Crawford looked hard at the sonar repeater. “Mr. Wittstrom, what is the sea state?”

“Captain, sonar reports a sea state ‘eight,’ maybe ‘nine.’”

Crawford looked up at Wittstrom. “That’s what I figure, too. That means wave heights somewhere between thirty and sixty feet. I’d suggest we come around to course ‘north’ to face into the seas. That will limit the rolls a little.”

As Miami swung around to her new course, the rolls calmed a little, but the pitching worsened.

Wittstrom braced himself and shouted, “Number-two scope coming up!”

He reached above his head and rotated the large red ring there. The periscope slid smoothly out of its well. As the eyepiece cleared the well, he snapped down the two black handles and stuck one eye to the eyepiece. He started to walk a slow circle, rotating the scope and looking out at the empty blackness.

That’s all there was. Ominous, complete darkness. Not even a hint of light.

Without removing his eye from the scope, he shouted, “Dive, make your depth six-two feet.”

Wittstrom continued the slow rotation. Submariners had long since dubbed the waltz he was doing “dancing with the fat lady.” He was looking to see if there was any obstacle, like a ship’s bottom or an unexpected ice keel, that he could see in time to avoid it when they surfaced. There was not much chance of that in this pitch-black, storm-tossed sea, but it was still necessary to make certain. Rescue was a long, cold ride away.

With Wittstrom satisfied the way was clear, Miami slid up toward the surface. The pitching and rolling worsened until she was bucking like a frenzied bronco, rearing wildly in some very cold, wet rodeo. The diving officer and his two planesmen were working with every bit of skill and strength they had to keep Miami on depth, but they were no match for the sea. She was quickly broached, bobbing like a cork on the surface of the seething ocean.

A horrendous crash came from the galley, below the control room. Dish stowage was not equal to the sea’s might. Clipboards, books, coffee cups, anything not tied down, fell to the deck and slid noisily fore and aft, port and starboard, as the sub heaved and pitched. Crawford grabbed the stainless steel railing surrounding the periscope stand and held on with both hands.

They couldn’t waste much time up here. Someone could get hurt. Mercifully, the radioman soon announced over the 21MC circuit, “All traffic aboard and accounted for.”

Crawford was just opening his mouth to order the boat back down when Wittstrom beat him to the punch, shouting, “Diving Officer, make your depth three hundred feet. Lowering number-two scope.”

He reached up and snapped the red ring clockwise. The scope slid back into the well as Miami once more headed to the peaceful calm of the depths.

There, it promised to be much safer on this particular night.

*   *   *