“Sierra Nine is at anchor.”
The captain was in his ear. “See anything to make you think it’s not a fishing boat?”
“No sir. Maybe they bought that radar at a salvage auction or something…”
“Or maybe somebody out here is looking for submarines.”
The other odd thing about Sierra Nine, other than its high-grade military radar, was that it appeared to be at anchor in what was supposed to be very, very deep water. “Quartermaster, mark charted depth.”
Flather took a second to read the chart. “Two thousand fathoms, sir.”
“That’s really deep for a fishing boat to anchor in, isn’t it?”
“Really deep,” said the Flather. “I doubt he has that much chain. Maybe it’s a sea anchor.”
It’s possible, thought Jabo. It was curious, for sure. “Take a sounding,” he said.
Flather turned to the fathometer, calibrated it, and pushed the button. “Two thousand fathoms,” he said. “Just like the chart says. At this depth and speed — that should be a good reading.”
At least where we are, thought, Jabo. But that fishing boat appeared to be holding fast, like a boat would at anchor. He considered giving a slight right rudder, so they could edge closer, take a look. As he stared out at the boat, a dozen other tasks popped into his mind, things he’d pushed out of the way for the harrowing trip to periscope depth. They’d need to transmit another casualty report. That message would go, to among others, Captain Soldato, the commodore, who would probably start to wonder what the hell was going on inside the boat he had just recently left in good working order. But there was something weird about Sierra Nine, anchored there in the middle of a fishing fleet, her high-quality military radar spinning away. And no one topside hauling nets or traps. If he were just a little closer, he could maybe see inside, see what was on the deck…
He heard hard, determined footsteps on the control room ladder, and recognized them as the XO’s. Jabo heard him plug into the EAB manifold at the top of the ladder, and take a deep breath, then another, he was winded, as if he had made the trip from Machinery Two to control without stopping to breathe. Jabo listened to the hiss of twenty pound air being forced into the mask and taken into the XO’s lungs and waited for him to make his report to the captain. Finally he spoke.
. “Howard’s dead.”
Angi drove the short distance from their house to the Trigger Gate. They lived off base in a small house on a circle of small houses surrounded by towering Douglas Firs, every home inhabited by a family, civilian or military, whose livelihood depended on the fleet of eight Trident submarines that called Bangor, Washington, home: Ohio, Michigan, Florida, Georgia, Alabama, Alaska, Nevada, and Henry M. Jackson. And while Angi and Danny lived off base, they were barely off base, just a few hundred yards from the gate, and within earshot of the enormous cranes of the distant Delta Pier, whose endless beeping they heard day and night as they rolled back and forth on their railroad tracks, preparing boats for their next patrol. As she pulled up to the gate, the young sailor in dress whites saw the gold bar of her windshield’s sticker that denoted an officer, snapped to, and saluted her as she passed.
She was to meet the Soldatos at 48 North, the base’s all hands restaurant. It was part of the “upper base,” a complex that included the exchange, the commissary, the chapel, and the gym: almost every place that Angi ever needed to go. Not only were the submarines invisible from the upper base — you couldn’t even see the water, separated as it was by most of the base’s 7,000 heavily wooded acres. The piers were a much different, grittier world, wet and slightly dangerous, guarded by men in fatigues with guns, populated by workers with hardhats and tattoos. Crewmen weren’t even allowed to wear their working uniforms, their cotton khakis and dungarees, on the upper base, which looked more like a community college campus than it did a port for eight ships of war. Some of the old salts, in the most derisive words they could muster, accused it of looking like an Air Force base.
It was a lunch she’d put off as long as possible. Cindy Soldato had been calling with increasing frequency, her heart (perhaps) in the right place, but her attention could be suffocating. Angi was the only pregnant wife in the wardroom at the moment, and Cindy could focus her considerable energy upon her, generous with her advice about everything from filing military health insurance claims to breast feeding. In one week, her own mom would arrive from Knoxville, and Angi wondered if she would be able to survive all the mothering she was about to endure.
When she walked into the restaurant Cindy and Mario were deep in conversation, always a funny contrast to see them together. Mario was small, dark, highly animated, his hands moving with every phrase, leaning forward toward her. Cindy on the other hand was a fair Southern belle with perfect posture, her hands folded neatly in her lap as she listened with a look of rapt attention that looked like it might have been practiced in front of a mirror. Cindy had met Mario when he was one of a group of midshipmen at the Academy drafted to escort Virginia debs to some kind of cotillion. Early in Danny’s tour, at a wardroom party, Angi made the mistake of mentioning they were both from the South. Cindy’s smile had tightened and she didn’t respond: the old prejudice of the plantation south against those from the mountains endured, even in a Navy town along the Pacific Coast, even with a woman who’d scandalized her family, she liked to boast, when she married an Italian Catholic from Cleveland. Mario saw Angi walking toward them and stood.
“Angi!” He looked down at her belly unabashedly.
“Angi, please sit down,” said Cindy, actually pulling a chair out for her. “How are you?”
“Fine, fine,” she said. “I feel really good. I was sick a few days last week, but thankfully that phase appears to be over.”
“Good!” said Cindy and Mario together.
“About the worst side effect I have now is really weird dreams. And I’m tired— but that may just be laziness.”
They laughed. A waiter came by and took their orders: they all ordered chef salads. Mario’s phone was sitting on the table, every few seconds it would emit a short staccato buzz. He glanced down at it every time, but it never seemed worthy of much attention, he didn’t even pick it up.
“It never stops,” he said, noticing her interest. “They code the messages: a short little buzz like that means I need to see it but it’s not a crisis. Anything really important gets the ‘danger signal’: five short, rapid blasts.”
“You must come to resent that little thing.”
“Not at all,” said Cindy. “It’s because of that phone he can pay for our lunch!”
“It’s true,” he said. “In the bad old days, I would have been afraid to leave the pier, afraid something would happen and they wouldn’t be able to find me.” The phone buzzed once on cue, and they laughed again. He read the screen. “The Seattle Seahawk cheerleaders are going on base for a fundraiser…they want me to set up a tour of a boat for them.”
“Don’t give the tour yourself, Mario.”
“Why not?” he said, indignant.
“You’re an old man. Let some poor JO do it.”
“I am pretty old, it’s true. Most of the submarines were still diesel boats when I first went to sea,” he said to Angi. “Some of the old timers were World War II guys back then…I wish I would have gone to sea with some of them, heard their stories.”
That prompted Angi. “Captain, have you ever heard of a book called Rig for Dive?”
“Sure…it’s a classic. Written by Crush Martin, captain of the USS Wrasse in World War II. In his first two patrols he sunk something like eighteen Japanese ships. Became a war hero and wrote that book.”