Voyage of the Devilfish

Captain-Lieutenant Mikhail Geroshkov plainly loved his job and little wonder. The propulsion plant of the Kaliningrad was far superior to any other in the fleet, for that matter was much more advanced than anything the Americans had, with their low-power density, water-cooled cores. The Kaliningrad had two reactors, each cooled by highly conductive liquid sodium. Pumps had no rotating parts and pushed the coolant through the loops using magnetism. It was very quiet. Vlasenko did not pretend to know much about nuclear power. The Russian fleet was split into two tracks — the seamanship officers, of which he was one, and the engineering corps that had the responsibility of running and repairing the plants.

“Any problems with the plant?” Vlasenko asked Geroshkov.

“So far, perfect. Captain.”

“Computers working out okay?”

“Very well, sir. I was skeptical at first but they make this operation very efficient.” Vlasenko watched the screens for a while, wishing he shared Geroshkov’s optimism about the computers. “Did the admiral happen to come back here?”

“No, sir. Why would he?”

“No reason. I’m going forward. The spaces look shipshape.” Vlasenko had intended to confront Admiral Novskoyy over the admiral’s giving direct orders to his men, but on reaching the upper level of the second compartment a messman indicated the admiral was in his stateroom sleeping. Well, he’d check out the control compartment and wait to confront Novskoyy after figuring out exactly what he would say. He didn’t want to start a war aboard his own ship. Still…

CHAPTER 8

TUESDAY, 14 DECEMBER, 1014 EST

WESTERN ATLANTIC OCEAN

40 NAUTICAL MILES NORTHEAST OF NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

Commander Jon Rapier started his walk through of the submarine, ensuring the ship was rigged for sea. This had always been Pacino’s duty — the captain insisted on seeing every corner of the boat himself. But today he had asked Rapier to do the walk through and had remained in his stateroom. Something was definitely wrong with him. Rapier thought. The last two years had been tough with home life and navy life seemingly at cross purposes. But even during the stormiest times Pacino had kept a sense of humor. This run was different. Something had changed the captain and it seemed to be much more than any family squabble. In his stateroom Rapier had changed into his underway uniform, a one-piece cotton overall with his name sewn above the right pocket. He strapped on his khaki belt and radiation dosimeter, pinned his dolphins on, got into his atsea boots, left his stateroom and walked forward along the central passageway through operations-compartment upper level and down narrow stairs to the middle level, then turned left to officers country. Each “stateroom” occupied by three officers was six-by-six feet, with two chairs and two fold-down desktops, a few lockers recessed into the fake wood panelling and three “coffins,” racks shaped like drawers in a morgue except each had a side-entrance curtain and a reading light. The coffins were stacked three high in the staterooms, four high for the enlisted men. Those high-ranking enough got coffins to themselves; many hot-racked, shared a coffin with someone on a different watch section. That still left about twenty men who had to make a rack on top of the torpedoes in operations lower level. At the aft end of the officers-country passageway was the wardroom, about twenty-by-fifteen feet with a table in the center. At the aft end was the door to the small pantry, which further aft opened into the main galley. The wardroom was used as a dining room, tactical-planning room and end-of-watch reconstruction room. One of the largest open areas aboard, the crew’s mess, could seat about thirty men. The starboard bulkhead was painted with a mural of two square-rigged ships sailing on a stormy sea.

The central columns were covered with hemp rope spiralling around, with brass lanterns at the top. The forward bulkhead had a mirror framed in more hemp rope. The leather bench seats and tablecovers were done up in blue. The deck was tiled in blue and white. Actually the mess looked more like a cheap fish house than a combat submarine. Never mind. Rapier told himself, at least the crew liked it. At the aft end of the crew’s mess was the Trash Disposal Unit room. The TDU was a vertical torpedo tube used to eject compacted trash through a ball valve at the hull. The garbage was sealed in plastic and weighted with lead bricks so no floating waste would give away their position.