Richard P. Henrick
Dive to Oblivion
Acknowledgments
This story wouldn’t have been possible without the invaluable assistance of my friend and editor, Wallace Exman, and the crew of the USS Hyman G. Rickaver (SSN-709), who taught me what it means to be “committed to excellence.”
Epigraph
“Nothing in life is to be feared. It is only to be understood.”
“The universe is not only queerer than we imagine, it is queerer than we can imagine.”
“A man should look for what is, and not for what he thinks should be.”
1
Commander Pete Slater awoke from his restless slumber long before his alarm clock was due to ring.
The forty-two-year-old Annapolis graduate never slept well while at sea, and this current patrol proved no exception.
His weary eyes scanned the darkened stateroom, stopping on the collection of softly glowing, luminescent-lit instruments mounted on the bulkhead before him. With a practiced glance he saw they were travelling on a southwesterly course, at a speed of fifteen knots, two hundred and eighty feet beneath the sea’s surface.
Without referring to a chart, Slater visualized their position. A little less than twenty-four hours ago, the USS Lewis and Clark had left its berth at Charleston, South Carolina to begin a high-speed sprint into the Atlantic. Their initial course took them to the southeast, into the Bahamas. Here they skirted the eastern coast of Great Abaco Island, and entered Northeast Providence Channel. Nassau lay to the south, and soon they’d turn back to the southeast, to penetrate the deep, relatively narrow expanse of water bordered by Andros Island to the west, and known as the Tongue of the Ocean.
The Lewis and Clark had been ordered into the Tongue of the Ocean to undergo sea trials in a specially designed U.S. Navy underwater test range. Pete Slater was no stranger to this state-of-the-art facility, though this would be his first visit as the commanding officer of a nuclear-powered, ballistic missile submarine.
To command such a vessel was a privilege, and Slater took his responsibility seriously. The Lewis and Clark was a Benjamin Franklin class submarine, that had been recently retrofitted to carry sixteen Trident C-4 missiles. Each missile could carry up to eight loo kiloton MIRV’d warheads with a range of over 4,000 nautical miles. Because of this vastly increased range, vessels of the Lewis and Clark’s class were being withdrawn from forward-basing in Europe.
Though there were newer ballistic missile submarines in the fleet, the Lewis and Clark could still hold its own as a potent lighting platform. Originally commissioned on December 22, 1965, the vessel was outfitted with a variety of sophisticated electronics and weapons systems, making it a capable, first-line man of-war.
Four hundred and twenty-five feet long, the sub displaced over 8,250 tons. An S5W pressurized water-cooled reactor powered a single shaft, allowing for speeds in excess of twenty knots.
A crew of one hundred and forty officers and enlisted men manned the vessel. Their mission of deterrence made the avoidance of hostile submarines a number one priority. Therefore the boat’s sonar outfit was designed for long-range detection rather than fire control. Yet should the Lewis and Clark need to defend itself, it could readily do so with four bow mounted torpedo tubes capable of firing the high-performance Mk 48.
An electronic tone sounded routinely in the background. Slater sat up, yawned, and after rubbing his hand over his stub bled jaw, decided that a shave was in order. His quarters included a private head, certainly a luxury on a vessel as cramped for space as a submarine.
Ever grateful for this convenience, he washed his hands with warm water in the Pullman-style washbasin and brushed his teeth before reaching for the hot lather machine. As he spread the aloe-scented cream over his face, he caught his reflection in the mirror, and took a second to appraise his tightly muscled upper torso that he managed to keep firm with frequent visits to the boat’s Universal machine. His stomach was still flat, and the only evidence of the passing years was the white that increasingly colored his short blond hair and the crow’s-feet around the outer corners of his deep blue eyes.
After soaking his razor in hot water, he proceeded to scrape the lather off his face, being careful not to cut the deeply dimpled skin of his chin. This distinctive feature had been inherited from his father, and according to his wife Mimi, was only one of the qualities that made him almost an exact look-alike to the actor Kirk Douglas. Others made the same comparison, and Slater had long ago gotten used to hearing such comments.
After completing his toilet, he pulled on a pair of dark blue coveralls and crossed over to his bulkhead mounted desk where a thick stack of paperwork awaited. Before tackling it, he looked at the calendar.
Tomorrow would be his wife’s thirty-seventh birthday, and he reread the family gram that he had sent earlier in the day.
Happy B’day, Mouse. May all your champagne wishes and caviar dreams come true. C.Y.K. Dutch.
Because communications with a submerged submarine were kept at an absolute minimum, the family gram was the submariners’ only contact with the outside world. Limited in length and content due to security concerns, such personal dispatches were broadcast only when conditions permitted.
To ensure privacy and to get around the ever present shore-based censors, a personal code was often created.
Pete Slater’s latest family gram utilized a variety of terms that would only have meaning to his wife.
Slater began calling her Mouse twenty years ago, on the night they first met at a Naval Academy costume party. Mimi had made an adorable Minnie Mouse at that time, while Slater earned his nickname by wearing the costume of the little Dutchman, complete with wooden shoes that he had carved himself.
The rest of his latest family gram was equally symbolic.
On those rare occasions when he was home, they often watched Robin Leach chronicle the lives of the rich and famous on television. Both were painfully aware that this would be as close as they would ever come to sharing the carefree lives of a jet-setter, and Slater teased his wife with his best Robin Leach imitation whenever the situation warranted.
C.Y.K. had a different source. Short for consider yourself kissed, it was originally coined by Mimi’s great-aunt. It was a term of endearment, but it also meant that all was well.
Satisfied that his family gram would be well received, Slater’s thoughts were redirected by the inviting scent of fresh-perked coffee. He took another look at the stack of paperwork that sat before him, and decided that he’d be much better prepared to dig into it after a quick breakfast. In the nearby wardroom. Slater found two officers seated at the large, rectangular table. One was his XO, Lieutenant Commander Tim Bressler, who was polishing off a stack of hotcakes. Seated beside the XO, a detailed bathymetric chart spread out before him, was the Lewis and Clark’s navigator. Lieutenant Todd Ferrell.
“Good morning, Skipper. How’d you sleep?” greeted Bressler between bites.
Slater answered while seating himself at his customary position at the head of the table.
“I believe that I managed to get a couple of decent hours of shuteye in, XO. How soon until we make our next course change?”
“At present speed, we’ve got another quarter of an hour to go until we leave Northeast Providence Channel, Captain,” volunteered the navigator, as he pointed towards the chart and outlined the narrow channel lying between Andros Island and Nassau.