Cooksey turned at the sound of movement from behind him, and saw the Seahawk’s ATO go into action. The officer was attaching a transfer harness onto the thick, nylon winch cord. Aware of the captain’s interest, the airborne tactical officer asked, “Ever go for a ride in one of these little ladies, sir?”
“Not since basic,” Cooksey shouted over the din of the chopping rotors.
The ATO smiled.
“Well, you have nothing to worry about. Captain. We’ll set you down there as light as a feather.”
“I’m sure that you will,” Cooksey said as the helicopter began a wide-banked turn.
“This must be the place, sir,” the ATO observed.
“We’d better take a look.”
The young officer joined Cooksey at the sliding hatch window. Both men locked gazes on a surging sea that was clearly more turbulent than it had appeared from a higher altitude. White caps topped four-foot swells that constantly rolled in on long fingers from the northwest. They were only a few hundred feet above the surface now. Cooksey looked down expectantly. A full minute passed, when suddenly he saw a thin line of frothing white turbulence cutting through the green depths. Seconds later, he spotted the tip of a periscope.
He pointed it out to the ATO, who reached over and grabbed an intercom.
Once the pilot spotted it, the chopper descended still lower.
As the Seahawk made a series of wide-banking turns, Cooksey’s eyes remained locked on the sea.
Like finding an old friend who has been too-long absent, he watched breathlessly as the top edge of the sub’s sail became visible. Next, the sail’s two diving planes could be seen. The vessel seemed to remain at this depth for some time, the sail knifing smoothly through the water, when a torrent of crashing turbulence indicated a sudden change. In the blink of an eye, the rest of the three-hundred-sixty-foot-long vessel emerged. As a curl of seawater smashed over the Triton’s curved hull, Cooksey beamed with pride.
The intercom buzzed and the ATO answered it, then handed the receiver to Cooksey. The chopper pilot wished him luck, adding that fuel considerations demanded as quick a transfer as possible.
Cooksey thanked him for the lift, and then, with the ATO’s expert help, fitted on the shoulder harness.
Ready to initiate transfer, the hatch door was swung open and Cooksey was instructed to sit with his feet dangling outside as the chopper positioned itself above the waiting sub.
The sound of whirling rotors was considerably louder now, as the Seahawk continued to descend.
Cooksey saw that the Triton’s hatch cover had been removed, and two familiar khaki-clad figures were looking up. As he identified his XO and the massive physique of Chief Bartkowski, a wave of emotion swelled in his breast. Like a pilgrim whose long journey had finally brought him home, he muttered a simple prayer of thanks.
“See you around the golf course. Captain,” said the ATO as he began working the winch mechanism.
Cooksey flashed him a thumbs-up as the harness pulled tightly around his shoulder blades. Before he knew it, he was suspended outside the hovering chop per. Buffeted by the rotors’ powerful downdraft, he shielded his eyes and felt himself dropping.
The accuracy of the Seahawk’s crew was perfect-their first attempt brought Cooksey right to the open platform cut into the top of the sub.
The chief’s massive hands grabbed him securely as the XO hit the harness release lever. The strain on Cooksey’s shoulders was instantly relieved.
“Requesting permission to come aboard,” Cooksey said with a salute.
“Permission granted,” said Executive Officer Richard Craig. For a moment, the three of them watched the sleek, white SH-60B as it sped northeast with a roar.
“I just hope they make it back to the JFK” Cooksey said at last. “The way I figure it, those fuel tanks have got to be close to dry. Oh, and by the way Rich — congratulations, papa!”
The XO shook Cooksey’s outstretched hand.
“Thanks, Skipper. I kind of find it hard to believe myself.” “How’s Susan doing?” Cooksey asked.
“At last report she was all smiles, Skipper. Do you know that she waited to go into labor until we had pulled into Pearl? I even got to drive her to the hospital.”
“Sorry that we had to drag you away from your new family, but that’s the navy.”
The XO responded lightly.
“I’m fine now, knowing that everything turned out so well. You’re sure looking tanned and rested. Captain.”
“I haven’t felt this good in years. This was the first R-&-R that I really enjoyed in too long. Unfortunately all good things come to an end. What’s the status of the Triton, Chief?”
Pete Bartkowski, who had been scanning the sea before them, said, “All systems are operational. Captain.
Had time to take on a full load of supplies, and also a pair of newfangled, long-range ASW weapons.
Lieutenant Spencer has ‘em stowed away in the forward torpedo room.”
“I think that you’ll find some unfamiliar faces aboard. Skipper,” the XO added.
“Because of the sudden nature of our sailing orders, we had to grab a dozen noncoms off the Trigger fish. They’re fully competent and seem to have mixed in well with the rest of the crew. Are you going to be able to tell us what this mission is all about now? Our orders didn’t say much.”
Cooksey’s words flowed smoothly.
“Believe it or not, gentlemen, the Triton is going hunting for a Soviet Delta-class missile sub that is believed to be the victim of a mutiny.
We’ve been called in to eliminate this vessel — at the direct request of their General Secretary. I’ll be giving you all the sweet details during the meeting I’d like you to set up in the wardroom. Include all officers and senior chiefs. I’d like this to take place within the hour, so let’s get cracking. Will you take her down, Rich?”
“Aye-aye, Skipper,” the XO replied. But he couldn’t hide his astonishment at the captain’s revelations.
With a slight shiver, he picked up the intercom and punched in two digits.
“Mr. Lawrence, prepare to dive.”
Cooksey followed the bulky figure of Chief Bartkowski down the stairway into the sub’s interior.
The familiar hum of the Triton’s systems surrounded him as he ducked through a hatchway and emerged into the control room. As he examined the equipment packed compartment and watched its occupants in action, Cooksey knew that he had finally returned home. He watched the diving officer prepare to take them down into their natural element. Beside him sat the planes men perched alertly in leather-upholstered chairs, with the rubber steering yoke and plane control sticks well within reach.
Cooksey was scanning the consoles reserved for engineering, sonar, weapons and navigation, when a loud, raucous honk echoed twice. Richard Craig had already sealed the hatch and was in the process of taking a position beside the diving officer. Cooksey remained a detached observer as the diving console’s toggle switches were triggered and a series of lights indicated that the valves were opening. Seconds later, the muffled roar of rushing water signaled that the ballast tanks had begun to Hood. The stern planes were activated and the Triton began to descend.
While the deck began angling downward, Cooksey made his way over to the navigation plotting table. He was in the midst of drawing up a detailed topographical cross-section of the southern portion of the Emperor Seamount Chain when the angle of their descent increased noticeably. Forced to hold onto the edge of the console to keep from falling over, he immediately knew that something out of the ordinary had occurred. Struggling to join his XO, his progress was forced to a halt when the bow began to nose down even more sharply. His thoughts flashed wildly: Had there been a mistake with the ballast calculations?