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.