Voyage of the Devilfish

The control room of the USS Allentown would look roomy to any Piranha-class sailor. Its layout was planned, not like Captain Henry Duckett’s last Piranha-class boat, the Spadefish. The control room had the elevated periscope stand by itself in the center, the navigation chart immediately aft so the OOD could see the ship’s position without walking off the Conn. The Chief of the Watch’s panel seemed impossibly far away to port, and similarly far off to starboard was the long line of firecontrol consoles. To a submariner the roominess of the space was like a breath of topside fresh air. The sonar room, the ESM room and radio all opened directly from the control room, not from an aft passageway like on the Piranha class. And this allowed face-to-face discussions with minimal disruptions to the critical combat centers. The Radioman of the Watch’s voice crackled from the overhead speaker: “CONN, RADIO, WE HAVE AN ELF TRANSMISSION COMING IN ON THE LOOP ANTENNA … WILL ADVISE.”

“OOD, you have the Conn,” Duckett said, moving into the radio room. He was gone for six minutes.

“What is it, sir?”

“We’re ordered to periscope depth. Get us up quick, no baffle clearing.”

“Aye aye, sir. Helm, all stop. Dive, make your depth five four feet, ten degree up bubble. Sonar, Conn, ascending to PD. Lookaround number-two scope. Helm, all ahead onethird.” The OOD raised the type-18 periscope and the Allentown’s deck inclined as she ascended to periscope depth. The young lieutenant rotated the periscope in circles, his body hugging the deck-to-overhead periscope and optic module, his pelvis pressed up against the optic module, dancing with the fat lady. Duckett leaned against the pole of the attack-periscope, the installed spare. Finally the radioman brought in the message board with the flash message. The first paragraph nearly made Duckett’s heart come full stop. 120 nuclear-attack subs heading for the coast? Jesus, Joseph and Mary. Duckett read on to the paragraph directing Allentown north to Warplan Station Number One, directly offshore from Severomorsk Naval Complex in Russian waters. With cruise missiles armed and ready…

“Offsa’deck,” Duckett called, “muster the officers in the wardroom for an urgent brief. And send down the SIOP WARPLAN.”

The OOD’s eyes widened. ‘The warplan, sir?” ‘That’s right. Lieutenant. You got a problem with that?”

“No, sir. SIOP WARPLAN, coming up, sir.” Good for him, Duckett thought. Because he sure as hell had one.

NORTH ATLANTIC

The Devilfish, responding to orders, rolled in the long swells at periscope depth. Pacino stood at the number-two periscope, doing slow circles, unable to see much but the mountains of the waves crashing over his view as the storm raged above the ship. Every few minutes he prodded the OOD for the status of the satellite radio transmission. They’d lost it the first time as a wave splashed over the BIGMOUTH radio antenna sticking out through the waves. The submarines could get a broadcast-burst communication only on the quarter-hour. Since they missed it once, it would mean staying at periscope depth for another fifteen minutes. And even then another wave might drown out that burst transmission. Pacino called to the OOD without removing his eyes from the periscope, “Off sa’deck, hit the satellite and get the broadcast onboard.”

“But, sir,” Stokes said, “if we transmit to the satellite to request our messages we could be detected. It may be a burst comm but the Russians got receivers with direction finders.”

Pacino shook his head. “You think we’ve been stealthy this run yet? We’ve gone through a thousand miles at flank with the reactor main coolant pumps at fast speed. And now we’re sitting here with two telephone poles sticking out of the sea just waiting for someone to eyeball us. Hit the god damned satellite, get the broadcast onboard and let’s get deep where we belong.”

“Aye, sir,” Stokes said tonelessly. “Radio, Conn, hit the satellite.” Stokes reached for the radar-wave-receiver volume-knob on the phone console in time to squelch the screech of the ship’s transmission. The receiver made noises, mostly boops and beeps when enemy radar beams hit the periscope. It also detected the BIGMOUTH transmitting. Same frequency range. The speaker in the overhead squawked as hydraulics thumped, indicating the lowering of the BIGMOUTH antenna by the radioman.

“CONN, RADIO, BROADCAST ONBOARD, PRINTING OUT NOW, LOWERING THE BIGMOUTH.”

“Take her deep,” Pacino immediately ordered.

“Diving Officer,” Stokes drawled, “make your depth five four six feet, thirty degree down angle. And step on it.” The next mountainous wave splashed against Pacino’s periscope-view, and for a few moments he looked at the underside of the waves, training the periscope-view upward as the waves grew distant overhead. Finally all was dark.