“I’m sure you will,” returned Colter. He patted the petty officer on the shoulder and then continued on through the mess hall.
He was about to pass by the galley when a familiar voice broke on his right.
“Hello, Captain. Can I fix you up a plate? Just pulled some fresh buttermilk hotcakes off the griddle, and the bacon’s nice and crisp just as you like it.”
Stepping forward to greet him was Petty Officer Howard Mallott, the sub’s head cook, his perpetual smile cutting his bespectacled face. The hefty brown-haired, ten-year veteran was second-generation Navy.
His father had been the head steward on the battleship New Jersey, and it was because of his exciting war tales that Howard had enlisted right after his high-school graduation.
“I’m afraid that I’m going to have to pass up that enticing offer, Mr. Mallott,” Colter responded as he touched his waistline. “Your culinary magic has already been responsible for too many of these spare pounds.”
“Well, make certain to bring your appetite along at lunchtime. Captain. I’m serving your favorite — roast turkey, mashed potatoes, cranberries, and broccoli casserole, with apple pie a la mode for dessert.”
“Thanks for the warning, Mr. Mallott. Now I’ll be certain to walk through the ship another time around just to burn up some of these excess calories.”
The jovial cook waved him away.
“Nonsense, Captain. You look just as fit today as you did in your Annapolis photo. Now this gut is another story.”
As the senior cook playfully patted his own bulging stomach. Colter excused himself to get on with his tour. Briefly glancing into the galley itself, the captain found its relatively small space clean and neat. This said a lot for Petty Officer Mallott, whose responsibility was a heavy one.
One hundred and seven men put away a lot of chow in the course of a typical two-month patrol. Yet all meals came out of this single cramped galley. With the help of three assistants, Mallott served three complete meals a day along with a variety of light snacks in between.
US submarines have always been known for the excellence of their chow, and Howard Mallott kept this proud tradition alive. With the flair of a gourmet chef, he carefully supervised the preparation of each and every menu. Because the very nature of underwater duty was in itself boring, meal times on the Defiance were looked to as a welcomed break from the humdrum routine. After a tasty fried chicken dinner with all the trimmings, or even hamburgers and french fries, the crew felt refreshed and ready to return to their duty slots.
Matt Colter passed by the larders where the majority of food was stored. In these jam packed lockers, the ingredients for over 18,000 meals were stowed away. That in itself took the patience of a saint, and Petty Officer Mallott supervised this complicated procedure after personally purchasing the ingredients from the base supply officer.
Realizing that they were very fortunate to have such a dedicated individual aboard, Colter left the galley, transit ted a narrow passageway, and passed by the main bunk room Forty-eight enlisted men called this portion of the Defiance home. To make the best use of the vessel’s limited space, the bunks were stacked in tiers four high. Each of these separate spaces had a curtain that could be drawn to provide privacy, along with individual ventilation fans and reading lights.
Like the officer’s quarters, clothing lockers were situated beneath each foam-rubber mattress. The room was only partially filled by the sleeping sailors that had stood the midnight to 4 a.m. watch, or as it was more commonly known, the mid watch. Not wishing to disturb them, the captain continued on through a double-wide hatch and ducked into the forward torpedo room.
This compartment also contained living space for thirty individuals. Yet its predominate feature were four, twenty-one-inch-wide, bronze breech doors, from which the sub’s various weapons and decoys would be launched. Currently gathered around the torpedo loading rack was a group of three sailors.
Leading them in the dissection of a Mk48 Mod 1 torpedo was Lieutenant David Sauger, the weapon’s officer.
“Is this one of the new fish. Lieutenant?” the captain asked.
The balding weapons’ officer backed away from the torpedo, wiped his receding forehead dry of sweat, and succinctly answered.
“That it is, sir.”
“How do they look so far?” continued Colter.
Sanger shook his head.
“This is only the third one we’ve had a chance to examine, Captain. Though the other two checked out, we’ve got three more to go after this one.”
Colter knew that when it came to new reloads, any weapons’ officer worth his salt scrupulously inspected each torpedo to double-check it for defects. David Sanger had only been with him on two previous patrols, yet in each instance he’d proved to be a hardworking perfectionist, who took his all-important job most seriously.
“Well, I can rest a bit more easily knowing that if we need ‘em, these fish will be ready to bite when the time comes. Keep up the good work. Lieutenant.”
Briefly looking up to examine the mattresses that were situated on the upper casing of the torpedo rack, Matt Colter ducked through the double-thick hatchway.
Outside the torpedo room, a ladder conveyed him upward into a passageway that directly adjoined the control room. It was here that he laid his eyes on a closed door that had a sign reading Sound Shack tacked on its length. Below this wooden placard was a fist-sized decal showing the hammer and sickle insignia of the Soviet Union with a thick red diagonal line drawn over it. Though he was overdue in the control room. Colter approached this doorway, turned its latch, and entered.
Inside the sonar room were a series of three individual consoles, each separated by an acoustic barrier. At the position closest to the door Seaman Lester Warren sat hunched over his monitor screen. A pair of bulky headphones covered the Texan’s ears, while his eyes were riveted on the repeater screen. The console beside him was vacant, though the station on the far side was not. Seated here in dark blue Navy-issue coveralls was Dr. Laurie Lansing.
Matt Colter walked soundlessly past the sonar technician and positioned himself immediately beside the black-haired civilian.
“Hello,” he said softly. “You’re certainly up with the chickens this morning.”
The scientist finished typing a complex series of digits into the data bank before pushing away from the keyboard and answering.
“Actually, I haven’t gone to bed yet.”
Colter seemed astounded by this revelation, “Does everyone at the Arctic lab take their work so seriously?”
“Only those of us who have a point to prove,” retorted Laurie. Then she yawned and stretched her cramped limbs.
Matt Colter found himself admiring her soft features and the dark eyes that didn’t seem to show a hint of fatigue.
“Seriously, Doctor, I know you want to get your Fathometer on line, but aren’t you pushing yourself a little too hard? At least break for a couple of hours of shut-eye. This console will be waiting for your return. And being properly rested, you’ve a lot better chance of not making a foolish mistake.”
“Don’t worry. Captain. I know what I’m doing. And besides, another couple of hours’ work and my job will be completed.”
“I’m glad to hear that,” said Colter. “Otherwise, you’d most probably keep working until you just dropped to the deck. How are your quarters, by the way? I’m sorry I couldn’t get by here sooner to ask, but the past couple of days have been hectic for all of us.”
“No apologies are necessary, Captain. My cabin is most satisfactory, and the crew has been most helpful, what little I’ve seen of them. Lately, I’ve been going right from my cabin to the officer’s wardroom to grab a bite to eat, and then straight over here.”