STINGRAY: Voyagers of the Deep
Stingray and all related characters and properties are property of Anderson Entertainment. All original characters are my property.
Chapter 1: First Encounters, Part 1
As a little girl growing up in the Miami sprawl, Amanda Valentine had been enraptured by the sea and all beneath it. Perhaps it was a hereditary thing, the product of a bloodline made up of mariners of all stripes– divers, pirates, fishermen, and in the case of her great-grandfather, a commander of a USN submarine. Or maybe it was the result of years of passing by the recruitment station for the World Navy, listening to the enlistment officers making variations on the same basic sales pitch. Or alternatively still, it may have been because nearly anything was preferable to spending one's days in an apartment that, for all intents and purposes, was a slightly spacious dorm room shared with four other people.
Regardless of the why, as soon as she'd turned 18, she'd walked out of that apartment, marched into the recruitment station, and signed the enlistment forms. After that came the usual military formalities– a full physical, psychological screening, a flight to the WN Academy in San Diego for basic training, et cetera– until eventually, she'd managed to pass the exam for submarine command, at which point she'd been assigned to the Agincourt.
Now that she had the post, however, all she wanted was a transfer– didn't matter where, just so long as it was on the surface.
"In the town where I was born…"
She groaned as the song blared out from her alarm clock. Last time I let one of my crew buy me a birthday present, she bitterly thought as she climbed out of bed (taking care to turn the clock off as she did so) and made her way to a nearby coffee dispenser embedded into the wall, carefully putting her "#1 Captain" mug beneath the spout. A few button presses later, out came the drink– more specifically, 8 ounces of piping hot, slightly brownish water that vaguely smelled like coffee, with slight notes of iodine.
Figures.
Three sugar packets and a single-serve container of half-and-half later, she downed the liquid before shuffling into her uniform, which was a tannish affair that hadn't seen an ironing board in three days. Now clothed and caffeinated, she opened the door to her quarters and walked towards the ship's CIC, trying her damnedest to ignore the buzz of the fluorescent lights that illuminated the Agincourt's corridors.
If the captain's quarters were cramped, then the CIC (or as it was known to the ignorant, "the bridge") was only slightly less so. Roughly the size of the glorified dorm room that Valentine had fled, it and its personnel could be divided into three main groups: operations/weapons/navigation group forward, command group in the center, and engine control group towards the aft, with the captain maintaining continuous, unblocked eye contact with all personnel.
"Lieutenant Redfield– status report."
"Got nothing on hydrophones, Captain," a woman replied. "Ditto on the electric field."
Valentine clenched her chair's armrests. "Run a sweep on active sonar."
"With all due respect, I don't think–"
"That's an order."
"Ma'am, yes, ma'am," Redfield said, flicking the switches and watching as the readouts materialized on her workstation's monitor. "Don't know what it is we're looking f–"
The words died on her lips as she saw a blip appear.
"What've we got?" Valentine asked.
"Contact off starboard bow. Range is 10 miles and closing."
"How fast?"
Redfield went pale. "60 knots."
Valentine grimly nodded. "Go to silent running."
Before the order could go through, however, the ship was rocked by something detonating against the hull.
"Damage report!" she barked.
"Hull integrity hasn't been breached," a crewman replied. "Thank God."
"I'll be doing that after we get out of this, thank you very much. Meantime, run aquascan."
A few moments later, a live video feed appeared on the forward monitor. Out there, lurking in the twilight waters, she could make out what looked like the vague outline of an enormous fish drawing closer.
"Mother of mercy…" she whispered. "Lieutenant Miyamoto!"
"Ma'am?"
"Bring her around. Chambers, arm torpedoes."
"Which ones?"
"Wire-guided, long-range. Redfield, what's our distance?"
"5 miles and closing."
Valentine exhaled. "Saint Nicholas, pray for us, the crew of this thrice ill-fated submarine, that we may be prot–"
"Torpedoes armed and waiting!"
Valentine snapped out of her reverie. "Fire!"
And with that, a torpedo shot out of its tube and raced towards the approaching "fish". Roughly five minutes later, a shockwave radiated outward from the general position of where it had been, and Valentine could swear she could see bits of debris drifting around.
"So, now what?" a crewman in Engine Control asked.
"Standard protocol– log the incident, make sure the report gets to the brass, and then play the waiting game for further instructions." She turned her gaze over to Navigation. "Closest port?"
"Seattle, ma'am," came the reply.
"Good. Meantime, go to silent r–"
As if on cue, another fish like the one that had just succumbed to Agincourt's weapons emerged from the shadows before charging towards the sub.
"Fire!"
Just as the torpedo cleared the tube, however, the fish opened its mouth…and retaliated in kind.
"TAKE HER DOWN!" Valentine yelled, her mind racing a mile a minute as the enemy missile sliced through the water like a knife.
No sooner had the words left her mouth than the ship shuddered and the video feed went dead.
"Sail's been hit!" one of the Operations crew exclaimed, trying his damnedest not to panic.
"How bad?"
"Let me put it this way– we try to run under automatic bosun, we'll likely hit another ship!"
"Hydroplanes?"
"Holding in there– just barely!"
Just then, the "fish" exploded as Agincourt's torpedo struck it, sending forth another cloud of debris in the process.
"Anything else on sonar?" Valentine asked.
"No, ma'am," Redfield answered, a nervous look in her eyes.
The captain took a deep breath. "In that case, set course for Seattle– full speed." She took a deep breath. "Here's hoping that anyone believes us."
World Security Patrol Headquarters, Washington D.C– a few days later
"Ladies and gentlemen," a member of WSP High Command began, "I'm sure by now that you've read the report sent from Naval Base Ketchum regarding the Agincourt's debriefing and supposed encounter with, and I quote, 'mechanical fish'."
One of the other members– a man in full World Navy dress uniform– scoffed. "Crew went stir-crazy, simple as. Probably just had a run-in with some particularly rich pirates."
The first one shot his comrade a dirty look. "Regardless, it's my professional judgment that this is a job for the WASPs."
Marineville, California– later that day
"I want your people to find out exactly what's going on," a member of High Command said over the control tower's videophone. "I'm relying on you, Shore."
"Yes, sir. Awaiting your further instructions," came the reply.
And with that, the call ended, and Commander Sam Shore– a graying, square-jawed man in a hoverchair with a gruff voice– turned away from the screen and towards a younger, auburn-haired woman clad in the grayish uniform of the World Aquanaut Security Patrol.
"Lieutenant," he began, "sound off action stations. Alert Stingray."
Standby Lounge– same time
"Captain Troy Tempest, Control Tower calling. Stand by to launch Stingray."
Right on cue, a rapid drumbeat filled the air, and a uniform-clad man with boyish good looks walked over to a nearby cohort who had his cap tilted over his eyes. "Okay, Phones– this is it! Wake up!"
"It's okay, Captain," Phones replied in his trademark southern drawl. "I'm just resting my eyes, that's all."
Sure you are, the other man thought as he approached a waiting chair in a rear niche, the words "INJECTOR BAY" written above it. A few moments later, Phones joined him in the opposite chair, and the drumbeat picked up in tempo to signify the shift from "Action Stations" to "Launch Stations".
"This is it! Okay, Phones?"
"Okay, Troy," came the reply.
And with that, each one pulled the lever under their respective seat's right armrest, the floor retracted, and the chairs descended down into Pen 3 along a pair of metal poles right into the main cabin of the sleek, comparatively small submarine below. Within seconds of them making contact with the floor, they were clamped into place, the poles were retracted upwards, and the main hatch closed. As soon as the instrumentation indicated it was sealed, Phones pulled a lever next to his seat, and the elevators holding Stingray's lift platform lowered the vessel below the waterline.
And with that, the vessel slipped out through the pen doors and into the ten-mile tunnel that connected it to the waters of the Pacific.
A few minutes later
"Tower from Stingray– seaborne," Troy said into the radio once the sub had cleared the ocean door.
"Okay, Troy," Commander Shore replied, "this is the brief. Proceed at full speed to position 1800 north-northwest, 2400 reference 4, and investigate site of Agincourt's supposed engagement with hostile crafts for any signs thereof."
"P.W.O.R." A moment later, he turned to his cohort. "You heard the commander."
"One step ahead of you, Skipper," Phones replied. "Rate 1…"
As Phones continued to count upwards, Troy's eyes were focused on the collection of instruments on the console to his left– depth gauge, trim angle indicator, chronometer, pitometer, targeting computer readout, and the all-important automatic bosun readout.
"Rate 4…"
"Check trim."
"Checking trim," he said. "Rate 6."
"600 knots," Troy said to nobody in particular. "Switch to automatic bosun."
His cohort gave a silent nod of acknowledgement, punched in the coordinates, and flicked a switch on the center. "Automatic bosun operational," he said.
Troy returned the nod, and then got out of his chair. "Okay, Phones, let's go back to the relaxation bay. We haven't got another instrument check for another half hour."
Marineville
"Okay, Atlanta– take five," Commander Shore said to the auburn-haired lieutenant. "There's not much we can do until they approach the zone."
"I'll get us some coffee," the latter replied as she looked up from the console in the center of the room. "How do you want yours?"
"As black as a witch's heart. Thought you'd have figured that out by now."
Atlanta gave a small smile. "Never hurts to double check, Father."