Barracuda- Final Bearing

by Michael Dimercurio

  He looked back toward the sail, the structure beginning to vanish in the visual haze. Had the crew failed to open the hatch? Then he looked ahead and saw it in the haze.

  He swam toward it, the hatch larger than he’d recalled, the circle of it perpendicular to the hull surface, the steel ring of the hatch some three feet in diameter. In the surface of the hull the hatch opening was a gaping maw of darkness. Pacino reached the hatch and grabbed it, motioning Paully into the interior.

  On the screen the helicopter hovered overhead, the scuba-equipped inhabitants of the chopper dropping into the water, the chopper immediately turning and flying off, leaning far into the direction of flight, the aircraft’s bottom side and rotor circle all that was visible as it accelerated away. Voorheese did a surface search near them, the divers already underwater or too close.

  “The XO at the hatch?” Kane asked.

  “Yes sir, with the Chief of the Boat.”

  “Very well. I’m going to upper level. Put the chief of the watch on the phones, and when I give him a double click have him announce the admiral onboard.”

  Voorheese acknowledged and Kane left the room, climbed the forward ladder to the upper level and walked aft along the paneled passageway to the hatch to the escape trunk.

  “They in yet, XO?” Kane asked his executive officer, Comdr. Leo Dobrowski, an older and more senior officer than many captains. Leo had had an extended shore tour at the War College finishing a doctorate in international relations, which had set him back, but he would be in command of his own submarine within a few months—that is, if he passed Pacino’s simulator test. Dobrowski was of medium height, in good shape, a full head of hair cut into a flattop, making him look somewhat tough. He was a serious man. In fact, the only time Kane could remember Dobrowski smiling had been at the ship’s softball and football games. Off the ship, the XO was actually funny and full of laughter. Aboard, he wore his serious expression. Kane was grateful to have him.

  Paully disappeared into the darkness, his fins trailing.

  Pacino followed him, lowering himself in feet first, watching the light above as he came down into the chamber of the ship’s escape trunk, a large airlock that could hold ten men. Finally Pacino’s flippers touched the deck of the bottom of the escape trunk, the circle of light seeming far above him. He looked down at shoulder-level and found the diver-control panel, put his hand on the T-lever and pushed it horizontally to the end of a track, then pulled it upward to the stop. The lever was built into the hydraulic-control valve for the hatch operating hydraulics.

  The hatch came down, the circle of light being eclipsed by the dark circle of the inside of the hatch.

  Pacino watched as the light vanished, the hatch clunking down on the steel of the hatch ring of the hull. As the trunk plunged into darkness, Pacino could hear the control ring rotating until the hatch was completely secured.

  They were now inside the USS Barracuda, although a dark and flooded part of it.

  “They’re in, sir,” Dobrowski said, looking at the status panel, the red circle labeled as the upper hatch changed to a green bar, indicating the hatch was now shut.

  “Draining down now.”

  Kane waited for the lower hatch to open, turned and instructed the crew to form up behind him. He’d be damned if an admiral would come aboard without a regulation greeting. He picked up the phone to control.

  “Chief of the Watch? Get ready to make the announcement.

  I’ll click when he steps into the upper level.”

  With no further action, a blasting noise sounded in the trunk and a light came on high up in the overhead. Pacino could see the surface of the water coming down until the surface of it came to his chin, his mask clearing like a periscope breaking the surface, the trunk looking different through an atmosphere of air than it had under water. The water drained quickly, the air in the chamber foggy, until the water was gone, puddles remaining near Pacino’s fins. He pulled his mask off, adjusted his eyepatch, dropped his regulator, then pulled off the fins, glancing at Paully to see that he too was removing equipment.

  Pacino dropped his lead weight-belt, his tanks and his equipment canister, now wearing only his wet suit. In the dim light of the trunk he could see the hatch to the ship set into the side of the huge trunk, dogged mechanisms that slowly began to rotate, the air between the trunk and the interior of the hull equalizing in a short hiss of air. The mechanism stopped and the hatch came open to the exterior of the trunk. The light of the hull was bright compared to the interior of the trunk. Pacino stepped down two steps to the deck to find himself in the wide upper passageway of the forward compartment.

  Standing in front of him were a group of poopysuitclad men—one of them Capt. David Kane. As Pacino extended his hand to Kane, the ship’s announcing circuit blasted throughout the ship.

  “COMMANDER, PACIFIC FORCE COMMAND, ARRIVING!”

  Pacino smiled at Kane, Kane’s hand dry and hard.

  Kane was one of the skippers Pacino had not screened in the training command but he was certifiably excellent.

  Pacino had decided to bring him into his training simulator to show some of the younger skippers how a torpedo approach was done—Kane would open some of the kids’ eyes. Kane’s face was deadpan.

  “Welcome aboard the Barracuda, Admiral Pacino.”

  Cmpteii northwest pacific USS Barracuda Pacino looked at the greeting party formed up behind Captain Kane, the spotless deck, the shining bulkheads.

  He took a deep breath, the smell of the submarine what he’d expected, the scent a mixture of cooking odors, mostly grease, sewage from the sanitary tank vents, body odor, ozone from the electrical equipment, oil from the lube oil systems, amines from the carbon dioxide scrubbers.

  It was strong but faded into the background after a few minutes.

  Pacino looked into Kane’s eyes, thinking the man was a Hollywood Version of a nuclear-submarine commander— tall, tanned, high cheekboned, blue-eyed, trim, assured.

  “Finally I get to meet Capt. David Kane in person,”

  Pacino said, his smile genuine. He then turned to Paully White: “Captain Kane rescued the survivors of the Seawolf. If it weren’t for this man I’d be long dead. And, Captain, I don’t know that I ever properly thanked you for that. I wanted to present your Navy Cross but I couldn’t walk at the time. Captain Kane, this is Comdr.

  Paul White. Paully was the Reagan’s sub ops officer. He pulled me out when I was out cold on the deck and the carrier was going down. I think it’s damn good luck that I have two men who’ve saved my life on the same ship.”

  Kane’s expression was blank. “Well, sir, let’s get you to the officer’s head and out of the wet suit.”

  Pacino looked down at his feet, where a puddle of seawater had built up. Kane led him and Paully to officers’ country, where the stainless-steel room had two shower stalls and two commodes, amazingly roomy compared to the older 688class layout, Pacino thought.

  “When you’re done here, sir, my messenger will take you to your stateroom.”

  Pacino peeled off the rubbery wet suit, dumped it on the deck and stepped into the shower. Soon the traces of the sea were gone, he dried off and opened his waterproof canister, pulling out his own black coveralls, a gift from the Royal Navy during a coordination meeting in London. His name was embroidered above the left breast pocket. American-style submarine dolphins were embroidered in a patch above the name, and Pacino’s two admiral’s stars were sewn onto the collars. The shoulders were graced with patches, the left an American flag, the right the emblem of the Unified Submarine Command, the symbols designed by Pacino and a commercial-artist friend. The USUBCOM patch featured a Jolly Roger flag flying above the sail of a submarine, the skull and crossbones standing out on the field of black, the banner reading unified submarine command across the top of the Jolly Roger.

  Pacino emerged into the passageway, and the messenger took him aft down the centerline passageway to a steep staircase to the middle level.
Back along a dogleg to another centerline passageway, forward again to a door marked executive officer. Pacino knocked and entered. The stateroom, vacated by Dobrowski for them, was simple and small. Against the far bulkhead two racks were set into a curtained area, one rack above the other. The aft bulkhead was taken up by a fold-down desk and two chairs. The forward bulkhead had cabinets and drawers set into it, a small sink area and the door to the common head shared with the captain’s stateroom.

  Pacino unpacked his canister into one of the lockers, tossing his Writepad down on the desk. Paully was sitting at one of the chairs, looking up at Pacino expectantly.

  “Have we got a ship-control readout?” Pacino asked.

  Paully nodded. “It’s in the corner inside the lower rack.”

  Pacino craned his neck and squinted his good eye. A small panel with three dials glowed in the darkness of the rack interior. The readouts were course, speed and depth. The ship was heading 330 true, the direction of the Oparea, the depth was 654 feet, the speed 44.8 knots—flank speed. Pacino rolled out his chart electronic pad, wondering where they were.

  “We’ve got about twenty minutes before we have to talk to the president,” Paully said, looking at his watch.

  “We need to bring Kane into the loop,” Pacino said.

  “But let’s be careful. I don’t want to call him to this stateroom—that’s a power play. We should do this in his stateroom, with him at his command seat. I want you to be particularly respectful of Kane, Paully—this is a guy who’s not too happy with us aboard. When Kane talks, you and I listen hard. We don’t make phone calls to his officer of the deck. We don’t ask his officers tactical questions. We don’t even ask the nav tech the ship’s position. Our information has to come through Kane.

  And for that to work, Kane’s got to be on the team.”

  Paully found the phone, the special command circuit between the conn, CO’s stateroom, the XO’s stateroom and maneuvering. He buzzed the captain’s stateroom, listened, then spoke quietly, looking up at Pacino.

  “Captain Kane would love to speak with us in his stateroom. He said to pop on in through the head door.”

  Pacino remembered how uncomfortable he had been as a submarine skipper when an admiral, even though it was Dick Donchez, had been riding the ship at sea. The situation was miserable, all he could wait for was the moment the admiral left. But though he could empathize with Kane now, nothing he could do short of leaving Kane’s ship would make the situation completely comfortable for Kane, but as he had said to Murphy a lifetime ago, they would all need to operate outside their comfort zones. He knocked on the door to the commanding officer’s stateroom. Kane’s voice was muffled as he called Pacino in.

  “Thanks for the reception. Captain Kane,” Pacino said. “That shower made me a new man. Your ship is impressive.”

  Kane stood, offering Pacino his command chair. Pa cino waved Kane into it, sitting in a seat at Kane’s right against the bulkhead.

  “Great layout,” Paully said. Pacino poured a cup of coffee, admiring the ship’s emblem on the cup, the snarling fish swimming past the sail of a submarine, and felt the old urge to command his own ship again.

  “The video camera is above the status panels on the centerline soffit. Admiral,” Kane said. “I’ll pipe the Oval Office into the central screen.” “We’ve still got a few minutes,” Pacino said. “I wanted to brief you on what our approach is going to be. Paully, roll out the chartpad and show Captain Kane what we’re suggesting.”

  White dropped his semisarcastic style and slipped into a crisp just-the-facts briefing, showing Kane the Oparea and the deployment of the seven attack submarines on the Pacific side, where he envisioned the placement of the Barracuda. If Kane was upset by the Barracuda acting as a standoff command and control ship, he didn’t show it. But there was also no enthusiasm on his face either, which might have been due to the commitment of the seven ships against the entire Japanese Maritime Self Defense Force submarines.

  “Sir,” Kane said to Pacino, “we’ve got the better part of a squadron of submarines steaming two days to a week behind us. There were boats out of Pearl that couldn’t get out of repair for a weekend and worked to get going for a few days before they deployed. Before I’d put a half-dozen 688s into the Oparea I’d recommend a coordinated attack with the other two-dozen ships. We could put that together by, say, the day after tomorrow. We could go into that Oparea and clean it up.” “I know,” Pacino said. “But the president wants to see results by Christmas. That’s hours away. I can’t wait a week. The blockade has to go back up now.”

  “I think the wolfpack idea is a good one, but seven ships, sir, that’s just—”

  “Unavoidable,” Pacino finished for him. “But I’m going to see if I can buy some time with President Warner.

  We should get to setting up the videolink now.”

  Kane hoisted a phone to his ear. Within seconds the deck inclined upward as the ship came shallow, preparing for periscope depth. Minutes later the ship rocked gently in the swells near the surface, the radio antennae raised so that they could transmit to the Comstar satellite.

  Kane spoke into a phone again, probably to radio, Pacino thought, to set up the videolink. The central screen went blank, then deep blue with a countdown of time on it, the numerals slowly rolling down from two minutes. Pacino laid out his chart pad and Writepad on the surface of the table, waiting for the videolink, preparing his argument to Warner.

  When the numbers rolled down to zero the seal of the president of the United States flashed briefly on the screen, followed by the appearance of three people at a table, blue curtains behind them. Pacino recognized the situation room of the White House basement and realized that things must be even worse than he thought.

  The situation room in the basement was almost never used by Warner. In the center of the screen was Warner herself. She looked rested and calm, her eyes wide and blue, hair neatly coiffed, makeup light. She wore a cream-colored suit, a simple string of pearls, her hands on the surface of the table. On her right was Adm. Tony Wadsworth in his service dress blues, gold stripes up to his elbows, rows of ribbons under a gleaming surface-warfare pin, a deep frown etched in his face, his eyes black and angry. To Warner’s left was Richard Donchez in a blue pinstriped suit looking as if he’d lost another ten pounds since Pacino had last seen him. Donchez looked emaciated, weak, like he didn’t have much time left. Pacino vowed he’d see him first thing when this was all over.

  “Can you hear us, gentlemen?” Warner asked. There was a slight disconnection between the image and the voice, as if the videolink were some old foreign film that had been dubbed. Just one of the problems with the massive amount of data that had to be transmitted for a videolink. It would probably be another five years or even a decade before videolink technology was good enough to replace voice-only telephones.

  “Good morning. Madam President,” Pacino said crisply. “You’re coming through fine. Can you hear me?”

  There was a delay as his transmission made its way to the other end—another damning trait of videolink hardware that would need to be upgraded. The onesecond delay made it impossible to speak in real time— if someone tried to interrupt, it wouldn’t be heard until another sentence down the road.

  “I hear you fine. Admiral Pacino. You know Admiral Wadsworth and Mr. Donchez. Who do you have with you?”

  She probably didn’t give a damn who was with him, he thought as he hurried through an introduction of Kane and White.

  “Well, let’s just get to it, shall we? Are your forces in the exclusion zone yet. Admiral?”

  Pacino described his status and his intentions, watched Warner’s face, her brow crinkling in annoyance as he tried to persuade her to give him three more days. Wadsworth’s face was a thundercloud. Donchez’s expression was unreadable. He spent half the time scribbling on a Writepad in front of him.

  “Admiral, I don’t have three days, I don’t have three hours. I need some Japanese submarin
es sunk in the next two days. If you’re not done with that in forty-eight hours I’m going to withdraw the blockade and meet with Kurita. You have forty-eight hours to put those submarines on the bottom. I want a report at seven a.m. my time on the twenty-sixth and I want good news.”

  Donchez’s face seemed to carry a warning. Pacino could hear his Writepad’s electronic alarm beep once, announcing the receipt of an urgent electronic mail.

  “Madam President, could I mute this for just a few seconds?” Pacino asked.

  “Certainly, Admiral. We’ll wait.”

  Pacino nodded at Kane, who pressed a function key on his seat arm, and the screen displayed the words outgoing AUDIO/VIDEO MUTED.

  “We’re in deep shit,” White began. Pacino held his palm up to Paully without looking at him, his concentration on his Writepad. He flashed his fingers through the software buttons until he got to the E-mail function, the flash transmission blinking on the menu. He selected it, the E-mail sent from Donchez just a few seconds old.

  He skimmed it, then read it again. The text was short and simple, in Donchez’s trademark telegraphic style, all in capital letters MIKEY, URGENT YOU GET WHATEVER SUBS INTO OPAREA YOU CAN NO MATTER THE RISK. WARNER UP AGAINST FULL BLOWN MEDIA ATTACK. CONGRESS VOTING DAY AFTER CHRISTMAS TO PULL. PLUG ON ENLIGHTENED CURTAIN. SINK MSDF SUBS BY THEN OR WITHDRAW. WADSWORTH PROPOSES RELIEVING YOU IMMEDIATELY ON DEC 26 IF NO RESULTS. GET IN, ATTACK, GET OUT. GIVE WARNER SUNK DESTINYS SO HER NEGOTIATION WITH KURITA WILL GO IN OUR FAVOR. SHE MEETS KURITA REGARDLESS OF RESULT, SO KILL HIS FORCE. URGENT YOU COME HOME IN ONE PIECE. NEED TO TALK TO YOU ASAP. UNCLE DICK.