Dive to Oblivion

15

Shortly after leaving Port Canaveral, the Rickover turned on a southeasterly course. They would continue in this direction for the next eighteen hours, passing by the western shores of Grand Bahama Island and entering Providence Channel sometime around dawn.

This would put them at their desired destination shortly thereafter.

Thomas Moore spent his afternoon in seclusion. Tucked away in his bunk, he carefully read all the material that he had collected since his initial discovery of the Lewis and Clark. This event seemed to have taken place long ago, and he found it hard to believe that he had been involved in the case for less than a week.

At 1650 hours, one of the mess stewards quietly entered the compartment and peeked around Moore’s curtain.

“Excuse me, sir,” he politely whispered.

“But will you be joining the captain for dinner?”

“I sure will,” answered Moore, who had skipped lunch and was ravenously hungry.

After stowing away his notes beneath his mattress, and sealing the locker shut with a padlock, he proceeded to the head to wash up. Hop was in the process of drying his hands when Moore entered.

“Evening,” said Hop, while Moore shuffled past him to get to the sink.

“I hope you’ll be having dinner with us.”

“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” said Moore.

“I’m starved.”

“You picked the right meal to have an appetite, Commander. While in Port Canaveral, one of my men was able to get us a couple of fresh turkeys. They’ve been cooking all day, and the last time I checked, they looked perfect for eating.”

Moore washed his face and hands, and gratefully took the towel that Hop handed him.

“Thanks, Hop. You know, there’s a question that I’ve been meaning to ask you. How do you manage to keep so trim with all the good chow that they serve around here?”

Hop patted his belly and grinned.

“I guess it’s genetic, because no matter how much I eat, I always seem to remain the same weight.”

“It must be nice. Hop, because I just look at food and put on the pounds.”

“I hear you, my friend, and if it’s any consolation, the Rickover’s got a Lifecycle and rowing machine available back in engineering. So this evening you can chow down all you want, and ease your guilt with a little exercise later on.”

“I just might do that. Hop,” said Moore, who followed his shipmate out of the head and into the nearby wardroom.

Captain Walden was already seated at the head of the table, with his XO on his right. Moore’s position was to the captain’s left, with a square-jawed newcomer seated beside him. Lieutenant Ned Barnes, the Avalon’s pilot, was all business as he passed the dressing to Moore and went back to work on his salad.

Tonight’s background music was Aaron Copland’s, Appalachian Spring. Its spirited melodies evoked an American mood, and provided the perfect accompaniment for the traditional meal that soon filled their plates.

As Moore was learning, submariners did things right, and the evening’s menu was no exception. After a salad of fresh lettuce, with sliced tomatoes, cucumbers and green peppers, the steward arrived with the main course. Beginning with the captain, he circled the table with a silver-plated platter of sliced turkey.

Then came the trimmings, including corn-bread dressing, yams, mashed potatoes, string beans, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie for dessert.

During dinner, conversation was at a minimum, with comments confined to the excellent food. During coffee afterwards, they were able to learn a bit more about the newcomer in their midst. It was Hop who got the ball rolling.

“Lieutenant Barnes,” he said in a serious tone.

“I don’t want you to think that we eat this way every evening. In your honor, our cook was able to appropriate a couple of turkeys while we were picking you up.”

“I’m always scared when you use that word appropriate, Hop,” interrupted the captain.

“I sure hope those birds were purchased legitimately.”

“It’s nothing the Admiral won’t miss,” deadpanned Hop.

“At least, not until Thanksgiving.”

A chorus of laughter was followed by the deep voice of Ned Barnes.

“That was one fine meal, gentlemen.

Where I’ve been for the last month, the only safe chow we had to look forward to were MRE’s.” “Where was that?” asked the captain.

Relishing the spotlight, Barnes scanned the faces of his audience before answering.

“Between you and me, Avalon was doing a little salvage job off the coast of Nicaragua. A type TR-1700 diesel-powered attack sub hit a reef there, and sank in a hundred feet of water. We were flown down to determine the nationality of this vessel, and to check on survivors.” “What did you find?” asked the XO, who spoke for all present.

Barnes took his time answering.

“A chlorine leak in the battery well sealed the fate of the boat’s twenty nine crew members, who wore no uniforms and didn’t appear to be from an organized military unit. Other than the original warranty papers from the German factory that constructed the sub, we couldn’t find any evidence of its owners, though we did make an unusual find in five of the vessel’s six torpedo tubes. Instead of weapons, they were stuffed with several thousand pounds of pure opium. Shit, there was enough poppy in there to addict half the population of New York City!”

“So now the drug cartels are using submarines,” reflected the captain.

“I wouldn’t be surprised if the Rickover was to make a little visit to those waters sometime in the near future.”

Moore had heard rumors that drug-smuggling submarines had paid America’s shores a visit, and this story seemed to prove that they were true. While the Rickover’s officers discussed the best tactical way to counter such a threat, Moore carefully rolled up his napkin and excused himself.

In an effort to digest his meal, he began an extensive walking tour of the boat. He started off in engineering, passing by the vacant exercise machines. The reactor and power plant occupied a full two-thirds of the Rickover, and he was able to stretch his legs in relatively uncrowded passageways.

After paying his compliments to the cooks in the galley, he climbed to the deck below and walked around the torpedo room several times. The dimly lit compartment was quiet, as usual, and the watch team was content to let him take his stroll, without bothering him with any questions.

He concluded his evening in the control room. The excellent chow seemed to have put everyone in a good mood, and Moore spent an informative hour at the navigation plot, learning the intricacies of keeping a modern attack submarine on course.

Petty Officer Lacey wasn’t on duty in sonar, but Moore did find the COB fulfilling his watch as the diving officer. Chief Ellwood had half of an unlit cigar in his mouth, and wouldn’t let Moore leave until he tried his hand at driving the Rickover.

Lieutenant Carr was the current OOD, and the easygoing Californian readily approved this unscheduled switch of helmsman. Moore was a bit uneasy as he settled into the upholstered chair and grabbed the control yoke. It was stiffer than he had imagined, and with the COB close beside him, he initiated several minor depth changes, careful to keep the boat on course.

“How’s she handle?” asked the COB, after relighting his cigar and putting his feet up on the center console.

Needing both hands and the combined strength of his arms to pull the sub out of a slight three-degree descent, Moore replied.

“It’s not quite up to “Vette standards.”

“Hell, she can turn just like a Jet lighter if needed,” informed the COB.

“And that ain’t bad, considerin’ that we’re pushin’ almost seven thousand tons of boat through the water.”

Moore was grateful when the helmsman relieved him several minutes later. And after thanking the COB for his driving lesson, he left the control room, with a new respect for its men and machinery.

He caught the last half of a Clint Eastwood spaghetti Western in the wardroom, and by the time the film’s final frame faded, he was ready for bed. Sleep was quick in coming, with his food-induced dreams taking him on a hike into the Highlands of Scotland with Laurie, and a frightening visit to a pitch black tunnel whose walls seemed to be closing in on him.

He awoke seven hours later, with the urge to relieve himself his number one priority. To get to the head, he had to pass the wardroom, where he encountered the XO, hurriedly filling a mug with coffee.

“You got up just in time,” called the XO, who was clean-shaved and ready for work.

“We’ve got a sighting on the periscope that I think you’ll be interested in.”

“Just give me time for a pit stop, and I’ll be right with you,” replied Moore as he continued to the head.

The XO was faithfully waiting to escort him up to the control room. He found the compartment lit in red, and the captain anxiously huddled over the boat’s attack scope.

“Commander Moore’s here. Captain,” announced the XO.

Walden stepped back from the scope, and scanned the room until his gaze locked on Thomas Moore.

“Mr. Moore, please have a look,” offered Walden.

The investigator climbed onto the slightly elevated bridge and joined the captain beside the periscope. A neophyte at this business, he tentatively grabbed onto the scope’s twin handles and peered into the rubber lens coupling.

The dawn was breaking topside, and thankful that his night vision was intact, he spotted a surface ship floating in the distance.

“Use that left handle to increase the magnification if you’d like,” informed the captain.

Moore rotated the handle downwards, and the surface vessel seemed to jump into closer view. The ship had a pointed bow, with a sleek, modern superstructure and a single stack. He had seen a picture of this same boat only recently, while sorting through his notes, and knew that he was looking at a live shot of the Academician Petrowsky.

The captain’s voice lowered to a whisper.

“Did you get a look at those flags flying from her stern?”

With the amplified assistance of the scope, Moore spotted the crimson red hammer and sickle banner of the Soviet Navy blowing in the breeze beside the ship’s fantail. Next to it fluttered the blue and white insignia of the United Nations.

“Those flags sure make strange bedfellows,” said Moore as he backed away from the scope.

Walden lowered the periscope, then turned to address Moore.

“Now that we’ve made it to our destination, I believe that you’re supposed to be calling the shots, Commander. How do you want to proceed?”

Moore had been dreading this moment, and he had to clear his throat before being able to express himself.

“Captain, I’m going to need to board that vessel. Can we contact her?”

“She’s as close as a call on our underwater telephone,” answered Walden.

“Things would sure go a lot smoother if I knew her name.”

“It’s the Academician Petrovsky,” Moore said without missing a beat.

Impressed with the investigator’s knowledge, Walden reached up to the ceiling and pulled down a coiled cord, which was attached to a large hand-held microphone.

Walden placed this device to his lips and spoke out clearly.

“Academician Petrovsky, this is the American warship, USS Hyman G. Rickover. Do you read me, over?”

Walden had to repeat this message three more times, before a somewhat scratchy response resounded through the intercom speakers.

“This is the Academician Petrovsky. What nature of vessel are you?”

Walden didn’t look all that happy as he responded.

We’re a nuclear-powered attack submarine, positioned beneath the water three thousand yards off your port bow.”

“One moment, please,” said the amplified voice with a hint of excitement.

“I must get my superior officer.”

“Two minutes passed before another voice projected from the intercom speakers.

“This is Senior Lieutenant Viktor Ilyich Alexandrov at your service, Comrade.

To whom do I have the honor of speaking?”

“This is Captain John Walden of the USS Hyman G. Rickover.”

“And how can I help you, Captain Walden?” asked the Russian.

Walden looked at Moore for help, and the investigator alertly pulled out his notebook and scribbled out an appropriate response for the captain.

“Senior Lieutenant Alexandrov, one of my crew members, Commander Thomas Moore, would like permission to board your ship to speak to the U.N. observer team.”

“Such a surprise request is highly irregular. Captain,” retorted Alexandrov.

“And before I can approve it, I must clear it with my superior. Admiral Igor Valerian.”

“Very well. Senior Lieutenant. We’ll await your reply.”

Walden stowed away the microphone and looked the investigator straight in the eyes.

“Commander, I believe I’m long overdue for that briefing that you’ve been promising me.”

“That you are. Captain,” returned Moore.

“And you’ll have it, right after you get me on that ship.”

It took ten minutes before the intercom speakers once again crackled alive.

“Captain Walden, this is Senior Lieutenant Alexandrov. In the spirit of peaceful coexistence that underscores our current mission, Commander Moore’s request has been approved.

Please surface at once, and we’ll send out a boat to initiate the transfer.”

Moore’s relief was instantaneous, and he hurried down to his bunk to prepare himself. A quarter of an hour later, he was climbing up the Rickover’s forward access trunk.

The sun was breaking the eastern horizon as Moore approached the sailors gathered on the sub’s deck.

One of these was the captain, who took Moore aside and pointed towards the small, wooden gig headed towards them from the direction of the Academician Petrovsky.

“About how long will you be needing over there?” questioned Walden.

“I shouldn’t be gone more than an hour. Captain.”

“Very well, Mr. Moore. We’ll wait for you topside.

Don’t hesitate to call us if you should run into any lengthy delays.”

“Will do. Captain.”

Still not certain what he’d be encountering aboard the Russian ship, Moore tried his best to look as confident as possible. Because the sea was almost dead flat, the transfer over to the gig took place without incident, and the investigator soon found himself surrounded by four brawny Russian sailors, wearing blue-and white striped tunics. It was evident that none of them spoke English, and because Moore’s Russian was equally limited, the short voyage took place in utter silence.

He boarded the Academician Petrovsky by way of a ladder. Waiting for him on the deck was an immaculately uniformed Russian naval officer, and a heavyset, ruddy-cheeked, middle-aged fellow, dressed in a baggy seersucker suit. It was this portly fellow who stepped forward and initiated the introductions.

“Good day. Commander Moore. I’m Dr. Harlan Sorkin. On behalf of the United Nations, I’d like to welcome you aboard Academician Petrovsky. May I introduce Senior Lieutenant Alexandrov, our host vessel’s executive officer.”

Moore politely nodded towards the Russian, noting that Dr. Sorkin’s accent indicated that he was most likely either from Australia or New Zealand.

“Dr. Sorkin,” said Moore in an easygoing, informal tone of voice.

“I’m sorry to drop in on you like this, but I’ve been sent to check on your team’s comfort and on the adequacy of this vessel to provide support for the habitat.”

“You have nothing to worry about on either account, Commander,” returned the doctor.

“The Academician Petrovsky has provided us with all the comforts of home, and it’s been the ideal support ship for our program.”

“I don’t believe that I’ve ever seen a vessel quite like this one,” remarked Moore.

“That’s because it’s unique on all the seven seas,” said Alexandrov proudly.

“It was originally designed for oceanographic research, and is one of the newest research ships in the Russian fleet.”

Moore approvingly scanned the spotlessly clean deck.

“It’s most impressive. Would you mind a quick tour before I return to the Rickover?”

“I’d be glad to show you around myself,” offered Dr. Sorkin.

“That is, if Senior Lieutenant Alexandrov doesn’t mind.”

Though the Russian didn’t look exactly thrilled by this prospect, he nevertheless beckoned towards a hatchway leading below.

“Go ahead and enjoy yourself, Commander Moore. And when you’re done with your tour, perhaps you’ll join us in the wardroom for some breakfast.”

“Thanks for the offer,” replied Moore.

“But all I have time for is that tour before I have to start back.”

The Russian looked disappointed with this news.

“That’s too bad, Comrade. I’m certain that the other officers would enjoy meeting you.”

“Perhaps another time,” said Moore, who allowed Dr. Sorkin to take him by the arm and lead him to the ship’s interior.

They went below and began their way aft down a long central passageway.

“I’m flattered that your government thought enough about our project to send you out here to check on us,” remarked Sorkin as they passed by several spacious staterooms. “By the way, these are our cabins. Pretty luxurious, aren’t they?”

“I’ll say,” replied Moore.

“This sure beats the nine man berthing compartment I’m currently sharing.”

Sorkin went on to show him the vessel’s well equipped laboratory, which easily rivaled that of a small university. Moore met two other members of the U.N. team, an Indian scientist studying plankton dispersal, and an Italian, whose specialty was hydrography.

A trained oceanographer himself, Sorkin was studying the local reef corals, and determining how pollution was affecting their growth.

He seemed to take special pride in that portion of the ship positioned aft of the laboratory. A large rectangular opening to the sea had been cut into the hull.

Called the moon pool it was surrounded by a latticed steel catwalk, and currently held a pair of bright yellow, saucer-shaped mini subs floating on its surface.

Moore was interested to learn that one of the habitat program’s goals was self-sufficiency, and therefore these diving saucers were available only for emergencies.

Dr. Sorkin and his team had their services for research, and utilized this unique mode of exploring the sea floor whenever the crew’s schedule permitted.

Fascinated by the moon pool Moore walked down the catwalk until he reached a closed hatch cut into the after bulkhead. When he went to open this hatch, he found it locked, and his guide was quick to explain the reason. On the other side of this bulkhead was the reactor room, and for the safety of the team, this portion of the Academician Petrovsky was off limits.

Moore spotted a pair of thick rubber cables penetrating this same bulkhead and extending into the sea via the moon pool He kept this discovery to himself, and told his escort that he had seen enough.

During the trip topside, he couldn’t help pondering two disturbing thoughts. Because the Academician Petrovsky was powered by a diesel-electric propulsion plant, why was it outfitted with a nuclear reactor? And there were those twin cables to consider. Since the Mir habitat was supposed to be self-sufficient, they couldn’t be used as a power conduit, unless it was for a vastly different underwater project that even the U.N. observer team wasn’t aware of.

Though Moore would have liked to share his suspicions with his guide, he wisely held his tongue. Declining Sorkin’s offer of tea, he gratefully climbed to the outer deck, where he found two officers waiting for him beside the ladder leading to the gig. One was the ship’s senior lieutenant. The other was a tall, erect, distinguished-looking veteran, with a patch covering his left eye.

“Commander Moore, I’m Admiral Igor Valerian,” greeted the velvet-voiced flag officer.

“I understand that Dr. Sorkin has been giving you a tour of my ship. I do hope you found everything satisfactory.”

“That I did, Admiral. This vessel is most impressive, and it appears that you have been taking excellent care of Dr. Sorkin and his staff. I’ll make certain to pass on this fact to my superiors, and also relay the warmth of your hospitality, considering that this spur-of-the-moment visit took you by surprise.”

“It’s always nice to have visitors while at sea,” returned Valerian.

“Though it’s not often that they arrive on such a specialized mode of transport.”

Looking out to sea at this point. Valerian focused his gaze on the Rickover and added.

“I see that you’re carrying a DSRV, Commander. I hope that one of your submarines isn’t missing in the area.”

Quick to pick up the intentional irony in these words, Moore did his best to smile.

“The Rickover’s only carrying it for an exercise. Admiral. I wish that I could invite you aboard to have a closer look, but we’ll be sailing as soon as I return.”

“That’s too bad,” returned Valerian.

“I always did want to visit the vessel named after the father of your nuclear navy. Hyman G. Rickover was a great visionary, and from what I understand, a man who could get things done. Our own Admiral of the Fleet Sergei Georgiyevich Gorshokov, had similar talents. It’s tragic that neither of them lived to see this day of mutual military trust between our two great nations.”

“That it is. Admiral,” replied Moore, who went on to thank Dr. Sorkin for his time, and then began the short climb into the awaiting gig.

During the trip back to the Rickover, he pondered his impressions of the one-eyed Russian flag officer.

Admiral Igor Valerian had a supercilious, haughty manner. He seemed to be deliberately teasing when he made reference to the DSRV, and Moore got the distinct impression that he was referring to the Lewis and Clark, with his remark about a missing submarine in the area.

It was as he made the transfer over to the Rickover, that he decided how best to continue the investigation.

First he would give Captain Walden an intense briefing.

It could be dangerous to keep the Rickover’s CO in the dark any longer. Then his next move would be to take advantage of the Avalon’s presence.

With the DSRV’s invaluable assistance, he’d be able to find out just what it was that the Academician Petrovsky’s reactor was supplying power to.

“Down scope!” ordered Alexander Litvinov as he backed away from the periscope well.

“So, now we know the precise nature of the contact whose mysterious signature led us all the way from Port Canaveral,” said the grinning zampolit, who stood beside the nearby navigation plotting table.

“This is a momentous day. Comrade. To follow an American 688 class vessel, and have it completely unaware of our presence!”

“I’d be in a much better mood to celebrate if that 688 hadn’t been burdened with a DSRV on its back,” returned Litvinov.

“You’re being much too hard on yourself. Captain,” countered Boris Dubrinin.

“The moment we raised our scope and captured that Yankee attack sub on film, signaled a new era in the history of the red banner fleet. No longer are we disadvantaged by technological backwardness, for today, the hunter has become the hunted!”

Alexander Litvinov’s eyes couldn’t help gleaming with pride in response to this observation.

“I must admit that when I first looked through the scope, that surfaced 688 looked like an inviting target,” he thoughtfully reflected.

“In all my years of naval service, I never dreamed that I would be privileged to see such a remarkable sight.” “I always said that the highly vaunted 688 class was overrated,” added Dubrinin.

“Captain,” interrupted the senior sonar technician, “I’m picking up internal noises inside the American sub. It sounds as if they’re getting ready to dive.”

Both Litvinov and his political officer raced to sonar, where the zampolit emotionally voiced himself.

“Your vigilance is needed more than ever, Misha, because we’ve come too far to lose them now. And besides, Admiral Valerian himself is presently monitoring our efforts.”