Voyage of the Devilfish

“Rig emergency cooling for natural convection and shift propulsion to the EPM, then secure the last reactor main coolant pump,” Delaney ordered. The electrical operator spoke slowly, almost a hiss: “Eng, twenty minutes on the battery at this rate.” Delaney nodded, reaching for a phone. “Conn, maneuvering, reactor scram, steam plant shutdown, twenty minutes left on the battery.” Twenty minutes. The torpedo would be there any second, he thought. The high-pitched sound of the Russian nuclear torpedo’s sonar pinging was now audible through the hull of the Devilfish, echoing off the ice rafts around them.

WESTERN ATLANTIC OCEAN

USS BILLFISH

The eerie, detached feeling left Commander Toth abruptly. The adrenaline jolt of fear accelerated his sense of time, blowing up seconds into minutes. He had heard stories about time dilation but thought they were exaggerations. He looked over at Lieutenant Culverson, the Officer of the Deck, who stood frozen in his blue Hush Puppies. The Billfish had blown the AKULA out of the water, but not before it had launched a cruise missile at the coast of the United States of America. Right at Norfolk, Virginia. Home.

“Helm, I have the Conn!” Toth shouted. “All ahead full! Maneuvering cavitate! Dive, make your depth six six feet, twenty degree up bubble! Let’s go, now Despite the string of orders and the maneuver to periscope depth, the controlroom crew was moving through a sea of molasses. It was too late, anyway. There was nothing in Billfish’s torpedo room able to cope with a cruise missile on solid rocket fuel. Their only ally was time — the weapon was subsonic. Time to impact might be as long as fifteen minutes… With an early-warning message to CINCLANTFLEET and the White House, an interceptor aircraft might have a chance at shooting down the weapon. Assuming there was a unit ready for takeoff, an aircraft with a lookdown-shootdown radar, a pilot ready to fly and no screwups in relaying the message to people who could act on it… they would have maybe two minutes grace time in which to shoot the thing down. Which was all that stood between Toth and the annihilation of Norfolk, Virginia.

“Helm, mark speed eight knots.” At all-ahead full the ship would surge ahead at a knot a second. And nine knots would be enough speed to rip the periscope right the hell off.

The deck angled up steeply, forcing Tom to grab a handhold in the overhead. He felt the deck vibrate from the power of coming to fifty percent reactor power in mere seconds.

“Eight knots, Cap’n,” the helmsman called out.

“All stop. Lookaround number-two scope,” Toth replied while reaching for the P.A. Circuit One microphone. His own voice sounded fast and tight as it went throughout the ship.

“COMMUNICATIONS EMERGENCY. COMMUNICATIONS EMERGENCY. NAVIGATOR, COMMUNICATOR AND RADIO CHIEF REPORT TO RADIO IMMEDIATELY.”

“Six five feet, sir,” the Diving Officer called. The ship had levelled off. It took what seemed like an hour for the periscope to come out of the well. Toth focused on the bearing to the AKULA’s launch position, and his heart sank. The bright white rocket exhaust traced a graceful arc up to several thousand feet, a beautiful fourth of July rocket, except that as Toth watched, the fire trail suddenly stopped. There were no fireworks. No more fire from the tail of the rocket. Only a smoky parabola etched in the night sky. Which meant the first stage, the solid-rocket motor, had been exhausted and the jet-engine sustainer had kicked in, sending the rocket on its way. It was no longer visible, not just because of the jettisoning of the rocket motor but because it was cruising below the radar grass, maybe only forty feet above the water.