Dive to Oblivion

10

Before leaving for Norfolk, Thomas Moore gratefully took Admiral Proctor’s advice and returned home to get some badly needed rest. He slept soundly for a solid eight hours, and was even able to do a load of laundry before repacking his seabag and hiking across town to the nearest Metro stop. He arrived at National Airport ten minutes later, in plenty of time to catch the noon commuter flight.

The Boeing Canada Dash 7 dual turboprop was crowded with businessmen and military personnel, and Moore took a lone seat in the small plane’s tail.

Their scheduled flight time was an hour, and he waited until after takeoff before pulling out the large, flat envelope that his superior had given him to read.

The envelope had a Priority One security stamp on it, and had been pulled from the files of BUPERS. He was somewhat surprised when he broke its seal and pulled out an original copy of a seven-page report dated September 1, 1943. The paper was brittle and yellow with age, and appeared to have originated at the Norfolk Naval Hospital, from the typewriter of Dr. Charles Kromer, the facility’s chief of staff.

After declining the steward’s offer of a drink, Moore sat back and carefully read the document, which consisted primarily of a patient interview conducted in the hospital’s psychiatric ward. The patient was Petty Officer First Class Lewis Marvin, a machinist assigned to the destroyer USS Eldridge. Marvin had been admitted a week earlier, suffering from paranoid delusions, sleeplessness, and fits of abnormal behavior ranging from depression to uncontrollable rage.

Throughout the interview, he continually made veiled references to an experimental device that had been placed inside the Eldridge. When activated, this device made a loud humming noise. It also produced a greenish haze around the ship’s waterline, for the supposed purpose of camouflaging the warship from the enemy.

Marvin swore that the device had a variety of harmful side effects. It made the crew edgy and nervous, and no one seemed to have an appetite when it was operational.

Yet things really got out of hand when the scientists running the experiment ordered Marvin and his men to prepare the device to accept a vastly increased power surge. A series of large electromagnetic generators were then moved onto the pier, until they all but surrounded the Eldridge on three sides. Marvin was ordered below deck at this point, and his memories of the confusing sequence of events that followed were hazy at best. He remembered returning from the engine room after his watch was completed, deciding to skip chow and head straight for his rack. Yet first he went to the head to shower, and that’s when all hell broke loose.

While he was rinsing the soap off his body, the ship began to vibrate wildly, until he had to make an effort merely to remain standing. Thinking that the Eldridge was about to explode, Marvin managed to exit the shower stall and that’s when he saw one of his shipmates scream out in pained horror while being engulfed in a swirling, green, funnel-shaped cloud.

Strangely enough, when this cloud finally dissipated several seconds later, his shipmate was nowhere to be found, and Marvin headed topside to find out what was going on.

Much to his utter amazement, as he climbed up onto the foredeck, he found his ship anchored beside a new pier. Several white-coated scientists stood, on the wharf, excitedly pointing at him. And it was as they instructed him to join them ashore that he learned the most incredible fact of all. Somehow the Eldridge had been conveyed from its original berth at the Philadelphia Naval Yard to Norfolk, Virginia, in the time it took Marvin to finish his shower.

The document went on to list a detailed description of Petty Officer Marvin’s physical and psychological ailments, that were mainly attributed to psychotic delusions caused by dementia praecox. It was recommended that this dangerous schizophrenic condition be treated by a number of powerful drugs, with the patient to be discharged from the Navy and immediately committed to the hospital’s psycho ward.

Though the report never indicated if this drastic course of treatment had been put into effect, Thomas Moore had no doubt that it had been. His instincts also warned him that the entire incident had all the earmarks of a government cover-up. Yet this would mean that the so-called Philadelphia experiment actually occurred, and that Albert Einstein’s efforts had succeeded. Inwardly, Moore remained a skeptic. As far as he was concerned, a device that could render matter invisible and then teleport it hundreds of miles in seconds belonged in the realm of science fiction. And Moore was all set to dismiss the report as meaningless, except for a single disturbing revelation.

Petty Officer Marvin had been in the shower when the device was supposedly activated. He described a wild vibration, and then hearing his shipmates scream out in pained horror before disappearing. While under hypnosis, Seaman Homer Morgan had described a similar sequence of events aboard the Lewis and Clark, except that instead of being in the shower, the submariner had been covered by seawater, beside the TDU. Had the cover of water somehow protected both sailors from sharing their shipmates’ fate? This certainly appeared to be the case, and Moore made a mental note to share this thought with Admiral Proctor in his next report.

There was a sudden pressure on his eardrums, signaling the plane’s descent to Norfolk. Absently peering out the window, he caught sight of the city below. They were coming in from the east, and as they passed over the James river, he viewed the gleaming glass and steel buildings of the Waterside financial district, and beyond, the dockside loading cranes belonging to the Naval base. A number of grey hulled warships could be seen docked there, two of them aircraft carriers. This would be where Moore’s next means of transport awaited him, and he somewhat anxiously pulled his seatbelt tightly over his lap, in preparation for landing.

A cover of grey clouds had accompanied them for most of the flight. Yet as they touched down on the runway, the sun broke through, illuminating the modern terminal building and a thick grove of trees nearby.

These trees belonged to Norfolk’s botanical garden.

On a past trip to the area, Moore’s flight had been delayed and he had spent time exploring this gorgeous park, whose several hundred acres were dotted with sprawling lakes, sculpture gardens, and an abundance of native flowers and plants.

The airport itself was not nearly as crowded as National, and they readily proceeded to their gate. Because they had been flying on a turboprop commuter plane, they unloaded right out onto the tarmac. It was a warm afternoon, and Moore spotted a khaki-uniformed chief waiting beside the terminal building.

“Chief Hunter?” he asked this sailor, after securing his seabag from the collection of luggage pulled from the plane’s cargo hold.

“Ah, you must be Commander Moore,” replied the relieved chief, who was assigned to the base’s public affairs office.

“Welcome to Norfolk.”

“Thanks, Chief,” said Moore, who followed his escort through the terminal and into a white sedan with U.S. Navy plates.

It took a good quarter of an hour to reach the front gates of Norfolk Naval base. Quite content that this trip took place with a minimum of conversation, Moore accepted the salute of a tough-looking Marine sentry who carefully eyed each of the car’s occupants before allowing them entry.

“The base has just gone on a stage-two alert,” informed the driver as they headed towards the pier area.

“Scuttlebutt has it that we might be deploying a carrier group to the Med in response to the latest terrorist threat there.”

Such rumors continually circulated on almost every military base worldwide, and Moore merely grunted in response, his attention focused on the large auxiliary ship that they were headed towards. He identified this vessel as they pulled into a parking lot beside the pier.

He took one look at the assortment of black-hulled submarines moored in pairs beside this ship, and recognized it as the sub tender, USS Hunley.

“Thanks for the lift, Chief,” said Moore, who reached into the back seat and grabbed his seabag.

“Enjoy your visit, sir,” returned the senior enlisted man.

Moore left the confines of the automobile, and before walking out onto the pier where the subs were moored, had to pass through another security check, protected by a steel barrier. This time he had to show his military I.D. in order to gain entrance to one of the most restricted areas on the entire base.

The dock was crowded with supplies and personnel.

He found the vessel that he was looking for moored at the very end of the pier, beside a somewhat smaller 637 class vessel. Moore’s stomach nervously tightened as he climbed onto the Sturgeon class vessel, then proceeded over an adjoining gangway, with a banner identifying the submarine as the USS Hyman G. Rickover.

An alert sailor holding an M-15 rifle stood at the end of the gangway, and Moore addressed the moustached sailor stationed at the adjoining watch stand.

“I’m Commander Thomas Moore.”

“Welcome aboard the Rickover, sir. I’m Chief Ellwood, the boat’s COB. If you’ll just let me have a look at your orders, we’ll get you checked in and headed below deck.”

Moore pulled out his orders, and watched as the chief of the boat, or COB for short, read them, then checked his name off a clipboard-held roster.

“Do you know your way around a 688, sir?” asked the COB.

“I’m afraid not. This will be my first embark,” answered Moore directly.

“No matter,” returned the chief of the boat.

“I’ll have Petty Officer Lacey here escort you below deck and get you settled.”

A tall, lanky, dark-haired sailor stepped forward, and grabbed Moore’s seabag. He then led the way around the boat’s sail, and over to the forward access trunk.

“Just follow me, sir, down into the wardroom,” said the brown-eyed youngster.

“What’s your specialty aboard the Rickover, son,” asked Moore, who took one last look at the sky above.

“I’m a senior sonar tech, sir. When my team’s on watch, you’re always welcome to join us in the house of pain.”

“House of pain?” repeated Moore.

Lacey smiled.

“That’s what we call the sonar shack, sir. Come visit us and you’ll see why.”

“I’ll do that,” returned Moore, who followed his personable escort down a ladder, into the dark innards of the sub.

The distinctive odor of amine met his nostrils. This ammonia derivative was used in the ship’s air scrubbers, and Moore remembered the familiar scent from his days spent servicing boomers in Holy Loch.

The ladder led him to a narrow interior corridor.

Looking forward, Moore could just see several men gathered inside the control room. His guide led him in the opposite direction, down a stairway, and further aft into a long hallway. They passed a small copy machine, a paper shredder, and a bulletin board where the plan of the day was displayed. Chief Lacey beckoned to the left, towards the wardroom. The door to this compartment was open, and one person sat at its large, rectangular table.

“Doc, where should I stow Commander Moore’s gear?” asked the senior sonar technician.

The boat’s corpsman looked up from the report that he had been reading.

“Bunk two in the nine-man berth,” he answered, while taking a look at their newly arrived guest, and adding.

“Hi, I’m HM1 Johnson, but you can just call me Doc, like everyone else on board.

Please have a seat, sir, while I give you your TLD and a patch to keep you from getting seasick.”

The TLD turned out to be a small, grey plastic dosimeter that Moore was instructed to hook on his belt. This device would be checked at the conclusion of his cruise, and would determine if he had been exposed to any ionizing radiation.

Moore knew that it was extremely unlikely that he’d be exposed to any radiation while aboard the Rickover. America’s nuclear submarines had been painstakingly designed, with the crew’s safety a primary factor. The face of the man responsible for this costly effort, stared back at him from a plaque on the wardroom wall.

Admiral Hyman G. Rickover, the boat’s namesake, was the father of America’s nuclear navy. For sixty three years, he served his country with distinction.

Through his untiring efforts. Nautilus put to sea on January 17,1955. For the next three decades, Rickover applied the lessons learned from the world’s first nuclear-powered submarine, resulting in a radically new generation of undersea warships. His skillful technical direction, foresight, and unrelenting perseverance allowed the United States to attain a preeminence in the field of naval nuclear propulsion. Moore had never had the honor of meeting Rickover, whose legacy was visible in the form of one of the most technically advanced warships ever to sail beneath the seas.

With his TLD firmly hooked onto his belt and the circular medicated patch stuck behind his right ear, Moore was given a quick tour. Immediately outside the wardroom were the officers’ quarters. He was shown the head that he would be using, and got a lesson on flushing the toilet and using the shower’s water restrictor.

His berth was off an adjoining corridor, on the way to the crew’s mess. This cramped, dimly lit compartment held three tiers of three bunks apiece. His bunk was immediately inside the sliding doorway, on the middle level. A fluorescent light was situated above the sole pillow. Doubting that he’d be able to turn over in such a tight space, he stowed away his personal belongings in a small metal locker at the foot of the bed. He then lifted up the mattress, revealing the compressed space reserved for the rest of his clothes.

Just as he finished unpacking, a solidly built, blond haired officer dressed in blue coveralls entered and introduced himself.

“Commander Moore, I’m Lieutenant Hopkins, the boat’s supply officer. Please feel free to call me Hop.”

“Pleased to meet you,” replied Moore, who was instantly set at ease by the supply officer’s warm smile.

“I understand that this is your first submarine embark, sir. I’ve taken the liberty of putting together a welcome-aboard packet for you. It contains a brief history of the Rickover, a schematic plan of its layout, our meal schedule, and a list of officers and petty officers.”

“I appreciate that,” replied Moore, as he took possession of a grey folder with the Rickover’s imprint on it’s cover.

“The captain sends his regards, sir. And he has invited you to join him topside on the sail as soon as we’re underway.”

“And when will that be?” asked Moore.

Hop looked at his watch and answered, “We should be casting off any minute now. Why don’t we proceed to the control room, so that I can introduce you to some of the other officers?”

Moore followed Hop to the deck above. The control room was abuzz with activity. No bigger than a small garage, the compartment was packed with equipment and men. He took a moment to familiarize himself with this important portion of the boat.

In the center of the room were the dual periscope wells. They were mounted into a slightly elevated platform, where the officer of the deck usually operated.

From this vantage point, the OOD had an unobstructed view of the helm to his left. It was here that the two planes men were seated, along with the diving officer and the chief of the watch.

On the other side of the compartment was the firecontrol console, with a narrow doorway leading directly into sonar. While the navigation plot occupied the back portion of the room.

True to his word, Hop introduced Moore to several of the Rickover’s officers. The investigator met Lieutenant Roger Taylor, the boat’s slightly built, bespectacled navigator, who looked more like a scholar than an undersea warrior. The current OOD was Lieutenant Douglas Clark, a short-haired, intense-looking redhead.

Lieutenant John Carr was the weapons officer.

Known as Weaps for short, Carr was a ruggedly handsome blond from Laguna Beach, California, where he practically grew up on a surfboard.

The atmosphere inside the control room seemed to intensify when the COB entered and took a seat between the helmsmen. With an almost theatrical flair, he took a fat cigar out of his pocket and lit it.

“COB always lights up a stogie before we set sail,” informed Hop.

“It guarantees us good luck.”

“I’m all for that,” said Moore, who had to reach up for a handhold when the deck lurched sideways.

“We’re on our way,” said Hop.

“Why don’t I go grab you a jacket before you go topside and join the captain.

It can get awfully chilly up there.”

Five minutes later, Moore was climbing up the sail’s interior ladder. During this steep ascent, he passed by a sailor — with a sound-powered telephone around his neck — he was stationed inside the access way in the event of an emergency. A rush of cool air whistled past as Moore somewhat awkwardly made his way to a narrow opening cut in the top portion of the sail. Two men wearing bright orange submergence suits were stationed there, focused on the view visible through a small, wraparound plexiglass windshield. Before the newcomer could introduce himself, a deep, bass voice boomed out from above.

“Commander Moore, why don’t you join me up here?”

A firm hand guided him further upwards, until he was standing on top of the sail itself. A detachable tubular steel enclosure extended as far back as the raised periscopes. While holding onto this rail for balance, he joined the other three men stationed there. All were dressed in orange survival suits. One of them wore a sound-powered telephone, while his shipmate readied a pair of binoculars.

“Some view, isn’t it?” said the deep-voiced, broad shouldered sailor who stood between them.

Moore cautiously looked up and scanned the portion of the channel visible before them. The Rickover was already underway under its own power. With the water surging over its rounded bow, the sub was transiting Hampton Roads, on the way to the open ocean.

The piers of the Navy base were passing on the right, and Moore spotted several warships, including an Aegis class cruiser and one of the new Arieigh Burke class guided-missile destroyers. They passed by a trio of Gator freighters, and the two aircraft carriers that Moore had spotted earlier from the air.

“I’m Captain John Walden,” said the deep-voiced officer who had invited Moore to his current perch.

“Welcome aboard my ship.”

“Thank you. Captain,” managed Moore as he gazed out at the massive square stern of the USS America. The crew of the carrier were topside, in the midst of an inspection, and Moore found himself speechless.

“That’s a sight I’ll never tire of,” said the Rickover’s commanding officer.

Thomas Moore nodded, then redirected his line of sight back to the channel. A cool wind whipped at his face, and he was thankful for the jacket and gloves that the supply officer had provided.

“I hope that you were able to get settled into your new quarters all right,” remarked Walden.

“I know that they’re not much, but space on this boat is at a premium right now. I even have a couple of junior officers hot-bunking.”

“I’ll be just fine, Captain,” returned Moore.

A huge container ship passed them, on its way in from sea, and Moore watched as the Rickover carefully maneuvered itself into the center of the main channel. As the phone talker constantly called out the latest sounding, the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel gradually took form in the distance. The Captain waited until several small fishing trawlers were safely out of the way before ordering an increase in speed.

When this directive was finally relayed, the three-hundred and sixty-foot-long vessel wasted no time gaining momentum. A white bubbling wake spewed out from the sub’s single propeller, and all too soon the forward portion of the deck was awash as a result of this increased velocity.

“I understand that you’re with the NIS,” said Walden discreetly.

“And that this is your first submarine embark.”

“You’ve got it. Captain. And to tell you the truth, I’m still not certain just why I’m here.”

“Join the crowd, Commander. My orders are just as sketchy. We’re currently on our way to Port Canaveral, to pick up the DSRV Avalon. Then we’ll be heading to the Tongue of the Ocean. My hunch says that this deployment has something to do with the loss of the Lewis and Clark.”

Thomas Moore had full authority to share the exact purpose of his mission with the Rickover’s CO, yet he decided to wait for a more opportune moment before saying any more about it. Standing silently on the sail, he allowed his thoughts to wander to the passing scenery.

The sea had a calming effect on him, and before he knew it, they were crossing over the Hampton Roads tunnel and turning due eastward to penetrate the Chesapeake Bay bridge.

A pair of air-cushioned landing craft sped by, on their way to the nearby Little Creek naval amphibious base. In the distance, a Sea Stallion helicopter could be seen pulling a seaborne mine countermeasure sled.

Because this proved to be the extent of the surface traffic, the Rickover was able to proceed at speed, and the sun was just beginning to be covered by an advancing bank of clouds as they crossed over the Chesapeake Bay tunnel.

The cold was all too noticeable as they prepared to round Cape Henry and enter the open Atlantic. Yet before Moore could excuse himself and return below deck, one of the lookouts pointed out an approaching submarine. It was extremely hard to see at first, its sleek profile almost indistinguishable from the watery horizon.

With the assistance of the captain’s binoculars, Moore got a clear view of this vessel. It had a bulged casing on its stern, so he mistook it for a DSRV at first. The lookout identified the sub as the USS John Marshall, an Ethan Alien class boat, which was originally designed to carry ballistic missiles. Reconverted to hold special forces, the John Marshall was the ultimate in stealthy, clandestine operations delivery platforms, that could transport SEALS and their equipment to the far reaches of the planet.

“Prepare to give honors,” instructed Walden.

As the John Marshall continued its approach, one of the Rickover’s lookouts put a whistle to his lips.

Moore joined his shipmates as they turned towards the passing sub and stiffened at attention. The sailors gathered on the Marshall’s sail did likewise, and with the American flag blowing from both vessels’ portable mastheads, the whistle was sounded and both crews saluted.

This centuries-old Navy tradition had a strange effect on Thomas Moore, and his chest swelled with pride. In that inspirational moment, it was all so clear.

One submarine was replacing the other, in defense of God and country, on a watch that never ended.

Only when the John Marshall had all but disappeared on the western horizon, did Moore excuse himself to return below deck. The control room crew was busy preparing the Rickover to submerge, and he took this opportunity to return to his bunk and lie down.

It took a bit of effort to climb up onto the thin mattress.

As it turned out, there was just enough room for him to turn over on his back. He pulled the curtain shut, snapped off the overhead light, and found himself tucked inside a dark, cozy cocoon, the perfect environment in which to clear his mind and sort out his thoughts.

He was headed on a journey into the unknown, to investigate one of the most perplexing nautical mysteries of all times. What would they find beneath the waters of the Tongue of the Ocean? And would they ever be able to explain how the Lewis and Clark had been transported halfway around the world almost instantly?

Was a man-made device indeed responsible for this amazing feat of teleportation? Or was it caused by a cosmic force beyond their comprehension?

Having no idea what waited for them, Thomas Moore allowed the gentle rocking motion of the Rickover’s, hull to lull him to sleep.

A gentle hand on his shoulder woke him from this deep slumber. Momentarily disoriented, he looked out into the eyes of the supply officer.

“Sorry to bother you, sir,” said Hop softly.

“But we’re just about at the one-hundred-fathom line, and I didn’t think that you wanted to miss seeing your first dive.”

“Thanks, Hop,” returned Moore, who yawned, then looked down at his watch.

“Do you mean to say that I’ve been out for over seven hours?” added the surprised investigator.

“That you have, sir,” returned Hop.

“You can blame it on that patch Doc gave you. Why I bet your mouth’s as dry as cotton.”

“As a matter of fact. Hop, it is,” admitted Moore.

The supply officer wisely grinned.

“We’ll stop off in the wardroom and get you some joe. You slept right through the evening meal, but we’ll be serving MID RATS at 2300. And by the way, sir. I took the liberty of pulling you a poop suit. While on patrol, this is the uniform of the day. I believe that I got the size right.”

Hop handed Moore a folded set of blue coveralls, that had a Hyman G. Rickover patch on the right shoulder, and an embroidered set of golden submarine dolphins above the left pocket.

“Those dolphins are compliments of the captain,” added Hop.

Moore genuinely appreciated this gift, and wasted no time stripping off his khakis and pulling on the one-piece coveralls.

“The size is perfect. Hop.”

“Now you’re lookin’ more like a submariner, except for just one more item.”

Hop pulled out a dark blue Rickover ball cap.

“Wear it in good health, sir.”

Thus attired, Moore followed Hop into the nearby wardroom. Both of them filled up mugs of coffee before continuing on to the control room by way of the galley access way The compartment was rigged for black, to protect the crew’s night vision, and it took several minutes for Moore’s eyes to adjust to the dim red light. His first stop was beside the navigation plot, where a brawny, moustached chief was bent over a detailed bathymetric chart, marking their current position with the help of ruler and pencil. It was Hop who led Moore around the plot, to a vacant space on the right-hand side of the compartment, beside the firecontrol console. From this vantage point, Moore had an unobstructed view of the control-room crew in action.

There was a noticeable tenseness in the air as the crew prepared the boat to submerge. Orchestrating this effort, from the elevated platform beside the periscope well, was the sub’s captain. Walden briefly acknowledged Moore’s presence with a serious nod, before turning his attention back to the helm. The Rickover’s CO appeared to be in his late thirties. He was a handsome man of slight build, with jet black hair and dark eyes to match. With his hands stuffed inside the pockets of his coveralls, he anxiously paced to and fro, constantly alert to the updates being relayed to him by his junior officers and chiefs.

Most of the action seemed centered around the diving console, where the chief of the watch made the final adjustments to the boat’s trim. The two planes men sat to his right, with the COB acting as the current diving officer. True to form. Chief Ellwood had a fat cigar between his lips. With practiced ease, he scanned the assortment of red-lit dials and gauges before him.

Only after the test sounding was relayed, did the captain speak out with an authoritative tone.

“Dive the boat. Make your depth sixty-five feet at two-thirds speed.”

“Six-five feet at two-thirds speed, aye, sir,” repeated the helmsman, who alertly pushed forward on his steering yoke.

There was a slight downward angle on the bow as the Rickover initiated its descent. Reaching up for a handhold to brace himself, Moore watched the two officers who currently manned the periscopes. Ever alert for any surface traffic, they continuously turned their scopes in quick circular sweeps.

“Fifty feet… Fifty-five feet,” reported the diving officer between puffs of his cigar.

They attained their ordered depth seconds later, and the relaxed voice of the sonar officer boomed out from the intercom.

“Conn, sonar, we have a surface contact bearing two-three-five. Classify Sierra eleven, merchant.”

Both of the officers manning the scopes immediately turned them in an effort to spot this vessel. Their efforts were unsuccessful, and the Rickover’s CO called out forcefully.

“Down scopes. Make your depth one hundred and fifty feet.” “One-five-zero feet, aye, sir,” said the helmsman.

The bow angled further downwards, and once again Moore reached up to steady himself. The sub was in its intended medium now, no longer influenced by the sway of the waves above.

To test that all was properly stowed away, the captain initiated a maneuver called angles and dangles. Taking Hop’s advice to brace himself, Moore widened his stance and’re gripped the ceiling-mounted, tubular steel bar that encircled the periscope well. As it turned out, he was glad he did so because they were soon in the midst of a steeply angled dive. There was the sound of crashing debris in an adjoining compartment, and Moore found himself abruptly pulled forward.

Barely allowing the sub to level out after reaching depth, the captain ordered them back up to one hundred and fifty feet. This time Moore’s body was thrown backwards, and once again there was a crashing sound outside the control room.

While in the midst of this sharply angled ascent, a tall, moustached man with short brown hair managed to enter the compartment from the forward access way The boat’s Executive Officer, Lieutenant Commander Rich Laycob, wasted no time reporting in.

“The stowage locker in your stateroom snapped open, Captain. Your textbooks are all over the place.”

“I thought the chief was supposed to repair that locker,” replied Walden, clearly upset.

The XO made a note in a small pad that he pulled from his breast pocket, as Walden turned back towards the helm. This time he ordered the engine room to answer to a wide variety of bells ranging from two-thirds speed, to standard, full, and flank. This last bell demonstrated the sub’s top speed, that was attained regardless of noisy propeller cavitation.

An all-stop command caused the knot gauge to begin a sharp decrease, and Walden followed it up with yet another flank bell. This time, as the Rickover shot through the water, he ordered a series of tight, snap roll turns. Like a jet fighter, the sub canted over hard on its side, completing turns ranging from fifteen to thirty degrees. This was the most impressive maneuver of all, and Moore had a new respect for the Rickover’s capabilities as the drill was completed.

“Well, Commander Moore, what do ya think?” asked Hop, who had remained right alongside him during the entire sequence.

“The only word that comes to mind is awesome,” replied Moore.

“I guess that says it all, sir,” said Hop proudly.

“Because nobody will be able to catch the Rickover once we get a bone in our teeth.”

“I hope you’re right,” returned Moore, who inwardly wondered if they would have to soon put this boast to a real test. Unbeknown to the crew of the USS Hyman G. Rickover, another submarine was silently hovering in the water, seven hundred and fifty feet beneath them. The Pantera was the lead ship of the newest class of Russian nuclear-powered attack vessels. Crammed within it’s 360-foot-long double hull were a state-of-the-art liquid-metal-cooled reactor and the latest in sensors and weapons, all primarily designed for a single task-to hunt down other submarines.

For an entire week, Pantera had been tracking the USS John Marshall as it returned from an extended deployment in the Mediterranean. Relatively easy to follow because of the racket produced by its externally mounted swimmer delivery hangar, the special operations submarine led them practically right into the mouth of Hampton Roads, and the Norfolk Navy base. Forced to break off their pursuit at the hundred fathom line, Pantera was awaiting new orders, when sonar reported a submerged contact approaching from the west. Captain Alexander Litvinov was in the wardroom finishing his evening meal of beef stroganoff and pickled beets, when word arrived of this new contact. One of the youngest commanding officers in the Russian fleet, Litvinov reacted to this news with an expectant grin, and eagerly pushed away his plate and stood, to join his senior sonar technician in the attack center.

Seated to the young captain’s left was the boat’s zampolit, Boris Dubrinin. The portly, middle-aged political officer certainly didn’t share Litvinov’s enthusiastic zeal, especially at mealtime. Yet ever-true to his duty, he swallowed a last creamy mouthful of noodles and stood to follow the captain through the forward access way The attack center was located amidships, directly beneath the boat’s elongated sail. A hushed, tense atmosphere prevailed there, only to be further intensified by the arrival of the two senior officers, who headed straight for the sonar console.

“What have you got, Misha?” asked Litvinov to the bearded sailor seated before the broad band CRT screen.

Senior Sonarman Mikhail Petrokov lifted up one of his headphones and excitedly answered.

“I believe we’ve tagged an American attack sub, sir!”

“You don’t say,” returned the surprised CO.

The sonarman pointed towards the waterfall display visible on his monitor screen.

“At first I thought it was nothing but a biological. But the closer it came, the more it appeared to be a transient.”

The captain reached for an auxiliary set of headphones and listened for the sounds currently being conveyed by their passive sensors. First to meet his ears were the incessant chattering cries of the shrimp. Closing his eyes to focus his concentration, he could just make out a distant pulsating surge, which showed up on the CRT screen as a jagged white line broadcasting on a single-frequency band.

“I hear it, Misha!” revealed Litvinov as he opened his eyes wide.

“I believe it is another submarine.”

“So what’s so surprising about that. Comrade?” asked the dour-faced zampolit.

“Both of you sound as if you’re astounded that our sonar is capable of doing its job.”

“Locating another submerged submarine is never an easy task,” responded the captain.

“This is especially the case when it comes to tracking the American Trident and 688 class vessels.”

“Captain,” interrupted the senior sonar technician, “I believe I can get a screw count on them. Then if we can stay within range, I should be able to determine precisely what sub it is that we’ve managed to chance upon.”

“As you very well know, determining the exact signatures of America’s submarine fleet is a number-one priority of ours,” said Litvinov.

“Therefore, we shall do our best to remain in this vessel’s baffles for as long as possible.”

The Zampolit pulled out a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket, and patted dry the thin sheen of sweat that had gathered on his forehead, before somberly expressing himself.

“I still think that all of you are overrating the capabilities of the U.S. Navy’s submarines.

A decade ago I might have agreed with you that the Yankees were fielding the superior ships. But today we’ve more than caught up with them, as our sleek panther here so rightly proves. Thus it’s not mere chance that precipitated this contact, but the effectiveness of a new generation of Russian-designed sensors.”

Though he was prepared to contradict, Alexander Litvinov wisely held his tongue. He was certainly in no mood for arguments with the stubborn likes of their political officer. And besides, now he had more important things to do, like silently engaging their engines and plotting this new pursuit.