Attack of the Seawolf

CHAPTER 11

Captain Michael Pacino climbed the rungs of the bridge-access tunnel ladder, the light from the bridge above shining down from a distance. The tunnel was almost twenty feet tall, going from the upper level passageway outside the crew’s mess to the cockpit at the top of the sail. At the top of the ladder Pacino’s passage was obstructed by the metal grating that formed the deck of the bridge cockpit. The officer of the deck swung the grating open. Pacino grabbed a handhold and lifted himself up to the cockpit. Once he was on his feet, the grating was dropped down.

“Good morning. Captain,” Bill Feyley said. Like Pacino, Feyley wore cotton working khakis and a khaki jacket, binoculars around his neck, a Seawolf blue ball cap and aviator’s wire rimmed sunglasses.

“You’ll be conning us out, Weps?”

“I’m the OOD,” Feyley said. “But Mr. Joseph will take the conn as Junior Officer of the Deck.”

“Where is he?”

“Topside talking to the line handlers.”

Pacino looked up and saw the tall, skinny youth walking topside. Jeff Joseph, the communications officer, was an oddball, Pacino thought. Smart, personable, funny, also maybe the ugliest officer he’d ever seen, bug eyes and buck teeth. Still, according to the reports Pacino had read, the kid was showing himself to be a champion ship driver even though he had been aboard only a few months.

Pacino looked at the cockpit. It was just a cubbyhole in the metal of the sail, formed by lowering clamshell doors down to expose an unused volume at the top of the bridge trunk. A small communication box was fastened to the forward lip of the sail. Beside it was a gyrocompass repeater. Above the lip of the sail was a Plexiglas windshield. Pacino leaned out over the starboard side of the bridge and looked at the pier below. The view from the top of the sail gave him the kind of perspective an old time square-rigger sailor would have from a masthead’s crow’s nest. Pacino looked forward down the length of the concrete pier, the water in the slip empty except for Seawolf. At the end of the pier a lone figure walked, a heavyset man in a khaki officer’s uniform. Pacino picked up his binoculars.

The man was carrying a duffel bag, was nondescript except for a thick mustache. He was bald, his khaki garrison cap barely covering the skin of his head. He was built like a cylinder.

“Captain,” Feyley said, putting down a phone handset, “Commander Lennox is on the way. Pier guard said he has orders to come aboard.”

“I’ll meet him on the pier,” Pacino said, lifting his leg over the bridge coaming and finding the ladder rungs set into the flank of the sail. He lowered himself down the two stories to the topside deck and saluted the aft flag and the topside sentry, then walked over the gangway to the pier.

“SEAWOLF … DEPARTING!” rang out the Circuit One deck loudspeaker. It took a moment for Pacino to realize the sentry’s announcement was talking about him.

Pacino walked down the pier to the commander, who stopped and saluted.

“Kurt Lennox, reporting as ordered, Captain.”

Pacino waved a salute and shook Lennox’s hand.

“I’m Captain Pacino. Come on down. Commander.”

Pacino pointed to the ship and the two men began walking toward the gangway.

“Were you briefed on the Tampa situation?”

“Situation? I was just pulled off leave and told to report aboard. I figured something happened to your XO and you needed an emergency replacement. What happened to my ship. Captain?”

“Typical Navy not to tell you. Security too tight, I guess. Kurt, I can’t tell you specifics until we shove off, but I can say now that your boat is in big trouble. Seawolf is going to help out, and you’ll be part of that. That is, if you want to be.”

Lennox’s face hardened.

“So am I your XO sir?”

“I’ve got something else in mind. Let’s get you below and settled in. Once we’ve cleared restricted waters I’ll brief you and the officers.”

As the men neared the gangway, Lennox pointed down the pier.

“What the hell is that?”

Pacino turned. A half-ton truck was bouncing down the pier, two dozen rough-looking men hanging out the open sides of the bed, stuffed in with piles of equipment — diver’s tanks, packaged weapons, pallets of explosives, and crates of ammunition. The truck drew up to the gangway and the truck’s cab door opened. A man emerged and stepped down to the pier, walked up to Pacino and stopped. He had long black hair peppered with gray and drawn back into a ponytail. A handlebar mustache was over a beard that extended halfway down his huge chest. His biceps bulged out of a leather jacket cut off at the shoulders, numerous tattoos on each arm. At his wrists he wore leather spiked-dog collars. He sported dirty faded jeans and cracked and dusty cowboy boots. Behind him in the truck several men hooted and shouted at each other, all dressed like bikers. The character in front of Pacino took out a wrinkled pack of brown cigarettes, flipped one out and lit it with a wooden match struck into a flame on his zipper. After puffing smoke toward Lennox, he flipped the match to the pier.

“You the captain?” he asked in a throaty drawl.

Pacino spoke up.

“I’m Captain Pacino, USS Seawolf. Who the hell are you?”

The man puffed the cigarette as he looked over the hull of the submarine like someone about to rent an apartment who wasn’t too sure he liked what he saw.

“I was hoping this’d be an old missile boat refitted for divers. It will take us all day to get out of the hull of this bitch.” He looked at Pacino, sizing him up.

“Name’s Morris. Jack Morris, Commander, SEAL Team Seven. Those are my shooters. Get some of your boys up here and help us load this shit in your boat there. Captain.”

Pacino ignored the order.

“What in hell are you dressed for?”

Morris laughed.

“They didn’t brief you too well. This outfit is a counterterrorist unit. Captain, flown in special from Virginia Beach. My unit is using ‘modified grooming standards,” which means we need to look just like terrorists. And we do a pretty good job, if I can judge by the look on the pier guard’s face.”

Pacino smiled, waving over Lieutenant (j.g.) Joseph.

“Mr. Joseph, get these SEALs and their gear loaded below. The line handlers can help out — we’re not going anywhere till the stuff is aboard. Put the equipment in the sonar equipment space, and make sure it’s rigged for sea. The SEALs will bunk in the torpedo room, and Commander Morris will share the XO’s stateroom with Commander Lennox. You’ve only got a few minutes, so move it.” As Joseph motioned to the line handlers Pacino turned to Morris.

“Welcome aboard. Commander.”

“Thanks,” Morris said, lighting another cigarette.

“One thing, though, Cap’n. I won’t be bunking with you pinky-in-the-air gentlemen in officers’ country. At SEAL Team Seven I preach unit integrity, which means I sleep where my men sleep. You got a problem with that?”

“Mr. Joseph, you heard the man. Put the commander in the torpedo room with the other SEALs.”

Joseph led the SEALs, some twenty of them, down the forward compartment access hatch and into the submarine. Pacino looked over at Morris, who was leaning against a pier bollard.

“Are you guys as good as they say you are?”

Morris took a last puff off the cigarette and tossed it into the brackish water of the slip.

“Captain, SEAL Team Seven is the best there is.”

“Good. You’ll need to be.”

Pacino’s Rolex showed 11:30 a.m. local time. He had wanted to be underway a half hour before, but stowing the gear of the SEALs had delayed them. Almost a ton of high explosives could not just be tossed into the hull.

Pacino stood on the flying bridge, a ring of steel handrails on the top of the sail behind the bridge cockpit.

Beside him stood Lieutenant (j.g.) Joseph, connected to the bridge communication box below by a long microphone cord. Down in the cockpit were Lieutenant Commander Feyley, the OOD, and an enlisted phone talker there to relay communications in parallel with the speaker circuits in case of a failure of the bridge box. Below on deck two dozen line handlers waited, facing a half-dozen of the bases’ men on the pier. The lines were singled up and two tugboats were tied up outboard to help the mammoth craft pull away from the pier.

Pacino looked at the tugboats. Somehow, having to get underway with tugs had always annoyed him. It seemed to announce to the world that the submariners were less than capable ship handlers in restricted waters.

In truth, they were terrible ship handlers. Single screw submarines handled like ungainly pigs on the surface, especially at slow speeds. And tied up bowin as they were, they would have to back down to get away from the slip, and subs did unpredictable things when backing down, sometimes obeying the rudder, sometimes turning the opposite way from the rudder order. If he were honest with himself, he thought, he would admit that the prudent course of action would be to go with the tugs, let them pull him away from the pier, let them help him avoid embarrassment from banging the sonar dome into the pier or backing down in a complete circle to get into the channel. After all, he had been in combat before — why would he have to prove himself at the pier with cowboy showmanship?

Besides, the crew would expect him to do the safe thing with an untested submarine. No one would want him to maneuver out into the channel without tugs.

But a thought nagged at him — if he did the cowboy method, and it came off, the crew would immediately know the sort of commander they were dealing with.

He expected to return from this OP with the torpedo room empty and a few Chinese ships on the bottom of the bay. The crew might as well get used to the fact that this would be no milk run. Sea trials were over. The mission, the combat mission, started now.

“Mr. Joseph,” Pacino barked. “What are we waiting for?”

“The pilot’s still late, sir. A tug is bringing him in now. He should be here in about forty-five minutes.”

A pilot was someone who knew the channel like his own home, who knew the currents and the tides, the depth of each sandbar, each treacherous rock. Another safe course would be to wait for him. Pacino thought of the Tampa. If his ship were held by an enemy, would Sean Murphy wait for a pilot?

“Mr. Joseph, tell the tugs to shove off.”

“Excuse me sir?”

“Cut the tugs loose. We’re going to get underway without them. And without the pilot. Prepare to get underway.”

“But, sir—”

“I have the conn,” Pacino said, taking the bullhorn from Jeff Joseph’s grasp.

“ON DECK, PASS THE TUG LINES OVER TO THE TUGS.”

A walkie-talkie in Joseph’s hand squawked: “U.S. NAVY SUBMARINE, THIS IS TUG MASSAPEQUA. SAY AGAIN YOUR INTENTIONS REGARDING TUG FORCES, OVER.”

Pacino took the radio, seeing Joseph’s surprised eyes on him.

“Tug Massapequa, this is Captain, U.S. Navy Submarine. Take in your lines and clear the slip, over.”

“ROGER, CAPTAIN. ARE YOU SURE ABOUT THIS, OVER?”

“Affirmative. Clear the slip now. U.S. Navy Submarine, out.”

Pacino handed the radio back to Joseph as the roar of the tug’s diesels sounded over the water of the slip.

A foaming wake boiled up around the bows of the tugs as they backed down and entered the channel, standing by in case the Seawolf found herself in trouble.

Pacino clicked the microphone attached by the long cord to the bridge box: “Control, Captain, I have the conn. Lieutenant Commander Feyley retains the deck. We are getting underway. Navigator, log that we have cast off the tugs and are going without the pilot.”

The navigator’s voice came up from the speaker in the cockpit, confusion plain in his acknowledgement.

Pacino nodded. He had gotten the crew’s attention.

“ON DECK,” Pacino said into the bullhorn. “TAKE IN ALL LINES.”

He watched as the line handlers on the pier passed the heavy lines over, freeing the submarine from the pier. As the last line came over, the USS Seawolf was officially underway, no longer pier bound Pacino smiled.

“Shift colors,” he commanded. Bill Feyley pulled a lever sounding the ship’s horn, loud and deep enough to be worthy of the Queen Elizabeth, the earsplitting blast sounding for a full ten seconds. At the same time the phone talker hoisted a large American flag on a temporary flagpole aft of the flying bridge, the wind from the north flapping the fabric.

Pacino watched the ship from his vantage point on the flying bridge. The current from the channel was pushing the stern away from the pier, the distance between the ship and pier opening slowly, now perhaps ten yards. Pacino clicked his microphone.

“Helm, Bridge, all back full.”

“ALL BACK FULL, HELM AYE, MANEUVERING ANSWERS ALL BACK FULL.”

The pier faded away from the bow as the ship’s main engines pulled the massive ship backward into the channel. The channel current pulled the stern further away from the pier.

“Helm, Bridge, right full rudder,” Pacino ordered as the ship was halfway sticking into the channel, half into the slip beside the pier.

The helmsman acknowledged and the rudder, far aft, turned in the white wake of the stern. Slowly the ship’s stern came into the channel. The ship was again parallel with the pier and still turning so that the stern was pulling upstream into the channel current. Finally the ship’s bow, the sonar dome, was clear of the pier.

“Helm bridge, left full rudder, all ahead full!”

The helmsman answered, and the ship shuddered as it made the transition from full turns aft to full turns forward. Seawolf responded to the rudder, the nose cone avoiding the pier to the south of Pier 4 as the vessel moved into the channel and a violent white foamy wake boiled up aft at the rudder. Out of the corner of his eye Pacino could see Feyley and Joseph staring at him as if he had gone around the bend. The piers to the west slid by as the Seawolf picked up speed. The tugs soon vanished astern.

Seawolf was on the way.

Pacino picked up the bullhorn.

“ON DECK, LINE HANDLERS RIG FOR DIVE AND LAY BELOW!”

Below, the line handlers scrambled for the forward compartment hatch, seeing the water of the bow wave climbing the hull. The last one shut the hatch behind him, clearing the deck.

“Helm, Bridge, steady course one six five,” Pacino ordered.

“Navigator, recommend course to bring us to the center of the channel.”

The ship continued to accelerate, the water climbing up the sonar dome until the deck forward of the sail vanished, the water beginning to spray up the leading edge of the sail.

“BRIDGE, NAVIGATOR,” Keebes’s voice announced from the bridge communication box, his tone sounding nervous, “RECOMMEND COURSE ONE SEVEN TWO TO REGAIN TRACK. DISTANCE TO NEXT TURN, FIVE THOUSAND YARDS, NEW COURSE ONE SEVEN FIVE.”

“Helm, Bridge, right two degrees rudder, steady course one seven two.”

Pacino handed the microphone to Lieutenant (j.g.) Joseph, who still looked shocked.

“Mr. Joseph, you have the conn.”

Ahead of the ship, in the wide channel that opened south of the naval station, several dozen small sailboats sailed back and forth, as if intentionally blocking their passage.

“Helm, Bridge, all ahead one third,” Joseph ordered.

The ship began to slow, the bow wave receding.

“What are you doing?” Pacino asked.

“Sir, look at the sampans. We have to slow down, we don’t want to collide with them.”

Pacino frowned.

“Order up all ahead full. They’ll get out of the way.”

“Helm, Bridge, all ahead full,” Joseph ordered.

The sail beneath Pacino’s feet began to shudder as the ship’s main engines again surged forward, the bow wave again roaring forward of the sail, the wake again boiling white aft. The noise of the bow wave became so loud that the officers would have to shout at each other to be heard.

Ahead of them, in the channel, dozens of boats, jamming the seaway ahead, caught sight of Seawolfs bow wave and scurried out of the way in panic. A hole opened in the seaway, and the submarine moved through it, the boats bobbing violently in her wake.

“JOOD, shift the reactor to forced circulation.”

“Sir, we’re at fifty percent power. Shall I reduce speed to ahead two-thirds while maneuvering energizes the pumps?” The Reactor Plant Manual required a power reduction before starting the pumps, or the power surge from the cold water could cause a reactor accident, overpowering the core and melting the fuel.

The only situation that allowed the requirement to be ignored was a tactical emergency under the orders of the captain.

What the hell, Pacino thought. It was a tactical emergency of sorts.

“No power reduction, Joseph. Shift to forced circulation and order all ahead flank.”

“Aye, sir.” He clicked the microphone.

“Maneuvering, Bridge, shift to forced circ, remain at all ahead full.”

The bridge box sputtered with the Engineer’s astonished voice.

“SHIFT TO FORCED CIRC, BRIDGE, MANEUVERING, AYE, COMMENCING FAST INSERTION … BRIDGE, MANEUVERING, REACTOR IS IN FORCED CIRCULATION, ANSWERING AHEAD FULL.”

“Helm, Bridge, all ahead flank!”

“ALL AHEAD FLANK, BRIDGE, HELM, AYE BRIDGE, HELM, MANEUVERING ANSWERS ALL AHEAD FLANK.”

The deck shuddered. The roaring bow wave climbed even higher up the sail, spraying salt and foam on the bridge crew. The flags flapped on the pole aft. The periscopes spun as the navigator took visual fixes on the way out. The scenery slipped by as Seawolfs main engines propelled her out at flank speed.

Pacino’s spirits seemed to skim the waves with the wind and the bow wave. Damn, he was at sea again, and in command. Hold on, Sean, he thought, we’re on the way.

Pacino climbed down from the flying bridge into the cockpit, scanned the horizon for contacts, drank a mug of coffee passed up from the galley and watched as the coast of Japan faded away astern. Soon the ship reached Point Alpha, the dive point, and Pacino climbed back down the bridge-access trunk after one last look at the world above, one last breath of fresh sea air, knowing, as always, it might well be his last.