Arctic Gambit

13 NEW AND OLD

Cavanaugh tried his best to keep out of the way as they prepared for leaving the dry dock. The excited tone he’d heard in the wardroom now infected the crew’s conversations, although he still heard a lot of speculation about where they were headed. Ensign Truitt brought him to the sub’s office, then disappeared, reappearing while the civilian was just finishing his paperwork. “Here’s your TLD… a portable dosimeter,” he explained, placing it in Cavanaugh’s hand. “Wear it at all times when you’re up and about the boat. Just loop it through your belt.” Truitt pointed to his own on his waist. “But I’d recommend having the case under your belt. You’re less likely to snag it on something. And trust me, there are a lot of somethings to snag on a submarine.”

“Yes, I’ve discovered that,” Cavanaugh replied, reminded by the aches in his shin and shoulder.

Truitt smiled. “So, ready for a quick tour? This won’t be very detailed; it’s just to show you how Jimmy’s laid out.”

“Do you have the time right now?” Cavanaugh wondered. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry.

“My guys are ready. Actually, it was going to be my turn to take her out, and normally I’d need some time to prepare for that, but the skipper decided that my boss, Lieutenant Commander Norris, will take her out of the dry dock.” Truitt scrunched up his face a little and intoned, “‘There will be ample training opportunities later.’”

Cavanaugh had to laugh at the ensign’s impersonation. It was very bad, but still clearly recognizable as CDR Weiss. “Has the Captain ever seen your impression?”

Truitt grinned. “Why do you think I’m still an ensign?” He gestured toward the office. “This is a good place to start. We’re about as far forward as you can get. The only things in front of us are the three main sonar arrays, basically one big ball that is passive, listens only, with a smaller active array under it. The third is a low frequency bow array, a series of hydrophones that wraps around the entire front end of the boat.” He pointed down. “The torpedo room is below us. Follow me.”

It was only a few steps to the control room. Cavanaugh had seen enough submarine movies to recognize it immediately, although it was not as spacious as he’d imagined. It wasn’t manned, of course, but crewmen — and women, he noted — were busy at different terminals. “We’re right under the sail,” Truitt explained, then pointed a single cylindrical pole in the middle of the room. “We only have one traditional periscope now. The other is a photonics mast that doesn’t penetrate the pressure hull. Both feed that console over there, but we can route the output to one of many video displays.” Cavanaugh wanted to ask questions, but Truitt kept moving.

The civilian did his best to listen as he followed the young officer, who moved easily through the passage, barely wide enough for two people to pass each other if they turned sideways. The “bulkheads” and “overhead” were cluttered with boxes and cabling, with faux wood paneling and green-painted metal underneath. Truitt smoothly dodged people and obstructions, while Cavanaugh seemed to mutter “Excuse me” to everyone he met. For their part, the crewmen often answered with, “Welcome aboard!”

Past the control room was the “hab” area, with berthing, the galley, and the wardroom, then the “Ocean Interface Hull Module,” the special one-hundred-foot section that was added during Carter’s construction. It could launch and recover remote vehicles or underwater swimmers, although Truitt said there were no SEALs embarked right now. “I wonder if any will show up before we leave tonight,” he mused aloud, with a sidelong look at Carter’s guest. Cavanaugh remained silent.

Next was a short section of passageway with comparatively empty sides, but strangely enough, a heavily framed glass port in the deck. Truitt invited him to look through it. “This is the tunnel. It connects the ocean interface module with the engine room. That’s the reactor under us. This space is heavily shielded, of course, but don’t lounge around in here if you can help it.” Cavanaugh looked through the yellow-tinted window and saw several large shapes surrounded by pipes. It wasn’t obvious which blob was the reactor. Truitt quickly pointed out the various components. The army engineer still wasn’t certain what he was looking at, but appreciated Truitt’s attempt to identify the bits and pieces. He led Cavanaugh toward the other end of the passage, which opened out into a space three stories high and just as wide. They stood on a grating on the upper level, looking down.

Truitt gestured, pointing aft toward the tangle of piping and machinery. “Everything from here back to the pumpjet belongs to engineering, and has something to do with making us move or keeping the lights on.” He pointed out different parts of the “steam cycle,” starting with two huge valves that sent steam from the reactor compartment, or RC, to the massive turbines, the condensers that converted the steam back into water, and dozens of pumps that tied it all together.

Cavanaugh asked, “Can I come back here when we’re at sea?” He found himself fascinated with seeing an actual nuclear reactor and the machinery that drove this steel monster.

“No problem, Doctor. I’m sure the Engineer will give you permission. And now that we’re back here, let’s visit the aft DC locker and get you acquainted with an EAB.” Responding to the civilian’s blank look, Truitt said, “It means ‘damage control,’ and EAB stands for the emergency air breathing system, a respirator mask that you put on if the atmosphere inside the boat becomes toxic.”

He now looked worried as well as confused, and as they went down the stairs—ladder, Cavanaugh corrected himself — Truitt explained, “Even a small fire puts out lots of smoke, and in a closed environment there’s nowhere for the smoke to go.”

They reached a locker labeled “EAB Storage” and Truitt reached inside, returning immediately with a bag that had what looked like a gas mask in it, except for the rubber hose trailing from it. Truitt explained about the emergency air supply piping that ran through the sub, with quick-connect fittings. He showed the civilian how to get the mask on, test to make sure it was tight, and then find and hook up to one of the fittings. “I’m still memorizing where all these fittings are. It’s one of the things I have to know before I can get my dolphins.” He tapped the empty spot over his right shirt pocket.

“How many are there?” Cavanaugh asked.

“There are 204 manifolds with four or five connections each,” Truitt replied instantly. “I also have to be able to draw the piping network from memory, know where the air comes from, and what to do if we need to isolate a manifold.” He handed Cavanaugh the bag and helped him stow the mask properly — another thing for the newcomer to practice. “Each space has EABs in it, including your stateroom. It’s really a good idea to know where the masks and manifolds are in each space — even if you’re not getting qualified in submarines. And don’t be surprised if the XO makes you grab a mask and show him you know how to use it,” Truitt warned.

It was now almost eleven o’clock, and Truitt got Cavanaugh headed back toward officer’s country before taking his leave. He jokingly warned the civilian, “If you see daylight, you’ve made a wrong turn.”

But the main passageway was fairly straight, and once he spotted the wardroom, Cavanaugh’s uncertainty vanished. Navigating his way back to “his” stateroom, he opened the door and walked in to find someone else in the middle of changing from a white uniform into the dark blue coveralls Truitt said were called “poopie suits.”

Confused, Cavanaugh started to back out, saying, “Excuse me,” but then he saw his own belongings, confirming that he was in the right stateroom. Even more confused, he noticed a puckered, circular scar on the other’s shoulder.

“No, you’re good,” the stranger barked as he straightened up, pulling on the coveralls and zipping them closed, and turned to offer his hand. “I’m Jerry Mitchell.”

Cavanaugh saw silver eagles on the collar tabs of Mitchell’s coveralls. Mitchell. This is the guy that President Hardy put aboard to run the mission. “Captain — I mean Commodore…”

“Either will suffice, but just Jerry is fine when we’re in a private setting. And you’re Dr. Daniel Cavanaugh. Carter’s captain has already briefed me on your role. I have some questions for you, but there’s time for that later.”

“Of course — Jerry, anything I can do…”

As Mitchell was pocketing different items, Cavanaugh looked for the third bunk.

Jerry saw his confusion, and explained. “I’ve taken over the XO’s stateroom, but you’re staying here. I think the XO will be bunking with the engineer on this trip. Rank does have some perks. The only stateroom with more space is the captain’s.”

“But then shouldn’t I move?”

“No. Not only are you a guest on board Carter, but your civil service pay grade makes you roughly equivalent to a captain. Not that you’d give him any orders, but technically, you outrank Captain Weiss.” He grinned. “So you and I get to split the extra two square feet of floor space in the XO’s stateroom.”

Mitchell grabbed a clipboard from what was now his desk and said, “I’ve got to run now, but I would like to get together. Can we meet after dinner?”

“Of course,” Cavanaugh answered, and Jerry was out the door.

Cavanaugh nodded as Jerry left, then grabbing the chair by his desk, he sat down, his brain overloaded with all the new information that had just been crammed into it. He tried to organize what he’d learned, where everything was, and sort out who he’d met. It was very different from what he’d expected. His impressions were all of people and technology packed into tight quarters. It was at odds with his first sight of Carter’s massive black hull in the dry dock.

As he sat, the excitement faded, and a wave of fatigue washed over him. The morning would have worn him out even if he’d been well rested.

Climbing into the upper bunk was another challenge, but he made it. Truitt said that they started serving lunch in the wardroom at twelve o’clock, which gave him just under an hour for a quick nap.

He missed lunch.

Jerry headed aft to the mission spaces, specifically the UUV bay, passing through the berthing area as unobtrusively as possible. He greeted those he knew by name. There were even a few of Jimmy Carter’s crew who had served with him on other boats, including Carter’s chief of the boat, or COB. Jerry would chat for a moment with his former shipmates, but always excused himself as soon as possible. Everybody had more than enough work to do, getting ready for the undocking, but more importantly, he didn’t want to answer any questions about why he was aboard. The best way to do that was to not give the crew any chances to ask them. Jerry knew he’d have to sit down with Master Chief Paul Gibson eventually and explain what was going on, but that would have to wait. Although, Jerry was confident Gibson already knew he was coming along on the mission.

Carter was doubly familiar to him. Not only had he been aboard as the squadron commander, but he’d also served as navigator aboard Seawolf, the first boat of the class. Jimmy Carter was the third and last boat of the same class, and differed from her sisters only in having an extra hundred feet hull section added amidships.

The multi-mission bay held, among other things, the UUV hangar and control center. Climbing down the ladder into the hangar, Jerry saw the two UUVs in their cradles. Looking at the blunt, rounded nose, Jerry was sometimes reminded of a loaf of bread; it was eighteen feet long, four feet wide, and painted blue-black. It had an almost square cross-section, which allowed more internal space for batteries and other equipment. The back end was sharply tapered, with a stubby x-tail and a simple five-bladed propeller. In many respects, they were similar to the UUVs he had on North Dakota.

The two vehicles sat in large cradles that allowed the crew to service them and then move them to what the U.S. Navy had designated the “Ocean Interface Module.” Carter’s crew called it the “Hatch.” Besides being used to launch a UUV while submerged, it could also be used as a lockout chamber for combat swimmers.

As Jerry entered the space, officers and enlisted men were clustered around the UUV named José. A stack of metal cylinders, the acoustic beacons, lay to one side. LT Kathy Owens, Carter’s weapons officer, stopped what she was doing and came to attention as he came in. She didn’t salute, of course, since they were indoors. The others kept working. A chief petty officer held a tablet that was connected by a cable to José. As he typed commands with the tablet, a petty officer lying underneath the vehicle’s payload bay reported the results.

“We’re making good progress with the beacons, Commodore,” Owens reported brightly. She was short, even for submariners, with curly hair that threatened to explode out from under a blue ball cap. “I’ve still got my techs working on them. The beacons all work, of course, but my guys are making doubly sure they’re watertight, programming in the unique ID codes, and disabling the ‘pinger’ mode. Transponder only.”

“Good. How about the fit?” Jerry asked, looking at the group working on the UUV.

“No problem, sir. The target transponders are the same diameter as the positioning beacons the UUV is designed to use, but they’re just a bit longer. Each vehicle will carry six. We’re testing the entire sequence soon, from loading to deployment; if there’s any problems, we’ll know by this afternoon,” she announced confidently.

Jerry nodded approvingly. “That’s good. If we need anything else to make this work, it would be nice to know before we’re underway. I came looking for a manual, if you’ve got a spare.”

“Of course, sir,” she answered and walked past the two vehicles to a cabinet. She pulled out a loose-leaf binder and handed it to Jerry. “This one is up to date, Commodore.”

“Thanks. I can have it back to you this evening.”

“We have several, sir. Please keep it for as long as you need.”

Jerry nodded and headed back the way he came. He settled down in the wardroom to work, after grabbing a fresh cup of coffee. There were few places on a sub for quiet study, and with the civilian in his cabin, the wardroom between meals was an acceptable alternative. The mess stewards were setting up for lunch, so he sat at the side table.

It felt familiar to him, even comfortable. Not only was the wardroom’s layout almost identical to the one aboard his earlier boat Seawolf, it had the same sounds and even smells as all the other subs he’d ever been aboard. It was an environment he knew so well, and thrived in.

Jerry could never tell Emily how much he loved serving aboard subs. To do so would imply that he didn’t miss his family. He did miss them, especially at meals, and in the evening, before going to bed — the times when he wasn’t practicing his chosen craft. Even this, poring through a UUV manual for obscure facts, was rewarding, even enjoyable.

After lunch, Captain Weiss had scheduled a meeting to review preparations for the undocking that evening. Jerry debated not even showing up. He wasn’t technically part of the evolution, and didn’t want to be a distraction. But he wanted to watch Lou at work, and it wouldn’t be proper for him to pretend he didn’t care.

Counting the sixteen officers and eight chief petty officers crammed into the wardroom, Jerry didn’t so much watch Carter’s captain at work as listen to him, as well as the reports from the sub’s leadership. Weiss marched everyone through the timeline, with everything starting at exactly 2115, when the last Russian satellite disappeared below the horizon.

In dry dock, out of the water, the sub’s reactor was of course completely shut down. Weiss spent some time with LCDR Norris, the chief engineer, and LT Hilario, the main propulsion assistant, going over what could be done before they were floated out to shorten the startup process, but there wasn’t much they could do. “We’ve already begun warming up the primary system, but the fact is, we don’t have enough time to get us to the normal startup temperature. So, we’ll use the emergency diesel and the EPM to get us moving down the river while we finish heating up, and then bring the reactor critical.”

Jerry heard a few soft groans. The emergency propulsion motor wasn’t very powerful, and that meant slow slogging, but Weiss continued. “Yes, I’m aware this will be a slow egress. Three knots, max. We can’t go much faster than five knots down the river anyway, at first, and our top priority is to be well away from this dock by 0220, when the next Russian satellite makes its appearance. If we’re out of the dock by 2345 as planned, and the boat can answer a flank bell two hours later, that will put us over thirty miles away, counting the current. This gets us through the Block Island Sound and out into the Atlantic before the next imaging satellite gets a chance to take a peek.”

Jerry agreed with Weiss’s plan of action. It wasn’t the most auspicious way to start a patrol, but it would work.

In the end, Jerry didn’t say a word until the very end of the meeting, when Weiss asked him, “Commodore, would you like to join me on the bridge during the undocking?”

“That would be fine, Captain.”

Jerry stayed busy in his stateroom until just before it was time. He wanted to avoid joggling Lou Weiss’s elbow, and was sure that was the right thing to do, but he did feel a little out of touch.

A few minutes after 2100, Jerry left officer’s country and headed forward to control. It was fully manned now, although most of the workstations were dark. They would stay dark for a while, too, even after they were in the water and underway.

While in the dry dock, Carter’s electricity came from “shore power.” That cable would have to be disconnected once they started flooding the dock. Her reactor normally drove two steam-powered generators that provided all the electricity the sub needed, but until it was online, the emergency generator, a large diesel engine, would have to serve. It not only had to power the electric propulsion motor that would move the boat, but the control systems that steered her, cooling water for the diesel and the reactor plant monitoring circuits, as well as continuing to heat up the primary plant. Nonessential systems would stay secured until the reactor could take over.

Jerry went up a deck to the bridge access trunk and climbed up the ladder inside the sail. He was just near the hatch when Maneuvering passed the word over the intercom, “Bridge, Maneuvering. The electric plant is in a half-power lineup on the diesel.” Weiss acknowledged the report, and although he didn’t sound relieved, Jerry knew that a problem with the diesel generator right now would have shut down the entire evolution.

“Permission to come up?” Jerry asked.

Weiss answered “Granted” almost automatically, as the bridge intercom reported shore power had been secured and the cables were being removed. They would continue to receive cooling water from shore until the water level in the dock was deep enough to cover the auxiliary seawater suction ports. Carter’s captain was following a checklist even more detailed than Jerry would have used. A phone talker passed other reports, and a walkie-talkie buzzed and chirped with reports from the graving dock workers. Lou was fielding the information smoothly, and everything was going according to plan.

Maybe he really didn’t need to be here, Jerry thought, but that would be the best of all possible outcomes. He always tried to be ready for the worst.

A hundred feet below the bridge, the dry dock floor was already hidden by swirling white-frothed water. Floodlights illuminated the streams pouring into the basin from six-foot square sluice valves opened in the dock’s floating caisson gate. The level still hadn’t reached the keel. Carter sat on sturdy wooden blocks about six feet off the bottom of the dock, and it would take almost two hours for the sub to float off the blocks.

Normally after coming out of dry dock, a sub, still not much more than an inert mass of metal, would be towed to a nearby dock to finish lighting off its reactor. After that, it would prepare for sea, and leave a day or so later. This time, all the preparations for sea were being done at the same time as the undocking.

“Commodore, thank you again for these nifty PRC-148 secure radio hand sets,” exclaimed Weiss in between the stream of reports. “They’re much appreciated. Any way we can hang on to these for future use?”

“You’re welcome, Captain. But I’m afraid the radios are on loan from a SEAL team. I’m probably just overreacting, but if we’re striving to keep this departure as covert as possible, then we need to eliminate the possibility of someone listening in as you give orders to the tug. However, I will have to return them.”

“Pity,” replied Weiss with a disappointed tone. Jerry chuckled.

“Request permission to come up?” The voice sounded a little uncertain, but Weiss replied “Granted” and Daniel Cavanaugh clambered up. The bridge watch hadn’t been set yet, so there was space for Weiss, Jerry, and Cavanaugh, along with the enlisted phone talker.

“Not a lot of room up here,” Cavanaugh commented. He tried to find a corner that would give the others as much space as possible.

Weiss was responding to another report, so Jerry answered, “At sea, it’s just the OOD and a lookout in here, what we call the cockpit. The extras, like you and me, ride up on the flying bridge.” He gestured to a small platform with railings up behind the bridge. “But subs really don’t spend much time on the surface, usually just while leaving port and coming back in.”

“I wanted to watch us get underway, but that won’t be for a while, will it?”

“It will take about two hours to flood the dock and lift Jimmy off the blocks. That tug”—he pointed to a cluster of running lights in the river—“will actually tow us clear. That’s when it will be safe for the pumpjet to turn and she can move under her own power.”

Jerry was content to answer Cavanaugh’s questions, all very basic, about submarines while Carter’s captain oversaw the undocking. The civilian had questions about the UUVs, about submarine training, the inevitable question about how deep the sub could go, and how long they could stay submerged.

Lou Weiss chimed in occasionally, and the conversation even included a few sea stories, designed to edify and warn the civilian about the importance of staying on the crew’s good side. Submariners had tools, access to really sticky duct tape, and a wicked sense of humor. It passed the time, and Jerry felt the ice was beginning to thaw between him and Lou Weiss. He also learned a little more about their civilian guest — completely ignorant of submarine operations, but curious and intelligent.

They’d all been marking the water’s progress as it rose, slower than the minute hand of a clock, but steadily creeping up the sub’s flanks. “Right now our ballast tank vents are open, so it’s filling them as well as the dock,” Jerry explained. “When the water gets high enough, we’ll close the vents, and soon after that we’ll be afloat.”

Cavanaugh watched the tug approach and hook up a towline as Weiss communicated with it over the secure walkie-talkie. The water had risen high enough in the dock to cover the openings in the gate, eliminating the waterfall noise and leaving the tug’s diesels the loudest sound. Commodore Mitchell stood silently in his corner, watching the action, evaluating the performance of Carter’s CO and crew. Cavanaugh could understand some of the reports Captain Weiss received, but most were a complete mystery to him.

Weiss received yet another report and immediately ordered, “Close all main ballast tank vents.” Jerry leaned over and told Cavanaugh, “That’s our cue. We should go below now, to make room for the bridge crew.”

So the sub was close to actually moving. Things were just going to get more interesting. Hesitantly, the army engineer asked, “Can’t I stay topside?” like a kid wanting to watch the late, late movie.

Mitchell shrugged, and looked to Weiss, who nodded. “Just stay where you are for right now,” Carter’s captain ordered. Cavanaugh nodded happily.

Jerry disappeared down the hatch, to be replaced almost instantly by a lieutenant commander and two petty officers. One petty officer, wearing a harness, climbed up to the flying bridge and clipped a safety strap to a fitting behind him. It hadn’t occurred to Cavanaugh until that moment that once the sub began moving, the platform might not be all that steady.

The officer introduced himself. “I’m Tom Norris, the chief engineer. We met below. I’ll be the OOD — officer of the deck — once we’re underway.”

Cavanaugh felt the deck shift a little underneath them. It was so small it could have been dismissed as a vibration, but a second shift, and then a sliding movement followed it.

“And we’re off the blocks,” Norris announced. Pushing the intercom switch, he reported, “This is Mr. Norris. I have the deck and the conn.”

While the EB workers disconnected the auxiliary cooling water connection, two lines on the submarine’s bow came taut. The slack also disappeared from the mooring lines that held Carter in the center of the dock. Cavanaugh noticed that line handlers had appeared on the hull in front of and behind the sail.

There was still no sensation of movement, but rather one of not being part of the earth anymore. Eddies and currents pushed the hull in different directions, and while the lines kept the sub in one place, she was definitely ready to move.

The radio crackled again, and Weiss confirmed, “Understood, removing the gate.” That was clear enough, and Cavanaugh saw a crack at the end of the dock grow wider as the dock’s interior connected with the Thames River. He could see no sudden rush of water in either direction. The two levels were exactly the same. Just outside the dock was a tug’s stern, loitering smartly in place. Another line was expertly transferred from the submarine’s bow to the tug.

The radio crackled again. Weiss smiled broadly and clapped Norris on the shoulder. “And that’s it!” he announced happily. “Take us out, Eng.”

Norris accepted the secure radio from Weiss and told the phone talker, “On deck, take in all lines.” Carter’s captain disappeared below, followed by the phone talker, making more room, but Norris took it all in as he moved from side to side, watching the line handlers and the distance between Carter’s hull and the dock, now that she was free to move.

“Tug Paul, dead slow ahead,” Norris ordered, and the tug’s rumbling increased. Cavanaugh felt the gentlest of jerks as the towline went taut, and they were moving.

He had half a dozen question he wanted to ask, but knew better than to distract Norris. Even a gentle scrape on the sides of the dock could mean a delay of hours, but more likely days or possibly even weeks. Carter wasn’t going fast enough for her rudder to work, not yet, and was at the mercy of whatever currents the river sent them.

Norris’s head was on a swivel as he tried to judge not only Carter’s current position, but where she’d need to be in the next few minutes. The only good direction was straight ahead; anything else was trouble.

Cavanaugh marked their progress by watching the dock slide past. They were moving slightly faster than a walk. He spotted the floodlit opening ahead, and was encouraged, but Norris checked aft, and the civilian was reminded that three-quarters of the sub’s length was behind them.

Norris turned and spoke to him, the first time since he’d taken over. “The tricky part is coming up. The river’s current will hit us from the side, and the tug will have to compensate.”

Cavanaugh nodded his understanding, thinking to himself, now comes the tricky part?

Norris ordered, “Tug Paul, slow ahead,” and waited only a moment for the acknowledgement before resuming his bouncing back and forth motion in the cockpit.

Marking their progress along the dockside, it suddenly changed up from a fast walk to a jog, and the end of the dock seemed to fly past them. He turned to look aft, and knew Norris was doing the same thing on the other side of the sail. Cavanaugh heard Norris give a few orders to the tug, but they were always in a calm voice.

And they were out, as if they’d been launched. In the island of illumination behind them, he could already see the dock gate being closed. If he understood the plan properly, they’d de-ballast the dock, and extend the canvas cover over the end again, so that it would be impossible to tell that USS Jimmy Carter was not there anymore.

Norris was now telling the tug what course to take up as they headed south down the river. Then he received word that the sub’s pumpjet had been unlocked and the EPM was ready to answer bells. Soon the tug was detached and fell in line astern as Carter proceeded down the Thames River’s southbound channel at a stately three knots. “The tug will stand by until the reactor’s on line, just in case the diesel craps out,” Norris explained.

The action seemed to be over, and Cavanaugh asked, “When will we reach the ocean?”

“At three knots, we’ll reach the mouth of the Thames River in about forty-five minutes. It will be another hour before we reach Block Island Sound. By that time we should be able to commence a normal reactor startup. An hour later the main propulsion plant will be ready to answer all bells and we’ll get to go a lot faster.”

Cavanaugh looked around them. Out from under the canvas, there was a quarter moon and clear sky. There was no wind to speak of, just a cool breeze from the sub’s movement. The water on either side of the submarine was black as ink, rippled by the sub’s passage. He could see lights on shore to either side, but it was hard to tell exactly where the water ended and the shore began.

He looked at his watch, realized it was too dark to read it, then he saw the time readout on the navigational display: 0000—midnight. He should be exhausted. Truitt had said reveille at sea was at 0600, but there was too much to see and Cavanaugh, filled with excitement, was wide-awake. Besides, he’d had that nap.

“Is it all right if I stay up here for a while longer?”