From thirty feet below, the helmsman replied, “Answers ahead one third, coming right to course three-three-one.”
Unlike surface ships, where the traditional spoked wooden ship’s wheels were still used; the helmsman's station resembled an aircraft pilot’s controls. He had no broad expanse of glass through which to gaze at the horizon. His only means of sensing direction and depth was a myriad of gauges and digital readouts set in a blank steel panel.
The great bronze screw turned, leaving a swirling frothy white wake in the glassy smooth harbor water. The huge black warship slowly gathered speed.
Glancing over the side of the tall sail, Hunter saw they were being escorted by one of the large gray hammerhead sharks that frequented the harbor. The hammerheads had discovered that the shallows of the West Loch were a perfect place to mate and give birth to their young. It glided along effortlessly for some distance before lifting its grotesquely shaped head to gaze emotionlessly at the man-made shark of steel. Then, with a flick of its tail, it dove deep and was gone.
“Looks like we have an escort out of the harbor after all,” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “Nice to see the professional courtesy.”
26 May 2000, 0135LT (26 May, 0935Z)
From the lanai of his official residence on Ford Island, Rear Admiral Mike O’Flanagan watched SAN FRANCISCO glide down the channel. He stepped inside and picked up the red secure phone resting beside his bed and dialed a series of numbers. When he received an acknowledgment at the other end, he simply said, “They are on their way,” and hung up.
26 May 2000, 0135LT (26 May, 0935Z)
At an apartment in one of the modern high-rise buildings in Pearl City, overlooking the Pearl Harbor Naval Base a similar call was being placed. This one was placed over normal commercial phone circuits, but hundreds of complex switchings and dead ends made the call untraceable. Half a world away, the information was received with a guttural grunt.
26 May 2000, 0210LT (26 May, 1210Z)
The great black ship glided through the night, past Ford Island and the ARIZONA Memorial. The brightly-lit white arching monument served as a constant reminder of the bravery and sacrifice needed to defend this country.
On the port side, a little further down the harbor, was the NEVADA Memorial, a small granite marker that commemorated the valor of the crew of that brave ship. They fought to get the battleship underway amid the buzzing hornets of the Japanese bombers and then, mortally wounded by Japanese torpedoes, ran her aground to prevent her sinking and blocking the only ship channel. The unlit memorial, little more than a stone’s throw across the harbor from the ARIZONA Memorial, was all but forgotten.
SAN FRANCISCO steamed onward, rounding Hospital Point and past dry dock four where the aircraft carrier YORKTOWN had been hurriedly repaired so that she could play a decisive role in the Battle of Midway. Then past the beautiful officer’s club at Hickam Air Force Base, to be greeted, finally, by the long smooth rollers of the open Pacific.
The ship's slow pitch and roll told experienced sailors that they were once more in deep water.
Jonathan Hunter glanced over toward Sam Stuart, then out toward the open ocean. After a few moments of silently staring at the stars, he thought, This is what makes it all seem worthwhile. A good ship under your feet, a star-filled night sky over your head, and a sense that you are doing a worthwhile job for your country.
The clamor of Hickam Air Force Base and Honolulu Airport faded quietly into the distance. The golden glow of Honolulu and Waikiki still filled the view behind them, off to the left. Dark rain clouds obscured the view of the Ko’olaus behind Honolulu. Before them stretched the inky black of the Pacific
Hunter sighed, knowing that Stuart was probably thinking the same thing. “Must be something in the night air,” he said, breaking the moment. “We’re clear of the channel. Transfer the conn below and dive the ship. I’m laying below.”
“Aye, sir,” Stuart answered, watching the Skipper's head disappear down the ladder.
26 May 2000, 0310LT (1310Z)
Peg Hunter stood at the shore, quietly watching long after the darkened submarine disappeared around the curve of Hospital Point. Tall and dark blonde, she cut a striking figure under the Hawaiian moon.
Finally, she turned away and walked back to the dark house, her hand grazing along the smooth granite surface of the NEVADA Memorial. She longingly remembered all the evenings she and Jon had spent there, watching glorious tropical sunsets over the Wainai Mountains. It seemed that she had spent most of the last twenty years waving good-bye to a disappearing black ship and the man it held.
And then the endless, grinding waiting; never knowing for sure if or when he was returning; fearing every time the phone rang.
The first few years had been the worst. Back then, she was a brand new Navy wife and he was assigned to one of the early Poseidon submarines, one of Admiral Rickover’s famous "Forty-one for Freedom." This was the Cold War at its most tense. The Americans and Soviets stood nose to nose, each daring the other to blink. The threat of a global nuclear war was the reality of the face-off. The Poseidon boats were at the very forefront of the confrontation. Their movements were very closely held secrets.
She had worried endlessly every day that he was gone. The worst part was not being able to even send a letter. The only communications were four Family-Grams per hundred-day patrol. Forty-word, rigidly censored radio messages that wives could send. They could contain only good news and every ship in the fleet monitored them. They were not a place to
