Jabo grabbed a few hours of sleep late that evening. He thought of his wife, Angi, running in front of him on a rainy Seattle road as he drifted off. He missed her so bad it pained him, but something about the memory made him fall into a deep dreamless sleep. About two hours was all he needed, and it was all he got.
When he woke up, he thought for a disorienting second that he was back on the Alabama, and that his friend Hayes Fountain would be awake in the stateroom, putting on his Nikes, ready to go on one of his mythic treadmill runs that he logged meticulously in a binder, on graph paper, each patrol. Jabo wondered if that would be how it was for him now, all the memories of all his boats jumbling together until he was an old man and he wouldn’t be able to tell one boat from another when he reminisced. He missed Angi constantly, it was part of the background noise of his life at sea. But he realized with some surprise how much he missed the Alabama, too, and the shipmates he’d had, on this boat where he was in many ways still a stranger.
He showered, and met V-12 at the watertight door to the engine room at 2300 for their prewatch tour.
“You can skip this…” said V-12.
“Not my style,” said Danny.
They walked through the engine room and verified everything was in order. It was, as expected, quiet. The men on the 1800–2400 watch had had the midwatch the night before, and were ready for the luxury of at least six uninterrupted hours of sleep, something that only came along every three days. They checked the logs, talked to the men, and then went forward to grab a quick bite to eat.
The wardroom was darkened, as Burkhardt and Perez finished up a movie before the midnight meal, or “midrats,” were served. Submarines, with the day broken into four six hour watches, served four meals a day.
“What’s the flick?” said Jabo.
“Point Break,” said Burkhardt and Perez together.
“Good one,” said Danny. There were two kinds of scenery you grew to miss at sea, he’d learned, and there were cinematic remedies for both. Some underway favorites contained lots of beautiful women, and others contained lots of beautiful landscapes. Point Break was the latter, and had been a favorite on the Alabama too. “Peace through superior firepower,” he said, quoting the film.
“Fear causes hesitation,” said Burkhardt. “And hesitation will cause your worst fears to come true.”
Perez joined in. “If you want the ultimate, you have to be willing to pay the ultimate price.”
“I can see you guys have watched this a few times.”
“About five so far,” said Perez.
“Maybe we shouldn’t get too much of our personal philosophy from a bad Patrick Swayze movie,” said V-12.
“Fuck you, it’s a classic.”
“Better this than Dirty Dancing,” said Jabo.
There was easy laughter around the table, and Jabo could feel the bond between the junior officers. It was a direct byproduct of the huge responsibility that the submarine forced placed on the shoulders of twenty-five year old young men. It was slightly tighter with Perez and Burkhardt, who’d been on the boat longer — the reason why they were on the conn. But V-12 was there too, well-liked and well on his way to becoming a solid watch officer.
Petty Officer Spencer, the cook, came in and turned on the lights as Patrick Swayze took on that last giant wave, and Johnny Utah threw his badge into the surf. The credits rolled as he placed platters of cold cuts and bread on the table. Jabo took a single piece of wheat bread, cut it in half, and started building himself a sandwich. The half-sandwich looked tiny in his big hands.
“That’s all you’re having?” said V-12.
“That’s it,” said Jabo. “I had a big breakfast.”
“You worried about getting fat?”
“My wife is hot,” he said. “I have to stay in shape.”
“Let’s see some pictures,” said Burkhardt.
“Never,” said Jabo. “None of you will ever see her.”
They were laughing as the Captain came in. “What’s going on in here? Plotting a mutiny?”
“No sir,” said V-12. “Lieutenant Jabo was just telling us how hot his wife is.”
“Nice, Jabo, real classy.” He looked at Jabo’s mini-sandwich. “Is that why you’re eating like a sorority girl?”
“Yes sir,” he said. “And I’m going to make myself puke it up before I take the watch.”
“You’re ongoing?” he said, the smile frozen on his face. “Aft?”
“Yes sir,” said Jabo. He got the distinct feeling that the captain had wanted Jabo up front now, and that the XO had chosen to ignore his wishes.
“Hm,” he said, and a slightly nervous silence descended in the wardroom as the officers processed his obvious displeasure. Just then the XO walked in.
“Midrats!” he exclaimed. “Spencer! Where’s my special mustard?”
His eyes swept the room and he quickly detected the tension that had preceded him. He nervously glanced down at the platters of food on the table.
“Cold cuts!” he said with artificial enthusiasm. “Did you know that cold cuts are one of the most expensive meals you can serve on the boat? The crew always thinks it’s the chop going cheap, but really it’s the opposite.” He was proud of his knowledge.
The captain wiped the corners of his mouth with a napkin. “I had no idea,” he said.
“Well,” said V-12, breaking the silence and standing up. He looked at Danny. “Little hand says it’s time to rock and roll.”
Everyone stared.
“What the hell is that, V-12?” said the captain.
“It’s from the movie!” he said, pointing at the screen. “It’s from Point Break!”
Everyone laughed out loud even as the captain shook his head.
Jabo and V-12 made their way to the engine room, and into maneuvering, where they took the watch. It was the same team they’d had, including James, the Marine Corps veteran, staring dutifully into his panel, as always somewhat aloof from the rest of the watchsection, even in those closed quarters. There was a flurry of activity as they took the watch, signing into the logs, looking at the night orders for the slight bit of activity that would be taking place on their watch: securing the port motor generator. But soon, in the quiet of the midwatch, Jabo started to feel resentment creep back over his exile in the engine room. Not because of pride — but because of his deep certainty that he could serve the ship, and the mission, best in the control room, driving the ship and leading the crew. He tried to think of it as a learning experience, as the captain had suggested, but the lessons eluded him: instead he seemed to be wasting a lot of energy because of some weird personal vendetta belonging to the XO. He sighed heavily.
“Something bothering you?” asked V-12.
“Yeah. I heard we’re almost out of real milk.”
“I guess that never happened on the Trident,” said the reactor operator.
“Never,” said Jabo. “We kept two dairy cows in missile compartment lower level, Bossy and Flossie, gave us fresh milk all patrol. I was Chief Dairy Officer.”
“I heard it was more exciting than that,” said V-12. “On that particular Trident.”
“Hm.”
The watchstanders nodded expectantly.
“Seriously,” said V-12. “Why don’t you tell us what happened? We’ve all got secret clearances.”
As they waited for him to tell the story, it occurred to Jabo that he didn’t talk about his last patrol on the Alabama much, even to Angi. If they ever made him see a Navy shrink, which they’d threatened to, the doctor might diagnose him with some kind of post-traumatic stress. And maybe that was a part of it. More likely, thought Jabo, it was a deeply ingrained inclination to avoid talking about himself. But a long six hours of watch dragged out in front of them, and he didn’t have that many good jokes.