“Well, what have we here?” he asked with a gravelly voice. She’d never been good at reading people — something she considered just one of many flaws she fought hard to conceal from the world — but she thought his tone turned from harsh to — dare she believe — polite?
“This is Lieutenant Whitaker, COB,” Martin answered for her.
COB shot Martin a look as if to say, “No shit.”
The Chief stepped clear of the doorway as another man appeared. He was tall, very tall. Kristen guessed he was about six-six. He was slender and dressed in khakis displaying his ribbons in addition to the coveted gold dolphin insignia signifying him as a qualified submarine officer. An odd addition to his uniform, however, was a second gold insignia, a special warfare qualification badge, signifying him as having at some time in his career been a SEAL. His skin was ink black, and his facial features were sharp, with angled cheekbones and clear eyes. His close-cut hair had some grey in it, and she noticed a Naval Academy ring on his right ring finger and a wedding band on the left. The nametag on his uniform read Graves, and he was a commander.
“What is it, COB?” Graves asked as he placed a hand on the Chief’s shoulder, but then saw her. A look of surprise crossed his face, but she wasn’t certain if there was malice or amusement in the expression. He considered her appearance, and she recognized a clear look of displeasure as he took in her dripping uniform.
“Humph,” Graves replied to his own question and ducked his head back into the captain’s cabin. “Skipper, she’s here.”
Kristen could pick up no hint of emotion from Graves regarding her. His tone was noncommittal. COB, however, had stepped across from her and paused for a brief moment to study her face. He looked tough enough to chew nails, and she guessed by the hint of disdain he showed Martin that he probably didn’t like junior officers.
He thoughtfully nodded his head, but said nothing as he studied her like he knew her. She briefly thought of her father, knowing she’d inherited his eyes. The grizzled chief might have known him. The submarine service was small, and everyone tended to know one another. He was certainly old enough to have served with her father years earlier. But COB said nothing, keeping his thoughts to himself.
Kristen didn’t hear anything from inside the cabin, but the tall, lanky commander stepped clear of the doorway and motioned her inside. As he did, Kristen noticed a slight gimp. There was something wrong with the commander’s right leg, causing him to move a little awkwardly.
“Report to the commanding officer, Lieutenant,” he ordered sharply.
Kristen was still a bit puzzled by the look COB had given her. It certainly wasn’t a look of welcome, but hadn’t been one of disdain like he’d shot at Martin. Instead, he’d looked… curious. COBs throughout the submarine service weren’t known to like officers, especially junior officers whom they considered worse than useless. Kristen ushered the idle speculation from her mind, took a deep, steadying breath and stepped forward.
“Aye-aye, sir,” she replied to the tall black man she assumed was her executive officer.
As she crossed through the threshold, she couldn’t help thinking about the way the seaman who’d just fled this cabin had looked. He’d been in captain’s mast for some disciplinary reason, and he’d left the stateroom nearly crying. Martin’s warning about not “pissing off the Blade” was resonating in her ears.
Chapter Four
Kristen stepped past Commander Graves and through the doorway into the tiny cabin that served as both sleeping quarters and office for the commander of the Seawolf. Surface vessels normally had lavish accommodations for their captains with port cabins, at sea cabins, and separate office spaces as well as a private dining room. But like everything else on the submarine, a captain’s cabin was meant to provide the bare essentials and nothing more.
But even the austerity expected within a submarine paled when compared to the starkness of the cabin Kristen found herself in. She’d been in dozens of offices in her career and — without exception — they’d been decorated to taste with pictures and memorabilia decorating the walls. But this cabin had nothing that hadn’t been issued by the Navy. No pictures. No plaques. The walls were devoid of anything except the finish placed there by the Electric Boat Company in Groton, Connecticut.
She resisted the urge to look around and instead came to attention in the middle of the tiny cabin, facing the officer seated in a booth-style seat along the rear bulkhead. He finished shuffling some papers to the side, and she noticed a stack of classified briefing binders on the desk. She stood at rigid attention, painfully aware of the squeaking noise her loafers had made on the polished tile floor as she entered.
Kristen heard the XO step in behind her and close the door. Above her, she heard the hiss of an air conditioning vent. On one bulkhead, in the corner, there was a small communications suite and computer display. The air was fresh, chill, and oddly devoid of any odor she recognized. She could hear the gentle hum of the computer, but otherwise, the only sound she heard was the steady dripping of water as it struck the deck beneath her.
An umbrella. You had to forget an umbrella.
Her captain was seated on the bench at an angle so he could face her, his right elbow on the table and his chin resting thoughtfully on his right hand. He was a commander, like the XO, but as the commanding officer his title was Captain. Other than a simple wristwatch, he wore no jewelry she could see. He was dressed in khakis like the XO, except he wore no ribbons on his chest. This was a breach of regulations, but she wasn’t about to point it out. His dress was, like the cabin, the bare minimum and nothing more. Another oddity she would have to consider.
She looked at his face and was immediately struck by two glaring anomalies. He was young, far younger than she’d expected. She knew he was currently serving an unprecedented second tour as commanding officer on the Seawolf, so she’d expected him to be in his mid-forties. Instead, he looked to be in his mid-thirties at most, his face almost boyish. The other oddity was his hair.
Submarine officers were noted and even rewarded for their conventionalism. Mustaches were considered taboo, and she’d never seen anyone with anything but closely cropped hair. Brodie didn’t have a mustache, but he did have the longest mess of hair she’d ever seen on an officer — any officer. Although not long by civilian standards, what shocked her most was its unkemptness. The bushy hair seemed to just spring from his head with the order of a haystack.
What did this mean? Her natural inclination toward analysis caused her eyes to linger on him, something she wasn’t supposed to do.
She caught herself staring at him in bewilderment, momentarily wondering if this was just another in a long line of practical jokes and hazing rituals she’d endured since entering the Navy. There was no way this man could be her captain. His face was strong, with sharp cheekbones, a square jaw and a crooked nose hinting that it had been broken some time in his past. Then she saw his eyes. Cold. Intense. Steel grey. They were staring back at her expectantly.
Kristen cut her eyes away from him, locking them back on a spot on the far wall. Once more she stood at rigid attention, dripping all over his floor and struggling to regain her composure. There was silence between them, and she briefly wondered how long she’d been standing there when he spoke. “Well?” he asked, apparently already annoyed with her. His tone was not harsh, nor was it friendly or loud. She’d expected him to raise his voice — the commodore had — but Brodie’s tone stayed conversational — a bit unemotional perhaps, but professional and firm.