Voyage of the Devilfish

“Commander Donchez,” he said, unable to drop the formality in the midst of his regimented plebe year, “it’s Dad, isn’t it?” Donchez nodded. “Mikey, the Stingray sank off the Azores in mid-Atlantic about a week ago. We couldn’t confirm it until she was due in. She failed to show up at the pier today. I’m afraid we have to presume your father is dead.” Pacino sank into a chair, a thinly padded steel-legged seat. His mouth opened and shut twice before he found his voice.

“… what happened?” Donchez inhaled, preparing for the lie. The world would never know that the Stingray was intentionally downed— the very fact that U.S. sonars were capable enough to hear the sinking was still highly secret. A protest to Moscow would only alert the Soviets that American ears could hear them from continents away. More to the point, the Stingray’s top-secret mission had been to spy on the Russians, and an admission that she was under the polar icecap would be a confession to the Soviets that she’d been ordered north for covert surveillance. The President would not appreciate a media frenzy over a spying American submarine sunk by the Russians. But the multitude of valid national security reasons to cover up the sinking did not make the lie any easier, not when he had to look into Michael Pacino’s eyes.

“We think she had a hot-run torpedo that blew up inside her bow compartment,” Donchez said. “Probably someone doing maintenance on the weapon screwed up, and it started its engine, armed, and detonated before they could jettison it. Goddamned Mark 37 torpedoes. They hot run all the time.” Donchez dropped his eyes. He himself had been the author of the official cover story. Eighteen-year-old Pacino shut his eyes and put his head in his hands. Donchez looked on, feeling helpless, wishing he could hug the boy, comfort him somehow. When young Pacino started to shake, Donchez could no longer stay still. He pulled Pacino up and put his arms around him.

“Dad…” young Pacino said to no one, his voice shaky. Did he really believe Donchez’s story?

Someday they’ll pay, Donchez thought. Was his old friend’s son possibly thinking the same thing?

CHAPTER 1

MONDAY, 13 DECEMBER 1993

WESTERN ATLANTIC OCEAN

The anniversary of the sinking of the Stingray had never been marked or even mentioned in any way by the Navy. Nor had the Soviets mentioned it. Nobody was that keen on a nuclear war. But nobody felt easy that somehow it would not repeat itself. This anniversary, over two decades later, was a rehearsal for a reprise. A U.S. fast-attack submarine was again within weapons range of an enemy submarine. The Piranha-class submarine ran quieter, deeper and faster than the Stingray. Her electronics and firecontrol and sonar were more accurate, her nuclear reactor and engines more powerful, her layout more efficient and her torpedoes more deadly.

Two conditions about the USS Devilfish were very much reminiscent of the old Stingray. Her control room was just as cramped, and her captain’s nametag read Pacino. Commander Michael Pacino frowned down on the firecontrol solution from the periscope stand. His green-hued eyes and crow’s-feet wrinkles around them were hidden by the dim light of the firecontrol television monitors. At six feet two inches he was almost too tall to qualify for submarine duty. Pacino was as slim as the day he had graduated from the Naval Academy, mostly from skipping meals and running in place between the broiling hot main engines. He had a mustache and his hair was a thick black mass in need of a regulation Navy cut. But as the son of a legendary submariner lost at sea with his ship the USS Stingray, he was not about to be denied his role. Over the years young Pacino had lived with memories of the day Commander Donchez had brought him news of his father’s death. Even more, with imaginings of what had happened and how. He had tried to believe the official version, but somehow had never quite bought it. Since Pacino had ordered Devilfish to battle stations ten minutes earlier, the control room had been filled with twenty-one men, most wearing headsets and boom microphones. They called it an “exercise,” but it was one in name only. Sooner or later it could be the real thing. As far as Pacino went, it couldn’t be soon enough. In front of Pacino, showing the Devilfish’s position in relation to the enemy submarine — designated Target One — were the computer screens of the firecontrol system, displaying the distance to Target One as well as its speed and course. The readings were educated guesses aided by the multimillion-dollar Mark I firecontrol computer, though subject to error.