Voyage of the Devilfish

“Engineering is ready. Propulsion is on both main engines. Lines are being singled up topside. Forward spaces are rigged and ready. All checklists completed last night. All personnel onboard and ready. We’re go, with the exception of getting permission from Squadron to get under way.” Pacino drained his cup. His communication console speaker blasted out a call from the bridge.

“CAPTAIN, OFF’SA’DECK, SIR,” Stokes’ Kentucky accent boomed. Pacino clicked on the speaker toggle switch.

“Captain.”

“OFF’SA’DECK, SIR. COMMODORE IS ON THE PIER WAITING FOR YOU, CAP’N.”

“Very well. You ready to get under way up there, Stokes?”

“YESSIR. SOON AS YOU GET BACK ABOARD WE’LL PULL THE GANGWAY OFF WITH THE LAST CRANE AND WE’RE ALL SET. AND THE JOLLY ROGER FLAG IS UP HERE, READY TO RAISE WHEN WE SHIFT COLORS.”

“Captain, aye,” Pacino said. “I’ll be up after I see the Commodore, XO. See you later.” Rapier walked out toward the control room, and Pacino climbed back out the operations upper-level hatch to the curving deck topside, blinking in the cold early morning sun. In the bridge cockpit, a small space atop the sail. Lieutenant Nathanial Stokes accepted the cup of coffee handed up to him from the bridge-access tunnel by the messenger of the watch. He had been up all night getting the ship ready to go, with last minute pre-underway checks, last minute repairs, the arctic gear and the emergency supplies. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to tell that the ship was to go under ice.

Stokes and the Duty Chief had gotten out the Standard Operating Procedure for underice operations, which required them to put duct tape on every crack or hole in the top surface of the hull to further quiet the ship. The most minute cracks or holes on the hull could cause a flow-induced resonance, with a noise like a hillbilly blowing over a bottle neck, noises that could give them away. Stokes, of medium height, dark-haired, a tight beard on his chin and thick neck, was built like a bull, huge shoulders, thighs to match. A southerner and damn proud of it, the first thing Stokes’ molasses-thick Kentucky accent would say to someone he met was that he was from Mayfield, Kentucky, and anywhere else on God’s green earth was a sorry disappointment by comparison. A star offensive tackle on the varsity football squad at Navy, his twin claims to fame were his interception of a short over-the-line pass at his senior year’s Army-Navy game, which he had run in for the go-ahead touchdown in the fourth quarter, and his seduction of the Naval Academy Superintendent’s daughter, having been caught in her bed by the admiral himself. The only thing that had saved Stokes from dismissal from the Academy was the daughter’s temper tantrum over his pending Conduct Hearing. Stokes had reported to Devilfish with his reputation as a ballplayer and ladies’ man preceding him. Stokes drained the last of the coffee and stowed the cup, then heard the communication box boom out, “BRIDGE MANEUVERING, REQUEST TO SPIN THE SHAFT TO KEEP THE MAIN ENGINES WARM.”

“Maneuvering, Bridge,” Stokes replied laconically into his microphone. “Spin the shaft as necessary.”

“SPIN THE SHAFT AS NECESSARY, BRIDGE, MANEUVERING AYE.” What was the holdup for getting under way. Stokes wondered in his fatigued impatience. The sun was starting to climb in the cold December sky. It was time to get this damned bucket of bolts to sea. The enlisted phone talker nudged him. The captain was emerging from the operations compartment hatch, climbing out on deck into the sun. As Pacino crossed the gangway to the pier below. Stokes clicked the P.A. Circuit One ship wide announcing system microphone and gave the crew a dose of his accent. “DEVILFISH, DEPARTING!” Commodore Benjamin Adams was waiting on the pier. Actually he was a Navy captain but was addressed by his station in life as commanding officer of the submarine squadron, just as Pacino was called captain when he was only a commander. Adams was a paunchy balding man in his fifties, with a gravelly voice, a brisk manner and a dry sense of humor. Pacino walked up and saluted. Adams smiled and returned the salute.

“Well, Patch, you all set for this mysterious mission of yours?”

“Yes sir,” Pacino said, pleased to hear his father’s nickname applied to him.

“You want to let me in on what you’re doing on this run?” It was not unusual for squadron commodores not to know the mission of one of his squadron’s ships. When in port the ships came under Adams’ administrative control. Once at sea the submarine commander answered only to COMSUBLANT. Since submarines were under orders to maintain radio silence at sea a submarine captain was essentially on his own when submerged. Pacino made a zipping motion over his lips. Adams nodded.

“Okay, Patch. Wherever the hell you’re going, good luck.”

“Thanks, Commodore. Request permission to get under way, sir.” Adams looked over at Devilfish. “Your tugboats late?”

“No sir.”

“No tugs?” Adams asked, knowing the answer.

“No tugs, sir.”

“No pilot?”