But both of them paled in comparison with their squadron commander, Captain Jerry Mitchell, a legend in the flesh. The stories about what he’d done to earn several Navy Crosses would fill a book, and there were reliable eyewitness reports that he had some very ugly bullet scars. That he’d been in the thick of it was clear. He hadn’t been squadron commander all that long, but he’d done a good job. And by the way, he was best buds with POTUS.
The skipper must be feeling completely crushed. Segerson knew Weiss looked up to Mitchell, but Jimmy was Weiss’s boat. Nobody did this job entirely for glory, or pluses on fitness reports, but whatever the mission was, when they did it, it would not be Weiss’s mission. And understanding that didn’t help Segerson know what to do or say.
He finally shoved all his feelings into a corner labeled “pending.” His job was to take care of the boat and its captain. “Skipper, I’ll run this any way you want.”
Weiss smiled, and the XO realized how sad his expression had been. “Thanks, Josh. I’m still sorting out how I want to run it, but then I realize it’s not really my call. It’s how he wants to run it.” There was anger and frustration in his tone. “It all makes perfect sense when you think about it, but damn it! This was my mission until President Hardy got that bright idea to stick the commodore aboard! This is one of the few times I wish the Navy Way was something other than a smart salute and a cheery ‘aye, aye, sir.’”
The XO couldn’t think of a reply, but just listened.
“But the president said the mission has to come first, and I completely agree with that. So I’m going to set my personal feelings aside, and focus on making sure Jimmy’s as good as she can get.” After a short pause, he affirmed, “And we’ll let the commodore call the shots.” Then Weiss added, “This will make a little more sense after you read what’s in that envelope.”
Weiss let out a frustrated sigh, and then shrugged. “I think we should go do our own stuff for a while. Why don’t you look at that”—he pointed at the envelope—“and let’s get together just before breakfast, at 0615.”
Segerson nodded and stood. “Aye, aye, Captain.” He was reluctant to leave Weiss alone. He didn’t think the skipper was a suicide risk, but wanted to help his captain. He was just unsure of what to do. Finally, he left, closing the door to the CO’s stateroom behind him, thinking about “the loneliness of command.”
Dan Cavanaugh watched the executive officer leave, and focused on organizing his possessions into a very limited space. He was reluctant to explore the room too thoroughly, since it was Segerson’s personal stateroom, but the XO had made sure that the civilian knew what parts of the room were his to use.
Still, he was curious about his new roommate, the second in command of a nuclear submarine. The bulletin board behind his fold-up desk had a few clues: family man with three young kids, a purple-and-gold “Geaux Tigers” miniature banner, and a handwritten list of restaurants in Groton. He hoped Segerson didn’t mind snoring.
He didn’t sleep well on airplanes, and it had been an awkward flight with CDR Weiss, who obviously had a lot on his mind. Luckily, the military version of the civilian bizjet was designed to carry ten passengers, so he was able to give the disappointed officer some physical space.
The upper bunk called to him, but by the time he had everything properly “stowed,” it was after five, and they said “reveille” was at 6:00 A.M. He wanted to explore, but didn’t think that was wise. He’d probably trigger some sort of security alarm. Finally, he pulled out some notes he’d made during the flight, intending to organize them, opened the second desk, and sat down.
Cavanaugh awoke with a start to find a young officer standing next to him. The ensign offered his hand, and as the civilian groggily shook it, explained, “I’m Jim Truitt, the chemistry and radiation control assistant. The XO asked me to check whether you wanted any breakfast.”
Even half-asleep, that was an easy answer, and Cavanaugh let Truitt lead him a short distance down a passageway aft to the wardroom. It was full, almost to capacity, but Truitt led him to a side table with juice, fruit, and fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. Their aroma completed the revival process, and while the two collected plates, Truitt ordered eggs and ham from the galley. Cavanaugh followed his example.
Truitt led him to two empty seats, explaining, “Underway, we’ll eat in shifts, so it won’t be quite this crowded.” They were surrounded by animated conversation, and to Cavanaugh’s ears, it had an excited tone. Word of getting underway had already spread, and he was sure that at least one conversation was about whether they’d be going home. He remembered that Carter was based in Washington State, and had been away for some time.
He spotted the executive officer approaching, and after making sure the civilian was being properly cared for, Segerson broke into the buzz of conversation to introduce their guest. “He will be with us for the patrol, and is new to submarines, so be gentle.” There were several laughs, and Cavanaugh felt a non-specific uneasiness.
Ensign Truitt spent their meal explaining some basic submarining rules and nomenclature. The first imperative was “if you don’t know what it’s for, don’t touch it.” Jimmy Carter was a “boat,” not a ship, in spite of her size and commissioned status. Hatches were in the deck, doors allowed passage through bulkheads. There were no stairs between decks, just ladders. He was cautioned to follow all the posted directions, in the order listed, when using the head. Failing to do so would have adverse and unpleasant consequences.
They would check in with the yeoman after the sub’s office opened, and he would get a dosimeter, which was Truitt’s department. The ensign explained mealtimes, General Quarters, and other “evolutions.” Cavanaugh did his best to take it aboard, but accepted that even if he remembered everything perfectly, he was still the “New Guy.”
Breakfast ended at 0700, with quarters on the dock’s wing wall at 0715. Per Truitt’s instruction, Cavanaugh retreated back to the XO’s — his — stateroom, where Segerson collected him and led him back outside. He’d only been aboard the sub for a few hours, but coming back out into the open air had a novelty he’d never felt before. He was not claustrophobic, but open space had a new value.
Drawn up in neat rows, grouped by division, the crew cheered and clapped at the XO’s announcement they were getting underway. They listened as Segerson warned them about concealing their departure. Any hopes of a homeward-bound course were scuttled when he introduced Cavanaugh, who would be accompanying them on their “mission.”
After quarters, Cavanaugh stood back, waiting while a long line of sailors filed back aboard. Truitt found him. “The XO wants to get you checked in ASAP. I’ll take you to the office, and then maybe on a short tour.” Cavanaugh nodded his agreement.
Then Truitt asked, “You came aboard with the captain this morning. Do you know why the commodore will be going with us?”
That surprised Cavanaugh. The XO hadn’t mentioned Commodore Mitchell’s name, or that anyone else would be going with them. Evidently, submarines had a well-developed grapevine. “It has to do with the mission,” he answered as carefully as possible. That should have been a good way to politely end the conversation, but Truitt pressed his point.
“But don’t they think our skipper can cut it?” Truitt sounded almost personally offended. “This is my first boat, so I can’t say anything, but I’ve been thanking my lucky stars I got Captain Weiss as my first commanding officer. I know they’re not all this good. Mitchell is the commodore, and way more experienced, but it’s the skipper’s boat. Why put the commodore in charge?”