Voyage of the Devilfish

“Sir, we should brief the White House on what’s happening. This could still be some kind of… trick.” Donchez knew it sounded paranoid but what else could he say?

“We can’t brief the top brass until you can prove some hostile intent, here, Dick,” McGee said quietly. “Besides, the White House staff ain’t the only people I got phone calls from. Got one from General Tyler at the Pentagon, too. He even mentioned you by name, Dick. Said he didn’t want to hear any damned doomsday talk from you about this here exercise. You know how the of’ boy feels about this kind of thing. He made it sound like the Russians practically asked White House permission to do this submarine deployment. So I’m telling you, Dick, you rattle your sabre about this Russian thing. General Tyler’ll break it off in your ass.”

“Sir, all due respect, but General Tyler couldn’t find his ass with both hands.”

“Careful, Dick, this is the Air Force Chief of Staff you’re talking about. Also, the next Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. Our future boss.”

“Until he’s my boss he’s a horse’s ass.” McGee sighed. “It’s not all his fault, Dick. He’s Air Force. Hell, it’s all I can do to understand this submarine crap. I’m a pilot, not a sewer-pipe sailor.” McGee had been COMAIRLANT, chief of the aviators, and before that captain of an aircraft carrier, and before that commander of an F-14 fighter squadron. “Look, I’ve gotta run, Dick. Keep me posted. But remember, I need something more than just god damned ship movements if we’re going to ask for modified Rules of Engagement. You can trail’em, but don’t mess with’em.” Donchez stood in his office and stared out the plate-glass window at the Stingray monument construction site across the street. A cement mixer was pouring a foundation. He pressed his intercom and summoned Captain Rummel to his office.

“Yes sir,” Rummel said as he entered.

“Those SSN-X-27 missiles, the cruise missiles…”

“Yes sir?”

“There was a U.N. team that witnessed their destruction?”

“Yes sir.”

“What are the chances that they saw exercise units destroyed?”

“Zero, sir. First, they broke open the weapons to inspect the warheads. No mistaking plutonium with a Geiger counter. Alpha radiation, the works. Every weapon, sir. Those units were the real thing. And they’re history now.”

“What’s the possibility that the Russians had some cruise missiles that we didn’t know about before?”

“Slim. Maybe one or two escaped us. Maybe a dozen on the outside. But if you’re thinking that attack sub fleet is armed with’em, no chance. We’d know if there were a hundred and twenty of them out there.”

“What if only ten were on the boats and the rest were exercise units, units that flew like the real thing but had dud warheads. That could cause enough confusion to screw us up, couldn’t it?”

“Well — they would all fly in at treetop level so if exercise units were launched with an attack, they’d be stealthy as the real thing.” Donchez thought a moment. “Any chance that only a few Russian boats have nuke cruise missiles and the others are protecting the boats with the nukes?” Rummel shook his head. “All the boats are separated.They all have different approach vectors. Different destinations. They aren’t in some kind of escort formation.”

“They’re asking me to just sit here and wait for the worst to happen. I can’t do it.”

“Sir?”

“Never mind. Captain. Let’s go. It’s time to tell our boys what’s going on.” Back in Flag Plot, the Duty Officer stood at attention.

“Duty Officer, two messages to go out FLASH priority. You ready?” Donchez said. The Duty Officer’s pen was poised over his notebook.

“Go, sir.”

“First message. Addressee, USS Devilfish, currently enroute the polar icepack for rendezvous with Russian OMEGA-class submarine Unit One. Mark the message Personal for Commanding Officer. Message classification: TOP SECRET — THUNDERBOLT. Message subject: Mission redefinition.” Donchez read the body of the message.

“You got all that? Read it back.” Donchez listened as the Duty Officer read back the message.

“Good. Get it on the wire, then come back for the second.” As Donchez waited for the Duty Officer to hand the message to the Senior Chief Radioman, he and Rummel looked at the Arctic Ocean plot, seeing the flashing X that symbolized the unknown position of the OMEGA Unit One. When the Duty Officer returned, Donchez started in on the second FLASH message.

“The boat that got damaged the other day. Lieutenant, the 688-class boat, who was that?”

“That would be the Allentown, sir.” Donchez glanced at the Atlantic Ocean plot to find the Allentown. She was several hundred miles off Norfolk, in line with the other Atlantic Fleet submarines forming the zone defense of the coastline. Donchez frowned. He had never liked zone defenses, much preferring man-to-man or sub-to-sub. But the Russians had him outnumbered two to one.

“Did she get her sail fixed?” Donchez asked.