a classified OP tomorrow morning. You can let the crew know they won’t be home for Christmas.” He broke off the connection before Rapier could protest. Donchez pulled his long cold cigar out of the ashtray and lit it, looking out the plate glass window to a plaza across the street where construction vehicles had been parked for the night.

“You know, Mikey,” Donchez said, “the polar icecap is a lonely place. Things can happen there that no one on earth will ever know about. Look at Stingray. Only a few men know what really happened to her.” Donchez swivelled around in his chair and looked directly at Pacino. “Those Mark 50 torpedoes, the Hullcrushers, they’re new, experimental. They have shaped charges designed to penetrate and blast through doublehulled submarines with one hundred times the killing power of the old Mark 49’s. And as far as your tubes and firecontrol systems are concerned, they’ll look exactly like Mark 49’s. No system modifications necessary. They’ll go fifty-five knots. Their sonars have improved doppler filters. And their crush-depth is deeper than 10,000 feet. We figure they’re the antidote to the OMEGA.”

Pacino’s mind raced, wondering whether Donchez really meant what Pacino thought he did.

“In fact, Mikey,” Donchez went on, “those torpedoes are so new and so experimental that we’ve never had a chance to take inventory of the five on the squadron truck. Why, if you came back from up north and those torpedoes were missing, well, no one would ever notice. As far as squadron and SUBLANT are concerned, those torpedoes don’t exist.” Pacino stood up, hands balling into fists. Donchez stood up and held out his hand. Pacino saluted, turned and walked to the door, putting on his blue baseball cap.

“Merry Christmas, Uncle Dick,” he said and closed the door behind him. Admiral Richard Donchez sat back down and said! “Merry Christmas, Mikey… and good hunting.” He looked out again over the grass to the plaza across the street. The construction going on was for a contract he had written personally: to build a marble monument in honor of the officers and men of the USS Stingray. Donchez took a long puff on his Havana cigar. “And Merry Christmas to you. Patch,” he said softly, “and rest in peace, old friend.”

CHAPTER 5

MONDAY, 13 DECEMBER, 2350 EST

SANDBRIDGE BEACH, VIRGINIA