"Aye, aye, sir. Make preparations to surface!" He immediately sounded the horn, the noise blaring throughout the boat. "Stand by to surface! Three degrees up bubble."
"Smitty, stand by the hatch!" COB (Chief of the Boat) ordered.
"At forty-five feet sir," the helmsman called out, his eyes still glued to the gauges and dials.
"Captain, the tower is clear," COB responded, walking closer to the ladder.
Grabbing the ladder's handrail, the captain called, "Mr. Reese, you've got the Conn. I'm going topside. C'mon, Chief!"
"Aye, aye, Captain," responded OOD Reese.
An immense, dark shape rose from the abyss, the attack sub settling on the ebony-colored water of the North Pacific. White, foamy, sea water spilled down the sail and over the black hull. Ocean spray washed across the deck, being carried by a strong northerly wind, bringing with it a threatening, rolling cloud cover and four foot swells. The sail hatch opened. At the top of the sail, twenty feet above the deck, the captain and chief scrambled out, binoculars raised, immediately searching the horizon.
"There it is!" COB called out.
The helo pilot maneuvered his aircraft and headed for the Bluefin, struggling against a strong headwind. Sea King pilot, Lieutenant Troy McPherson spoke into the mini mike on his headset: "Bluefin, this is Sea King 6. Stand by for personnel transfer. Over."
"Roger, Sea King. Standing by," responded OOD Reese from the Conn. "Transfer personnel to the after hatch. Take your orders from Ground Control. Over."
"Roger, Bluefin.” Lieutenant McPherson fought to hold the chopper steady, as it was buffeted by the bone-chilling wind. He centered it directly above the sub's after deck just forward of the escape hatch. The backwash from the helo's main rotor blades sprayed sea water over the men on deck. Crouching low, they continued engaging the whirlwind descending from above, as they battled a twenty knot wind.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, COB yelled down from the sail to ground control Petty Officer Smith, "Make sure you're grounded, Smitty! There's a lot of static charge there!" Smitty gave a thumb's up and pressed the headphones tighter against his ear.
The helo crew wouldn't have many chances to put their passenger on the submarine's deck — time wasn't in their favor with the rest of the fleet so close, and except for a handful of people, no one outside the sub's crew were privy to his presence. The motor whined as the wire cable began lowering its cargo.
COB Cal Davis, a Machinist Mate Master Chief, escorted Grant down narrow passageways, through watertight doors, and down ladders to 03 level. As Chief of the Boat, Davis' duties included being master-at-arms when disciplinary action was called for, and he acted as liaison between the CO and enlisted men. Davis was one of the most respected and trusted men aboard the Bluefin.
COB swung open the watertight door, and Grant stepped into the torpedo room just forward of midships. Davis followed him, putting the 'cocoon' down near one of the torpedoes. "Hope this is awright, sir," he said through an unmistakable Texas twang. "We were informed ya'd only need some temporary space, and the Captain said to stow ya here."
Grant laughed then gave the Master Chief and torpedoes a quick once-over. He'd seen it before; they all looked alike after a while. He replied with a smile, "This will do fine, Master Chief." Grant had noticed the broad back of his escort, reminding him of his football teammate at the Academy, defensive tackle Chuck Wyneski. "Say, did you ever play football?"
"No, sir, six years of boxing. In my younger days, I was Navy Golden Gloves, middleweight."
"Is that right? Sounds like you'd be somebody handy to have around!"
"Guess I can hold my own, sir," Davis laughed. He walked forward to the watertight door. "The Captain wants to see ya in his quarters after you've settled in, sir."
Grant walked aft and dropped his gear next to the bulkhead on the port side near one of the cocoons. "I'm ready now. Lead the way."
As he followed the red-headed Davis back up to the 01 level, Grant had a chance to briefly think about the flights that delivered him to the Bluefin. The F-14 Tomcat, with him sitting in the RIO's seat, took off from a runway at Patuxent Naval Air Station in Maryland at 1300 hours. It refueled in flight over Ohio and Washington State before landing at Elmendorf Air Force Base, Alaska, with an F-4 Phantom fueled and waiting for him on the runway. Somewhere over the North Pacific, the Phantom refueled with a KA-6D tanker from the USS Ranger. Within hours, the Phantom landed at Kyota Air Base in Japan. Grant barely had time to grab an apple and a cup of coffee before the air crewman hustled him off to the helo that would take him on the last leg of his journey. As the Sea King lifted from the tarmac, it rotated slowly to assume its new heading, its nose dipping as the pilot applied power. Grant looked out the window at the last bit of Mother Earth he'd be seeing for awhile.
"First time aboard a sub, sir?" asked Davis as they started back up to the 01 level.
"Not hardly, Master Chief, it's just that the air always seems a little… thick," he grinned as he slipped a finger inside the neck of his T-shirt, pulling it away from his throat. It was a strange world to be in, a sealed world for these submariners, one of work, sleep and eat, punctuated with an occasional card game. They shared one common enemy, though… the sea around them.
Davis laughed. "You'll get used to it, sir."
"No offense, COB, but I don't think I'll be hanging around long enough!"
Davis rapped his fist on the bulkhead next to the entrance of the stateroom on 01 level. The cabin was located just forward of the Sonar and Radio Room and the XO's stateroom. Hardly a stateroom one might find on a cruise ship, the cabin was barely 8 x10. The bunk was a foldaway unit, emphasizing the compactness of the cabin. "Captain, Commander Stevens is here," Davis announced.
A man who looked as if he should have been playing for the L.A. Lakers pushed the curtain aside and extended a large, black hand to Grant. "Commander. Welcome aboard the Bluefin," smiled Captain Reggie Stafford. A graduate of Princeton University, Stafford completed tours at SUBPAC in Hawaii, and Groton, Connecticut, and taught physics at the Naval Academy. He assumed command of the Bluefin's Gold Crew in July, 1974. Each sub has at least two rotating crews assigned to it, a Gold and Blue crew, since seventy days is the max for any one crew to stay submerged.
"Glad to be here, sir," Grant replied.
A laugh from deep within Captain Stafford exploded in the small stateroom. "Are you sure about that? I've seen the orders, remember?"
Grant smiled. "Would you believe me if I told you my boss talked me into it?"
Stafford shook his head. "Morelli and I go back a long way, Grant. May I call you 'Grant'?"
"By all means, sir."
"As I was going to say, that wouldn't surprise me at all, except… " He stared at Grant through deep-set brown eyes, moving his ruler-length finger in a slow arc. "I've heard about you, Commander Stevens… oh, yes I have."
"Good or bad, sir?" Grant asked with a mischievous grin.
"I've heard about you and some of the stories behind those five rows of ribbons. Why don't we just leave it at that?" he laughed.
"Fair enough, Captain."
Rotating the combination lock, Stafford opened the small safe above his desk and removed a large, brown envelope, its seal already broken. He withdrew the papers, and then turned slowly in his swivel chair to face Grant, scrutinizing Grant's chest ribbons and pins. Pointing at one pin in particular, he asked inquisitively, "Before we get down to business, answer me one question."