Voyage of the Devilfish

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The USS Stingray hovered silently 200 feet below the polar icecap. The nuclear submarine’s control room was absurdly cramped. Filled with consoles, valves, piping and cables it was uncomfortable, but functional. The room was lit by a dim red wash from the overhead fluorescents and the redmasked gages and dials of the ship’s control consoles. The only sounds were the whining of the gyros, the low growl of the ventilation fans and murmurs of conversation from the crew in the space.

On an elevated platform surrounded by stainless steel handrails, a tall man with a tightly trimmed beard frowned in concentration at a television screen glowing red. The dim light further revealed a stern-faced man in his early forties, dressed in black overalls with a silver oak leaf on each collar. Over his left pocket was a gold pin resembling a pilot’s wings, but each “wing” was a scaly fish facing the middle, with a submarine’s conning tower — its sail — forming the center: a submariner’s dolphins. Embroidery thread over his right pocket spelled PACINO.

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