Voyage of the Devilfish

The sun was just rising over the Squadron Seven piers as Pacino pulled his duffel bag out of his car and began walking toward Devilfish. The dim orange light gave little warmth. The air was crisp and cool. Pacino walked up to the end of the pier and returned the salutes of the guards, then reached for his identification. Pier 7 had changed quite a bit in the last two decades, he thought. At the head of the pier concrete crash barriers had been set up, along with a barbed wire double-chain-link fence. The guardhouse was manned by a contingent of U.S. Marines, all armed with M-16s. Every submarine tied up at the pier had a sniper with a high-powered rifle in the sail. The quarterdeck watch sailors no longer carried Colt.45s with the ammo in their belts. They had loaded machine pistols. Such anti-terrorist measures hadn’t existed in the fall of 1973 when his father’s Stingray had sailed for deployment. That day the families and children and girlfriends had all been on the pier. The squadron staff made a bon-voyage party of it — brass band playing, crepe banners in red, white and blue, a banner reading GOOD LUCK, STINGRAY, tables covered with cookies, pies, sandwiches. The crews of the other boats waving. Michael Pacino in his fourth-class midshipman’s uniform, his brass anchor pins on the lapels, saluting the officers who passed by. This underway would be different. Devilfish would leave without fanfare. A crowd on the pier was considered a security problem. It was as if the boat was already gone. Pacino walked down the pier, the eyes of the bridge snipers on him. The other boats were quiet. By his request, Devilfish was always parked at the very end of the pier so he could drive out without tugs. To Pacino it seemed somehow inappropriate for a warship to pull out with two tugs.

The sleek destroyers and frigates two piers down would pull out with a Back Emergency-Ahead Flank under way, their wakes boiling up astern, their radars rotating in quick circles, flags fluttering smartly from the masts, smoke pouring out their stacks. Envious submariners would watch the cocky surface officers while two tugs pulled their delicate submarines gently away from the piers, being careful of the fiberglass nosecones covering the sonar spherical arrays. No, no tugs for Pacino. When he reached the berth of the Devilfish, he received a salute from the Duty Officer, Lieutenant Stokes.

“Good morning. Captain. I thought you’d want a report before getting onboard, sir.”

“Go ahead. Stokes.”

“Sir, reactor’s critical. We got a normal full power lineup, reactor main coolant pumps in two slow/two slow, divorced from shorepower, main engines warm, clutch disengaged, section three watches manned aft. I’ve had the shorepower cables removed from the ship. The XO has gone over the pre-underway checklist with department heads and reports the ship is ready in all respects to get under way. XO briefed the officers, and the Chief of the Boat briefed the men. XO recommends stationing the maneuvering watch in preparation to get under way. Sir, request permission to station the maneuvering watch.” Pacino looked at the river, measuring the wind and current. He turned back to Stokes. “Station the maneuvering watch. Rig out the outboard, raise and lower masts as necessary and when you’re ready, rotate and radiate on the radar.” Pacino had just saved the Duty Officer three phonecalls for permission. “And send the XO to my stateroom.” Stokes repeated back the captain’s orders and walked to the boat. Pacino lingered on the pier for a moment, looking at Devilfish’s sleek hull, then crossing the gangway.

“DEVILFISH… ARRIVING,” boomed throughout the ship, announcing the captain’s arrival. Pacino saluted the topside watch and crouched over the operations compartment hatch, the same hatch used to load weapons.