The armory of weapons on Devilfish was awesome. In her torpedo tubes and torpedo reload racks were torpedoes much smaller and far more sophisticated than the steam-driven torpedoes of World War II. All the torpedoes were fitted with nuclear warheads, and some carried within their afterbodies miles of thin wire that connected the torpedo to the submarine after it had been fired. The wire contained communications circuits so the ship’s fire control computers could guide the torpedo as it raced away from the submarine, change its course, speed and depth, set its search patterns, and explode it precisely at the right time, even though the torpedo might be as much as ten miles distant. In addition to its torpedoes the Devilfish carried SUBROC missiles with nuclear warheads. The missiles, when fired underwater, surged to the surface where powerful rocket motors launched them into the air and toward a target too distant for the torpedoes to reach.
The message that had arrived the previous evening, addressed to Lieutenant Commander Robert R. Miller, “For the Captain’s Eyes Only,” had been succinct. It ordered Captain Miller to proceed with all possible speed to a patrol area 100 miles west of the Strait of Gibraltar, to report his position every 12 hours and to proceed without being detected. Captain Miller looked at the chart on his cabin table. At normal submerged cruising speed the 2,100 mile trip would take about four and a half days. At 75 percent of the nuclear reactor output, considerably less than four and a half days. He looked up as his Executive Officer stepped into his cabin.
“The messenger of the watch just told me the OOD reports we’re on course two two zero, cruising at five hundred feet and the reactor is putting out seventy-five percent of its max output, sir. I told him I’d give you the word.” Lieutenant John Carmichael slid into a chair and lit a cigarette.
“Thank you,” Miller said. “What’s the weather like topside?”
“Rotten,” Carmichael said. “Rain and some sleet that might turn into snow. Wind’s building up but it won’t affect the current down here. The North Atlantic current funnels up this big trench but it’s rated at only one, one and a half knots.” He looked at his Commanding Officer.
“Any idea of what this exercise is about, sir? That is, if you can say.”
“Beats me, John.” Miller took the message out of his shirt pocket and handed it to his XO. “I thought that it would be orders to send us after that Russian missile sub that crossed the SOSUS array between Britain and Greenland. He’s probably heading for home. I was looking forward to a game of hide and seek in the dark with him and then letting him know we’d tagged him. God knows, we need the practice. It’s been months since we’ve had a chance to play tag with one of their missile subs. I guess that Dick Reinauer on Orca will have the fun now that we’re heading south. Read the message and keep it to yourself.”
“Sort of strange,” Carmichael said as he read the message. “This takes us out of the Holy Loch command and puts us directly under ComSubLant. Why tell us to maintain a state of full preparedness? We’re always that way. Sounds like something big might be cooking, Skipper, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know what to think because I can’t think of anything big that might be in the wind,” Captain Miller said. “You’d better put orders in the log that we’ll slow down and do a full sonar sweep before we go up to make a position report. When we do go up I want a radar sweep before we begin transmitting.”
“I’ll do that now, sir,” Carmichael said. He rose and stubbed out his cigarette in an ashtray.
“Better pass the word to all hands that we’re on a special training exercise,” Captain Miller said. “This is the first time since I’ve had command that I’ve been right under ComSubLant’s thumb and I don’t want any foul-ups. That big Irishman in the Pentagon can cut you off at the knees just by looking at you.”
Carmichael paused at the entrance to the cabin. “I didn’t know you ever served with the famous Iron Mike Brannon, Skipper.”
“I didn’t. I was at PCO school learning how to be a skipper and he came over to lecture us on evasive tactics when under attack and how to maintain crew morale on long war patrols. He made quite an impression. He had one hell of a war record in submarines in World War II.”
“Those were the old days,” Carmichael said with a grin. “Diesel submarines and primitive sonar gear. Things are different now.”
“This is a submarine, John, and we’re submariners.” Captain Miller said. “Iron Mike is a submariner. He’s also a Vice Admiral and he’s ComSubLant. I want everyone on their toes.”
The messenger of the watch on the U.S.S. Medusa knocked twice on the steel door of the Captain’s cabin and waited. He heard the command to enter and he stepped into the cabin.
“Priority message, sir,” he said. Captain Fred Lutz turned in his chair and pushed the letter he had been writing to one side.
“Thank you,” he said. He opened the envelope as the messenger closed the door behind him. He pulled out two sheets of paper. On the top sheet in the Communications Officer’s neat handwriting were the radio call letters of the Medusa and the call letters of the originating station, time and date. Below it the Communications Officer had stopped decoding after the words “Captain’s Eyes Only. “ The second sheet was the coded message. Lutz stretched over his desk and opened his safe and took out a code book. When he had finished decoding the message he picked up the telephone and dialed the Quarterdeck.
“Captain here,” he said. “Please give me the status of the liberty party.” He waited, seeing in his mind’s eye the OOD counting the empty slots in the liberty card board.
“Twenty-six enlisted men still ashore, sir. No reports of any incidents from the Shore Patrol. All officers are aboard. Liberty is up at midnight, ah, two hours and five minutes from now. Last liberty boat should be alongside at zero zero twenty, Captain.”
“Thank you,” Lutz said. “Please have the messenger notify the XO that I’d like to see him in my cabin at once.”
Lieutenant Commander Bruce B. “Blighty” Lee walked into Captain Lutz’s cabin and sat down in a chair. “You pulled me out of a four spade bid, doubled and redoubled that I couldn’t have made if I’d had a gun. Old Fuzzface Martin is going to be chewing his beard. He had me set for sure. What’s up, sir?
“Before we get to that, Blighty, give me a rundown on how ready we are for sea.”
Lee rubbed his forehead in thought. “We topped off the fuel tanks two days ago. Stores came aboard yesterday. All shore-side repair work was finished day before yesterday. Still some minor stuff, painting, that sort of thing to do. Nothing important. We can go any time you say, once the liberty party comes aboard, sir.” His eyes questioned Lutz, who handed over the decoded message. Lee read it and looked up, his face grave.
“They don’t give us any reason for their thinking a submarine might be on the bottom.”