“Pilot, Copilot,” Lomax announced to the two chief petty officers at the wrap-around console displays of the ship control station, “Mr. Lomax and Mr. Pacino to the bridge to relieve the officer of the deck.”
“Aye, sir, wait one,” Chief Goreliki, the pilot, replied. She spoke into her boom microphone to the bridge. The navigator’s piercing soprano voice came in reply, “Send them up.”
Lomax led the way to the upper level to the bridge access trunk step-off pad, which had a grating under it to catch any water coming in from above, but even so, that section of the passageway was flooded with the rainwater and spray from the bridge. “Watch your footing,” Lomax said. He looked up into the dimly lit vertical tunnel, only two hooded red lamps illuminating the ladder extending upward. “Lieutenant Lomax to the bridge!” he called.
“Come up!” Lieutenant Commander Romanov shouted down.
“Up ladder!” He climbed up. Pacino waited for him to get to the top, knowing that in a sea state like this, if Lomax fell on top of Pacino, there’d be two injured officers rather than just one.
“Pacino to the bridge,” Pacino called, imitating Lomax.
“Come on up!” Navigator Romanov ordered.
Pacino climbed the ladder, the rungs wet and salty from the spray above. He reached the bridge grating, which Lomax held open for him, and climbed up. Immediately he was hit with the showering spray from the boat hitting a tall wave, the water like a cold firehose stream. This would be a long hour, he thought, as he fastened his safety harness’ lanyard onto the safety rail.
He faced Romanov, the off-going officer of the deck. “I’m ready to relieve you, ma’am,” he shouted over the roaring noise of the bow wave and the rain. It was startling how dark it was when it should have been a bright May twilight. He couldn’t help glancing to starboard as the boat rolled right, a towering wave seemingly far over his head, illuminated by the green starboard running light. One thing he hated, Pacino thought, was looking up at water. The boat rolled slowly, sickeningly back to port, the huge swells now over his head on that side, these colored red from the port running light.
“I’m ready to be relieved,” the soaked-to-the-skin navigator yelled. “We’re on course zero-nine-five, steaming at flank even in this sea state. Captain is anxious to get to the hundred fathom curve and get under this weather. Dive point is approximately twenty-three miles ahead. In an hour, I’ll be back in the control room to take the watch while you two rig the bridge for dive. Once you come on down, I’ll keep the watch long enough for you guys to shower and change, then relieve me again when you’re ready.”
“Got it,” Pacino shouted over the gale.
“There’s no surface contacts but you and the lookout back there, Petty Officer Williams, keep your eyes out. If someone is there, we won’t see him until he’s right on us.” She leaned in to put her face close to Pacino’s, the rainwater running off the brim of her ball cap and into his face. “You got it, Mr. Pacino?”
He stood straighter, as much as he could, given the bucking of the deck. “I have it, ma’am. I relieve you, ma’am.”
Romanov nodded. “I stand relieved.” Lomax held up the grating and the tall, slender navigator disappeared down the access trunk.
Pacino looked out at the miserable seascape, amazed at the anger of nature. It would definitely be good to get submerged and under this, he thought.
The 7MC speaker clicked, then rasped Romanov’s voice. “Bridge, Navigator, I’m ready to relieve the JOOD of the deck and the conn.”
“Navigator, Bridge, pick up the 1JV,” Pacino said into the microphone as a spray of saltwater smashed into his face. The bridge cockpit’s windshield was useless in this.
“Navigator,” Romanov said into the phone.
“I’m ready to be relieved,” Pacino shouted. “Ship is on course zero-nine-five, all ahead flank, no contacts, steaming toward Delta.”
“I relieve you, sir,” Romanov said crisply.
“I stand relieved,” Pacino replied, hanging up the phone.
“Let’s hurry,” Lomax said, reaching for the clamps holding the bridge communication box to the steel of the cockpit.
Petty Officer Watson, the A-ganger who Pacino had first met topside, arrived at the bridge grating over the access trunk. Over the next fifteen minutes, Lomax and Pacino disassembled the bridge cockpit equipment and passed it down to Watson, who lowered it down to a second man in the access trunk. There must have been a hundred pounds of stuff up here, Pacino thought, as he took a wrench to the bolts holding the windshield in place, passing the tool, the bolts and the windshield down to Watson.
Lomax scanned the cockpit with his flashlight, finding a stray coffee cup, but otherwise it was clear. He looked at Pacino.
“Take a last breath of real air, Mr. Pacino.”
Pacino complied, knowing this to be a tradition in the submarine force. He lowered himself into the bridge access trunk, looking upward as Lomax pushed shut the panels that would streamline the sail, making the bridge cockpit disappear. Finally his boots appeared in the upper opening. Pacino lowered himself out of the way. Lomax shut the upper hatch and rotated the dogs so it clamped itself locked shut.
“Check the hatch rigged for dive,” he ordered Pacino, who climbed even with Lomax and checked the hatch.
“Shut and locked,” Pacino said, lowering himself all the way back into the submarine. Lomax emerged down the ladder and pulled the lower hatch shut and spun the wheel to dog it shut.
“Check it,” Lomax said. Lomax reached for the drain valve from the access trunk and shut it. “Check that, too.”
“Hatched checked locked. Drain valve checked shut.”
“Follow me,” Lomax said. They hurried down the ladder and into the control room.
“Officer of the Deck,” Pacino said to Romanov, “Sail and bridge access trunk rigged for dive by Mr. Lomax, checked by Mr. Pacino.”
“Very well, gentlemen,” Romanov said. “You have exactly eight minutes to shower, change and get back here.”
Nothing could feel as good as the hot freshwater of the shower as Pacino rinsed off the seawater. He dried, ran to his stateroom and climbed into his blue at-sea coveralls, rigged with the American flag and Vermont patch. He hurried to the control room, arriving a few seconds before Lomax.
He and Lomax reassumed the watch, and Romanov went back to her chart table. Pacino checked the chart. They were almost on top of the Point Delta dive point.
“Well, Mr. Pacino?” the captain’s voice sounded behind Pacino. “Your report?”
“Yessir, ship’s ready to dive. Rig for dive made by Chief Dysart and checked by Lieutenant Junior Grade Ganghadharan with the exception of the bridge and bridge access trunk and bridge upper and lower hatch, which was rigged for dive by Mr. Lomax and checked by me—”
“JOOD, Navigator,” Romanov interrupted. “Mark the dive point!”
“Sounding!” Pacino called to the navigation electronics technician of the watch.
“One five four fathoms, sir!” the petty officer called from aft.
“Captain,” Pacino continued. “Ship is at the dive point, sounding is one hundred fifty-four fathoms. Request permission to dive, sir.”
Seagraves nodded. “Junior Officer of the Deck, submerge the ship.”
“Submerge the ship, JOOD, aye, sir,” Pacino repeated back formally. “Pilot, submerge the ship to one five zero feet!”
“Submerge the ship to one five zero feet, Pilot aye,” Chief Goreliki repeated. “Ordering all ahead two thirds,” she reported, “and Maneuvering answers all ahead two thirds.” Over the 1MC shipwide announcing circuit, her voice boomed throughout the ship.