“Hammock,” said Jabo, and they laughed.
He looked at the panels in front of him, which didn’t look all that different from what he’d learned on Alabama. The watchstanders, too, seemed familiar. The nuclear enlisted men of the submarine force fancied themselves, with some justification, as the smartest men on the boat, if not the smartest men in the navy. They were unquestionably the biggest smart asses. They grouped all the other crewmen together, calling them “coners,” as they occupied the front part of the submarine. While all the boat’s officers were also nuclear trained, as well as college graduates, the enlisted men didn’t mind challenging their intellect as well. It made the watch go faster.
The boat was moving at Ahead Flank, 100 % reactor power, transiting to the search area as fast as possible. This meant every man in maneuvering had to be on his toes, but especially the throttleman, who controlled the flow of steam to the main engines. If he screwed up, the reactor could exceed 100 % power, a reportable incident. Jabo watched him work; he was a lean, serious-looking young man, who scanned his panel efficiently while making minute adjustments to the throttle. Jabo noticed half of a tattoo poking out from under his sleeve.
“Is that an Eagle, Globe, and Anchor?” he said, surprised, recognizing the emblem of the United States Marine Corps.
“Yes sir,” said the throttleman, not offering further explanation.
“James was in the Marines before he was in the Navy,” explained V-12.
“No shit.” said Jabo. “How does that happen?”
“I enlisted in the Marines right after high school. Did my two years in an infantry platoon and got out. Got a job slinging packages at Federal Express for a year, decided I wanted back in the military. But something different.”
“And now you’re a nuclear mechanic?”
“Yes sir.”
“Wow,” said Jabo, impressed. He was really evaluating James now, and he did have the short hair and the erect posture, and most of all the earnest demeanor, of someone who’d been through Parris Island. “You went from being a Marine Corps infantryman to a nuke on a submarine. That’s really two ends of the spectrum.”
James shrugged. “Not that different,” he said, scanning his panel, adjusting the throttles slightly. “There are lots of misconceptions on both sides.”
“How so?” asked Jabo.
“Those grunts aren’t as dumb as you think.”
“And?”
“And you guys aren’t complete pussies.”
They all pondered that.
A few minutes later, the 1MJ phone whooped — somebody was calling maneuvering. The 1MJ was one of the boat’s many sound powered circuits — an ingenious, time-honored navy system of communication that required no power source other than the speaker’s voice. Jabo picked it up.
“Maneuvering, Jabo.”
“Lieutenant Jabo, this is the XO. How’s your watch going?”
“Fine sir. Learning a lot.”
“Good, glad to hear it.” There was a pause, but Jabo was comfortable with silence. Finally the XO cleared his throat and continued.
“I believe Chief Beck is your Engineering Watch Supervisor — could you have him contact me in my stateroom?”
“Aye aye sir.”
The XO hung up.
Jabo picked up the 2MC microphone, the amplified circuit for the engine room. Normally underway, amplified circuits were avoided because of the noise. But since they were going Ahead Flank, and their own machinery was operating so loudly, it didn’t matter. “Engineering Watch Supervisor, come to maneuvering.”
Within seconds Chief Beck was there, still tanned from their time in Hawaii. He was standing watch as the Engineering Watch Supervisor, the senior enlisted man in the engine room, but he was also the senior mechanic on the boat. He looked a little surprised to see Jabo in there with young V-12.
“Who’s teaching who in there?”
“I like to think we can all learn from each other,” said Jabo.
“Good point. You called, sir?”
“The XO wants to talk to you.”
“May I?” he said, pointing to the 1MJ.
“Certainly. He’s in his stateroom”
He selected the XO’s stateroom with the dial and turned the crank.
“XO, this is Chief Beck.” He began nodding as the XO spoke on the other end.
“Yes sir. I understand. You know we don’t have anybody qualified to do that… yes sir. My best mechanic. Aye, aye sir. We’ll figure something out.”
He hung up with a quizzical look on his face. “Weird,” he said.
Everyone in maneuvering waited for more.
“The copier is tits up,” he said. “God only knows how long until we’re in port to swap it out. So the XO told me to put my best man on it, get the goddamn thing fixed no matter what. I guess we can’t run a submarine without a steady supply of copies. “
“Can you do it?” asked Jabo.
He shrugged. “Not like any of us have ever fixed a copy machine before. But I’ve got mechanics who can fix anything.” He pointed at James.
“I’m on it,” the throttleman responded, without taking his eyes off his panel.
Honolulu
Master Chief Cote took the long way out of the hospital, leaving through the main reception area, which he almost never did. It was a beautiful day, however, and he thought he would walk outside a little before getting in his car and driving back to the house. He had increasingly less to do at the hospital. The navy was getting comfortable with the idea of living without him. And, increasingly, Cote was getting comfortable with the idea of living without the navy. He knew he would move back to Indiana when he got out, it was a foregone conclusion. So he was already nostalgic for Hawaii and determined to enjoy the days he had left in paradise, every palm tree, every wave, every flawless sunrise.
The reception area was more hectic than normal. Almost every seat was taken with a sick person or their companion. Standing at the main desk, a young pretty girl was crying her eyes out and pleading with the receptionist.
“Please, you’ve got to help me!” she said. “The other lady told me I could come back in a couple of days and check.”
The woman at the desk gave her a fatigued roll of her eyes. “I don’t know anything about that. And I can’t give you that kind of information if you’re not family,” she said. “I can’t even tell you if he’s here.”
“Please!” she said, the word elongated and turning into sobs. Other people in the waiting area began to turn away and mutter in embarrassment. Cote paused just a moment. The girl, in her desperation for help, sensed his gaze.
Her eyes dropped to the silver dolphins on his chest.
She ran to him and grabbed his arms. “Please, you’re a submariner! You’ve got to help me!”
“I’m not sure I can,” he said. “But I’ll try. Tell me what’s wrong.”
“It’s my boyfriend… he told me he’d write me a letter before the boat pulled out… I never got anything! And now I know his boat is overdue… all the wives are talking about it. And I can’t get anyone to tell me shit because we’re not married yet!”
At the mention of “overdue” Cote perked up a little. It wasn’t unheard of, but it was a lot more unusual than it used to be during the height of the Cold War, when captains had to lead their boats into peril and improvise to get them home. He’d been on a Sturgeon class boat once in shallow water near the Kamchatka Peninsula when the Soviets somehow got a whiff of them. For two weeks, the Soviet High Command had a better idea of their location than Subpac, as they dodged sonobuoys and ice floes in the Sea of Okhotsk. Submarine schedules had become much more predictable since the demise of their old foe.