How I Drove A Submarine

TIME's Douglas Waller spent three weeks on a Navy sub to research his book, Big Red, which HarperCollins publishes next month. His experience:

For half an hour, I drove the U.S.S. Nebraska, a Trident submarine that can fire nuclear-tipped ballistic missiles. No, correct that. I sat nervously in the inboard seat, my hands gripping the steering wheel in front of me tightly. A young sailor and diving officer behind me actually drove the sub as it sailed under the Atlantic Ocean, telling me every move to make with the "stick," their nickname for the wheel. Steering a nuclear-powered submarine sounds impressive, but on the boat the job usually goes to the crew's junior seamen, some no older than 19.

The crew told me it was like driving Dad's car. You learn the basics after a week. After three months, a sailor should be proficient enough so the diving officer doesn't constantly have to prompt. Dad's car, however, didn't weigh 18,750 tons. The sub responded sluggishly when I moved the wheel. I also had to steer three-dimensionally. The wheel not only turned left and right, but to point the boat down or up, I had to push the wheel in or pull it to my chest. What's more, the sub has two steering wheels. A sailor to my left moved horizontal planes at the back of the boat that could cause it to dive or ascend. My wheel controlled the stern rudder and the horizontal fins at the sail (the sub's giant hump near its front). Experienced drivers knew how to work together. I didn't.

"Dive, make your depth eight-zero feet," a lieutenant in the control room commanded. The diving officer behind me patted my shoulder and ordered me to pull the wheel slowly to my chest. We were taking the sub up to 80 ft. below the water's surface so the Nebraska could poke out its periscope.

The control room was quiet except for the diving officer who called out depths as the sub ascended. "One-zero-zero feet...nine-five feet." "Push the wheel forward so the sub begins leveling out," he whispered to me. The planes now had to move in the opposite direction to slow the ascent so the sub didn't overshoot and broach the surface. I pushed. "Scope's breaking," announced the lieutenant, his face pressed to the periscope eyepiece as its lens above sprouted from the water. He swiveled around with the periscope pasted to his face. "No close contacts," he finally said. The crew in control always let out a sigh when the man looking through the scope reported no ships above that might collide with the sub. My jumpsuit was soaked with sweat.