The docking maneuver was almost blatantly phallic, with the torpedo-shaped Manta sliding in between Dolores's open "legs."
It wasn't quite the same as a trap on a carrier deck, but it would do. A landing on board an aircraft carrier required touching down and trying to snag, or "trap," one of the arrestor cables stretched across the deck, while simultaneously giving the aircraft full throttle just in case the arrestor hook missed and the aviator needed to fly off the deck again to make a second pass.
A signal light flashed on, indicating he'd crossed the threshold and was over the platform. He cut power then and drifted forward another few feet, before striking the thickly padded fender and coming to rest.
Sailors waiting to either side jumped down onto the platform, making the Manta fast with lines secured to her recessed hull cleats. In another few moments, as Hawking continued powering down the submersible's systems, the lift began hauling the Manta completely out of the water.
A chief boatswain's mate cracked the canopy, sliding it back, as Hawking unstrapped his harness and climbed— a bit unsteadily — out of the cockpit. After over two hours in the ocean's depths, the tropical mid-afternoon sun was dazzling.
Someone handed him a pair of aviator's sunglasses.
"Thanks," he said, donning them. "Why the early recall?"
"We're headed back to Pearl, Commander," the chief said with a lopsided grin. "Looks like you're deploying early."
"Early? Where?"
"Yup. Word just got passed down. The Ohio is putting to sea Saturday morning. The brass wants a final top-to-bottom check of the Manta before she gets here on the seventh."
"Jesus! So the boomer gets here in one week instead of three! Is that any reason to haul me off the bottom? I wasn't done yet!"
"You know the Navy, sir," the chief said. "Hurry up and wait!"
Typical. Probably some junior officer back at headquarters had seen the orders and assumed the recall meant now.
It wasn't really a problem. He'd have time for sightseeing on the I-401 hulk another day. In the meantime Dolores Chouest had throttled up to twelve knots and was making her way back toward Oahu with a rolling gait. They should put in back at Pearl sometime late tonight… and that might mean a chance to call Kathy. He hadn't been expecting to see her before the weekend. Sweet.
He patted the Manta's dripping hull with a grin, before starting forward toward his quarters. If he was lucky, he might be able to enjoy the docking maneuver for real tonight.
7
"So fuck her, man," Sonar Technician Chief Sommersby said with a broad shrug. "No one needs that kind of hassle."
"Actually, Chief," ST1 Dobbs said, leering, "Cassie's problem is he can't fuck her! He ain't getting none now, right, Cas?"
"And there's all that money to consider, too," the COB said from the open door leading to the bridge. "Didn't you say her folks were loaded?"
"I don't care about the damned money, COB!" Caswell said. "It's Nina I want. And now I've lost her!"
He was seated at his station in front of one of Ohio's four sonar displays, Dobbs to his left, Sommersby to his right. In front of him was his waterfall, a display, so called, because vertical green lines of light cascaded slowly down the screen, each one a readout for a particular direction. The screen was divided into horizontal thirds, with the older information at the bottom. At the moment, his display was configured to show broadband contacts from Ohio's spherical bow sonar array.
Intermittent white lines were sonar contacts. There were now five of them at various bearings… already designated as Sierras One through Five, then redesignated as Mikes, because they'd been identified by radar — Romeo — and by visual observation from the fair-water — Victor. Vertical white lines indicated that the target was stationary with respect to the Ohio; moving targets drifted at a slant across the display. Four of the five Mikes were slanting in various directions at various angles as Ohio, cruising now at eight knots, passed them, or they passed her. Mike One was a Coast Guard cutter on harbor security patrol, escorting the Ohio through the straits, and so she was represented by a perfectly vertical line, dead abeam to starboard.
"You shouldn't let it get ya, kid," Dobbs said. "No dame is worth it, see?"
"What'd she say, anyway?" Master Chief O'Day asked, taking a sip from the big coffee mug that was a near-permanent fixture in his right hand. "Did she dump you?"
"Not exactly. But her parents sure were unhappy about the wedding and everything. They were telling her to reconsider marrying me… and she told me we would have to—"
Another white contact line appeared, this one forward and to port.
"Shit. Chief? New contact, bearing two-zero-three. Designate as Sierra Six."
"I've got it too, Chief," Dobbs said. "Sounds like a pleasure boat… maybe a cabin cruiser. Single screw, high-speed."
"Right," Chief Sommersby said. He picked up a handset. "Bridge, Sonar. New target, designated Sierra Six, bearing two-zero-three. Probable civilian pleasure craft." He listened for a moment to the reply, then said, "Aye aye, sir."
He hung up the handset. "Skipper says he's got it— looks like a weekend party boat. Redesignate the target as Mike Six."
Caswell typed the new characters into the display from his keyboard. "Mike Six it is."
"So finish the story," Dobbs said. "What did your girl say she was going to have to do?"
"Not see me for a while. At least until things blew over."
"Well, that's reasonable enough," O'Day said.
"Sure," Sommersby added. "Ain't like you're going to be around to see her for the next couple of months or so, right?"
"Right." But he felt miserable as he agreed. To his mind, it had seemed as though Nina was seriously considering her parents' demand — that she drop him and never see him again. As with her family's money, he didn't care so much about them or what they thought, but he very much cared about Nina.
God, he hated the Navy right now. That crack about the Navy issuing a wife with your sea bag. It was an ancient line, but it emerged from a nasty truth. Life in the service took you away from your loved ones, often for months at a time.
It wasn't fair.
But he'd also chosen this life. He'd volunteered, first for the Navy, and then for the submarine service. And now he was stuck with the consequences of those choices.
Captain Stewart leaned against the fair-water, taking another long look through his binoculars at the new contact ahead and to starboard. It looked like a typical pleasure boat… nothing out of the ordinary. She'd popped out from behind Ediz Hook a moment ago, just west of Port Angeles, swung hard to starboard, and was now roughly paralleling Ohio's course.
Ohio was cruising slowly on the surface, on a heading of WNW, making for the middle of the channel. The sky was typical for Washington… overcast, but there was a hint of blue sky beyond the clouds and open sea to the west. South lay the state of Washington, beneath the dramatic loom of Mount Olympus; north, across the line into Canada, was the port of Victoria and the eastern tip of Vancouver Island. The straits were twelve miles across at this point — a ninety-minute ferry ride — and Ohio was currently three to four miles from the U.S. coastline.