Voyage of the Devilfish

“We did find something recognizable here.” The light from the remote eyeball’s floodlight wavered as it swam by a grotesquely bent frame. An object came into view slowly, then focused. It was a baseball cap, the thread embroidery still plainly legible above and below the submarine dolphins: USS STINGRAY SSN-589. Pacino felt a sudden exhaustion, like a shock wave. The TV view shifted to an outside shot. “This was taken with the video on the main cameras of the submersible,” Donchez said. The disembodied sail came into view with sand in the background, one fairwater plane buried in the sand. “The sail was ripped away from the main hull by hydrodynamic forces. Part of the hull was flattened like a wing. The hull hit the bottom at nearly a hundred miles an hour. Back aft you can see that the hull, instead of flattening like the forward parts, was accordioned. The conical hull was forced inward, compressing the smaller part of the cone into the larger part. The force required to do this was immense. Here’s the bow compartment, which didn’t crush like the rest of the hull. It was equalized with sea pressure.” The video shot showed the rounded bow compartment, the torpedo doors rusted at the far point of the hull’s nosecone. The shot showed the hull coming around. Soon the flank of the bow was in the picture, a gaping hole in it. Donchez stopped the tape at the shot of the hole in the hull. “Mikey, you’ve got a Phd in mechanical engineering. You tell me, was this an explosion inside or outside the hull?” Pacino slowly rose from his seat and walked to the TV. His back was wet with cold sweat, his khaki shirt stuck to his back. He pointed to the star-shaped fingers of the jagged edge of the ten-foot-diameter hole. ‘These points of the hole go in, not out. It was an external explosion. Stingray was gunned down, wasn’t she. Admiral,” Pacino said, a statement, not a question. No more guessing or wondering now. Donchez barely nodded.

“Why was this kept secret? Why was it covered up—”

“Mikey, you’ve been up north. You know about the game. At the time it seemed the thing to do. Should we have whined to the U.N.? What would we say to Congress when they demanded to know how in hell a Soviet could sneak up on one of our best and put it on the bottom? What would become of our northern surveillance? How could we tell the world that we knew what they’d done when the SOSUS network that discovered it was highly secret?” Pacino said nothing at first, then: “So why have you decided to show this to me? After all these years?” Donchez turned off the TV and pulled out the VCR tape. In the heavy silence that followed he opened his safe, returning the sinking report and the VCR tape, at the same time removing a purple file folder. He slammed the heavy door of the safe and spun the tumbler, finally turning to face Pacino, whose face was tight with anger at the scene of the Stingray’s control room. He slapped the purple folder on the desk in front of Pacino. “Open it.” Pacino did. Inside, staring back at him, was the face of a man in a Russian Navy uniform, four stars on his epaulettes. Thick graying hair hung over a dark face, lined by the years yet still commanding. The eyes seemed to stare off into the distance, slightly narrowed.

“This is Admiral Alexi Viktoryvich Novskoyy, Supreme Commander, Russian Northern Fleet. A reactionary hawk who still wants to bring back the old discredited Soviet Union, when he and his ilk were riding high.” Pacino waited.

“He is also the man who murdered Patch Pacino.” Pacino looked at the photograph, stunned, his eyes finally rising to look into Donchez’s face. “You know this for afact?”

“Alexi Novskoyy, commanding officer, fleet submarine Leningrad, a VICTOR III attack submarine, the only VICTOR III, I might add, from 1973 to 1976. He was the new construction commanding officer. Awarded Hero of the Soviet Union medal in 1973 for classified action. In the Arctic Ocean. That’s him, there’s no doubt.”

“And now? That was a long time ago—”

“The new Omega submarine got under way three hours ago, Mikey,” Donchez pointed to the folder. Pacino put the photo of Novskoyy aside and looked at the satellite photo beneath, a God’s-eye-view looking directly downward that showed the huge Omega submarine angled away from her pier and pulling out.

“What do you see?”

“Sub getting under way. One last line on the pier. Topside crew getting ready to pull the line in. Two cranes on the pier. Probably one for shorepower cables and one for the gangway.”

“What else?”

“Car on the pier. Limousine. Flags on the fenders. Stars on the flags.” Pacino looked up. “Admiral’s limo.” Donchez nodded. “And how many stars?” he said, offering a magnifying glass. Pacino studied the photo with the glass. “Four stars.”

“Correct. And do you see flags flying on the OMEGA?”

“Yes. Northern Fleet Banner. Russian flag. Commissioning pennant.”

“And?”

“And a flag with stars on it. Four stars.” Pacino looked into Donchez’s eyes. “Admiral Novskoyy’s on board?”