She sighed and returned to her work. The body was processed in the same way that a homicide department on the mainland would have done it, and Hobbs took photographs from every angle and carried out a minute search of the crime scene. She then nodded to the corpsman and two sailors nearby and watched in grim silence as the body of Mahon was wrapped in a tarpaulin shroud, zipped up, and carried into the deeper recesses of the refrigeration unit.
For the moment there was nothing much to say. A gloom had settled over the Obama like a thick sea fog; impenetrable, dark, foreboding. Hobbs shivered uncontrollably.
CHAPTER 3
Submarining could be a claustrophobic experience even without a killer running amok on board. It wasn't for everyone. The commander knew morale would plummet unless some answers were found, and on this mission it was imperative that every hand perform to the top of his abilities.
Having consulted with Hobbs he decided to push ahead with her suggestion that every crew member be rescreened as though they were only applying for their job. He'd spent the better part of the night reviewing personnel jackets and he was bleary eyed as a result.
He'd also decided to take Hobb's advice to interview the crew as they came off watch, when theoretically they would be at their lowest ebb. The day was broken up by a number of watches, and normally lasted for six hour spells. The submarine day was a 18 hour day, with personnel on watch for 6 hours with 12 hours off. In real terms, the submarine was operated around the clock.
The ability to tell the time was often lost by a submarine crew on watch, and often they only knew the time by what they happened to be eating at chow time. Pancakes meant it was morning, lasagne dinner time, and rugrats close to midnight. Certain days also had designated menus — pizza days were usually Fridays, Sundays involved a roast dinner, and Saturday was steak day.
Russell conducted the interviews in his cabin. Each man was ushered in by the COB, one at a time, saluted and stood at attention until the Captain issued his 'at ease, sailor'. The questions followed a similar pattern. Where were you on the boat when Mahon was killed? How well did you know the man? Had you witnessed anything untoward towards the head chef?
The men were upfront in their responses, most seeming genuinely upset and perplexed at the unusual turn of events. They responded, one by one, but there was a similarity to a lot of their answers.
"Peterson, Sir. Engine room."
"At ease, sailor."
"Rich, Captain. Petty Officer. Engineering."
"Hone, Sir. Sonar technology operator."
As each man was ushered in by the COB, each gave their name, rank, and job aboard to the senior commander. Many of them he knew anyway, but there was a protocol and military procedure to be carried out.
If it was true that an army marched on its stomach, then it was equally true that a submarine crew swam on its stomach. The death of Mahon had caused the quality of food aboard to plummet. The man had kept some of his recipes a closely guarded secret, even from those chefs working under him, and Russell knew as soon as he began tucking into his dinner that the taste wasn't the same. The food was passable, but bland.
He scowled, knowing he didn't need new headaches. He called the COB to his wardroom.
The Chief of the Boat was an important man aboard, the most senior of the enlisted men. As he entered Russell's quarters, his blue eyes fell onto the captain's plate, and he grinned wryly. "Food not to your taste, Sir?"
The captain pulled a face and said: "No, it isn't. What are we going to do about it, COB?"
"I might have an answer, Sir. Hone was telling me that Hennessey was showing an aptitude for sound technology. We could slot him in there, and take Davids out."
"Davids?" said Grant surprised. "Why him?"
The COB smiled, his next words showing his grasp of the strengths and weaknesses of the enlisted personnel aboard the Obama. "It's his hobby, Sir. He has a real passion for culinary matters and even entered Masterchef America. He was a semi-finalist. It's how he met his wife."
The captain leaned back in his chair, and steepled his fingers, thinking hard. Not for the first time, he found himself grateful that the COB had such a good pulse on the crew. A decision formed in the captain's grey eyes.
"Okay, Chief. Make it so. You're dismissed."
The COB saluted his captain and left the wardroom.
There was an immediate improvement with the chow aboard the Obama following David's transfer to the galleys. Not for the first time did Russell thank his chief for having such a good pulse and insight into the crew of the Obama. It made for an easier trip. Submarines like the Obama went to sea for months on end, the nuclear plant onboard providing electricity, fresh water and air, and indeed the only limitation on the crew's ability to survive forever in such an environment was the food supply.
It was a far cry from the old days of submarining when boats had to constantly surface to recharge their batteries and risk detection on the surface. The nuclear plant, which delivered 40,000 shaft horse power from the S9G nuclear reactor also supplied the propulsion to the pump- jet propulsors which helped to power the submarine through the water like a jet. The propulsors had replaced the old style propellers that had been prevalent on the old Seawolf Class and Los Angeles boomers. It's crush depth was a classified military secret, but it could operate effectively at 800 feet plus, and there were some in the know who said it could dive to 1,600 feet. If the 1,600 estimate was correct, it nearly matched the capabilities of the titanium hulls that the Soviets had dabbled in a few years back. The Soviets had developed a Komsomolets Class, known to NATO forces as a Mike Class, that could achieve record depths and had dived to 3,350 feet. Mind boggling stuff. The Soviets had also used titanium in the hull structure of their Alfa Class — a formidable foe.
The Obama was as battle ready as they came.
She would need to be.
CHAPTER 4
The crew were now aware that there was something amiss aboard the Obama. Fear, suspicions and mistrust were everywhere. Tensions surfaced in the oddest of moments, and Russell and his officer cadre had their work cut out to contain it. They needed to keep a tight lid on things, until Hobbs could make some headway in his investigations.
Russell was worried. In all his years in the submarine arm, he had never experienced a situation like this one before. He decided that the best way forward would be to keep the men's energies focused on the task in hand. He ordered his XO to prepare a missile drill.
The XO turned to the Chief of the Boat. "Set condition 1 SQ for strategic missile launch."
The Chief bellowed out orders. The communicator, who used to be known under the sobriquet of radioman, appeared with an Emergency Action Message, which he handed to the Captain. The authentication codes were checked and the Captain was handed his missile key. "On the 1 MC," he announced. "This is your Captain. Authentication codes have been verified. We have an EAM authorising the release of tomahawk missiles. Spin out missiles one through five, and fifteen through twenty for a strategic missile launch."
The XO took the radio from his commander. "This is the XO. Spin out missiles one through five, and fifteen through twenty for a strategic missile launch. The use of missiles have been approved."
The radioman, Jimmy Watts, approached the Captain again. He had another EAM in his hands.
"What have you got Jimmy?"
"Urgent message from base, Sir."
Russell took the new EAM, his face darkening as he read the contents. He reached for the radio, and growled to Lieutenant Rawlings who was the acting officer of the deck. "On the 1 MC, Lieutenant."