A moment later, a second American flag broke out from the masthead at Garrett's back, snapping in the freshening breeze off the Thames.
Garrett took another look around, checking the water alongside and aft of the Virginia. There wasn't much room to move in the tiny space. The bridge area of the sail was barely large enough for Garrett and the quartermaster chief — Harry Vance — wedged in side by side with the bare minimum of navigational and communications equipment. Two enlisted men stood in the lookout bins just behind them, to either side of the optical mast array, high-tech replacements for the venerable periscope that, with Virginia, had gone the way of the dinosaur.
A huge crowd had turned up on Pier One this morning to see Virginia off — mostly family and friends of her crew, with a fair number of dignitaries and politicians as well. A small Navy band had struck up "Anchors Aweigh" with an enthusiastic thump of brass and drums.
"Deck, single up lines, fore and aft," he said. The brow had already been swung ashore, and the brow lines and springs released and stowed. In a moment, the only ties still binding the Virginia to land were one mooring line forward and one aft, both attended by small line handling parties. They were highly visible on the black deck, in dungarees and bright orange life vests. One extra hand, a diver, stood ready in full scuba gear as well, fast-rescue insurance in case someone fell overboard. Virginia's narrow deck afforded very little room for maneuvering, and none whatsoever for missteps or accidents.
With that crowd ashore, it would not do to have someone trip over a line and end up in the drink.
"Deck lines singled up, fore and aft, aye," Chief Vance announced.
Garrett took a last look aft and to starboard, checking to see that the water was clear. A pair of harbor tugs stood ready in midriver, waiting. "Sound horn, backing down."
"Sound horn, backing down, aye, sir." Three sharp blasts sounded from the ship's horn mounted in the sail, a deafening triple honk.
"Cast off aft line," Garrett said. "Helm, come ten degrees left rudder."
"Aft line cast off, Captain," Vance told him.
"Helm, ten degrees left rudder, aye, sir" sounded in his headset.
"Maneuvering, slow astern."
"Maneuvering, slow astern, aye aye!"
With Virginia's pumpjet propulsor just barely turning over, and with the rudder swung left — the opposite direction for a right turn since the vessel was backing down — the submarine began slowly to move, her tail swinging out into the river away from the dock.
Garrett watched critically for a handful of heartbeats, then snapped the order, "Cast off forward line!"
"Cast off forward line, aye aye, sir!"
Bound to the land no more, Virginia moved slowly astern into the river, gently sliding past the San Juan moored opposite. The sailors on San Juan's deck came smartly to attention, rendering honors; Garrett faced them and responded with a hand salute.
By the time Virginia had cleared the dock, still moving astern, the tugs had moved in, passing lines over to the sub's deck parties. Garrett felt a soft, almost caressing bump as one of the tugs slipped in on Virginia's port side and began nudging the submarine into the main channel heading south. A small Coast Guard security boat fell into line ahead forward, with a second one bringing up the rear. Security was pretty tight today. There'd not yet been a successful terrorist attack on a U.S. ship getting under way from American waters. Emphasis on yet. The attack on the USS Cole while she was refueling at the port in Yemen had been a major victory for the terrorists who'd launched it— men now known to have been members of al Qaeda. That kind of publicity was bound to make the bastards want to try again… in a way intended to get even more attention.
Garrett leaned against the spartan instrument console beneath the Plexiglas spray canopy and let the tug drivers do their job, guiding the Virginia south past the point at Fort Trumbull and tiny Powder Island. Quarters were tight here within the lower reaches of the Thames, and no criticism of a sub skipper's skill was intended when the rules mandated the tugs' assistance in putting out to sea.
Twenty minutes later, the wind began picking up as the headlands to either side at the river's mouth fell away, and the Virginia entered Fishers Island Sound. East were Avery Point and the low and swampy bulge of Pine Island. West was the New London Lighthouse, marking the treacherous shoals of the Quinnipeag Rocks. As soon as they were clear of the Thames Channel, the tugs cast off and, with a mournful hoot of farewell, fell off to starboard.
"Maneuvering, bridge," Garrett said into the intercom mike. "Make revolutions for twelve knots. Change course to one-seven-zero."
"Bridge, maneuvering" was the reply. "Make revolutions for twelve knots, aye. Change course to one-seven-zero, aye." He felt the surge of power as Virginia's screw bit harder at the ocean, thrusting her forward. The two security boats fell into step to port and starboard, trailing slightly astern.
Two lookouts stood in raised niches above and behind Garrett's place on the weather bridge, scanning the opposite horizons with binoculars. The man to starboard suddenly called out, "Surface target! Starboard quarter, possible collision course, range six hundred yards!"
Garrett turned, raising his binoculars and scanning the water in the indicated direction. Virginia was still just barely clear of the mouth of the Thames. The shore to the west was close, less than nine hundred yards distant, a low and rolling panorama of hills covered by the neatly clustered buildings of southwestern New London. A number of boats — mostly small recreational craft — motorboats and sailboats — were visible. The lookout's use of the word target wasn't meant literally, of course, but he'd spotted something that could be trouble.
And it was. Through his binoculars, Garrett could see the long, low lines of a bright red Cigarette boat, moving fast off Virginia's forward quarter, bow planing above the white slash of its wake. Its driver was in a hell of a hurry, and from the angle on the bow, it looked as if he was trying to cut across the Virginia's path.
"Radar, this is the Captain," he barked. "We've got a visual on a high-speed contact six hundred yards to starboard! Wake up down there and give me a bearing and speed!"
"Sir… aye aye, sir!" The voice sounded shaken. "Comm, Captain. Raise our security escort. Point them at the Cigarette boat cutting across our bow!
And put a flash out to New London. Tell them we have a civilian craft trying an intercept." He watched the other craft a moment longer. "Maneuvering, bridge. Come left ten degrees. Make revolutions for twenty-five knots!"
"Bridge, maneuvering. Come left ten degrees, aye. Make revolutions for two-five knots, aye!"
A 7,500-ton submarine does not stop on the proverbial dime. That racing boat driver was a civilian and probably wasn't used to handling craft heavier than the one he was in now. Garrett wasn't sure what the guy's game was, but it could easily end in disaster.
A high-speed racing boat probably wouldn't more than dent Virginia's hull if they collided, but there would be a bad PR fallout indeed if a civilian boat hit the sub and a civilian was killed. Every attack sub skipper in the Navy had nightmares about that; a few years ago, the Greeneville, a Los Angeles-class boat, had pulled an emergency surface drill and come up directly under a Japanese fishing boat loaded with students just off the Hawaiian coast. Nine civilians had died, and the Greeneville's captain had lost his command.