Phoenix Sub Zero

The horn blew an earsplitting blast. Aft of Pacino on the top of the sail Pseudo snapped a lanyard hoisting a large American flag to the top of a temporary flagpole. Pacino checked his watch—zero four twenty-five, a half-hour ahead of schedule. A dim shout came from the port side, a request to come aboard. Pacino nodded to Pseudo, who granted the permission, and from the port tugboat an older man with a life-jacket climbed the ladder rungs set into the sheer side of the sail, up over the lip of the bridge and to the flying bridge. The pilot.

“Mornin’, Skipper. Name’s Jake. I’ll be helpin’ yuh out today.”

Pacino nodded. The use of a pilot had always irritated him. Like the tugs. He could make it out of any port by him self if the charts were good, and Norfolk’s charts were dead on. But he had no horsepower until Hobart cranked up the reactor, and as long as the tugs pulled him down the channel, they shared the authority with him. There was only one way to get rid of (he tugs and that was to get the reactor. He was about to prod Pseudo to call maneuvering and get the status of the reactor when Hobart’s voice boomed out of the communication box.

“BRIDGE MANEUVERING, THE ELECTRIC PLANT IS IN A NORMAL FULL-POWER LINEUP. REQUEST TO COOL THE DIESEL.” Hobart still didn’t believe Pacino would shut it down without a slow cool, but Pacino hadn’t changed his mind. He made a chopping motion across his neck to Pseudo.

“Maneuvering, Bridge, negative. Shut down the diesel now.”

“SHUT DOWN THE DIESEL, BRIDGE, MANEUVERING, AYE.” Hobart’s annoyance rang out through the circuit. Within seconds the loud roar of the diesel exhaust vanished, crashing the bridge into relative silence, the smoky plumes vaporizing. The only sound on the river was the faint hum of the tugboat motors.

For the next minutes there was little to do but watch as the tugs pulled the ship down the river, the predawn scenery of downtown Portsmouth, Virginia, a handful of glowing lights, an occasional passing car. Jake the pilot chattered on his walkie-talkie to the tugs and tried to make small talk.

Pacino mostly ignored him, watching the bridge box, waiting for Hobart. Finally the announcement came: “BRIDGE, MANEUVERING, MAIN ENGINES ARE WARM, PROPULSION SHIFTED TO THE MAIN ENGINES, READY TO ANSWER ALL BELLS, ANSWERING ALL STOP.”

“Well, thanks for the lift, Jake. We’ll take it from here.”

The pilot looked at Pacino. “We ain’t at Thimble Shoals yet, Cap’n. I’m supposed to—” “I said we’ll take it from here. Shove off your tugs.”

The pilot shrugged. “You run aground, it’s your neck.” He climbed back down the sail and into the port tug. The tug crews pulled in the lines and backed away.

“Navigator, Bridge,” Pseudo said into his mike, “log that the captain has shoved off the pilot and the tugs.”

“BRIDGE, NAVIGATOR, AYE.”

“Five knots, Mr. Pseudo,” Pacino ordered. “Rig the deck for dive and get the topside crew below.”

“Helm, Bridge, all ahead one-third.”

The comms box crackled the helmsman’s acknowledgement. For the first time in almost four months the Seawolfs screw turned aft, boiling up a white foamy patch. Ahead, the water began to flow smoothly over the bullet-shaped bow until it rose over the first fifteen feet of the top surface of the ship. The foam aft turned into a wake while the deck be neath Pacino’s feet shuddered slightly. The tugs had faded several hundred yards behind, their diesels no longer audible above the slight rushing sound of the bow wave. Below on the deck, the topside linehandlers moved quickly, stowing lines in cubbyholes with flush doors, rotating deck cleats into their stowed position, ducking down the hatches. Within a few minutes the deck was clean and streamlined, ready for the ship to submerge.

“Topside’s rigged for dive, sir. Last man down.”

Pacino scanned the dark river ahead, the channel deserted.

“Increase speed to fifteen knots.”

“Helm, Bridge, all ahead standard.”

The bow wave, a slight wetting of the nose cone forward, now splashed over the top surface of the hull, sliding aft all the way past the sail, the waves of the wake building up and washing aft. The sound of it rose like the surf in a heavy windstorm. Pacino felt the ship’s acceleration, felt it all through his body. The heaviness of being in the shipyard had been washed away by the bow wave, replaced with the exhilaration of taking his submarine, his command, back where it belonged — at sea.

The wind from the ship’s motion built up, the combined whistle of the wind and roar of the bow wave filling Pacino’s ears, the sound of Seawolfs tremendous horsepower.