“I should have guessed as much,” replied Mac, who was getting to be a regular on such an unorthodox means of transportation.
Stepping back from the chart table. Captain Foard turned to address the control room team gathered around their stations around him.
“Helmsman, take us up to sixty-five feet. Chief Bates, prepare to surface.”
With this, the captain made his way over to the periscope well. Mac felt the angle of the deck beneath him gradually tilt upwards as the Bowfin emerged from the cold, black depths.
“Sixty-five feet, sir,” observed the alert diving officer.
“Up scope!” ordered the captain crisply.
There was the characteristic hiss of hydraulic oil as the periscope raised up from below. The captain hunched over the scope, pulled down its two tubular steel handles, and peered through the rubberized viewing coupling. Only when he had made a complete circle did he step back and call out.
“Down scope. Bring us up, Chief.”
The control room filled with the roar of venting ballast as the now lightened submarine floated to the surface.
“The Pigeon’s going to be sending a launch for you, Commander,” instructed the CO from the periscope well.
“You might want to throw some personal things together in case you’re unable to get transit back to the Bowfin later. You never know with the weather around here. You’ll be getting up on deck by way of the forward access way Can you find it all right?”
“I believe so, Captain,” answered Mac.
“I’ll be right there.”
Mac quickly proceeded aft, to his stateroom. Here he packed a small seabag with a change of underwear and socks, and made certain to include his toiletry kit.
He was met at the forward access way by a seaman.
“Sir, I’ll be escorting you out onto the outer deck. It’s a bit rough up there, and the Captain wanted to be sure that we are wearing our life vests.”
Almost as if to emphasize this statement, a swell crashed into the Bowjin’s keelless hull and the vessel heeled hard to starboard. Forced to reach out to the bulkhead to keep from falling over, Mac readily accepted the orange life vest that the seaman handed him.
As the hatch of the access way was opened, a gust of cool, fresh, salt-scented air entered the corridor where they stood. Mac found this draft refreshing, and anxiously followed the seaman outside.
An officer and two other seamen waited for them besides the sub’s sail. Making certain to grasp tightly onto the steel-cable handrail, Mac joined them.
It was the officer who pointed out the approaching whaleboat. This craft was still several hundred yards off their port bow, its progress seemingly slowed by the pounding swells that dotted the surrounding sea with whitecaps.
“This transfer could be a bit tricky, Commander,” said the red-cheeked ensign.
“The trick is to time it so that it occurs between swells. Don’t be in any hurry, and feel it out before you go for it.”
Mac flashed him a thumbsup and did his best not to worry as the ensign beckoned Mac to join him on the side of the hull. It was a bit more difficult to stand here, though the taut steel cable rigged for the occasion certainly helped. Mac could clearly see the three-man crew of the launch now as they cautiously inched their way toward the Bow/in. Waiting while a set of swells rolled in from the northwest, the helmsman of the whaleboat made his final approach just as the last of these passed.
“This is it. Commander,” offered the ensign as he supported Mac while he edged his way to the very edge of the rounded deck and leaped out onto the gunwale of the launch. A pair of sturdy hands caught him here and guided him down onto the wooden plank deck.
“Welcome aboard, Commander Mackenzie,” said the helmsman, whom Mac was somewhat shocked to find was a woman.
“We’ll have you back on the Pigeon in no time. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”
She opened up the throttle and pulled away from the USS Bow/in with a throaty roar. Mac watched as the sub gradually began to fade in the distance, its sleek black hull looking lethal in the glistening sun.
The lines of the ship they were soon approaching were in vast contrast to the Bow/in. The 251-foot submarine rescue tender sported a pair of side-by-side twin stacks and had an assortment of catwalks and rigging on its equipment-cluttered deck. Mac knew that the Pigeon was the first catamaran-hulled ship built for the United States Navy since Robert Fulton’s Demologos in 1812. Because its primary mission was to support the two DSRVs it was capable of carrying on its deck, such a unique hull design was ideal.
As it turned out, the transfer onto the tender was achieved with the least bit of difficulty. Built for stability, the Pigeon was hardly affected at all by the rough seas, thus facilitating Mac’s efforts as he climbed up onto the deck. Waiting for him was a short, moustached officer.
“Commander Mackenzie, I’m Ensign Blanco. Welcome aboard the Pigeon. We’re currently getting into position to release the Mystic, and you’ll find Lieutenant Crowley on the fantail. Shall I escort you to him, sir?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. Ensign. I’ve been aboard her sister ship, the Ortolan, and should be able to find the lieutenant on my own.”
“Very good, Commander. Just ask any of the crew if you get lost.”
Leaving the junior officer with a salute, Mac began his way aft. An exterior catwalk took him down the ship’s length and past the dual hangars where the DSRVs were stored. Shaped like a fat black cigar, the Mystic was visible inside one of these hangars. Several deckhands were busy getting the deep submergence rescue vehicle ready for sea, and Mac left them to their work and continued on to the stern.
Mac found Lieutenant Matt Crowley seated at the edge of the fantail, with a fishing rod in hand. The bearded DSRV pilot wore a straw hat, a bright Hawaiian shirt, and matching shorts, and was shoeless. He seemed completely captivated by the music on his cassette player headphones. He was thus unaware of Mac’s presence as the marine salvage expert sauntered up beside him.
“So this is how you’re planning on finding those missing A-bombs.”
Matt Crowley looked up and returned the wide grin that his newly arrived visitor was in the process of flashing him.
“Well hello, Mac. Long time no see. Would you like some pretzels or a Coke? I’d offer you a cool frosty one, but duty calls.”
“I’m fine, Lieutenant. But I see that you’re still playing it loose and casual. Any bites yet?”
“Shit, Mac … I don’t even have any bait on my hook. I’m just using this fishing pole as an excuse to unwind. Besides, they called me in just as I was about to start a week’s leave, and if I know the Navy, I’d better be taking full advantage of every free second that I can get.”
Looking out to the pair of swirling white wakes left behind by the Pigeon’s dual propeller shafts, Mac shook his head.
“It sure isn’t Kauai.”
“Tell me about it, partner. You still living the good life out there?”
“I certainly am. Since I saw you last, we finally moved into our new place on Turtle Bay.”
“How do those twins of yours like it?”
Mac grinned.
“They love it! You should just see them take to the water. Why, they already have matching surfboards! But I’ve got to admit that their latest passion is baseball.”
“I’m glad to hear everything is going good for you, Mac. I’m still the perennial bachelor, bunking wherever the Navy sends me. Though I did meet this Thai babe in Bangkok while I was on R&R there. She could make an honest man out of me yet.”
“I seriously doubt that,” said Mac, who suddenly remembered that he had met one of Crowley’s associates recently.
“By the way, Richard Sullivan sends his regards.”
“No kidding,” returned Crowley.
“You must have been down under, then.”
“Almost. I met up with the Avalon in the Marshalls.”
“Did ole’ Dick get y
our feet wet, Mac?”
Unwilling to go into the operation in any detail, Mac merely nodded that he did, and was somewhat thankful when Crowley pointed to the horizon and abruptly changed the subject.
“There’s the Lynch. We should be getting close now.
What do you know about this K-l that we’ll be rendezvousing with?”
Mac eyed the clean lines of the Conrad-class oceanographic ship in the distance.
“She’s one of the newest deep-diving submersibles that we’ve got. She was built for the Office of Naval Research and is operated by Woods Hole. K-l is the prototype of an entire fleet of such vessels, and is 22 feet long, 8 feet wide, weighs 13 tons, and has room for a pilot and two observers.”
“What kind of range does it have?”
“About 15 to 20 miles. And that’s at a top speed of 4 knots and a maximum submergence time of 24 hours. I had a bit of say when it came down to outfitting her, and made certain that she carried scanning sonar, a closed-circuit television system, an articulated manipulator arm, and a fully operational underwater telephone.
“Right now, we’re extremely fortunate to have Kl with us. She was having her electrical system overhauled when the B-52 went down. Somehow they got it pieced back together in time to load the vessel into a C5-A and fly it out here.”
“It sounds like a potent little package,” observed the veteran DSRV pilot.
“But for my money, I’ll still go with the Mystic any day of the week. We might not be so high-tech, but we get the job done all the same.”
A nearby telephone began ringing, and Crowley picked up the handset and crisply spoke into its transmitter.
“Mystic Fishing Club… Yes, Captain. In fact, we can see the Lynch right now… We’ll be there, sir.”
As he hung up the handset, Crowley pushed back his hat and yawned.
“Duty calls, partner. Shall we?”
With fishing rod and cooler in hand, the Mystic’s pi247 lot looked more like a beach bum than a naval officer as he led the way. They stowed their gear in the hangar, where both of them slipped into matching dark-blue coveralls. Sewn on the chests of these jumpsuits were golden embossed patches showing a pair of dolphins surrounding a DSRV, crowned with a trident.
They entered the Mystic by way of a hatch set beneath the humped casing on the DSRV upper deck. A ladder brought them down into the central pressure capsule. Mac needed no guidance as he squeezed his way feet first into the copilot’s chair. The tight confines of such a vessel was getting most familiar to him as he buckled his harness and clamped on his miniature headphones.
Matt Crowley was in the process of activating the Mystic’s electrical system when a tinny voice emanated from the headset.
“We’re over the target and preparing to put you in the water. How do you read me? Over.”
“Loud and clear, mother hen,” returned the gruff voice of Matt Crowley.
“We’re ready whenever you are.”
A series of green lights mounted into the console showed that all systems were primed and operational, and Crowley initiated a quick test of the vessel’s hydraulics.
He smoothly pulled the steering yoke back into his lap, and satisfied with what he felt, pushed it forward once again.
“This little lady’s ready to go to work,” said Crowley as he donned a Los Angeles Dodgers baseball cap.
There was a slight dropping sensation as the DSRV was lowered into the water. The Mystic began to roll slightly, and the pilot’s face lit up when the voice on the other end of the intercom curtly announced, “Release complete.”
“Hit those port ballast tank switches for me, will you, partner?” asked the pilot.
Mac reached forward and depressed two toggle switches. As the pilot activated the pair of switches set on his side of the console, the DSRV command capsule filled with a loud hissing sound. This was followed by a muted gurgling roar as the now empty ballast tanks began filling with seawater.
His glance riveted on the depth gauge, Mac monitored their descent. At fifty feet, his body pitched forward as Crowley pushed down on the steering column and pointed the Mystic’s rounded bow straight down into the awaiting depths. This dive was in drastic contrast to the gentle descent he experienced off the Kwajalein Atoll, and Mac grinned as he remembered that he was now being driven by the infamous “Angles and Dangles” Crowley.
The depth gauge had just passed five hundred feet, when their headphones next activated. The voice that broke from the miniature speakers was coming from the the USS Lynch. Much like an air traffic controller, this individual proceeded to guide the Mystic to its rendezvous with the K-l, aided by the oceanographic ship’s three-dimensional sonar capability.
At seven hundred feet, Crowley snapped on the DSRV’s powerful spotlights. Mac stared out the viewing port, fascinated by the glowing plankton, beady-eyed shrimp, and luminescent fish. It was soon after an immense skate passed by them that Mac saw a trio of soft white lights glowing ethereally in the distance. Seconds later, their controller called down from the Lynch, notifying them that they should be getting a visual sighting of K-l shortly.
It was at this point that Crowley switched radio frequencies and spoke into his chin-mounted microphone.
“Did someone down here order a large pepperoni pizza to go?”
The steady voice of a woman answered back.
“That was supposed to be anchovy-and-onion. Would you mind returning it and bringing what we ordered?”
“Angel,” retorted Crowley.
“You couldn’t tip me enough to make it worth my while.”
“I don’t know about that,” purred the female seductively.
“Would you please clear this channel and keep your chatter limited to the job at hand?” interrupted the cold voice of the controller.
“Oh, lighten up, for God’s sake,” mumbled Matt Crowley as he looked over to his copilot disgustedly.
“K-l, we want you to follow Mystic on the final approach.
And please, both of you, proceed cautiously.
Our bathymetric model shows the contact to be situated on a subterranean ledge that overlooks a trench 900 feet deep in some spots. If the contact is our broken arrow, we certainly wouldn’t want to make it any harder to retrieve than it already is. Do you copy that?
Over.”
“We read you loud and clear,” replied Crowley, who pushed his microphone aside and addressed his copilot.
“Jesus, does this guy think he’s dealing with a bunch of amateurs here?”
Shaking his head in renewed disgust, Crowley guided Mystic to the seafloor. As the sandy bottom came into focus, Mac momentarily slipped back in time. In a flash he was inside yet another DSRV, sweeping over the clear waters of the South Pacific. Yet the track he soon spotted on the floor of the Irish Sea was vastly different than that he located off of Kwajalein. It was much wider, and didn’t leave behind the characteristic tread like marks that the other did.
Quick to spot this trail was the Mystic’s pilot.
“Well, I’ll be. There is something down here. But I wouldn’t go and bet the farm just yet. I’ve seen similar marks left behind by trawler’s nets, large fish, and underwater avalanches.”
Mac doubted that this distinctive trail was caused by any such outside phenomena, but kept quiet. Almost two feet across, the track was much larger than that caused by a trawler. It was also much deeper than a fish impression, and reminded him of the marking that a barrel sliding down a muddy hill would leave behind.
A strained silence followed as Mystic glided over the rutted seafloor, its spotlights illuminating the black depths like an alien sun.
“DSRV Mystic, we’re on your tail and have the tracks in sight,” broke the excited voice of K-l’s pilot.
“And by the way, this is Dr. Judy Brilliant at the helm.”
“We copy that, Dr. Brilliant,” replied the Mystic’s pilot.
“This is Lieutenant Mathew Crowley at your service, ma’am. I believe we should b
e coming to the end of this trail shortly. Just stick close, and keep praying that we hit pay dirt.”
Mac was anxiously hunched forward now and focusing his attention solely on the passing seafloor. So deep was his level of concentration that he failed to immediately spot the immense, billowing object just visible before them. This was not the case for Matt Crowley, who shouted out triumphantly.
“Holy Mother Mary, it’s a parachute!”
Having never seen a parachute in such an alien medium before, Mac realized that the Mystic’s pilot was correct.
“My God, it is a parachute! And what a great big son-of-a-bitch it is!”
“Let’s get some pictures,” said Crowley, as he reached up to activate the DSRV’s bow-mounted video camera.
“Mac, could you hit that right rudder a bit, and back down on the throttle. I don’t want to lose this baby.”
Mac gingerly hit the controls as ordered, while Crowley continued his frantic picture-taking. As the current lifted the silken chute upward, he got a brief glimpse of an elongated metallic capsule that had a fin on one end. Startled by this unexpected sighting, Mac stuttered, “Je… Jesus, Crowley. It’s the bomb!”
It only took a second for the Mystic’s pilot to concur, and both officers celebrated with cramped but spirited high-fives.
As news of their discovery was relayed topside, the controller’s previously staid tone of voice was noticeably shaken.
“Well done. Mystic. Let K-l in so that they can zap it with their fiber optic camera and let us have a look up here.”
“Will do, Command,” returned Crowley, who steered the Mystic around the billowing parachute and initiated a wide, lazy turn.
There could be no missing the excitement that tinged the voice of Dr. Judy Brilliant as she spotted the chute.
“We’ve got it as well. Command. Have activated our bow turret camera. Are you copying our photo transmission?”
A long pause was followed by a passionate response.
“We see it, K-l, and it’s a glorious sight to behold!
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