The Sum of All Fears.pdf - Delta Force

ief code group.
'Great time for a drill.' Ricks shook his head and said, 'Battle Stations.
Alert-One.'
A petty officer immediately activated the 1-MC and made the announcement.
'General Quarters, General Quarters, all hands man your battle stations.' Next
came an electronic alarm sure to end the most captivating of dreams.
'Mr Pitney,' Ricks said over the noise. 'Antenna depth.'
'Aye, Captain. Diving officer, make your depth six-zero feet.'
'Make my depth six-zero feet, aye. Helm, ten degrees up on the fairwater
planes.'
'Ten degrees up on the fairwater planes, aye.' The young crewman – helm duty is
typically given to very junior men – pulled back on the aircraft-like wheel.
'Sir, my planes are up ten degrees.'
'Very well.'
Barely had that been done when people flooded into the control room. The Chief
of the Boat – Maine's senior enlisted man – took his battle station at the
air-manifold panel. He was the submarine's senior Diving Officer.
Lieutenant-Commander Claggett entered the conn to back the captain up. Pitney,
the boat's navigator, was already at his post, which was conning officer.
Various enlisted men took their seats at weapons consoles. Aft, officers and men
assumed their positions as different as the Missile Control Center – MCC – which
monitored the status of Maine's twenty-four Trident missiles, and the auxiliary
equipment room, which was mainly concerned with the ship's backup diesel engine.
In the control room, the IC – internal communications man of the watch called
off the compartments as they reported in as manned and ready.
'What gives?' Claggett asked Ricks. The captain merely handed over the brief EAM
slip.
'Drill?'
'I suppose. Why not?' Ricks asked. 'It's a Sunday, right?'
'Still bumpy up on the roof?'
As though on cue, Maine started taking rolls. The depth gauge showed 290 feet,
and the massive submarine suddenly rocked ten degrees to starboard. Throughout
the vessel, men rolled their eyes and grumbled. There was scarcely a man aboard
who hadn't lost it at least once. This was the perfect environment for motion
sickness. With no outside references – submarines are conspicuously short of
windows and portholes – the eyes saw something that clearly was not moving while
the inner ears reported that movement was definitely taking place. The same
thing that had affected nearly all of the Apollo astronauts began to affect
these sailors. Unconsciously, men shook their heads sharply, as though to repel
a bothersome insect. They uniformly hoped that whatever the hell they were up to
– no one from Ricks on down knew as yet what was happening – they'd soon be able
to get back where they belonged – four hundred feet, where the ship's motion was
imperceptible.
'Level at six-zero feet, sir.'
'Very well,' Pitney replied.
'Conn, sonar, contact lost on Sierra-16. Surface noise is screwing us all up.'
'What's the last position?' Ricks asked.