Voyage of the Devilfish

“Very well. Dive,” Stokes replied. Steadily, the Devilfish settled into the waves. After the deck vanished, the sail was all that was visible. Soon the fairwater planes, the horizontal control surfaces protruding from the side of the sail, splashed the waves, then also vanished underwater. The top of the sail settled until it too was obscured. Only the tall number-two periscope rose above the water, lowering until it only poked above the waves by four feet, a small foamy wake trailing behind it.

“Six seven feet, sir,” Fasteen called out.

“Vents shut,” said Chief Robertson.

“Get a trim. Dive. Helm, all ahead onethird.” Stokes never removed his eye from the periscope as he continued to train his view around in slow circles, switching between low and high power, then looking upward in search of aircraft, the submariner’s lethal enemy. After ten minutes of pumping and balancing, Fasteen had Devilfish at neutral buoyancy.

“Captain, we’ve got a good onethird trim. Request to go deep and head north, sir,” Stokes said.

“Off sa’deck, proceed to five four six feet and continue northeast at flank,” Pacino responded.

American submarines cruised at odd depths like 546 feet, the idea being to avoid collisions with Russians, assuming the Russians measured depth at the keel and cruised at even depths measured in meters. Pacino always wondered if they cruised at depths like 334 meters to avoid collisions with Americans… “Helm,” Stokes called, “all ahead two thirds. Dive, make your depth five four six feet.” Pacino watched the periscope view showing on the remote TV monitor to the right of the control station, where the view of the sea grew more restricted as the vantage point got closer to the waves.

“Six eight feet, sir. Six nine,” Fasteen reeled off. The periscope view hit the waves. Foam boiled up around the periscope lens. The view cleared. Waves again.

“Scope’s awash… scope’s awash…” Stokes called out.

“Seven zero feet, sir,” from Fasteen. One final wave came up and splashed the periscope view. Then the view showed the underside of the waves. The field of view trained upward and looked at the waves from the bottom side, watching them get further away. When they were 40 feet overhead Stokes snapped the periscope grips up, reached into the overhead, rotated a large metal ring and said, “Lowering number-two scope.” The periscope optic-control section vanished into the periscope well, and the stainless steel pole lowered thirty feet until the top of the scope disappeared into the sail. The periscope television repeater automatically turned itself off, and the deck angled downward as the ship went deep.

“Helm, all ahead flank,” Stokes ordered. The hull creaked and popped as the ship went deeper into the increasing sea pressure.

“Off sa’deck, maneuvering answers all-ahead flank,” the helmsman called.

“Very well. Helm.”

“Off’sa’deck, passing four hundred feet,” Fasteen reported.

“Very well. Diving Officer.” Stokes looked at the remote sonar display. One lone contact, the supertanker, was fading astern.

“Offsa’deck, depth five four six feet.”

“Very well. Diving Officer.” Stokes picked up the P.A. Circuit One microphone. “RIG SHIP FOR PATROL QUIET.” Pacino looked at Stokes, who leaned on the periscope pole, arms crossed over his chest.

“I’ll be in my stateroom,” Pacino said, and walked aft.

Five-hundred-forty-six feet beneath the waves, the USS Devilfish continued northeast, enroute to the polar icecap. Enroute to Pacino’s fateful confrontation.

CHAPTER 9

TUESDAY, 14 DECEMBER, 1135 EST

NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

COMSUBLANT HEADQUARTERS

Admiral Richard Donchez lit his first Havana of the day, ignoring the pained expression on Captain Fred Rummel’s face. Rummel, the SUBLANT Chief Intelligence Officer, had called Donchez to the Top Secret Conference Room for an urgent brief. Donchez had been in the office before the sun to work on plans for a Stingray monument. The memorial had been kicking up objections from Naval Intelligence, which wanted the entire affair forgotten.

“Sir,” Rummel began, “CIA PHOTOINT sent us this.” The room lights dimmed and a slide projector clicked on to show a view of the Kola Peninsula on the Russian north coast. Most of the countryside was a cool blue, while bright orange dots lit up half a dozen points on the coastline.

“Infrared,” Rummel said. “Blue is cold, orange is hot. As you can plainly see, we’re getting hot spots at the submarine bases of the Northern Fleet along Russia’s northern coast.” Donchez nodded. “Power plants, buildings with poor insulation, floodlights. Lots of thermal sources.”

“Right. That’s why it took a few hours for us to get around to looking at this.” The slide changed to a closer view of one of the submarine bases. Donchez stood up slowly. “Oh shit,” he said softly, dropping cigar ashes into the carpeting.