Dangerous Ground

For the next ten minutes, all that could be heard on the bridge was the wind and waves flowing past the submarine’s hull. Visibly disgusted that he had to leave the bridge, Hardy climbed down into the cockpit and addressed Millunzi. “MPA, strike down and stow the flying bridge and then get us to the dive point as quickly as you can. If you need me, I’ll be in my stateroom.”

Millunzi acknowledged the Captain’s order and had Stewart relay the order to control for two sailors to come up and disassemble the flying bridge. As Hardy was about to go below, he turned toward Jerry and said, “Don’t let the commodore’s comment go to your head, Mitchell. By my standards, your performance was adequate. Nothing more.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Jerry, more surprised than hurt. As soon as Hardy had disappeared into the bridge access trunk, Millunzi shook his head and issued a short snicker.

“Away the morale suppression team,” cried Millunzi. “The floggings will continue until morale improves.”

Both Jerry and Stewart laughed softly at the MPA’s sarcastic comment, and a lot of the tension Jerry had felt seemed to wash away. He was also relieved that the senior officers had departed the bridge. Now he could freely ask Millunzi for an honest critique of his performance.

As if he were reading Jerry’s mind, Millunzi said, “We’ll go over the mistakes the pilot mentioned once we get out of the channel. Then we can open her up and have some real fun.”

“Sounds good to me, sir,” Jerry replied. “For the record, how many did I make?”

“Five minor ones, that’s all. And despite the Captain’s views, you done good for your first time out.”

Five! Thought Jerry. He was having a hard time thinking of more than three. Still, he was pleased with Millunzi’s compliment. The two sailors summoned to the bridge now arrived. They immediately began to take the flying bridge down, handing sections of piping that made up the frame to Stewart, who passed them below. Millunzi urged them to work quickly, but not to skip on safety.

“What’s the rush, sir?” asked Jerry.

Millunzi pointed to two buoy symbols on the map display and then to a pair of red and green flashing buoys a couple of miles in the distance. “Those are buoys two and three. They mark the mouth of the channel. Once we pass them, we can rev this puppy up to flank speed. Provided these turkeys get their act together and get the flying bridge taken apart.” Millunzi grinned while jerking his thumb in the general direction of the two sailors up on the sail.

“In the meantime, Jerry we need to crank up the RCPs soon.”

“Yes, sir!” Jerry looked back and saw that the last of the frame was just about detached from the sail. Reaching down, Jerry picked up the mike and said, “Maneuvering, bridge, shift reactor coolant pumps to fast speed.”

“Shift reactor coolant pumps to fast speed, bridge, maneuvering aye.”

A few moments later the suitcase speaker blared, “Bridge, maneuvering, reactor coolant pumps are in fast speed.”

“Maneuvering, bridge aye.”

The buoys were clearly visible and they would soon be passing them. The two sailors reported that they were done and the flying bridge had been stowed for sea. Millunzi acknowledged their report and the two went below. A few minutes later the suitcase speaker blared again, “Bridge, Navigator, two hundred yards to the turn point. New course, one six five.”

“Navigator, bridge aye,” replied Jerry.

“Okay, Jerry, this is a small course change, so what are you going to do?”

“Just order the helmsman to use ten degrees left rudder and steady on the new course,” answered Jerry confidently.

“Correct.”

“Bridge, Navigator, mark the turn!”

“Helm, bridge, left ten degrees rudder, steady course one six five.”

“Left ten degrees rudder, steady course one six zero, bridge, helm aye.”

As Memphis started turning, Jerry could feel the difference that eight knots of speed made in her response. She quickly came up on her new course and settled in for the long run through the Long Island and Block Island sounds out to the Atlantic Ocean.

“All right, Jerry, let’s pick up the pace, shall we?” said Millunzi with a gleam in his eye.

“Aye, aye, sir.” Keying the mike again, Jerry spoke, “Helm, bridge, all ahead flank!”

“All ahead flank, bridge, helm aye. Sir, maneuvering answers all ahead flank.”

“Very well, helm.”

As Memphis began to surge ahead, the bow wave grew larger and larger until it was crashing against the base of the sail. The roar of the water as it flowed over the hull was deafening. Jerry felt as if he was at the base of Niagara Falls as tons of water came crashing down. The deck trembled as the main propulsion turbines slammed 35,000 shaft horsepower into the screw, which chewed up the water like a blender. Memphis’ wake was frothy and huge and could be seen for miles in the bright sunlight. Salt spray was thrown high into the air as the bow plowed through the slight rolling waves. And even with the protection of the Plexiglas windscreen, Jerry and the others were still occasionally hit in the face with cold seawater.

Jerry looked over at Al Millunzi and saw that he had removed his ball cap, his black hair streaming in the stiff wind. Meeting Jerry’s gaze, Millunzi leaned over and yelled, “I defy you to find a better mode of transportation than this!”

“Honestly, sir, I don’t think I can!” Jerry yelled back — and he meant every word. True, flying at supersonic speeds, yanking and banking, was a surefire way to get an incredible rush. But what he was feeling now was even stronger. In fact, he probably had so much adrenaline running in his system right now that it was making his stomach a little bit queasy. As the wind and spray whipped by his face, Jerry was finally able to let go of his precious F-18E Super Hornet. His heart and soul now belonged to another: Memphis.

For the next hour, Jerry reveled in his new love. Millunzi quizzed Jerry on various situations they might encounter and pointed out the major landmarks as they sped past them. Of particular interest was Race Rock, the wave-lashed lighthouse on a bunch of rocks at the westernmost tip of Fishers Island. This lighthouse marked the northern end of the passage known as “The Race,” the boundary between Long Island Sound and Block Island Sound.

Traffic was very light, with only a single contact, a long black barge pushed by a tug. It was coming up from the south and appeared to be heading straight for the entrance to the New London harbor channel. It was several miles distant and drawing away, designated “Master Two” by the Contact Coordinator. Since it was held both visually and on radar, it wasn’t a navigation hazard.

Finally Memphis passed between Block Island and Montauk Point on Long Island and entered the Atlantic Ocean proper. As soon as they cleared Long Island, the seas became rougher and the boat started to pitch and roll a little.

“We are now out of the lee of Long Island, so we are no longer being protected from the wind. This means the ride will be rougher for the rest of our run to the dive point,” commented Millunzi.

Now Memphis was heading for the open sea. Instead of land on both sides of them or filling one side of the horizon, it was just a small dark line behind them, growing thinner with each minute. The broad horizon was as novel to Jerry as everything else, but it was unchanging. Within a few minutes, he’d worked out a routine of checking the compass, the radar repeater, the map display, then scanning the horizon with his binoculars. There was no other surface traffic in sight.

“How much longer?” asked Jerry.

“About three hours until we’re past the hundred-fathom curve. About here.” Millunzi tapped the map display.

As Jerry looked down at the instruments, the bow rose a little more steeply than before and fell back to the sea with a noticeable drop. Jerry automatically tightened his grip on the edge of the cockpit and shifted his weight.

Millunzi grinned. “Nothing like this in a fighter, is there?”

“No, we usually flew well above any turbulence,” Jerry answered, “or we were yanking and banking and—”