"As for making noise… I'm well aware of how noisy that toy of yours is. I was under orders to take it and you on board, but I have yet to determine whether it or you will be of any use on this operation. Frankly, I doubt it, because a submarine's mission always involves laying low and remaining undetected."
"I'm aware of that, sir."
"Your head is aware of it, maybe. But not your heart. Are you aware, Commander, that this vessel has already come under attack, just after we left port and while we were still within American territorial waters?"
"Uh, yes, sir. I was briefed."
"We might be a couple of thousand miles from our AO, and we might be fighting a third-world enemy who has technology we consider primitive… but I absolutely will not jeopardize this mission or this ship by underestimating him. Is that clear?"
"Clear, sir."
"Another point. I wonder if you understand how sensitive some of our sonar equipment is. Your little impromptu concert out there could have damaged some of the Busy-one gear. It could also have injured the hearing of my sonar technicians, and, let me tell you something, Commander — on this boat, on this mission, my lowest-ranking sonar tech is worth twenty of you. No, I take that back. There's no comparison, because you are a fucking nonqual who doesn't know how to conduct himself, is of no use to the boat or the mission, and who doesn't know how to exercise good judgment or self-discipline! Do you have anything to add?"
Hawking looked pale, although that might have been the effect of the fluorescent lighting in the overhead. "Sir, it was a joke. Maybe… well, I guess I went too far, and I apologize. But sir, the Manta is a valuable asset, and I would like an opportunity to prove that to you, and to the Navy."
"A combat mission may not be the best venue for offering that proof. Until further notice, Commander, the Manta is off-line. You will report to the XO, Commander Shea. I believe we can find some admin duties to keep you out of our hair. Dismissed."
"Sir, I—"
"Dismissed!"
"Aye aye, sir!" Glowering, Hawking turned, opened the door, and walked out.
Stewart stared at the door a moment before closing the personnel folder and setting it aside on his desk. Lieutenant Commander Hawking was something of an anomaly on board a submarine. The SEALs were also "guests," supernumeraries with no specific duties who could hinder the smooth operation of the boat, but they kept to themselves in the area set aside for them and didn't try to mix. Hawking, on the other hand, having gone through sub school, was convinced that he was part of the crew, but hadn't yet figured out that a newbie wasn't a submariner until he'd completed his qualifications.
In fact, there was no room on a submarine for anyone who couldn't pull his own weight. Back in WWII, sub personnel had to actually know all aspects of all departments — not just emergency procedures — so that any man could fill in anywhere on board where he was needed. That level of broadband competence wasn't possible today, so specialized was the training and knowledge required for each station. But it was still a goal to shoot for.
Maybe, Stewart thought, if he required Hawking to go through the quals program… That hadn't been in the man's orders, but a sub skipper had broad powers in so far as what he required of personnel stationed on board his vessel. He'd talk to Shea and the COB about it later.
At least it might keep that young hot dog out of trouble.
Hawking entered the officer's wardroom and made straight for the coffee mess. Damn the man! Admin duty! Admin duty! He was an aviator, damn it, Hawking thought, and a submariner; not a pencil-pusher!
Oh, he knew the others on board didn't accept him as such. Ohio's crew was a close-knit and cliquish bunch, and they kept tight and quiet around people they considered to be outsiders. Same with the SEALs, or worse. That lot didn't talk to anybody!
Angrily, he poured coffee into one of the mugs painted with Ohio's logo, then added sugar and creamer. He now had the strong feeling that Moonie had set him up by giving him that CD and suggesting that he play it while "flying" past the Ohio. Well, there would be a reckoning. Indeed there would!
Returning to the wardroom table, he sat down and indulged in a sulk. At least Ohio's crew did talk. But they kept their distance — a superior distance — and as a member of a naval elite, he wasn't used to that kind of treatment. They were so freaking snide. Just yesterday he'd said something to Lieutenant Commander Carter, the engineering officer, about being a submariner. He'd pronounced the word as he'd always heard it pronounced — "sub-MAR-i-ner." Carter had looked at him as though he'd just crawled out of the bilge, and said "Commander Hawking, a sub-MAR-i-ner is the brand of wristwatch the Captain wears. The officers and crew of the Ohio are 'sub-muh-REE-ners.' "
Carter had been careful not to include him in that definition, Hawking had noticed.
Well, he would show them. Somehow.
He took a sip of coffee, blinked, and set the mug down again. Hawking was not, by nature, introspective. He was damned good at what he did, and he tended not to indulge in soul-searching or angst. However, it was beginning to occur to him that this time around he was the one with the problem, not everyone else around him.
Oh, it was still everyone else on the goddamned boat who was acting like assholes. There was no question about that. But Hawking was self-aware enough to know that he was overreacting to the treatment he was getting, and he wanted to know why.
The answer, he thought, lay in the fact that he was a member of an elite group within the Navy. Aviators— they never called themselves "pilots" — were the modern knights-errant of the service, very much in the public eye, very much used to the glory and the headlines that came with their position.
There was a paradox there. Hollywood tended to portray aviators as glory hounds and loose cannons. In fact, although there were a few hot dogs, most aviators were cool and calm to the point of being dispassionate, professional, competent — and very much team players, as opposed to their lone-wolf rep on the silver screen.
At the same time, though, most aviators grandly accepted the acclaim and the notoriety. Hawking, for instance, never had any trouble picking up willing women ashore. He considered it one of the perks that came with the job. And now he was an outsider, tolerated but not accepted as a member of the community.
And that thought rankled.
"Hey, Cassie?" The COB stood in the doorway to the sonar room. "I need to see you a moment."
"S-Sure, Master Chief." He looked at the other sonar watch-standers, as if to say, What'd I do? Dobbs shrugged and Sommersby shook his head. No hints there.
"We've got your station covered, kid," Sommersby told him. "Go on."
Caswell followed O'Day forward and down one deck, then aft to the mess hall. At least, he thought, if the Chief of the Boat was about to give him an ass-chewing, it wasn't bad enough to warrant being hauled up to the ship's office. But he couldn't imagine what it was he'd done.