James was going forward, bar of soap in hand, when he ran into Lieutenant Jabo coming out of the control room.
“Sir.”
“Petty Officer James — how are you?”
“I wanted to see you, actually, sir.”
“I don’t know anything about fixing copiers.”
“None of us do. I wanted to see what our plans were for the next twenty-four hours.” He held out the soap bar so Jabo could see it. The broken gear had been pulled out, and the cavity had been carefully cleaned and smoothed. Tiny new teeth, to replace the broken ones, had been meticulously carved in the soap.
“I need to pour the epoxy in, and it takes twenty-four hours to cure. I want to make sure we won’t be taking any major angles in the meantime, or it’ll spill out. Have we got any drills like that planned? Any emergency blows on the plan of the day? Sir?”
Jabo nodded. “Should be smooth sailing. Plan on going to battle stations about 0530 tomorrow morning, then things should start to get interesting.”
“So we found what we’re looking for?”
“Let’s hope so,” said Jabo. “Both for the sake of our mission and my career prospects.”
“Sounds good sir,” said James. He started aft.
Jabo looked at his watch. “You going to pour the epoxy in that thing now?”
“Yes sir, I need to, if we’re going to start rocking and rolling in twenty four hours.”
“Mind if I watch?”
Back at the machinist’s work bench, deep in the engine room, Jabo looked over James’s shoulder as he worked. He put the bar of soap directly under the strong work light, picked it up, and blew into it to dislodge a speck of soap that had fallen into the mold. From a drawer he pulled out a small tin can of epoxy, and unscrewed the lid. Jabo smelled the paint-like odor.
“Ready?” said James.
“My heart is pounding,” said Jabo, and it actually was, a little bit.
James carefully poured the epoxy into the mold. It was thick and black, like motor oil. He poured it until it just swelled over the edge of the rim of the mold, but not a drop more. The black liquid shimmered, shaking slightly with the vibration of the equipment that was all around them: a fetal gear.
“Now what?”
“Twenty-four hours until it’s completely cured, like I said. It should set up somewhat in two.”
“What are you going to do with it for the next two hours?”
“I’m going to sit here with it, make sure it doesn’t spill and that nobody fucks with it. Sir.”
“If you do this right, the XO will be jacked. There may be a Navy Achievement Medal in it for you.”
“Great, I can’t wait to explain to my grandkids how I won my medal.”
“James, I’m not shitting you: this is really cool. Good job.”
They looked at the shimmering surface of the gear, and then Jabo excused himself and went forward.
The ship filled its day with all the routine activities that had to be done, in anticipation of battle stations the next morning that might last for hours. Thin sheets of steel were rolled into cylinders exactly the same diameter as a can of Navy-issue coffee. Trash was compacted into them and shot to the bottom of the ocean. A watch qualification board was held in the wardroom, an oral exam for a young sailor who had completed the exhaustive requirements for putting on silver dolphins. The ship went to periscope depth and acquired its broadcast, which Jabo reviewed in radio. Among the pages of routine traffic, three messages stood out. Lieutenant Perez received the orders he wanted, to the ORSE board in Norfolk, Virginia. Machinist Mate First Class Steele had been promoted to chief. And Petty Officer Third Class Wise’s wife had given birth at Tripler: mother and baby girl were doing fine. It was an unusual amount of good news in one broadcast, and Jabo was glad that during the brief, one-day break, they all might get a chance to enjoy it.
As he left radio, he ran directly into the XO.
“Morning, XO.”
“Jabo.” A long pause. “Broadcast?”
“Yes sir,” he said, handing over a clipboard to the XO for review. A separate copy had already been routed to the captain. The XO flipped through each page, scanning it briefly, and initialing it with his green pen. When he finished, he handed Danny back the clipboard without a word.
Danny considered briefly that it might be a good opportunity for him to kiss some ass, or at least make some kind of conciliatory conversational gesture to the XO. There were plenty of pleasant things in the broadcast to talk about. But in the end, he came up empty, and didn’t feel like speaking to him that much anyway. He supposed this was one of the things the captain had counseled him on: he needed to get better at faking it.
Three enlisted men sat around a table in Crew’s Mess, a deck of cards between them: Brady, the reactor operator, Cartwright and Deacon from sonar. They were going to play Hearts, coners versus nukes. They’d been given the day off, or as close to a day off as you can get on a nuclear submarine underway: no drills, no maintenance, no training. Word had come down that the captain wanted them rested and sharp for battle stations in the morning. The crew happily complied.
“Where the fuck is James?” said Deacon.
“On his way,” said Brady. “He’s doing something in the engine room, said he couldn’t leave the workbench for a couple of hours.”
Cartwright sipped his coffee. There was so much milk and sugar in it that it looked almost white. “He’s missing out. They gave us the day off and he’s back there working on something.”
“Yeah, what’s up? I hear we’re going to battle stations tomorrow morning?”
“That’s what the chief said,” replied Deacon. “It’s not on the plan of the day or anything, but he says Lieutenant Jabo figured something out, and we’re going to battle stations at 0530. We’re supposed to chill until then.”
“What did he figure out?”
“Whatever we’re looking for — he thinks he found it.”
“It’s the Boise,” said Cartwright. “The ship we’re exercising against.”
“And what do we do when we find her?” said Brady. Despite his pervasive nuke snobbery, he was fascinated by all things tactical, sonar and torpedoes, approaching and evading. Like many nukes, he harbored a secret fear that aft of the watertight engine room door, they were missing out on all the real fun. “Are we going to shoot her?”
“Not quite,” said Cartwright. “Just shoot some water slugs, talk to her on the UT, get her attention. “
“I guess Lieutenant Jabo can explain it to us in maneuvering.”
Deacon shook his head. “Nope, not anymore. They moved him forward, finally. He’s the battle stations OOD for this.”
“About time,” said Cartwright. “He’s a bad ass.”
“I heard he chopped off his own finger to keep fighting a casualty on the Alabama,” said Deacon.
“I heard he killed his navigator,” said Brady.
They all laughed.
“Well whatever he’s doing, it got us the day off.” He raised his coffee mug in a toast.
James rolled in, got himself a cup of coffee — black — and scooted in across from Brady.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said.
“What the fuck are you doing back there?”
“Mission critical work. Fixing the copier. You guys talking about this sub we’re hunting?”
Cartwright nodded as he shuffled. “Lieutenant Jabo figured out that she was pinging every morning at the same time. That’s why we’re going to battle stations tomorrow at 0530.”
“She’s active?” said James. “Isn’t she supposed to be hiding?”
“It’s an NAU,” said Cartwright. “I’m almost positive.”