Moore pulled out his blue cloth napkin from a silver ring that had his name stencilled on it. This same napkin was carefully folded after every meal, and returned to its holder, for use the next time around.
“How are you getting along, Mr. Moore?” asked Walden as he passed him the server holding three types of salad dressing.
Moore answered while covering his lettuce, tomato and cucumber salad with a spoonful of french dressing.
“I’m doing just fine. Captain. Hop’s been taking good care of me.”
The XO turned to his left, and put a tape into the cassette player. The pastoral sounds of Beethoven’s Sixth Symphony soon filled the wardroom, and Moore contentedly munched his salad and accepted the next course of veal parmigiana, spaghetti, and steamed broccoli.
“We’ll be surfacing at 2100 and arriving at Port Canaveral two hours later,” informed Walden between bites of his veal.
“You’re more than welcome to join the XO and his watch party on the sail, Mr. Moore, though I’m afraid the visibility will be a bit limited at that late hour.”
Moore was in the midst of a mouthful of spaghetti, and could only nod in response to this offer. Quick to continue the conversation was Lieutenant Can, the handsome, blond-haired officer seated to Moore’s left.
“I can’t wait for dawn, so that we can get our first good look at Seawolf.”
“Too bad that we won’t have the time to tour her, Weaps,” added the bespectacled navigator, who sat across from Carr.
“What’s Seawolf doing down in Port Canaveral?” managed Moore after washing down his spaghetti with a sip of milk.
It was the captain who answered him.
“Sea trials, Mr. Moore. Because of the radically new nature of Seawolfs operational systems, the Navy has decided to break her in beneath the waters of our Tongue of the Ocean test range.”
This revelation was news to Moore, who thoughtfully responded.
“And when will that be?”
“Though the exact time of embark is classified, from what I gather, things are progressing a bit ahead of schedule for a change, which means that Seawolf could be setting sail as early as next week.”
Moore was uncharacteristically quiet during the rest of his meal, his thoughts instead focused on the implications of this surprise revelation. And it was during his dessert of apple pie a la mode, that he finally realized why Admiral Proctor was so adamant on sending him on this rushed cruise. The Rickover was being used to scour the waters of the Andros test range, to determine if any unknown man-made dangers could possibly interfere with Seawolfs upcoming sea trials.
The Navy could not risk having Seawolf share the Lewis and Clark’s fate, for if Seawolf were to be somehow spirited away to an enemy port, one of the greatest intelligence losses in history would befall the country.
It would soon be time to share his suspicions with the Rickover’s CO. Still not certain how Walden would react to his incredible tale, Moore patiently waited for the proper opportunity. Meanwhile, he would continue getting familiar with the platform and crew that Command had given him to work with.
Over coffee, Moore learned that it would take the better part of a day to fit the DSRV that they had come to Florida to pick up, onto the Rickover’s hull. And if all went smoothly, they’d be leaving Port Canaveral sometime tomorrow evening, to begin the three-hundred-mile journey to the Tongue of the Ocean. Moore was anxious to get to their destination and see what mysteries the depths held for them.
Every evening after dinner, the wardroom was turned into a theater. Over hot popcorn and drinks, a picture was shown from the boat’s rather extensive film catalogue. Moore was asked to choose from this list, and after careful consideration, he decided that an action-adventure flick was in order. He chose Predator, staring Arnold Schwarzenegger.
As it turned out, no one was disappointed with his choice. This included the captain, who sat through most of the movie before being called away to handle a minor problem in engineering.
After the film was over, Moore decided to visit the control room before turning in for the evening. Declining Hop’s offer to show him the way, he made it to the red-lit compartment all on his own.
The Rickover was about to go to periscope depth, and it took Moore several minutes for his eyes to adjust to the lack of direct lighting. He felt a bit more at ease as he identified the current OOD as Lieutenant Clark, the boat’s communications officer, Clark wore a dark green, woolen sweater over his coveralls, and displayed his usual, tight-lipped, no-nonsense personality.
The boat’s diving officer was Chief Ellwood. The COB had the unlit stub of a cigar in his mouth, and greeted Moore without taking his eyes off the dials and gauges of the main control panel.
“Evening, sir. Are you ready for that driving lesson that I promised you? If you want, I’ll ask the officer of the deck if you can take us up to periscope depth.”
“That’s not necessary, Chief,” replied Moore.
“I’m content just to watch.”
“Just holler if you change your mind,” said the COB, who suddenly sat forward and tweaked the helmsman’s ear with his right index finger.
“Hey, Kowalski, watch your course!” he gruffly warned.
“And put both your hands on that steerin’ yoke, son. You’re sittin’ there like you was drivin’ your dad’s Chevy. Don’t forget, you’re steerin’ a billion-dollar submarine.”
Moore couldn’t help laughing. Because of the total absence of windows aboard, he had almost forgotten their current method of transport. Where else could a kid barely twenty be responsible for driving a costly vessel such as the Rickaver through the black depths?
A stop at the navigational plot allowed Moore to see their current position off the coast of central Florida.
The precise coordinates were determined by constant updates from the boat’s SINS equipment. As the quartermaster called out his suggested course changes to the OOD, Moore continued on to sonar.
Petty Officer Tim Lacey was the current watch supervisor here. He smiled when Moore entered, and Lacey beckoned to the newcomer to have a seat beside the broad-band CRT console.
“Welcome to the house of pain, sir,” said Lacey warmly.
Lacey perched on a stool behind three seated junior technicians. Each wore headphones, and faced a glowing monitor screen. Their job was to monitor the variety of sounds being conveyed through the sub’s passive sensors. These hydrophones were positioned throughout the hull, and could also be deployed on a towed array. They were accessed by manipulating a thin black joystick that was mounted into each console, and by addressing a square keyboard positioned beside the CRT screen.
“I’ve got a new contact in our baffles, Tim,” revealed the young sailor seated at the middle console.
“Designate Sierra nine, biological.”
“Good work, babe,” said Lacey, who reached up for a bulkhead-mounted microphone.
“Conn, sonar, we have a new contact, bearing three-three-zero, designate Sierra nine, biological.”
“Sonar, Conn, designate Sierra nine biological, aye, sonar,” returned a voice from the intercom speaker.
“Would you like to have a listen, sir?” asked Lacey, who pulled off his own headphones and handed them to the newcomer.
Moore readily placed these headphones over his ears, and listened to a distant crackling noise.
“They’re shrimp, sir,” revealed Lacey.
“They always remind me of a bunch of out-of-control castanets.”
Moore grinned with this comparison, and handed the headphones back to his host. “I’ve always had a genuine respect for anyone sharp enough to make sense out of the sounds of the sea,” said Moore.
“It’s an amazing science.”
“It’s more than that, sir,” replied Lacey.