Phoenix Sub Zero

Pacino remembered his words to Donchez and again felt the older man’s disappointment at the failure of the Vortex weapons. In the shipyard’s haste the tubes and their launching systems remained functional and the weapons had been kept in the canned unreusable tubes in spite of Pacino’s insistence that the weapons be removed, the load of solid rocket fuel stored so close to the ship’s hull it made them vulnerable to a single torpedo hit. The detonation of the solid fuel would be even more violent than the warhead of a Nagasaki torpedo. Pacino shook his head as he moved” slowly forward to the end of the room, where the massive tubes met the hull steel.

There at the forward bulkhead the tubes continued farther forward past the space where there had once been a water-round-torpedo tank, the newly formed void filled with the powerful hydraulic piping and controls needed to open the heavy muzzle doors of the tubes. A torpedoman with a headset had crawled down the accessway formed by interruptions of the piping to the hull, which had been stripped of its foam insulation so that the weld could be watched from the inside as the ship went deeper to test depth. Pacino got as close as he could without crawling down the accessway, shining a flashlight on the weld of the hull patch.

“How’s it looking so far?”

“No leakage yet, sir,” the torpedoman called.

The torpedo chief, a young health nut named Riesen, stood with a headset at the forward local control panel. He looked aft at Pacino and called, “Going to 700 feet. Captain.”

Pacino waved, the hull inclined, groaning and popping from the sea pressure. After reaching 700 feet the deck leveled while the weld was examined for leakage by the torpedomen.

After holding for five minutes the ship went deep again to 800 feet, then to 900, until after forty minutes ship’s depth was 1,500 feet. Pacino observed the crewmen in the space, noticing their nerves showing, men tugging at collars that suddenly seemed too tight, faces turned upward as if trying to see the surface a quarter-mile overhead.

“THE SHIP IS AT TEST DEPTH,” Vaughn’s Texas drawl rang out through the ship.

There was a commotion from the hull patch. Pacino moved to see. Several small streams of water, probably pinhole leaks, were spitting water into the bulkhead of the local panel.

“We’re getting some leakage here. Captain,” the torpedoman said. “Hard to tell exactly where but it’s definitely from the weld.”

Pacino grabbed up a phone to control. “This is the Captain. Take her up to 400 feet.”

The deck angled upward at a twenty-degree angle as Pacino climbed the stairs to the middle level and walked up the ramp of the passageway to control. Court was leveling off at 400 feet when Pacino made control.

“Hull weld leaks,” Pacino said, anger at the shipyard rising in his gut.

“You won’t be taking us back in,” Vaughn said. It was a statement, not a question.

“No. We’re staying out. Mr. Court, no deeper than 600 feet unless I have the conn. Post it on the status board.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Goddamned Vortex tubes,” Vaughn said. “Piece of meat.” “You said it,” Pacino said. “Off’sa’deck, I’ll be in my stateroom. Proceed to point bravo.”

* * *

In his stateroom Pacino splashed water on his face and changed into a black poopysuit with new dolphins and namepatch. He sank into the deep-cushioned high-back chair at the head of his conference table and shut his eyes for a moment. He took out a journal book entitled Captain’s Night Orders and scribbled a few paragraphs, stopping to buzz for coffee. The mess cook brought a steaming pot; Pacino dispatched him to take the night-order book to Court on the conn. He changed his mind about the coffee, climbed into his narrow bed and shut his eyes. He thought he should turn off the room lights but sleep sneaked up on him before he could get out of the bed to hit the light switch. It was a relief.

Chapter 24 Tuesday, 31 December

EASTERN ATLANTIC

USS PHOENIX

Houser had to shout over the roar of the emergency blow.

“Secure the blow! All stop!”

The rushing noise of the high-pressure air ceased as the chief of the watch pulled the blow levers back down. The engine order telegraph chimed as its needle rolled to the stop position, maneuvering’s answer needle rotating to stop in answer.

“Mark your depth.”

“One three five five,” the diving officer said, his voice neutral.

“Captain, I say we rock her out with the screw, doing full ahead, then astern. The ballast tanks are full of air now. It’s got to be the suction from the mud that’s keeping us down.”

Mcdonne frowned. “The emergency blow more than filled the tanks, it should have spilled a lot of high-pressure air out the vents and into the muck or sand. That should have done it.”

“Might be a rock or obstruction forward,” Kane said.

“Let’s try a backing bell first and give it a full minute before going forward.”

“What speed?”

“Back full.”

“Aye, sir. Helm, all back full.”