“OOD,” Pacino said to Lomax, “Three short blasts on the ship’s whistle.”
Lomax pulled on the freakishly loud air horn and the blasting roar came again for a long second, quieted, then again and finally a third time. All this deafening noise, Pacino thought, made it so no one could hear his orders. But it was a safety signal to anyone sailing behind them in the channel to let them know they were backing into the river.
The submarine started moving slowly, an inch at first, then gradually accelerating, first at a leisurely stroll, then walking speed, then jogging speed, the ship’s smooth motion making it seem like it was stationary and it was the pier that was moving backwards. Soon the pier was fading backward at what seemed twenty miles an hour. The end of the pier came even with the sail. Pacino looked aft, and the rudder, propulsor and outboard thruster were losing their struggle with the current. Despite the back full revolutions and the outboard’s thrust, the current was pushing the stern northward, the stern now headed almost due west. Vevera’s nightmare was happening to Pacino.
“Kick it up to back emergency,” Captain Seagraves commanded sternly, his jaw clenching.
“Aye, Captain. Pilot, Bridge, all back emergency!” Pacino yelled into his 7MC mike, only after giving the order realizing he’d shouted, his hand shaking. He leaned far over the aft part of the bridge coaming, praying that the stern broke south. He could feel a sudden violent trembling of the deck under his feet, the ride no longer smooth, the power of the propulsor at maximum revolutions in reverse boiling up foam so furiously it frothed higher than the rudder.
“Come on, rudder, you motherless whore,” Pacino muttered, or at least he thought he’d said it under his breath, but the captain himself nodded and said, “Exactly, Mr. Pacino, that rudder is definitely a motherless whore.”
And just then, the stern broke south, the force of the propulsor at one hundred percent reactor power, the outboard thruster, and the full rudder angle only now overcoming the current of the Elizabeth River, the stern going south, the bow rotating to come north. Pacino let the ship turn for just a few seconds, then hoisted his 7MC mike.
“Pilot, Bridge, all stop, rudder amidships, train the outboard to zero-zero-zero and retract the outboard!”
“Bridge, Pilot, rudder amidships, aye, all stop, aye, and Maneuvering answers, all stop. The outboard is trained to triple zero, rigging in the outboard … and the outboard is rigged in!”
“Very well, Pilot. All ahead flank!”
“All ahead flank, aye, and Maneuvering answers, all ahead flank!”
For an agonizing ten seconds, the hull’s backward motion continued, but then slowed until the ship froze in the channel, the steel of it shaking with the power of the reactor as forty thousand shaft horsepower went from full reverse to full ahead, and finally the ship started to move forward, picking up speed, the bullet nose starting to burrow into the water and forming a small bow wave.
“Ease it back down, Mr. Pacino,” Captain Seagraves advised, “or your bow wave will drown the deck crew.”
“Aye, Captain,” Pacino said, clicking the 7MC mike. “Pilot, Bridge, all ahead two thirds, steady as she goes.”
“Bridge, Pilot, all ahead two thirds, steady as she goes, steering course north, and Maneuvering answers, all ahead two thirds.”
“Bridge, Navigator,” Romanov’s voice intoned, smoother this time, less harsh. “Hold the ship ten yards west of track, recommend course zero-zero-two to regain track.”
“Pilot, Bridge,” Pacino said, “Steer course zero-zero-two.”
“Bridge, Pilot, steering zero-zero-two.”
“Mr. Pacino,” the captain called down. “That was an adequate job. But don’t get cocky. Watch yourself in the channel.”
“Yes, sir,” Pacino said, realizing he’d soaked through his uniform with nervous sweat. The first thing he’d do when he got off watch was take a long hot hotel shower. He looked down at the deck. The deck crew was furiously stowing the heavy lines into the line lockers and rotating the deck cleats into the hull. Soon the hull was clean and rigged for sea. Aft, he could see the deck crew descending into the plug hatch, then the hatch coming shut.
“Bridge, Pilot,” Dankleff called, “Deck is rigged for dive, last man down, plug hatch rigged for dive.”
“Pilot, Bridge, aye,” Pacino acknowledged. “All ahead standard,” he ordered.
“Bridge, Pilot, all ahead standard, aye, and Maneuvering answers, all ahead standard.”
Finally Pacino felt like he could breathe again. He traded places with Lomax, moving to the starboard side of the cockpit. To the right, the Norfolk Naval Base surface fleet piers appeared and moved aft. First the destroyer piers, then the cruiser piers, then the gigantic piers for the aircraft carriers, where the colossal USS Gerald R. Ford was moored. The sheer size of the aircraft carrier was staggering, the deck towering over Vermont’s sail.
“Bridge, Navigator,” Romanov’s voice blasted from the 7MC speaker. “Distance to turn one hundred yards. New course will be zero-three-four.”
“Navigator, Bridge, aye,” Pacino called, checking his chart display. At the end of the naval base, the channel turned northeast and headed toward the Interstate-64 bridge-tunnel.
“Bridge, Navigator, mark the turn to course zero-three-four.”
“Pilot, Bridge,” Pacino called into his mike, “Right fifteen degrees rudder, steady course zero-three-four.”
Dankleff acknowledged. Pacino glanced aft to see that he’d turned the rudder correctly, then picked up his binoculars and scanned down the channel. There was no traffic. The sun from the east was intense. Pacino took out his sunglasses and put them on.
“Let’s increase speed to full, Mr. Pacino,” Seagraves called.
“Aye, Captain. Pilot, Bridge, all ahead full.”
“Bridge, Pilot, all ahead full aye, and Maneuvering answers, all ahead full.”
As the ship accelerated, below, forward, on deck, the bow wave climbed up the hull and broke on either side of the sail, the spray kicked up into the cockpit. The thrumming of the propulsor could be felt below, the wake boiling up to a furious frothy white behind them. The wind of their passage became loud, and the flags aft flapped in the wind of it. The sound of the radar spinning once every two seconds, combined with the wind and the blasting noise of the bow wave, seemed hypnotic. Pacino realized there was a certain magic in the sights and sounds of the ship getting underway. He had a half-second thought about his father, but put it away and concentrated on the channel navigation as the interstate’s tunnel came closer.
He looked to starboard at the bridge and its ramp into the tunnel, the trucks and cars vanishing below the water to proceed beneath them. Soon they were past the tunnel and the buoys of Thimble Shoal Channel beckoned, seeming to stretch into the distance to the left and right, like a runway formed in the harbor. Navigator Romanov guided them through two turns until the ship was lined up into the long channel pointing toward the Chesapeake Bay Bridge Tunnel. At the exit of that tunnel, they’d be almost clear of the harbor.
“JOOD,” Seagraves said, his voice loud to overcome the wind of their motion, “Increase speed to flank.”
“Aye sir,” Pacino said. “Pilot, Bridge, all ahead flank.”
“Bridge, Pilot, all ahead flank, aye, and Maneuvering answers, all ahead flank.”
The deck beneath Pacino’s boots began to tremble harder until finally the hull was shaking violently. The flags aft flapped even harder, the noise from them competing with the blast of the hurricane wind and the earsplitting roar of the bow wave, which had now flowed over the forward half of the hull, the only part of the deck not underwater far aft, the sea spray becoming constant, wetting Pacino’s sunglasses and making them opaque. He took them off and pocketed them.