“Yes, sir!” the petty officer snapped as he turned to exit the wardroom.
Enlivened by the likable sonar technician’s visit, the XO stood.
“Looks like I’d better get the show on the road myself. Skipper. The crew manifest is on your desk. Lieutenant Marshall is the current officer of the deck. On the way out, I’ll make certain the chief gets the word on hooking up the old ice machine.”
As Layman began gathering up his belongings, he remembered one last detail.
“By the way. Skipper, you never did say how you were going to spend your leave.”
Standing himself, Matt Colter answered.
“Right now, it looks like I’ll probably just hang around here for a while. I’ve got plenty of paperwork to get caught up on, and if I do get the hankering for some solid land under my feet and a little fresh air, maybe I’ll go up to Mystic for a day.”
“You do that,” advised Al Layman firmly. “Because if there’s anyone on board this ship who deserves some time to himself, it’s you. Skipper.”
“I don’t know about that, XO. It seems to me you put in your fair share of overtime on this last patrol. So get out of here, and enjoy that second honeymoon!”
Mockingly saluting, the XO smiled and turned for his cabin. Alone now in the wardroom. Matt finished off his coffee and decided to take off for the ship’s conning tower to see how the technicians were doing with the repair of the faulty surface-scanning Pathometer. To get to this portion of the Defiance, he exited through the forward hatchway. This put him in an equipment-packed passageway lined with stainless steel piping.
With a fluid ease, he passed by the locked radio room, picturing the state-of-the-art receivers and transmitters in this all-important compartment, equipment that allowed them almost instant contact with command even when deeply submerged. Next, he walked by the sonar room, or sound shack as it was affectionately called. The door to this room was open, and Colter could see Seaman Lester Warren hunched over one of the consoles. Though Warren was fairly new to the Navy, he was a self-proclaimed computer nerd, his fascination with such equipment having begun in grade school. A quick learner, the Texan had graduated first in his computer-science class while in basic training, and when it was learned that he had above average hearing, he was steered into the arcane art of sonar detection. So far he showed great promise, and with Petty Officer Roth’s expert guidance, the youngster could have a bright career.
Confident that the sonarman could find the glitch Roth had suspected, the captain continued forward.
This brought him into that spacious portion of the vessel where the sub’s central control room and attack center were located. Several members of the crew were gathered around a console under the capable direction of the ship’s current OOD, Lieutenant Don Marshall.
The slightly built, redheaded Georgian was the Defiance’ full-time diving officer, and was not known for sartorial splendor. Yet in this instance the captain found Marshall dressed in a crisp pair of khakis, his perpetually loose shirt bottom neatly tucked into the sharply creased pants. Noting that the enlisted men working at the OOD’s side were similarly dressed in fresh coveralls, Colter suspected that they had been anticipating a visit from the base commander, and had dressed this way to impress him.
Certainly not disappointed that his men were suddenly taking an interest in their outward appearances, the captain loudly cleared his throat to announce his presence.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I hope I’m not breaking in on anything important.”
“Not at all, sir,” Marshall replied in his deep southern drawl. “I was only going over the diving procedures with those seamen interested in qualifying during this tour.”
“Well, don’t let me keep you from continuing,” returned Colter as he looked past the periscope well to the access hatch cut into the base of the sail. “Tell me, Lieutenant, the civilian engineers on board, are they still inside the sail working on that Fathometer?”
There was an unusual gleam in the OOD’s eyes as he answered.
“That they are, Captain. Shall I call them down for you?”
Colter shook his head.
“That won’t be necessary, Lieutenant. I think under the circumstances it’s better if I crawl up there unannounced.”
“Whatever you say, sir. But it certainly won’t be any bother for me to go up there and fetch ‘em for you.”
A bit puzzled by this reply. Colter turned to the sail.
“You may return to your business, Mr. Marshall. I’m quite capable of handling this matter on my own.”
The men’s stares seemed to be following him as he ducked through the hatch and began to go up the narrow, steel-gauge ladder. Putting out of his mind the notion that his men were up to some sort of mischief, Colter made the climb up to the exposed bridge. A whiff of cool, fresh air, rich with the scent of the sea, met his nostrils, and in the distance he could just make out the sounds of muffled voices. In the hope that this repair team could explain precisely what had malfunctioned on the prototype Fathometer unit, he proceeded up the remaining rungs.
As Colter crawled through the final hatch, he viewed the backs of two workmen, busily digging through an exposed panel that was set near the bridge’s latticed floor. Both were dressed in woolen hats and identical heavy, navy blue coveralls that had Naval Arctic Laboratory stencilled in white below their shoulder blades. It was evident that they were completely unaware of his presence, and Colter took advantage of his surprise appearance by going directly on the offensive.
“I hope one of you will be able to explain just what went wrong with that damn unit. If the pencil pusher who invented it only knew its malfunction almost cost the lives of one hundred seven men, he’d hopefully be more careful the next time. This is no laboratory experiment that we’re running out here. It’s reality of the harshest sort!”
“I doubt if you’ll have to worry about another failure,” retorted one of the kneeling figures in an unnaturally high voice.
Only as this individual swiveled around and stood did Colter realize this technician wasn’t a man as he had assumed, but a young woman, and a pretty one at that. With her dark, almond-shaped eyes locked onto his startled gaze, she took a step forward and added.
“You must be Captain Colter. I’m Dr. Laurie Lansing of the Naval Arctic lab, and I believe we just found the problem that caused the unit to malfunction. It seems that during installation, the lasers weren’t calibrated properly.”
“This is a hell of a time to figure that one out,” snapped Colter. “That damn machine of yours was almost responsible for our deaths on three separate occasions.”
“You have every reason to be upset,” Dr. Lansing responded in a conciliatory tone. “I would feel the same way if our situations were reversed. But now that we know the problem, I’m certain it can be rectified.”
Capping these words off with a brave smile, she removed her woolen hat and shook loose a long mop of silky black hair. This feature served to further enhance her natural beauty, and Matt Colter’s wrath was temporarily quieted. Sensing this, Laurie Lansing continued.
“I know excuses are meaningless now, but this whole problem came into being when I was forced to miss the unit’s final fine tuning. I pleaded with Admiral Long to hold off your sailing date, but he said it would be next to impossible to do such a thing for a mere double-check of the equipment. I prayed that the lasers were tuned properly, and when I heard about your close calls under the ice, I felt simply terrible.”
Her sincerity was painfully real, and Matt Colter couldn’t help but be placated. Yet he still found himself with a bone to pick.
“I appreciate your concern. Doctor. But how could the designer of this project allow us to go to sea without making absolutely certain the device was in perfect operating condition? He must have known the risks involved.”