Stafford leaned over the rail, looking down through the opening. "Well, Commander, from the looks of your outfit, I guess this is where you want to get off."
Grant smiled. "Yes, sir."
"Let us know if we can be of further assistance with those orders of yours."
"I'll keep that in mind, Captain. And thanks for the ride!"
Captain Reggie Stafford snapped a smart salute. "Good luck, sailor!"
Grant returned the salute, then turned and followed the COB to the escape chamber. They put the cocoons next to the chamber door, then Davis assisted him while he adjusted the breathing apparatus, the Draegar-rig. The old Emerson-rig and the Draegar were bubbleless and had their limited depths of 30 feet due to pure oxygen becoming toxic below that depth. Both had the reputation for leaking. When the filter granules of barylyme meet with sea water, the combination creates a caustic gas that burns the lungs and has been known to cause death. But he knew the Draeger; he'd used it hundreds of times. His experience and confidence in the rig showed as his fingers quickly went from place to place, ensuring its integrity.
He climbed the ladder leading through the inner hatch and up into the escape trunk. Not only used by divers and Special Ops teams, the escape trunk was used to exit the sub in an emergency. If it was at a depth beyond the normal range for a safe exit, the Navy would send the DSRV (Deep Submergence Rescue Vehicle), attaching it to the outer hatch.
Grant reached down as Davis handed him one cocoon at a time, then he shook Davis' hand. "Thanks for your help, Master Chief."
"My pleasure, sir. Come back and see us some time!" Grant grinned broadly and gave Davis a thumb's up, as COB snapped a salute. "Good luck, sir!"
Grant lowered the watertight hatch, then turned the hatch wheel, sealing it tightly. He held the mask against his face, tightened the straps on both sides, checked for air leaks, and bit down on the mouthpiece.
Below in the chamber, Davis adjusted the controls, keeping a tentative eye on the gauges, and within seconds, sea water began filling the escape trunk.
Icy cold water seeped into Grant's drysuit around his chin, sending shivers through his body as the water flowed across his throat and onto his chest. When the gauge indicated the pressure in the escape tank had equalized, he reached overhead and grabbed the hatch wheel with both hands, rotated it to the left several times, then forced it open. Immediately, he snapped a line to the cocoons, then kicked his way upward into the silence and darkness of the North Pacific.
Once outside, he pulled up the cocoons and attached one to each side of his accessory belt, then he resealed the hatch. He struck the hatch twice with the handle of his K-bar, the dull, metallic clanking sound signaling he was clear. He glanced at his illuminated wrist compass, and with one strong kick, Navy SEAL Grant Stevens shoved off from the deck, his powerful legs propelling him toward his rendezvous.
At the end of flight ops the carrier no longer needed its 30 knot speed, no longer needed the tremendous rush of wind blowing across her deck for launching and receiving her aircraft. For the past 50 minutes she'd been cruising at eight knots, a leisurely pace.
Twenty feet below the choppy sea Grant kicked his legs hard, every muscle taut as the large, black fins drove him forward, his breathing remaining even, controlled. Although the cocoons were lightweight under water, they were still a drag on his body as he fought the current… and time.
He peered down at the black shape of the Bluefin, hearing the deep, unchanging tone of the sub's cavitating screws. Nice work, Captain Stafford. The sub had maneuvered into position ahead of the carrier's port bow, maintaining a bottom depth of 80 feet until Grant locked-out and was clear. Then, she entered into a shallow dive, leveling off at 250 feet. Out of sight now, she passed directly beneath the carrier and into the dark depths of the ocean, resuming her normal operations, practicing firing solutions on the fleet.
Within a matter of minutes, water began pulsating around him as eight boilers and four, twenty-one foot screws drove more than 81,000 tons of steel toward him. There was no mistaking the rumble, like deep, exaggerated thunder rolling across the Kansas plains. He could distinguish the blurred gray shape in the darkness now, with the bow of the massive carrier no more than sixty yards in front of him. Surfacing, he looked up in awe because no matter how many times he had seen what he was now seeing, from his angle, it was still a real eye-opener.
Bobbing around in the cold, choppy water, he worked quickly and unfastened the weight belt, letting it drop from his body. He tied each cocoon to a fifty foot tether line fastened to his utility belt, then he reached for the two metal paddles attached to the plate hanging down from his backpack. The backpack was a self-contained battery that sent an electromagnetic charge through the rods to the paddles when he squeezed the trigger.
The ship was getting dangerously close, but Grant waited patiently until it was directly in front, unnecessarily reminding himself to 'not miss the boat.' He had every reason to heed his own warning. One slip would prove disastrous because the only place to go would be an involuntary passage under tons of moving steel.
With a strong kick, he stretched as far as he could, slamming each paddle against the forward port hull. The devices came into contact with the ship at the waterline and directly below the thirty ton anchor. With all his strength, he held on as the ship continued on. Even an eight knot speed put tremendous pressure on him, forcing his body backward, trying to rip his grasp from the devices.
He released the magnetic field from the right paddle, then arched his body back and with a swift motion, slammed the paddle higher against the ship. He moved higher and higher, continuously alternating paddles, as he crabbed his way out of the water. Up the side he climbed, hand over hand, as the line holding the cocoons slowly unraveled from his belt. He quickly suspended himself with a tether between the handles before snagging the line to his telescopic grapnel hook attached to his web belt. He extended the telescopic rod and reached up, catching the bottom fluke of the ship's anchor with the grapnel hook. Taking a firm grip on the pole, he released the magnets. He reattached the two electromagnets to the anchor and re-snapped the tether, taking a short breather.
Readjusting his position, Grant peered up through the hawse pipe and past the shank of the anchor. The hawse pipe was the round opening where each 360 pound chain link passed through, with the anchor hanging from the last link by its shackle. Time to move, Stevens.
Dressed in a blue jogging suit with thermal underwear underneath, Adler had just completed his second lap around the deck, keeping a wary eye out for any unexpected guests. He stopped near the hawse pipe on the port side. "Shit! He's late," Adler worried. "Christ! That water must be freezing!" he whispered through gritted teeth. His own experiences made him appreciate what "Panther" was feeling now. Insulated suit or not, any extended period of time in cold water eventually could be hazardous, mentally and physically.
He leaned farther over the edge but couldn't see beyond the anchor hawse, with the bow of the ship curving inward. "Shit!" He started to turn when he saw the grapnel come through the hawse, and he heard a hoarse whisper.
"Permission to come aboard, Senior Chief!"
Adler quickly snatched the grapnel. "Gotcha, Commander!" He hooked the grapnel on the deck padeye, then gave the ready. "Go!"
Grant hauled himself up through the hawse pipe, climbed through the opening and scrambled onto the deck. They were grateful for the heavy cloud coverage and the blackness of this night. Both were the true allies in this type of operation.
Not wasting any time, Grant untied the tether line and Adler hauled up the cocoons. Sitting on the deck, Grant pulled off his swim fins and mask, stripped off his drysuit, then his thermal underwear, revealing a blue jogging suit. Bright yellow letters "USN" were embossed across the chest.