Voyage of the Devilfish

“Clear baffles, Offsa’deck, aye. Helm, right five degrees rudder, steady course one three zero.” Christman picked up a microphone at the underice sonar console. “Sonar, Conn, clearing baffles to the right.”

“CONN, SONAR, AYE.” Pacino climbed back up to the periscope stand and stared at the short-duration waterfall display, thinking of the Russian that came out of the Stingray’s baffles decades before.

NORFOLK, VIRGINIA

COMSUBLANT HEADQUARTERS IN FLAG PLOT

Admiral Donchez stared up at 120 flashing red X’s. The sons of bitches had arrived, he thought. The subs were lining up from off the coast of Maine down to the Carolinas. The southernmost portions of the coast were still clear, the last Russians still on the way to these more distant stations. His attack submarines were in force off the coast, but 67 boats against 120 … not good odds for a face-off, if it came to that. His message to his submarines had been carefully worded to be as vague as possible yet still give their commanders some leeway to engage… if necessary.

1. RUSSIAN SUBMARINE ATTACK UNITS EXPECTED TO TAKE STATION OFF U.S. EAST COAST IN WESTLANT BY 182000ZDEC.

2. ALL UNITS SHALL DO UTMOST REPEAT UTMOST TO GET IN TRAIL OF RUSSIAN UNITS. ESTABLISH TRAIL WITH MAXIMUM TRAIL RANGE FIVE THOUSAND (5000) YARDS. MINIMUM TRAIL RANGE AT DISCRETION OF INDIVIDUAL COMMANDING OFFICER, WITH MISSION DIRECTIVE TO REMAIN UNDETECTED IF POSSIBLE.

3. RUSSIAN INTENT UNKNOWN.

4. COMMANDERS SHALL USE BEST JUDGMENT. SUBLANT RULES OF ENGAGEMENT APPLY, BUT SHALL BE INTERPRETED SO AS TO MAXIMIZE SAFETY OF U.S. AND U.S. INTERESTS.

5. ON DETECTION OF ANY HOSTILE FIRE, UNITS ARE AUTHORIZED TO ATTACK TARGETS.

6. ADM.R.DONCHEZ SENDS.

It was the best he could do. No one could shoot unless one of the Russian attack boats shot first. But why would they be deploying? To test American nerves? Donchez walked to the elevator to go to his office and watch the construction on the Stingray monument. For all the good he was doing in Flag Plot, he might as well walk out to the site and help them pour concrete. As he left Flag Plot he looked at the charts and promised himself he would not come back to the room until the Russians turned around and abandoned their game of chicken, or war of nerves, or whatever the hell they thought it was.

ARCTIC OCEAN

POLYNYA SURFACE

Admiral Alexi Novskoyy sat at the communications console in the control compartment and watched the laser printer reel off page after page of papers from the computer’s storage memory. Only five minutes after the hour Novskoyy had appointed for the boats to be onstation, he had 120 messages from his submarines. He picked up the ream of messages and took them to the ladder to the upper level of the second compartment below, nodded to the Deck Officer, Captain-Lieutenant Ivanov, the only other occupant of the space.

“Good night, Ivanov.”

“Good night, sir.” Novskoyy continued down the ladder and through the passageway to his stateroom, where he turned on a small stereo and sat down at the desk. It took over an hour to decrypt the messages, but when he was done he stared down at the checklist with satisfaction. Each of the 120 attack submarines was in position along the coast of the U.S., and none had encountered any harassment. The Americans seemed to be giving them a wide berth. He leaned back in his chair and let his eyes unfocus. He had expected at least a dozen reports of bumps and collisions with the U.S. attack submarines in the Atlantic, perhaps lines of frigates and destroyers filling the water with sonar pings, aircraft doing low flyovers and dropping sonobuoys, squadrons of helicopters chopping over the waves dipping sonar receivers on long cables. But nothing. The Atlantic was deserted. Not even a sniff of the American attack submarines Dretzski had reported. Something had to be wrong. It was too perfect. Novskoyy took off his reading glasses and shut his eyes. It had to be Agent Fishhook coming through. That and the U.N. inspection. The plan had worked.

He sat back to listen to the sounds of the symphony music washing over him, but the nagging thought kept intruding… why had the fleet achieved positions without opposition?

WESTERN ATLANTIC OCEAN