Phoenix Sub Zero

He climbed up, vanishing into the circle of darkness, and emerged into a dimly lit vertical tunnel full of cables and junction boxes and valves. He switched ladders and continued the climb, a dim light filtering down and growing until he reached the top of the tunnel, where he could see grating covering the opening, shoes standing on top of the grating surface.

“Captain to the bridge,” he called. The grating was pulled up on a hinge and the men cleared the way. Pacino climbed up into the bridge cockpit, a small cubbyhole on top of the sail crowded with officers and enlisted phone-talkers. He concentrated on the dock below, noting the lines tying them to the pier cleats, the two heavy ones running from the bow to huge winches on either side of the drydock entrance, the flow of water in the river. The weather was wet, not from rain but from mist, heavy and clammy, blown by the wind, the millions of droplets visible as they drifted past the glaring cones of the light from the floods. The noise level was near deafening from the diesel, the exhaust note rumbling as it came out of the sail. It would make communicating difficult but Pacino was not willing to wait for reactor power. In the wet weather the exhaust was white and smoky, but at least the wind was from the head of the dock and blowing the fumes away from the bridge crew.

“What’s the status, Scotty?” Pacino shouted over the roar of the diesel to the combat-systems officer, young Lieutenant Commander Scott Court, a smart officer with a hundred-dollar haircut and impeccably starched uniforms who always seemed to say the right thing, another politically astute mid-grade officer who had already been marked for early promotion and command, a bit too slick for Pacino’s taste. He’d been encouraging Court to get his hands dirtier in the day-to-day operations of his department.

“Good morning. Captain,” Court said in his official speaking-to-the-captain voice. “The yard is ready to winch us out on your concurrence. Maneuvering watches are manned. The reactor is critical. We’re about fifteen minutes from switching to a normal full-power lineup. Last lines to the dock are seven and eight with the exception of the winch lines. Conning us out is Mr. Pseudo. I’ll retain the deck.”

Pacino nodded, looked up and aft at the top of the sail. On the top surface a set of temporary steel handrails were set up, the flying bridge. He climbed up the aft wall of the cockpit to the flying bridge and looped his harness’s lanyard over one of the rails. He waved to Ensign Ed Pseudo to climb up next to him, the young officer extending the bridge communication box microphone with him up to the top of the sail. Pacino looked down at the dock and from his vantage point could see the ship below remarkably well — it was not a place for those wary of heights — and down at the head of the dock he could see Emmitt Stevens standing and watching with a visitor next to him. Pacino checked through the binoculars, not surprised to see Donchez standing next to Stevens. The admiral waved. Pacino dropped the binoculars and turned to Pseudo.

“Your ship, Mr. Pseudo. Take us out of here.”

Pseudo raised a bullhorn to his mouth “On deck! Take in seven and eight!” He picked up his walkie-talkie and called for the dockmaster. “Dock Four, this is U.S. Navy Submarine. Commence winch-out.”

“SUBMARINE, DOCK FOUR, COMMENCING WINCH-OUT,” the radio squawked.

The motion was barely perceptible at first, but Pacino could see the winches turn, reeling in the lines on either side leading to deck cleats at the ship’s bow. Slowly, steadily, the dry dock began to drift away from them. Aft, the rudder began protruding into the river channel. The motion of the ship — a ship that had been a shipyard building for the last four months — was intoxicating to Pacino. Must be the lack of sleep, he thought, but the swaying of the deck beneath his feet made him feel almost drunk. Enjoy it now, he told himself, it’s the last underway you’ll have with Seawolf.

Pseudo ordered the backing signal sounded, six short blasts on the ship’s air horn, the deep throaty horn the equal of the Queen Elizabeth II. The stem was far enough into the river to bring on the first tug on the starboard side. The lines were brought aboard to the tugboat and pulled tight to the deck cleats. The dock lip was now even with where Pacino stood, forward on the sail, the land moving away rapidly now as the ship developed momentum. The second tugboat came alongside, aft of the sail amidships on the port side. By the time its lines were fast the bow of the ship was almost clear of the dock.

“Cast off port and starboard winch lines!” Pseudo broadcast on the bullhorn to the deck crew. As the last line was tossed off to the dock the ship was officially underway, no longer bound to the shore in spite of the fact that her power plant was still asleep and she was being towed down the river by tugs. Pseudo barked down at Court, “One long blast on the ship’s whistle, shift colors.”