She didn’t. But then again she’d been browbeaten by the Chief of Naval Operations as well as the Secretary of the Navy over her desire to serve on a submarine, and as a result didn’t intimidate easily. But she got the impression from Martin’s tone that he was terrified of the Seawolf’s captain.
“Do you know him?” Martin asked as he led her to the captain’s cabin, taking a circuitous route to avoid some work gangs. They passed through the control center which was, like the rest of the submarine, filled with personnel — civilian and military — working feverishly to get the boat ready for sea.
“Only by reputation,” Kristen replied. After receiving her orders, she’d taken time to learn all she could about her new captain. There was hardly a submariner alive who hadn’t heard of the enigmatic skipper of the USS Seawolf. He was considered, hands down, the finest fast-attack boat skipper currently in the service. While serving on Admiral Beagler’s staff in Hawaii, Kristen had access to reports on all the submarines operating in the Pacific, and she’d noticed that the hairiest assignments had always gone to the Seawolf, mainly because of Brodie. “They say he’s the best,” she added, trying not to gawk too much as she moved through the control room.
Her flesh was still tingling with excitement as she moved aft into “officer country.” Kristen had studied the schematics of every submarine currently in service, and she knew the captain’s quarters were the closest to the command center, allowing him direct access to the “bridge.” A brass plaque on the door leading to his cabin verified her assumption, and Martin paused a discreet distance from the door while Kristen turned, placing her back against the bulkhead. She was still looking forward at the command center, trying to hide her schoolgirl excitement at finally being on board. She’d been conscious of multiple pairs of eyes following her with — at best — curious expressions as she’d moved through the submarine. She felt as welcome as the plague, despite what Martin had said on greeting her.
She’d expected nothing less. The squadron commander hadn’t even tried to hide his discontent at her being assigned to his command. He hadn’t bothered to welcome her and had made it clear he expected her to be begging for a transfer within a month.
Martin was still talking, something he hadn’t stopped doing since she’d met him, and she found herself tuning him out as she absorbed the flurry of sights and sounds around her. But she refocused her wayward attention on Martin as he explained why everything looked so hectic. “The Seawolf just returned from a patrol and was scheduled for a refit and complete systems upgrade,” he explained. “But we received word a week ago that COMSUBPAC wants us back at sea right after the first of the year.”
That was less than a month away, hardly enough time to complete a full refit, not to mention enough time to allow the crew the expected rest between deployments. Kristen was fully aware of the Seawolf being rescheduled to return to sea as soon as possible. She’d been in the headquarters at Pearl Harbor when Admiral Beagler had ordered it. Not that she had access to their orders.
“I mean, it hardly seems fair, right?” Martin asked in a barely audible whisper. “There’re other submarines in the fleet that haven’t just come off deployment.”
She studied Martin, wondering what he knew about the situation. As a “special projects” officer assigned to COMSUBPAC responsible for studying the latest Chinese submarine technology and sonar capabilities, she’d enjoyed nearly universal access to intelligence reports, and she felt she understood exactly why the Seawolf was needed back at sea.
The Seawolf wasn’t just any submarine. With the Jimmy Carter damaged and the Connecticut laid up in dry dock, the Seawolf was the best the US Navy currently had to offer. She hadn’t been privy to the Jimmy Carter’s mission; only Admiral Beagler and his operations officer had known the details.
“I’m just glad I made it before you fellas left without me,” she replied honestly. The possibility that she’d been assigned to the Seawolf with full knowledge that if she’d taken her full leave period, she would have missed the boat’s sailing occurred to her, and she wondered if this was just another ploy by the Navy to keep her off an operational boat.
“Yeah,” Martin replied unconvincingly. “I mean, when I heard I was coming to the Seawolf I was overjoyed.” By the expression on his haggard face, whatever joy he’d felt had faded.
Kristen noticed him glance toward the captain’s doorway, and she thought she saw a glimmer of anxiety flutter over his face.
“A word of advice: try not to piss him off,” he warned as he looked back at her nervously.
Kristen had no intention of doing so, but then again she’d never intended to infuriate virtually every submarine officer in the Navy. But within months of her decision to challenge the Navy’s policy regarding women on subs, nearly every friend she knew had forsaken her and she’d become a pariah among her fellow officers. She couldn’t remember another commanding officer besides Admiral Beagler who had treated her with at least civility, and she didn’t expect any from the skipper of the Seawolf.
“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied to Martin’s warning. “What’s he like anyway?” she asked as she did her best to straighten out her soaked uniform. She again cursed herself for not having brought an umbrella. The captain would — more than any other officer in her chain of command — have the greatest impact on her career, such as it was. So a first impression was important. Kristen caught a hint of her reflection in a stainless steel panel and thought she looked like a half-drowned cat.
So much for first impressions.
Martin was about to answer her question when the door opened. Martin came to attention reflexively. He was nervous, and Kristen felt her own sense of foreboding. She briefly wondered if the captain might treat her fairly but dismissed the thought a moment later as ridiculous. He would hate her. She expected it and steeled herself for the encounter.
“Get the fuck out, shitbird!” she heard a cold, merciless, gravelly voice order from inside the cabin.
A seaman appeared a moment later. He nearly tripped over the bottom of the doorway in his haste to exit the cabin. Whatever rank he’d been before entering the cabin Kristen couldn’t tell. Where his rank had been sewn on the sleeve of his uniform coat, there was now a patch of new-looking fabric under where the insignia had been cut off. In addition to this, the seaman — who was about six-two and of average build — had clearly been weeping. His eyes were bloodshot and there were still tearstains on his ash-white cheeks. Kristen came to attention herself while the seaman rushed away, as if fleeing the scene of some calamity.
“Oh, boy,” she whispered under her breath and prepared herself for what she assumed would be another less-than-inviting welcome.
A moment later another man appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in grease-stained overalls, but his rank insignia left no doubt who he was. He was a master chief petty officer. He was short and stocky, his sleeves were rolled up to show powerful arms covered in tattoos, and he had a bit of a gut on him. But the look on his face reminded her of a junkyard dog, and the name stitched on his uniform was Lawhorn. Kristen knew immediately that this man was the Chief of the Boat, or COB for short.
The salty chief watched the disbarred seaman before turning and seeing Martin. Kristen thought she saw a hint of disapproval in the man’s dark eyes as he looked at the young ensign before turning his attention to her. Kristen felt the man’s hard eyes upon her, but she didn’t shrink from it or wilt. She’d been through much worse than a disgruntled chief.