Once his shower was completed, he wiped the stall with a squeegee, stored on the wall for just this purpose.
He felt much better as he slipped back into his coveralls and shoes, and returned to his berth to stow away his shaving kit.
He had long ago missed breakfast, but knew that he could always get some coffee and cereal in the crew’s mess. Lunch would shortly be served, and the galley was empty except for the ever-present cooks and several sailors who were using the vacant tables to study.
Not wishing to disturb them, Moore filled a bowl with Rice Krispies and milk, and shoveled down this combination while standing. Then, with a mug of coffee in hand, he climbed the ladder across from the milk dispenser. This put him immediately aft of the control room, where the SINS navigational equipment was stored. The perpetually locked door to the radio room lay further aft, yet Moore headed in the opposite direction.
The control room was brightly lit, and had but a smattering of junior personnel present at its various stations. Moore stopped by the vacant navigation plot, and all too soon found out the reason for this partial watch. The topmost chart showed that they were no longer at sea, but had reached Port Canaveral, the first stop on this patrol. Anxious to check out this facility, he continued to the forward access way As he peered up the hatch, a patch of blue sky invitingly beckoned, and he readily climbed upwards.
Moore’s first impression upon reaching the deck, was that he had just emerged from the netherworld.
The fresh air was like a tonic, its warm, tropical essence rich with the scent of the sea. The sun greeted him like a long-absent friend, and he momentarily closed his eyes and angled his face upwards to absorb its rays.
He was soon brought back to reality by a loud, grinding mechanical noise. This sound emanated from the adjoining pier. Here a huge crane was in the process of lifting the DSRV Avalon from the back of a flatbed truck. The DSRV itself was almost fifty feet long, and looked like a fat, oversized torpedo. It was painted black, with a pair of thrusters cut into its rounded bow, and a large white circular shroud protecting its stern-mounted prop.
Moore joined the collection of enlisted men and officers who were gathered aft of the Rickover’s sail.
This included the captain and his XO, who anxiously orchestrated the DSRV’s placement with miniature two-way radios. The tension was thick as the crane swung its special cargo over the Rickover’s stern. A four-legged cradle had been bolted to the deck directly above the aft access trunk, and the Avalon was slowly lowered into its protective grasp. Only when the DSRV was firmly in place did the tense atmosphere lighten.
The crane’s transfer sling was detached, and while the crew gathered around the Avalon, Moore took this opportunity to go ashore.
A narrow gangway led him to the pier. It felt a bit strange to be on dry land once more. His legs were shaky, and he could have sworn that the solidly anchored dock was bobbing up and down beneath him.
It took a bit of effort, but he managed to find his land legs and walk to the far end of the pier, away from the mass of machinery and humanity gathered beside the Rickover’s stern. From this new vantage point, he was able to view yet another submarine, docked in the slip directly opposite them. Appearing to be the same size as the Rickover, this vessel had one unique design feature that set it apart from the 688 class. Its hydroplanes, instead of being mounted on the sail, were set into the hull, giving it a sleek, streamlined appearance.
“Hello, Commander,” broke a voice from behind.
Moore turned his head and identified this newcomer as the Rickover’s supply officer.
“Good morning. Hop,” replied Moore, who watched his grinning shipmate join him at the end of the pier.
“What do you think of SSN-21?” asked Hop, in reference to the sub that lay on the opposite slip.
“Do you mean to say, that’s Seawolf?” questioned Moore, while turning his gaze back to the vessel that he had been previously admiring.
“That’s her, all right,” answered Hop.
“Too bad we won’t have time to take a tour below deck. That’s where the differences between Seawolf and the previous classes are really supposed to be noticeable.
“Well I’ll be,” reflected Moore.
“To tell you the truth, I really didn’t know what class of vessel she belonged to.”
“That’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Commander.
Except for its hull-mounted hydroplanes and slightly redesigned sail, Seawolfs exterior isn’t all that different from a 688’s. But that’s as far as the similarities go. Why even its hull is formed out of a radically new type of steel that allows Seawolf to penetrate depths that we can only dream about.”
“So I understand. Hop. And if my memory serves me right, the folks back at EB sure had a hell of a time getting those hull welds up to spec.”
“That’s all part of the learning process, my friend,” said Hop, whose glance didn’t leave the prototype warship.
“I’m glad I got up in time to get topside and see all this. Hop. The way I’ve been cutting Z’s, I could have slept right through our port visit. How soon until we return to sea?”
“We’ll be setting sail as soon as Avalon is secured, which should be within the hour. Scuttlebutt has it that we’re taking the DSRV with us in case we should happen upon the Lewis and Clark stranded on the bottom.”
“Hop, I wish that were the case, but unfortunately the Avalon’s presence has nothing to do with a possible underwater rescue. Right now, all that I can really tell you is that I’ll be using the DSRV for a vastly different purpose.”
“That’s too bad,” replied the supply officer as he looked to his watch and added.
“We’d better start back for the Rickover, Commander.”
“Very well. Hop,” said Moore, who took a last glance at Seawolf before following his shipmate back down the pier.
Waiting for him alongside the Rickover’s gangway was Captain Walden and a short, barrel-chested lieutenant, with a square jaw and grey sideburns.
“Ah, Commander Moore,” welcomed Walden.
“We were just talking about you. I’d like you to meet the Avalon’s pilot. Lieutenant Barnes.” “Please call me Ned,” said the deep-voiced veteran, who was in his late forties.
Moore accepted a vice like handshake, and noted the way the pilot stared directly into his eyes as he responded.
“Pleased to meet you, Ned.”
“The captain here was just tellin’ me that you’ll be callin’ the shots aboard Avalon,” remarked Barnes.
“Where are we headin’, and what’s our mission?”
Moore hesitated a moment before guardedly replying.
“I’ll be using the Avalon to explore the depths of the Tongue of the Ocean.”
“Does this have anything to do with the search for, Lewis and Clark?” asked the pilot.
“Not directly,” returned Moore.
Sensing that Moore knew more than he was admitting, Barnes questioned Walden.
“Captain, how long is it going to take us to get to the Tongue of the Ocean?”
“We’ll be rounding the northern tip of Andros Island early tomorrow morning,” answered Walden.
“You know, I’m still curious to find out more about this operation myself. Commander.”
“All in due course, sir,” said Moore, who was saved any further explanation by the arrival of the Rickover’s XO.
Moore excused himself, and headed for the submarine’s forward access trunk. After filling his lungs with a last breath of warm, tropical air, he climbed down into the vessel’s cool, darkened interior.