Sitting up with a grunt, he yawned and ran his hands through his brown crew cut. Since he had been dressed in only his sciwies, he reached over and pulled on a pair of dark-blue coveralls. Except for his captain’s insignia, he was now dressed exactly like his shipmates.
Walking over to the head, he took a minute to splash some cold water on his face. Although he could feel a line of stubble on his jaw, he decided against shaving. After brushing his teeth, he evaluated his reflection in the mirror.
Though he was well into his forties, he was certain that he could still pass for a thirty-year-old. His lack of facial wrinkles and full head of close-cropped brown hair promoted this appearance of eternal youth.
He supposed he owed this to a set of inherited genes. His mother, whom he greatly favored, could easily knock fifteen years off her current age and no one would be the wiser. The single feature that divulged his true age were his eyes. It was here that he was beginning to observe a noticeable change. Slowly but surely, the first hints of crow’s-feet were beginning to form beneath his brows. He also noticed that lately his eyes seemed to be constantly bloodshot. And, was it his imagination, or wasn’t the bright, vibrant blue gradually fading from his stare?
As if calling him out of a dream, two soft electronic tones chimed in the background, and Cooksey jumped, startled. Realizing that it was only his intercom, he turned to pick up the plastic handset.
“Captain here.”
The voice on the other end was deep and tinged by a slight Southern accent.
“Sorry to bother you, Skipper, but we’re experiencing some problems with the integrity of our ultra-quiet state. Chief Weaver is reporting an unusual ticking noise in the main engine room. The disturbance is loud enough for Callahan to pick up on the hydrophones.”
“Any idea where it’s coming from?” the captain asked.
“Negative, Skipper. The Chief is currently investigating.”
“Sounds like I’d better get down there and give them a hand. Thanks, Mr. Craig.”
Cooksey knew that his executive officer wouldn’t disturb him unless something serious had developed.
Richard Craig had proven himself to be a cool headed young officer, an XO who could be relied on for quick, precise assessments. Since in times of real combat an unknown noise could jeopardize their safety, the captain was aware of how important it was to find the source of this disturbance and to quickly quiet it.
The engine room was located in the stern half of the Triton, two floors beneath Cooksey’s quarters. Without hesitation, the captain guided his solid, six-foot frame down the cramped hallway, so narrow that two men could not pass shoulder to shoulder. Oblivious to the shining banks of stainless steel pipes and the thick cables of exposed wiring that lined the roof of the corridor, he stepped through an open hatch and began climbing down the metal stairway. Faced with another long hallway, he proceeded with quick strides past the crew’s mess. Here, he couldn’t help but savor the rich, inviting scent of fresh-perked coffee. He noticed at a glance that the majority of green, rubber-meshed tables were empty, then ducked through a pair of open hatchways and descended another flight of stairs.
Down there, the distinctive smell of hot oil and warm polyethylene met his nostrils.
A young machinist’s mate snapped to attention as Cooksey nodded and passed through still another hatch. Turning to his right, he entered a large, spotlessly clean room. Shiny stainless steel, gleaming white paint, miles of snaking copper tubing and dozens of various-sized gauges lined the walls. Six men were seated at a huge console, scanning the hundreds of dials, gauges and meters that belonged to the nuclear power plant. Here neutron flux, steam pressure, flow rates, liquid levels and various temperatures were monitored. Not stopping to bother the technicians, he opened a sealed hatch and stepped into the main engine room.
Dwarfed by the massive turbine generators, Cooksey spotted Chief Petty Officer Samuel Weaver kneeling beside the main shaft. At his side was a figure that Cooksey immediately identified. The muscular broad shoulders and shiny bald pate could belong to no one else but Chief Peter Bartkowski. Both men were completely involved in their work and didn’t notice the captain as he approached them. It was only when Cooksey got within a dozen feet of the two that he realized each man was wearing a stethoscope.
“It’s the toward bushing!” the chief boomed excitedly.
Samuel Weaver was quickly at his side. Carefully, he examined with his own listening device the tubular shaft that the chief had been perched before. While Weaver immersed himself in his study, Bartkowski sat up, removed the stethoscope from his ears and only then set eyes on the captain.
“Sorry this took so long. Skipper, but it looks like we’ve got it licked. Damn bushing must of been packed wrong.”
“I knew you’d locate it. Chief. How long will it take you to fix?”
Before Bartkowski could answer. Weaver sat up, noticed the captain’s presence, and nervously saluted.
“Sorry about this. Captain. Believe me, it’s the first we’ve heard of it. It must have been botched up while we were last in refit at Pearl.”
“Easy, Sam,” Cooksey advised cooly.
“I know you run a taut ship back here. We’re just lucky this didn’t fail earlier. Can you fix it?”
Chief Bartkowski grinned.
“Just give us ten minutes, Skipper. She’ll be just as good as new.”
“I’m sure she will,” said the captain, who was distracted by the soft ring of two familiar tones. He reached over to pickup the intercom and listened to his XO’s breathless observation.
“We’ve got a contact. Captain Looks like we just got hit with a pair of sonobuoys topside.”
Cooksey let out a relieved sigh.
“I’m on my way up, Rich. And by the way, the Chief promises us ultra quiet integrity in ten minutes. Sound General Quarters.
Pass the word by mouth.”
By the time Bartkowski and Weaver had concluded their repair of the improperly packed bushing, Cooksey had already taken his command position in the Tritons control room. From his vantage point, directly behind the sonar console, he had a clear view of the various operational stations. To his right sat the two helmsmen, their hands tightly gripping the aircraft-style steering yokes that controlled the sub’s direction. Beside them were digital consoles reserved for navigation, engineering, weapons and communications.
Each of these stations was manned and ready for action.
At the captain’s side stood the Triton’s executive officer, Lieutenant Commander Richard Craig. The thin, blond-haired Californian looked like he would be equally at home with a surf board in his hands.
Though this was his first stint as XO, he had already gained the respect of the crew. Leaning on the tubular steel railing that separated the two officers from the sonar operators, Craig addressed the redheaded sailor seated to his left.
“What’s AUSEX got to say about those sonobuoys, Callahan?”
Petty Officer First Class Charles Callahan held back his response until he finished typing a request into his computer keyboard.
“We’re still waiting for a response, Mr. Craig. All that we know for certain is that they don’t appear to be active arrays.”
As the current watch officer in charge of the sub’s passive listening devices, Callahan was most familiar with the workings of the so-called acoustic methods of vessel identification. The lightweight, ultra-sensitive headphones he wore were directly connected with the dozens of hydrophone devices attached to the Triton’s hull. Although the majority of these powerful, miniature microphones were implanted permanently, several systems were designed to be either towed or to float away from the hull itself. One such system was labeled AUSEX, for Aircraft Undersea Sound Experiment.