Quick to mark the coordinates of this find on the chart, the sub’s navigator calmly observed, “Taking into consideration the location of the two bombs that have already been found, this sector was one of the more interesting ones. Yet the object they’ve spotted could be any number of things.”
“It looks like we’re just going to have to go down there and eyeball it for ourselves,” said Mac.
“Thank goodness K-l arrived from Woods Hole last night.”
“And don’t forget, we’ve always got the DSRV Mystic,” added the navigator, who looked up from the chart as his CO entered the control room from the aft hatchway.
“I just got word that we’ve tagged something topside,” greeted Captain Foard.
“What do you make of it, gentlemen?”
“It’s certainly worth checking out more closely, sir,” answered the navigator.
“Though I wouldn’t get my hopes up just yet.”
“Who knows, maybe we got lucky,” offered Mac.
“Keep the good thought. Commander. Because I was also informed that the Mystic is going down to take a look at it, and that Command would like you to ride shotgun as its official observer.”
“I should have guessed as much,” replied Mac, who was getting to be a regular on such an unorthodox means of transportation.
Stepping back from the chart table. Captain Foard turned to address the control room team gathered around their stations around him.
“Helmsman, take us up to sixty-five feet. Chief Bates, prepare to surface.”
With this, the captain made his way over to the periscope well. Mac felt the angle of the deck beneath him gradually tilt upwards as the Bowfin emerged from the cold, black depths.
“Sixty-five feet, sir,” observed the alert diving officer.
“Up scope!” ordered the captain crisply.
There was the characteristic hiss of hydraulic oil as the periscope raised up from below. The captain hunched over the scope, pulled down its two tubular steel handles, and peered through the rubberized viewing coupling. Only when he had made a complete circle did he step back and call out.
“Down scope. Bring us up, Chief.”
The control room filled with the roar of venting ballast as the now lightened submarine floated to the surface.
“The Pigeon’s going to be sending a launch for you, Commander,” instructed the CO from the periscope well.
“You might want to throw some personal things together in case you’re unable to get transit back to the Bowfin later. You never know with the weather around here. You’ll be getting up on deck by way of the forward access way Can you find it all right?”
“I believe so, Captain,” answered Mac.
“I’ll be right there.”
Mac quickly proceeded aft, to his stateroom. Here he packed a small seabag with a change of underwear and socks, and made certain to include his toiletry kit.
He was met at the forward access way by a seaman.
“Sir, I’ll be escorting you out onto the outer deck. It’s a bit rough up there, and the Captain wanted to be sure that we are wearing our life vests.”
Almost as if to emphasize this statement, a swell crashed into the Bowjin’s keelless hull and the vessel heeled hard to starboard. Forced to reach out to the bulkhead to keep from falling over, Mac readily accepted the orange life vest that the seaman handed him.
As the hatch of the access way was opened, a gust of cool, fresh, salt-scented air entered the corridor where they stood. Mac found this draft refreshing, and anxiously followed the seaman outside.
An officer and two other seamen waited for them besides the sub’s sail. Making certain to grasp tightly onto the steel-cable handrail, Mac joined them.
It was the officer who pointed out the approaching whaleboat. This craft was still several hundred yards off their port bow, its progress seemingly slowed by the pounding swells that dotted the surrounding sea with whitecaps.
“This transfer could be a bit tricky, Commander,” said the red-cheeked ensign.
“The trick is to time it so that it occurs between swells. Don’t be in any hurry, and feel it out before you go for it.”
Mac flashed him a thumbsup and did his best not to worry as the ensign beckoned Mac to join him on the side of the hull. It was a bit more difficult to stand here, though the taut steel cable rigged for the occasion certainly helped. Mac could clearly see the three-man crew of the launch now as they cautiously inched their way toward the Bow/in. Waiting while a set of swells rolled in from the northwest, the helmsman of the whaleboat made his final approach just as the last of these passed.
“This is it. Commander,” offered the ensign as he supported Mac while he edged his way to the very edge of the rounded deck and leaped out onto the gunwale of the launch. A pair of sturdy hands caught him here and guided him down onto the wooden plank deck.
“Welcome aboard, Commander Mackenzie,” said the helmsman, whom Mac was somewhat shocked to find was a woman.
“We’ll have you back on the Pigeon in no time. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.”
She opened up the throttle and pulled away from the USS Bow/in with a throaty roar. Mac watched as the sub gradually began to fade in the distance, its sleek black hull looking lethal in the glistening sun.
The lines of the ship they were soon approaching were in vast contrast to the Bow/in. The 251-foot submarine rescue tender sported a pair of side-by-side twin stacks and had an assortment of catwalks and rigging on its equipment-cluttered deck. Mac knew that the Pigeon was the first catamaran-hulled ship built for the United States Navy since Robert Fulton’s Demologos in 1812. Because its primary mission was to support the two DSRVs it was capable of carrying on its deck, such a unique hull design was ideal.
As it turned out, the transfer onto the tender was achieved with the least bit of difficulty. Built for stability, the Pigeon was hardly affected at all by the rough seas, thus facilitating Mac’s efforts as he climbed up onto the deck. Waiting for him was a short, moustached officer.
“Commander Mackenzie, I’m Ensign Blanco. Welcome aboard the Pigeon. We’re currently getting into position to release the Mystic, and you’ll find Lieutenant Crowley on the fantail. Shall I escort you to him, sir?”
“I don’t think that will be necessary. Ensign. I’ve been aboard her sister ship, the Ortolan, and should be able to find the lieutenant on my own.”
“Very good, Commander. Just ask any of the crew if you get lost.”
Leaving the junior officer with a salute, Mac began his way aft. An exterior catwalk took him down the ship’s length and past the dual hangars where the DSRVs were stored. Shaped like a fat black cigar, the Mystic was visible inside one of these hangars. Several deckhands were busy getting the deep submergence rescue vehicle ready for sea, and Mac left them to their work and continued on to the stern.
Mac found Lieutenant Matt Crowley seated at the edge of the fantail, with a fishing rod in hand. The bearded DSRV pilot wore a straw hat, a bright Hawaiian shirt, and matching shorts, and was shoeless. He seemed completely captivated by the music on his cassette player headphones. He was thus unaware of Mac’s presence as the marine salvage expert sauntered up beside him.
“So this is how you’re planning on finding those missing A-bombs.”
Matt Crowley looked up and returned the wide grin that his newly arrived visitor was in the process of flashing him.
“Well hello, Mac. Long time no see. Would you like some pretzels or a Coke? I’d offer you a cool frosty one, but duty calls.”
“I’m fine, Lieutenant. But I see that you’re still playing it loose and casual. Any bites yet?”
“Shit, Mac … I don’t even have any bait on my hook. I’m just using this fishing pole as an excuse to unwind. Besides, they called me in just as I was about to start a week’s leave, and if I know the Navy, I’d better be taking full advantage of every free second that I can get.”