Now 160 nautical miles northeast of Norfolk, Devilfish was still running on the surface but she was rigged for dive, the watch already transferred from the bridge to the control room. Lieutenant Stokes, the Officer of the Deck, hugged the number-two periscope on the raised stand, slowly rotating it over the horizon.
Pacino walked now into the control room. In the forward end sat the four men who drove the submarine. Two seats were stationed behind a large panel with a console in between. Each seat had a steering wheel in front. One seat was positioned behind and between the two seats. The panel wrapped around to the left side where the Chief of the Watch sat. Actually it looked much like the cockpit of a large airplane. The left “pilot’s” seat was the fairwater planes man, whose job was to control the horizontal fins on the sail. In the right seat was the helmsman, who steered the ship with the rudder and controlled the sternplanes, the horizontal fins in the far rear of the vessel. The seat behind them was the Diving Officer, charged with the ship’s angle and depth; he supervised the two planesmen and the Chief of the Watch on the left wraparound panel. The Chief of the Watch’s panel controlled the various tanks in the ship, the ballast and weight distribution and the hovering system.
Behind the control station was the Conn, the raised platform, eight-by-four feet, penetrated by the two periscope poles. A console with a remote sonar display, microphones and computer gear was on the port side. To the right of the periscope stand, the Conn, was a long row of computer consoles — the fire-control system. To port, on the outboard side of the Conn, was the SHARKTOOTH underice sonar console. The SHARKTOOTH, which looked up and forward to find the ice, was an active pinging sonar but faint to being nearly undetectable. In the far rear left corner of control was the chart table, and in the rear center of control was the Ship’s Inertial Navigation System equipment, the SINS.
“Off sa’deck, your report,” Pacino said.
“Captain, the ship’s rig for dive was checked by Lieutenant Commander Bahnhoff, Ensign Fasteen and Lieutenant Brayton. Straight board. Bottom sounding is 670 fathoms. One contact, tanker, bearing two zero five, range twelve thousand yards, angle on the bow starboard one twenty degrees, past closest point of approach and opening. We are on course zero three five, all ahead two thirds. Latest fix by NAVSAT shows us two miles northeast of the dive point. SINS agrees. Request permission to submerge the ship, sir.”
Hands in his pockets, Pacino looked at the television monitor showing the view out the periscope. He stepped up to the Conn and took a look at the remote sonar display, then stepped back down and looked at Pos Two, the central of the three TV computer displays for the fire-control system. He disappeared around the other side of the periscope stand, studied the chart for a moment and checked the depth sounder. He returned to a position by the Diving Officer of the Watch seated between the planesmen.
“Off sa’deck, submerge the ship.”
Stokes nodded. “Diving Officer, submerge the ship to six seven feet.”
Fasteen repeated the order. “Submerge the ship to six seven feet, dive aye. Chief of the Watch, open the vents on all main ballast tanks. Sound the diving alarm, over the P.A. Circuit One, dive, dive.”
The Chief of the Watch Chief Robertson flipped eight solenoid switches to the up-position and saw eight lighted green bars on his panel turn into red circles. “Vents open, sir.” He pulled a lever in the overhead, and throughout the ship the diving alarm sounded.
OOH-GAH. OOH-GAH.
“DIVE, DIVE,” Robertson announced on the P.A. Circuit One. Stokes trained the periscope view down and forward, and a huge cloud of white spray rushed out from below his view. “Venting forward,” he called out and rotated the periscope aft. More clouds of water vapor rushed out of the aft vents as Pacino and the crew watched on the periscope TV monitor. The rear deck of the sub was now settling into the sea as the white foam washed around it, and Stokes called out! “Decks awash.” Soon the aft end of the ship vanished and the waves were getting closer to the periscope lens.
“Four five feet, sir,” Diving Officer Fasteen announced.
“Very well. Dive,” Stokes replied. Steadily, the Devilfish settled into the waves. After the deck vanished, the sail was all that was visible. Soon the fairwater planes, the horizontal control surfaces protruding from the side of the sail, splashed the waves, then also vanished underwater. The top of the sail settled until it too was obscured. Only the tall number-two periscope rose above the water, lowering until it only poked above the waves by four feet, a small foamy wake trailing behind it.
“Six seven feet, sir,” Fasteen called out.
“Vents shut,” said Chief Robertson.
“Get a trim. Dive. Helm, all ahead one-third.” Stokes never removed his eye from the periscope as he continued to train his view around in slow circles, switching between low and high power, then looking upward in search of aircraft, the submariner’s lethal enemy. After ten minutes of pumping and balancing, Fasteen had Devilfish at neutral buoyancy.
“Captain, we’ve got a good one-third trim. Request to go deep and head north, sir,” Stokes said.
“Off sa’deck, proceed to five four six feet and continue northeast at flank,” Pacino responded.
American submarines cruised at odd depths like 546 feet, the idea being to avoid collisions with Russians, assuming the Russians measured depth at the keel and cruised at even depths measured in meters. Pacino always wondered if they cruised at depths like 334 meters to avoid collisions with Americans…
“Helm,” Stokes called, “all ahead two thirds. Dive, make your depth five four six feet.”
Pacino watched the periscope view showing on the remote TV monitor to the right of the control station, where the view of the sea grew more restricted as the vantage point got closer to the waves.
“Six eight feet, sir. Six nine,” Fasteen reeled off. The periscope view hit the waves. Foam boiled up around the periscope lens. The view cleared. Waves again.
“Scope’s awash… scope’s awash…” Stokes called out.
“Seven zero feet, sir,” from Fasteen. One final wave came up and splashed the periscope view. Then the view showed the underside of the waves. The field of view trained upward and looked at the waves from the bottom side, watching them get further away. When they were 40 feet overhead Stokes snapped the periscope grips up, reached into the overhead, rotated a large metal ring and said, “Lowering number-two scope.” The periscope optic-control section vanished into the periscope well, and the stainless steel pole lowered thirty feet until the top of the scope disappeared into the sail. The periscope television repeater automatically turned itself off, and the deck angled downward as the ship went deep.
“Helm, all ahead flank,” Stokes ordered. The hull creaked and popped as the ship went deeper into the increasing sea pressure.
“Off sa’deck, maneuvering answers all-ahead flank,” the helmsman called.
“Very well. Helm.”
“Off’sa’deck, passing four hundred feet,” Fasteen reported.
“Very well. Diving Officer.” Stokes looked at the remote sonar display. One lone contact, the supertanker, was fading astern.
“Offsa’deck, depth five four six feet.”
“Very well. Diving Officer.” Stokes picked up the P.A. Circuit One microphone. “RIG SHIP FOR PATROL QUIET.” Pacino looked at Stokes, who leaned on the periscope pole, arms crossed over his chest.
“I’ll be in my stateroom,” Pacino said, and walked aft.
Five-hundred-forty-six feet beneath the waves, the USS Devilfish continued northeast, enroute to the polar icecap. Enroute to Pacino’s fateful confrontation.