This would put them at their desired destination shortly thereafter.
Thomas Moore spent his afternoon in seclusion. Tucked away in his bunk, he carefully read all the material that he had collected since his initial discovery of the Lewis and Clark. This event seemed to have taken place long ago, and he found it hard to believe that he had been involved in the case for less than a week.
At 1650 hours, one of the mess stewards quietly entered the compartment and peeked around Moore’s curtain.
“Excuse me, sir,” he politely whispered.
“But will you be joining the captain for dinner?”
“I sure will,” answered Moore, who had skipped lunch and was ravenously hungry.
After stowing away his notes beneath his mattress, and sealing the locker shut with a padlock, he proceeded to the head to wash up. Hop was in the process of drying his hands when Moore entered.
“Evening,” said Hop, while Moore shuffled past him to get to the sink.
“I hope you’ll be having dinner with us.”
“Wild horses couldn’t keep me away,” said Moore.
“I’m starved.”
“You picked the right meal to have an appetite, Commander. While in Port Canaveral, one of my men was able to get us a couple of fresh turkeys. They’ve been cooking all day, and the last time I checked, they looked perfect for eating.”
Moore washed his face and hands, and gratefully took the towel that Hop handed him.
“Thanks, Hop. You know, there’s a question that I’ve been meaning to ask you. How do you manage to keep so trim with all the good chow that they serve around here?”
Hop patted his belly and grinned.
“I guess it’s genetic, because no matter how much I eat, I always seem to remain the same weight.”
“It must be nice. Hop, because I just look at food and put on the pounds.”
“I hear you, my friend, and if it’s any consolation, the Rickover’s got a Lifecycle and rowing machine available back in engineering. So this evening you can chow down all you want, and ease your guilt with a little exercise later on.”
“I just might do that. Hop,” said Moore, who followed his shipmate out of the head and into the nearby wardroom.
Captain Walden was already seated at the head of the table, with his XO on his right. Moore’s position was to the captain’s left, with a square-jawed newcomer seated beside him. Lieutenant Ned Barnes, the Avalon’s pilot, was all business as he passed the dressing to Moore and went back to work on his salad.
Tonight’s background music was Aaron Copland’s, Appalachian Spring. Its spirited melodies evoked an American mood, and provided the perfect accompaniment for the traditional meal that soon filled their plates.
As Moore was learning, submariners did things right, and the evening’s menu was no exception. After a salad of fresh lettuce, with sliced tomatoes, cucumbers and green peppers, the steward arrived with the main course. Beginning with the captain, he circled the table with a silver-plated platter of sliced turkey.
Then came the trimmings, including corn-bread dressing, yams, mashed potatoes, string beans, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie for dessert.
During dinner, conversation was at a minimum, with comments confined to the excellent food. During coffee afterwards, they were able to learn a bit more about the newcomer in their midst. It was Hop who got the ball rolling.
“Lieutenant Barnes,” he said in a serious tone.
“I don’t want you to think that we eat this way every evening. In your honor, our cook was able to appropriate a couple of turkeys while we were picking you up.”
“I’m always scared when you use that word appropriate, Hop,” interrupted the captain.
“I sure hope those birds were purchased legitimately.”
“It’s nothing the Admiral won’t miss,” deadpanned Hop.
“At least, not until Thanksgiving.”
A chorus of laughter was followed by the deep voice of Ned Barnes.
“That was one fine meal, gentlemen.
Where I’ve been for the last month, the only safe chow we had to look forward to were MRE’s.” “Where was that?” asked the captain.
Relishing the spotlight, Barnes scanned the faces of his audience before answering.
“Between you and me, Avalon was doing a little salvage job off the coast of Nicaragua. A type TR-1700 diesel-powered attack sub hit a reef there, and sank in a hundred feet of water. We were flown down to determine the nationality of this vessel, and to check on survivors.” “What did you find?” asked the XO, who spoke for all present.
Barnes took his time answering.
“A chlorine leak in the battery well sealed the fate of the boat’s twenty nine crew members, who wore no uniforms and didn’t appear to be from an organized military unit. Other than the original warranty papers from the German factory that constructed the sub, we couldn’t find any evidence of its owners, though we did make an unusual find in five of the vessel’s six torpedo tubes. Instead of weapons, they were stuffed with several thousand pounds of pure opium. Shit, there was enough poppy in there to addict half the population of New York City!”
“So now the drug cartels are using submarines,” reflected the captain.
“I wouldn’t be surprised if the Rickover was to make a little visit to those waters sometime in the near future.”
Moore had heard rumors that drug-smuggling submarines had paid America’s shores a visit, and this story seemed to prove that they were true. While the Rickover’s officers discussed the best tactical way to counter such a threat, Moore carefully rolled up his napkin and excused himself.
In an effort to digest his meal, he began an extensive walking tour of the boat. He started off in engineering, passing by the vacant exercise machines. The reactor and power plant occupied a full two-thirds of the Rickover, and he was able to stretch his legs in relatively uncrowded passageways.
After paying his compliments to the cooks in the galley, he climbed to the deck below and walked around the torpedo room several times. The dimly lit compartment was quiet, as usual, and the watch team was content to let him take his stroll, without bothering him with any questions.
He concluded his evening in the control room. The excellent chow seemed to have put everyone in a good mood, and Moore spent an informative hour at the navigation plot, learning the intricacies of keeping a modern attack submarine on course.
Petty Officer Lacey wasn’t on duty in sonar, but Moore did find the COB fulfilling his watch as the diving officer. Chief Ellwood had half of an unlit cigar in his mouth, and wouldn’t let Moore leave until he tried his hand at driving the Rickover.
Lieutenant Carr was the current OOD, and the easygoing Californian readily approved this unscheduled switch of helmsman. Moore was a bit uneasy as he settled into the upholstered chair and grabbed the control yoke. It was stiffer than he had imagined, and with the COB close beside him, he initiated several minor depth changes, careful to keep the boat on course.
“How’s she handle?” asked the COB, after relighting his cigar and putting his feet up on the center console.
Needing both hands and the combined strength of his arms to pull the sub out of a slight three-degree descent, Moore replied.
“It’s not quite up to “Vette standards.”
“Hell, she can turn just like a Jet lighter if needed,” informed the COB.
“And that ain’t bad, considerin’ that we’re pushin’ almost seven thousand tons of boat through the water.”
Moore was grateful when the helmsman relieved him several minutes later. And after thanking the COB for his driving lesson, he left the control room, with a new respect for its men and machinery.