Patton looked over at Demeers, then back down the hatch, then at the man in coveralls.
“Go on, sir,” the man said. “And welcome aboard the Devilfish, Captain.”
“Why did you call me that?” Patton asked.
“Well, sir, because I always call the commanding officer ‘captain.’ Is there a problem, sir?” The man seemed genuine, not understanding Patton’s confusion.
“Of course not,” Patton said, glancing at Demeers. “I always walk onto garbage barges and take command of the submarine underneath. Down ladder!” he said, lowering himself down, Demeers following him.
Once they were down, the sentry started laughing until his belly hurt. They’d had a lottery to see who’d get to admit the captain. It had been worth every second.
At the bottom of the ladder, Patton found a crowd, officers and chiefs lining an immaculate wood-paneled passageway, all at attention, a chief blowing a bosun’s whistle, something out of a square-rigger navy movie.
Patton looked at the men in their khaki uniforms, his head spinning. Then he heard a familiar voice, the voice of the man who had made his career: “Welcome aboard the USS Devilfish, Captain Patton. Are you ready to take command of the first ship of the SSNX-class?”
Slowly Patton pivoted to look at the tanned, white-haired admiral. A smile came to his lips as his heels snapped together, his body becoming upright, the salute stiff at his forehead. Pacino waved a return salute, then reached out to shake his hand. The admiral’s grip was fierce and tight, and Patton returned it.
“Admiral. Sir. It’s good to see you.”
“Blood and Guts John Patton,” Pacino said, his smile growing even wider. “It’s damned good to see you again. We here, all of us, cheered when the news came in that you’d survived. Are you hurt, are you okay?”
“I’m fine, sir, physically anyway. But I lost—”
“Don’t worry about that, John,” Pacino said quickly. “Not now. We’re here for the change-of-command ceremony. Gentlemen, attention to orders.” Pacino pulled out a single sheet from his coverall pocket and handed it to Patton. “Captain, you may read your orders.”
Patton squinted at the page and began to read. “From, Chief of Naval Personnel, to, Captain Jonathan George S. Patton IV, U.S. Navy, subject, permanent change of duty, reference, U.S. Navy regulations, et cetera. Paragraph 1, Captain Patton hereby ordered to report to and take command of USS Devilfish, SSNX-1, en route a classified-operation area in the Pacific Theater. Paragraph 2, Captain Patton shall report to the Supreme Commander-in-Chief, U.S. Pacific Military Forces, Admiral M. Pacino, for duty until specifically detached by said commander. Paragraph 3, these orders effective immediately as of today, 4 November.”
Patton looked up at the row of officers, and the group broke into applause. He swallowed hard, the lump in his throat as big as a fist.
The captain’s stateroom was cavernous compared to the old 688-class cubbyhole. It had a bunk that could sleep two, with a full instrument readout and phone station accessible from the bunk. It could be folded up by day, and the space transformed into a high-tech office.
Nearby was a desk with a high-backed leather swivel chair. At a large conference table, the captain’s place faced a soffit above the stateroom door entrance where a row of widescreen televisions was placed. Above the central widescreen was a camera for videoconferencing.
Pacino noted, “We had the lockers stocked with uniforms in your size. We’ll go to control in a few minutes. Before we do, why don’t you have a seat, John?”
Patton sank into the swivel chair at the head of the table. A sense of unreality flooded him as the deck rolled beneath his feet. Ocean waves were rocking the boat, a submarine that he’d just been given command of. A ship that he didn’t know the first thing about, and here was the admiral-in-command of the entire Pacific military forces sitting him down at his conference table to ask him the question of the hour, which was, what the hell happened out there?
“So, John, are you sure you’re okay? No burns, bruises, cuts, concussions?”
“They checked me out at Yokosuka, sir. I had some burns to my shins and knees and hands, but it’s about as serious as sun poisoning. Byron and I — Senior Chief Byron Demeers, my sonar chief — were dehydrated and suffering from exposure, but nothing a bottle of spring water and a cheeseburger wouldn’t solve.”
Pacino grinned at Paully White, shaking his head. “So, what happened? Did you ever detect the Rising Sun? Or the torpedo?”
“Neither one. Admiral. I’d slowed down to about five knots, I was in the zone where the surface group went down, and we were doing a max-scan sonar search. Senior Chief Demeers can tell you more about the search plan, but we were at battle stations and maximum sensitivity on the wide-aperature array, hitting broadband spherical hard, and streaming both towed arrays with the onion out, and we heard exactly nothing. Zero point zero. The next thing we knew, an explosion blew us to hell. I was tossed off my feet, and I ordered an EMBT blow. Someone lived long enough to hit the chicken switches, and up we went. Next thing I knew, there were flames and smoke everywhere. By the time I could get to the officers to see if they were alive, the flames had engulfed the room. I ran forward to see if Byron was alive, and when I found him, I pulled him up to the bridge tunnel. By then the entire upper level was on fire, and we went up the tunnel, and the ship began sinking. Byron saved my life — he pulled me out of the ship and put me on the raft — and the rest is history. The first I knew that I’d been attacked by a sub and not by some reactor casualty was when we were floating on the raft and a periscope popped up, and it was no American or European Union technology. It just looked at us for a few seconds.”
“What did you do?” Paully White asked.
“What could I do? I flipped it off.”
Patton looked in astonishment as the officers laughed, exchanging looks and shaking their heads.
“What’s so funny?” Patton asked. “A hundred and thirty men died on my ship, it was my responsibility, and now it’s gone and so are the men.”
Pacino instantly sobered up. “Sorry, John, you’re right. We didn’t mean any disrespect. It’s just that you did what all of us here wished we could have done— give the bird to the Red force commander. Anyway, let’s continue the tour. Maybe by the time we’re aft. Captain Stephens will have the reactor in the power range.”
Patton followed the admiral out of the stateroom thinking that somehow he had just passed one more test, this one as important as the first had been, back in Norfolk so many years ago.
Patton stood in the control room, trying not to rubberneck.
It was absolutely huge. Huge and beautiful and open, designed by a master craftsman and submariner. In the center of the room was a raised periscope stand not entirely different from the one on the Annapolis, except that it was twice the size. In fact, the room could house four 688-sized control rooms, it was that big. At the aft end of the periscope stand was the captain’s command station, a console covered with displays, phones, cameras, and keypads. Aft of the console were the two side-by-side navigation plotter tables, but there all resemblance to his 688-class ended. On the port forward control-room corner was a ship-control station, but instead of a cockpit panel with four men, there was a deep leather seat where one man alone drove the ship, the console surrounding him with displays, a joystick between his knees, a throttle lever at his left.