O'Brien had been reassigned after a time to the topside working party, helping to manhandle the torpedoes out of the hatch. Pulled by the considerable muscle of a cradle winch, but guided by the combined muscle power of the working party, each torpedo was pulled free of Pittsburgh's embrace and locked into a cradlelike loading tray, which had been mounted on the upper deck forward of the loading hatch and elevated to a nearly sixty-degree angle.
Once clear of the hatch, the torpedo, snug now in the loading tray with its high, U-shaped flanges, was lowered until it was horizontal to the deck. Then it was attached to the business end of a towering, bright yellow crane on the pier alongside the submarine, which hauled it up and swayed it clear to a waiting torpedo cradle on the dock.
The evolution was a polished and smooth-running dance of men and machines; O'Brien was surprised at the efficiency of the design, which cleverly hid the loading equipment, racks, and guides as part of the boat's decks. A popular pastime for all enlisted men in the Navy was to gripe at the way things didn't work; this time, though, some careful thought and spectacular engineering had gone into the loading design. The entire process of unloading or loading Pittsburgh's high-explosive toys — including the process of breaking down the decks and setting up the handling gear — took just twelve hours.
O'Brien found it interesting, though, that even in an age of push-button warfare, computers, and automatic machinery, the actual dirty work of manhandling torpedoes on and off a submarine still required considerable old-fashioned sweat and muscle power.
"Okay!" Master Chief Warren called. "Secured!"
"Let 'er go! Haul 'er up! Up! Up!" Weps called, and the torpedo they were currently working on was swayed free of the loading tray. Steadied by a half dozen lines held by men on the deck and on the pier, the torpedo was swayed clear of the deck, out over the dark water, and edged gently toward the waiting cradle ashore.
O'Brien and the others had a few moments, then, to rest. It was hot as the day pushed toward noon. The sun had burned off all of the fog that had lain over Mare Island and the straits between the base and Vallejo earlier that morning. Seabirds shrieked and wheeled; close about the Pittsburgh,^ line of bright orange, pillow-sized floats bobbed with the swell, a containment device designed to prevent any accidental spillage of hazardous chemicals from contaminating the water.
Movement caught his eye ashore. Turning, he watched a trio of men in civilian clothing — dark suits, white shirts, dark glasses — walk down the pier, picking their way past the dockworkers, the yellow crane, and the crates and coiled piles of wire rope that made the pier a cluttered and watch-your-step journey. Reaching the Pittsburgh's brow, they turned and came up the walkway, stopping to talk with the sentry and Officer of the Deck, who waited for them at the guard shack abaft of Pittsburgh's sail.
"What the hell is going on there?" TM3 Gilbert asked, staring aft.
"Yeah," O'Brien said. "What are they made up as? FBI? CIA?"
"Ah, we have inspectors coming aboard all the time," Benson said. "Inspectin' this, inspectin' that. They're probably here to quiz the reactor gang, and maybe pick up a few hundred pages of reports, in quintiplicate."
A few moments later, the trio was led to the hatch by an enlisted rating, and they vanished down into the boat.
"Hey, hey, hey!" Master Chief Warren called. "Who told you people to stop working? Heads up! Another weapon on the way!"
With a sigh, O'Brien returned to the backbreaking work at hand.
He wondered, though, about those somehow sinister visitors now aboard the boat.
The work proceeded at a steady, wearying pace. They broke for dinner — the midday meal was referred to as "dinner," with "supper" served in the evening — and were back at work by 1300 hours. They had just finished swaying another torpedo out of Pittsburgh's depths when a third class O'Brien hadn't met before came forward. "Seaman O'Brien?"
"That's me."
"You're wanted below. Now."
"What for?"
"Beats me. The skipper said to come get you. He didn't say why."
O'Brien looked at Walberg, who nodded. "Go ahead, son. When the Old Man barks, you jump!"
"Aye aye, sir. Thank you, sir."
He unclipped his safety line and followed the third class aft, past the sail and down the forward escape trunk ladder. Handing off his life jacket to another rating headed topside, he threaded his way forward, following the man to the Officers' Wardroom.
He hesitated at the threshold. The Wardroom was terra incognito for an enlisted man, especially one as green as he was. From behind the door, he could hear Captain Chase's voice raised in cold anger. "You know what I think? I think you're all crazy!"
The third class rapped on the door.
"Enter, damn it!"
The sailor opened the door. "Seaman O'Brien, Captain." He stepped aside so O'Brien could squeeze inside.
The Wardroom was luxuriously appointed by the standards of other parts of the boat, though it was about as roomy as a corner booth in the local diner. A tidy little pantry area aft included a coffeemaker and fixings. Most of the compartment was taken up by a single table surrounded by chairs. This was where the boat's officers ate their meals, did their paperwork, and relaxed.
Commander Chase sat at one end of the table, his expression one of barely controlled fury. Opposite sat the three civilians O'Brien had seen come aboard a short time before. One had a laptop computer open on the table, a device O'Brien had heard about, but never seen; the others had notebooks open before them, and manila folders stuffed with papers.
"O'Brien," Chase said, "these… gentlemen have some questions for you. They've also asked that they talk to you alone. Is that okay with you?"
"Uh… sir? What have I done?"
"So far as I know, not a damned thing. You're not in any trouble, but they do have some questions for you. Will you talk with them?"
"Sure. I mean, yes, sir. But—"
"Answer to the best of your ability, son. Tell them what they want to know." He stood up, but turned at the door before he left. "And I will talk with you three again when you're done!"
The door closed, and O'Brien was left alone with the civilians. They presented a vaguely comic aspect in their dark suit coats and ties, slightly rumpled by their descent down the boat's ladder. One was even still wearing his dark glasses, though the fluorescent overhead lighting in the compartment was scarcely hard on the eyes.
"Have a seat, please," one of them said, in tones not conducive to peace of mind.
O'Brien was afraid.
During his twelve weeks of boot camp at Great Lakes Naval Training Center, there'd been one serious problem for his company. The ARPOC — the Assistant Recruit Petty Officer Chief — had gotten into some serious trouble when he'd lost his bayonet.
Boot companies had an RPOC and an ARPOC, drawn from among the recruits of each unit and given certain limited command responsibilities. The Recruit Petty Officer Chief, besides the miniature chief's crow and knot he wore on his right shoulder, as opposed to the full rate and rank emblems worn on the left after graduation from recruit training, carried an old-fashioned dress cavalry saber as an emblem of his position. At parade formations, he was expected to salute with it… which was about all it was good for.
The ARPOC also carried a badge of office, an M-1 bayonet, its blade so dull it probably would have smashed, rather than cut, cheese.