A thunderclap-like sound startled her, and she turned abruptly to see a gruff, broad-shouldered lieutenant commander glaring at her with a look that could blister paint. He’d just dropped a three-inch thick binder on a mess table, and he was looking at her as if she were something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.
“Good afternoon, sir,” she said politely, drawing her five-foot, ten-inch frame to attention. She was slightly taller than he, something she knew men tended to detest. His uniform was covered in grime and grease stains, and she knew intuitively that he was the chief engineer. Her new boss. She saw the name stitched on his coveralls: Kaczynski.
He responded by dropping a custody receipt and ink pen on top of the binder. “That’s your qual binder. Lose it, and I’ll have your ass. Got it?” he grumbled.
Kristen knew what the qualification binder was. It was a book filled with checklists for every system and compartment she’d have to become certified on before earning her dolphins. It was also classified and couldn’t leave the skin of the ship. In fact, when not in her immediate possession, she needed to find a place to keep it where it wouldn’t get lost.
She signed for the book, not bothering to try and make small talk with the man. She’d already pegged him as a chauvinist pig. She’d dealt with his kind enough over the last three years to know the best way to deal with him was to kill him with professionalism and resolve. Kristen knew she would never change his mind, and he would go to his grave believing she had no business on a sub. He wasn’t the first, and she knew he wouldn’t be the last. The problem was that she would be assigned to the engineering department for the foreseeable future and would have to deal with whatever he dished out.
“I’ll get right on it, sir,” she assured him as she tucked the binder under her arm.
“No you won’t, Lieutenant,” he sneered. “You’ll get your ass back to engineering and get to work. This isn’t some pleasure boat you’re on, lady.”
She was accustomed to swallowing angry retorts, and instead of telling him where he could stick his sneering tone, she settled for a simple, “Aye-aye, sir.”
Four hours later, Kristen found herself soaked to the bone once more. This time, instead of rain, it was bilge water from her supervision of the replacement of a failing pump. The task had hardly been demanding, but she assumed it wasn’t meant to be. It had simply been menial, mindless work. But at least she was on board, she kept telling herself. What was more, she was finally doing what she’d been trained to do and what she’d always wanted. She could accept Kaczynski’s hazing as long as she was on board.
The engineering compartment — her new home — was enormous, with machinery squeezed in everywhere. Besides the reactor, which was in its own space, there were the massive reduction gears, two separate steam turbines, air handling and purifying equipment, a desalinization plant, condensers, generators… the list seemed endless. As part of her engineering exam, she would have to demonstrate proficiency on all of it.
After replacing the bilge pump, she found Kaczynski standing by the reduction gear housing. A crew of men was servicing the entire assembly that provided power to the submarine’s pump-jet propulsor, driving the nine-thousand-plus tons of submarine at over thirty-five knots. She stood beside him until he noticed her. When he did, she reported that the pump had been changed successfully.
“Is that a fact?” he asked as if doubting her.
“That is a fact, sir,” she replied, keeping her anger in check. She’d already allowed the captain to bait her; she wouldn’t allow it to happen again.
“Who signed off on the repair?” he asked skeptically.
“Petty Officer Darby,” she reported, referring to the quality control inspector who’d signed off on the work order. “What’s next, sir?” she asked, making it clear she was still anxious to work.
He glanced at the gear housing and then pointed to the bottom of it. “We’ll be replacing the gear oil as part of the maintenance cycle. Why don’t you see if you can manage to drain it without breaking a nail.”
Kristen wanted to laugh in his face. But she’d learned that this would only encourage him, so, once more, she swallowed her pride. “I’ll do my best, sir,” she answered, trying not to sound too much like a smart-ass as she ignored the snickering enlisted men who’d heard the chief engineer’s snide comment.
She consulted the technical manual, as was customary. Although more difficult than changing the oil in a car, it was basically the same in principle. Kristen connected a drain hose to a fitting positioned at the lowest point underneath the main casing for the reduction gear housing. The other end of the hose was then connected to a series of barrels. The lubricant would be collected, removed from the boat, and tested for metal deposits and viscosity breakdown before it was recycled for use again. But, prior to it draining into the barrels, the lubricant would pass through a magnetized wire mesh designed to capture any metal shavings. It was expected there would be some wear, despite the high degree of engineering and metallurgy as well as the high quality of the lubricant used. The basket’s contents would then be inspected by the chief engineer or a senior machinist mate looking for any sign of excessive wear on the gears. By close analysis with a trained eye, the shavings could hint at a problem in the gears’ alignment causing excessive wear.
This critical step was part of the detailed instructions laid out in the technical manual. Once everything was properly in place, she checked it all again to make certain she hadn’t missed a step before crawling under the housing. She grabbed the large steel wheel that opened the valve to allow the lubricant to drain out and turned.
Except it wouldn’t move.
She readjusted her position, braced a boot against a solid anchor, and tried again using the anchor for leverage. But the wheel still wouldn’t budge. She readjusted her position twice more and strained with all of her strength — which for a woman her size was exceptional. But the valve still wouldn’t open. She felt a combination of annoyance and anxiety. The idea of asking Kaczynski or any of the men who’d smirked at her was something she wanted desperately to avoid, even if just for vanity’s sake. She repositioned herself a final time and with both hands on the wheel and both feet braced on a solid anchor, strained with all of her might, but it simply wouldn’t move.
Kristen recalled one of the arguments used by some of the men who thought it unrealistic for women to serve on submarines: “Women are not physically strong enough to do the work required, and they would be more of a hindrance to the crew than a help.” She closed her eyes, trying to think of how she might avoid asking anyone for help, when she felt someone tap her left shoulder.
She was lying on her back under the main casing, breathing heavily after several attempts to open the valve, as she looked back behind her and saw the captain kneeling down under the casing. He was dressed in grease-stained coveralls, his sleeves rolled up, and oil and grease stains on his hands and face. He offered her a long pry bar. “The sump valve gets encrusted with grit and solidified lubricants, so it can be pretty tough to bust loose,” he explained. “This oughta help.”
Kristen nodded, feeling like an idiot for not thinking of using a pry bar for leverage, and blushed slightly in embarrassment as she took it. “Thank you, Captain.”
“Don’t mention it,” Brodie said as if it was nothing before disappearing as suddenly as he had appeared.
Kristen placed the metal pry bar into the wheel, appreciating the fact he hadn’t tried to be all macho by sliding under the casing with her to show her how “a real man does it.” But, as he obviously realized, once she had the additional leverage of a six-foot pry bar multiplying her strength, the wheel broke loose with the first push.