The most unsettling aspect of the Virginia class design changes, as far as Wilson was concerned, was ship control. The four watchstanders on previous submarines — the Helm, Outboard, Chief of the Watch, and Diving Officer of the Watch — had been replaced by two watchstanders: the Pilot and Co-Pilot, who manned the Ship Control Station. The Pilot controlled the submarine’s course, speed, and depth while the Co-Pilot adjusted the buoyancy and raised and lowered the masts and antennas. Wilson figured that someone in the design shop must have forgotten they were building submarines and not aircraft; it all amounted to a horrendous break in nautical tradition.
If that weren’t enough, normal control of the submarine had been delegated to the submarine’s computer. On Virginia class submarines, when the Officer of the Deck ordered a new course or depth, the Pilot entered it into the Ship Control Station and the computer automatically adjusted the submarine’s rudder, or bow and stern planes, to the optimal angle. If desired, manual control could be taken by giving the Pilot a specific rudder order or ship angle, but it was normally a hands-off operation aside from tapping in the new course or depth. The computer did the rest.
Wilson spent the next few minutes receiving a turnover report from Commander Maske, discussing the ship’s operational status and material condition. Once satisfied he knew enough — he would spend the next few hours reviewing the submarine’s status and the crew’s proficiency in more detail — he relieved Maske of his command.
“Attention in Control,” Wilson announced. “This is Captain Murray Wilson. I have command of North Carolina.”
The Quartermaster entered the event into the ship’s log as Wilson ordered the Officer of the Deck, “Submerge to four hundred feet, then come to course one-seven-zero, ahead flank.”
61
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
Located primarily on the 400 block of East Baltimore Street, The Block is home to several bars, strip clubs, and sex shops. Originally several blocks long and famous for its burlesque houses in the early twentieth century, the strip had shrunk and become seedier by the 1950s, marked by a notable increase in crime, prostitution, and drug dealing. Many considered the criminal activity ironic, considering the location of Baltimore Police Department’s Central District headquarters — at the east end of The Block.
Harrison had taken Kendall’s advice and spent a few hours with Angie, then headed toward The Block to chase down the stripper lead. It was a long shot it would amount to anything, but if Mixell had been serious — that the stripper was his soul mate—now that he was back in the area, perhaps they had reconnected. Find her, and he might find Mixell.
This time of night, the traffic was heavy and the bars full as he drove east, searching for the Player’s Club. He parked in a garage not far away and entered through a small door to find a surprisingly upscale establishment with a retro decor harking back to Baltimore’s burlesque days, along with two dancers hanging upside down on a two-story stripper pole. Two other women were working walkways on either side of the main stage, with the edge crowded with men waving folded dollar bills at the dancers.
The bar was likewise crowded, but Harrison found an opening and waited his turn for service. The bar was tended by a woman who was as attractive as the dancers onstage, if not more so. She finished serving a customer, then approached Harrison.
“What can I get ya?” she asked.
“What do you have on tap?”
“How about a Topless Blonde?”
The woman smiled, giving Harrison a moment to realize she was talking about a beer and not one of the blond dancers onstage.
“It’s pretty good,” she added, “made by a local microbrewery, Chesapeake Brewing Company.” She leaned closer and placed her elbows on the bar, providing Harrison a clear view of her cleavage. “It’s got a nice body. You should give it a try.”
Harrison nodded and a cold beverage was soon in his hand. He took a long pull and agreed with the bartender — the Topless Blonde was quite good. After a few more sips, Harrison caught the bartender’s attention.
“Can I talk to the manager?”
She eyed him suspiciously. “What for?”
“Nothing to be worried about. I need some help.”
“What kind of help?”
He pulled up a picture on his cell phone. “Recognize this guy?”
Harrison already knew the answer. The bartender looked to be in her mid-twenties, and Mixell had frequented this place fifteen years ago. She would’ve been around ten years old.
After she shook her head, Harrison said, “I’m hoping your manager remembers this guy.”
“Why are you looking for him?”
Harrison debated whether to continue with the bartender’s inquisition. She was doing an admirable job running interference for her boss.
He smiled. “Manager, please.”
She cast another suspicious look at him as she pulled a cell phone from under the bar and dialed. She explained the situation, listened for a few seconds, then hung up.
“He’ll be out in a minute.”
A short while later, a tall, lanky man with long black hair and heavily tattooed arms and neck emerged from a back room. He eyed Harrison as he approached, then stopped beside him.
“Name’s Steve Reed,” he said. “And you are?”
“Jake,” Harrison replied. Not wanting to spook the manager with the details of his current employment, he chose a different tack. “Former Navy guy, working a new gig.” Attempting to ward off additional inquiries, he said, “The gig’s not important.”
Reed evaluated Harrison’s assertion, then replied, “How can I help?”
“I’m looking for a guy who dated a stripper who used to work here.” Harrison showed him Mixell’s picture. “Would’ve been a customer about fifteen years ago. Recognize him?”
Reed studied the photo, then replied, “Yeah, I recognize him. Don’t remember his name though. Big guy, well built, with a temper. Like you said, he dated a stripper. A platinum blonde who went by the stage name of Angel, but the guys called her Trish the Dish.”
“Trish the Dish?”
“Yeah. She was pretty hot and she dished out what she had to the guys, if you know what I mean.”
Harrison nodded. “What was her name?”
Reed shook his head. “I don’t recall.”
“Do you have any employment records, something with her name and address?”
“Nothing that far back. Just seven years, for tax purposes. In this line of work, the fewer records the better.”
“Do you know what happened to her?”
“She quit one weekend. Got engaged to some guy and was going to start her life over, or so the story went. Haven’t seen her since.”
Harrison pointed to Mixell’s photo. “To this guy?”
“Don’t know for sure, but I reckon so. She was pretty tight-lipped about personal stuff.”
“Can you describe her?”
Reed shrugged his shoulders. “White girl, average height and build. Beautiful face, nice tits and ass, lean legs. Platinum blonde most of the time, but sometimes dyed her hair pink or purple.”
“Did she have any friends or family?”