The Damage Control Assistant, or DCA, showed up and started taking reports and checking off boxes on his dry erase board. Within minutes he announced, “Sir all stations have reported. We’re at battle stations and fully rigged.”
“That’s got to be a record,” said the captain. “I think some people were cheating and not actually sleeping.”
It was 0535.
Jabo fought the temptation to look at his watch. He regretted calling away battle stations so early, because in that state, there was none of the routine business to distract him from the slow passage of the next thirty minutes. No tags to approve, no drills to run, no maneuvers to order. Just the undetectable motion of their ship through the ocean, and the Boise somewhere in front of them. V-12 fidgeted by the chart. Jabo finally looked at his watch.
Five minutes had gone by.
In maneuvering, Lieutenant Bannick looked over his panels one last time, and then signed himself into the EOOW’s log.
“Lieutenant Bannick is the engineering office of the watch.”
Each of the three enlisted watchstanders acknowledged in turn.
“Welcome back to the engine room, sir,” said Brady, the reactor operator directly in front of him.
“It’s good to be back,” said Bannick, and he wasn’t lying.
Like all officers on the boat, with the exception of the supply officer, he’d been to nuclear power school, spent his first year at sea in the engine room, and had in large part been selected for the nuclear power program to begin with because of his engineering prowess. He was comfortable in the engine room, and more confident, less terrified of fucking up than he was on the conn. Not that he didn’t have massive responsibilities back there: a nuclear reactor, about twenty feet in front of him, was his responsibility. But as Officer of the Deck, he had responsibility for the entire ship, for the mission. During his first couple of years, back here, they used to consider Bannick good at his job, before he moved forward and the cracks in his abilities started to show. He would never be a great officer like Jabo, he knew. And Jabo certainly knew it, the first time he laid eyes on him. He didn’t crave that responsibility, and wasn’t good at it. He didn’t feel any humiliation at being moved back to the engine room. What he felt was profound relief. As he sat down behind the EOOW’s small desk, he thought even the chair felt more comfortable.
“So this is it for you, right sir?” said Brady. “Getting out?”
“Already got my separation orders.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Brand Management at Kraft Foods.”
All three watchstanders chuckled at that, which stung Bannick more than he thought it would. Kraft was a great company, he was proud to be going there.
“What are you going to do there? Sell cheese?”
“Kraft is an eighteen billion dollar company,” he said. “They do a hell of a lot more than cheese.”
“Like what?”
“They make Jell-O, Maxwell House Coffee, Ritz Crackers, A-1 Steak Sauce. All kinds of stuff. “
The watchstanders still seemed amused.
“And they don’t mind throwing money around,” said Bannick. “They’re paying me twice what I make in the Navy.”
That got their attention, and it was completely true. They were all under the impression that officers were obscenely overpaid.
“So, what exactly will you do?” asked Brady. “Design a better Ritz cracker?”
“No, being a brand manager takes years — it’s like being a captain of a ship. I’ll be working toward that.”
“Is this what you wanted to do?” asked Brady. There was genuine curiosity in his voice, all the teasing had gone. “When you decided you wanted to get out of the Navy, is this the kind of job you were looking for?”
Bannick thought it over for a minute. “Here was my main requirement. For the rest of my life, I want a job where if I fuck up, it doesn’t kill anybody.”
“Well that rules out crossing guard,” said Brady.
Five more minutes went by. Jabo began to worry.
The XO was in control now, avoiding eye contact, seething with resentment. He stood directly in front of the conn, his back to them, close enough that Jabo could smell his Old Spice. He had the stopwatch around his neck, ready to manage the details of the special procedure, although he radiated doubt about the plan that Jabo had foisted upon them. They were all on top of each other, crowded in control, the captain, the XO, V-12, and him. This is probably something that doesn’t happen in corporate America, thought Jabo, a bunch of executives get pissed at each other and then lock themselves together in a small room for a few hours. Or weeks.
He had convinced the captain to act on that daily pinging because it was all they had, but what if it wasn’t Boise?
The XO’s doubt was contagious. What if it was some far away ship, some weird active sonar from a fishing boat, some electronic glitch in their own computers? What if whatever was making the noise on the Boise had stopped? It gnawed at him that it didn’t match up with any active sonars, or in fact any sounds emitted by any submarines, friend or foe. Exactly what did he have to base his theory on, other than hope? The situation had called for bold action — that daily pinging might be the only thing they get. But it wouldn’t make it any easier to stomach if nothing happened.
Jabo knew what would happen then — he’d seen it before. The XO would tear him down, it’s what guys like him were good at. The story of the morning pinging would be a seed to build on, a narrative that Jabo was reckless, or stupid, or worse. If they never found the Boise, he would blame this moment, saying Jabo’s crazy theory had taken them off track, diverted them from the objective, screwed the mission. He’d probably even work on the legend from the Alabama, saying Jabo’s role had been overstated or worse. He’d tear Jabo down, was just looking for an opening to do it.
“Be careful with that thing,” said V-12. He was pointing at Jabo’s hands, where he’d been unconsciously rolling and unrolling his copy of the special procedure.
“What? Why?”
“We can’t make a copy of it.”
The XO’s shoulders tensed in front of them and the back of his neck turned red.
“Sir, it’s 0600,” said the Chief of the Watch. Jabo had asked him earlier to announce it, although that felt pointless now, everyone on the boat was staring at his watch, waiting to see if Jabo was right or wrong.
“Aye,” said Jabo. He looked expectantly toward sonar, waiting for them announce the pinging.
Another five minutes went by.
Jabo exhaled loudly. “Maybe it’s our depth.”
“How’s that?” snapped the captain.
“We always heard her at a much shallower depth,” said Jabo. “Maybe we’re in a sound channel down here, away from the signal.”
“Is there a channel?” said the XO. “Did you shoot an XBT?” An XBT was essentially a tiny torpedo with a thermometer on it, attached to the ship by thousands of feet of copper wire as thin as a human hair. It was shot out of the signal launcher and the temperature of the ocean at every depth was recorded as it fell to the bottom of the ocean.
Jabo’s face was turning red; he hadn’t even thought to look at the acoustic profile when he ordered that odd depth of 720 feet. He was about to confess when V-12 appeared at his side with a long scroll of paper.
“This is from six hours ago,” he said. “Van shot it. Almost completely flat. No sound channel.”
The captain looked at the paper while Jabo silently thanked V-12 with a relieved nod.