For just a moment, the fog lifted a bit, and Gordon's eyes were drawn to the dock below the piers, where a concrete abutment with a safety rail extended a short ways out into the water. A small crowd of people was there, women and children, mostly, watching the Pittsburgh go to sea. Some waved, while others simply… watched.
Families and loved ones of the men aboard. His jubilation ebbed, still there, but subdued now by the realization of the awesome responsibility he commanded.
Damn. How did the Navy wives always know? They had an intelligence network that would make the CIA hang its collective head in shame, if it knew. The announced sailing time for the Pittsburgh had been noon; as sailors had come back aboard from liberty through the night, they'd been quietly told that sailing had been moved up to 0630 hours, partly as a security concession to Cabot, partly, too, because Gordon wanted to avoid a confrontation with Greenpeace. The militant environmentalist group liked to picket the sailings of nuclear subs, and had been known to do some pretty pin-headed stuff, like steering Zodiacs into a submarine's path.
It looked like they'd managed to fool Greenpeace… but not the wives of the sailors on board. They watched silently as the Pittsburgh, tucked in close alongside her escorting tug, slipped quietly through fog-misted waters toward the southeastern tip of Mare Island. Gordon could almost feel the force of their prayers.
He turned, looking aft, trying to see if Mike Chase was still visible. He wasn't. Pier 2 was already hidden by the bulk of the Parche, and, as he watched, even her dark, square-sailed mass faded away into the mist.
He had now the command he'd always wanted. True, the mission was an exceptionally tough one; the possibility for failure, disgrace, even death was high. But he knew he had an edge … the men who sailed with him.
Gordon looked down at the civilian crew of the tug, a casual and relaxed lot who looked like they had more in common with the salty and sometimes raggedly turned-out submarine crews of World War II than with the sailors aboard his own command. Some were trading friendly insults with the life-jacketed sailors of the 'Burgh's line-handling party. There was unspoken camaraderie there. Men who lived, worked, fought, and died on the sea shared a common brotherhood, whether they were Navy or civilian, submariner or surface.
The sea had an uncanny way of leveling the men who served on her.
Past the point, they swung to starboard, steering southwest, and the tug cast off her tow. Pittsburgh's deck crew secured the last of the lines and deck fittings. The sub's hull numbers had already been taken down, and her flag transferred from the jack staff aft to a mast alongside the periscope housings atop the sail, age-old indicator that the vessel was now at sea.
The crew filed below, and Gordon had the comm watch signal to the Coast Guard cutter that their lifesaving services were no longer needed. With a last, friendly honk of its horn, the John Andrew Keith parted from the Pittsburgh, veering off to port and fading away into the fog. The other tug and the escorting cutter were already headed about and moving back toward the Mare Island Channel and Vallejo.
Half an hour at eight knots brought them all the way across San Pablo Bay, beneath the span of the bridge bearing Highway 580 near San Quentin, and into the northern reaches of San Francisco Bay proper. Twenty minutes more took them past the monument of Alcatraz and on out through the glorious red-orange arch of the Golden Gate Bridge.
"Lookouts, secure the colors and go below," he said. The two lookouts gathered in the flag, then dropped through the hatch at their feet and clambered down the ladder through the sail and into the control room. Gordon took a last look around. As Pittsburgh picked up speed, the bow wake lashed up and over the prow in great, rolling arcs, kicking up a bit of white foam around the foot of the sail. It was nearly 0800 hours now, and the fog was lifting, with broad slashes of early-morning light cutting through the tattered remnants of overcast from a crystal blue canopy above.
Through his binoculars, Gordon could see a pair of tiny Zodiacs flying Greenpeace colors, racing toward the Pittsburgh from the direction of Sausalito. Evidently the word had been passed, and they were still trying to catch the boat for a symbolic protest… but the sub already had far too great a lead.
He grinned at the distant rubber boats. "Better luck next time, guys." Slinging the binoculars around his neck, he dropped down the hatch, sealing it above him. Emerging in the control room, he nodded at Latham, who crisply announced, "Captain on deck!"
"Thank you, XO. Diving Officer, let's take her down. What's the depth beneath keel?" The channel through the Golden Gate was deep… fifty-nine fathoms, if he remembered the charts correctly.
"Depth beneath keel now … three-one-zero feet, sir," Lieutenant Francis J. Carver reported. He was seated port-side forward, between and behind the two enlisted men manning the boat's helm and dive plane station.
"Very well. Flood main ballast, Mr. Carver."
"Flood main ballast, aye, sir."
"Down bubble fifteen degrees. Make depth one hundred feet."
"Down bubble fifteen degrees. Make depth one hundred feet, aye."
The faint, restless shuddering of water sliced by steel gradually faded as the deck tilted gently beneath their feet. Moments later, there was no sensation of movement at all, as the Pittsburgh entered her accustomed environment… and hunting ground.
"Depth six-zero feet," Carver reported. "Depth eight-zero feet. Leveling off at one hundred feet." The deck came back level, as the Pittsburgh slid invisibly from the Bay and out into the open ocean.
He picked up the microphone at the periscope walk.
"Sonar, Conn."
"Sonar, aye, sir."
"Keep a sharp ear out, boys. I would be very surprised if Ivan didn't have a shadow waiting for us out here. I'd just as soon he not know where we're going."
"We're listening, sir. Nothing so far but transients, surface traffic, and biologicals."
"Very well. Call me if you hear anything."
"Aye aye, sir."
"Mr. Latham."
"Sir."
"We'll take her out fifty miles or so. I want a full run of angles and dangles before we set course for the first way point."
"Very good, Captain." Gordon took a deep breath. Yes. This felt right….
This was wrong, damn it. Badly wrong.
O'Brien had had the duty last night, standing watch on deck with a rifle from 0400 hours to 0600 hours. Having to walk along the Pittsburgh's forward deck toward those monstrous, bulky marine mammals, their snouts half hidden by rolls of fat, had been one of the oddest moments of his life. "Shoof Shoo!" he'd shouted, and wondered if he was going to have to get authorization to fire a couple of shots, to scare the beasts off.
Damn it, they didn't have monsters like that in Rockford, Illinois, none with such intelligent eyes, anyway, or such arrogance. The most difficult animal O'Brien had yet had to manage were the cows on his uncle's farm.
They rolled away from him at his approach, however, sliding into the water. It was amazing how ungainly sea lions were on a solid deck… and how graceful in the sea.
In any case, his watch had ended before the guests they were expecting had arrived. He now had twelve hours of downtime when he could relax, study, catch a shower, and hit the rack when Seaman Montgomery, the guy he was hot bunking with, got up for his stretch of duty at 0930 hours, so his rack was free. He was standing in the enlisted head shower stall, water streaming from his body, a bottle of shampoo in one hand, a handful of hair in the other.