First Strike

THREE

Ensign Kevin Forsythe was not having a good day. It wasn’t the weather. The forecast predicted a light breeze and blue skies. Soon, the wind would carry the scent of coconut oil, sand, and sea to the submarine from the beach.

Nor was he ill. In fact, he had never felt quite as well as he did that day. Every nerve ending seemed to tingle, the wind was silk drawn across his skin. Every sense was highly attuned, reacting to the smallest changes in his environment.

The source of Ensign Forsythe’s discomfort was that he was officer of the day during the Seawolf’s first full day in port in Bermuda. Intellectually, he understood it wasn’t anything personal. Someone had to stand duty, and it was simply his turn in the rotation. As the junior man in the wardroom, he had few favors to call in to compel a swap and absolutely no seniority. Therefore, when the list came down, he knew immediately he was stuck with it.

However well he might understand that, it still sat hard. The last two months had been especially grueling, particularly since he was a recent graduate of the Navy nuclear training pipeline and not yet fully qualified on board Seawolf. When he was not on watch or working, he studied. No movies. No lingering in the wardroom to talk or play cards. No, he did what a good submarine officer was expected to do — indeed, was required to do: He studied. He pounded through massive volumes of engineering text, memorizing diagram after diagram. He toured the ship endlessly, diagramming her peculiarities, the location of her damage control equipment, tracing out her piping systems. Yes, it all had been covered in school, but, as every new officer learns, there is a vast difference between the national submarine on a chalkboard or simulator and an actual living, breathing, honest-to-God boat.

So, given his schedule on board Seawolf, he thought that maybe, just maybe, he was a little more ready for liberty than absolutely anyone else on the boat.

Not that anyone else felt that way. He hadn’t even bothered to mention it, knowing the sardonic looks and disgust he would garner from the other officers. After all, only he and Ensign Bacon were on their first patrol. The rest of them were veterans, had all done six months submerged on patrol in areas they couldn’t even talk about. The fact that Ensign Forsythe had been studying his little butt off for the last two months wasn’t even comparable. They had all been there, done that, and had little sympathy.

Oh, sure, he would get his chance tomorrow, and the day after that. The submarine was in three-section duty, so he could expect liberty two out of every three days. Just like everyone else. But, somehow, that didn’t seem much of a consolation right now.

To make matters worse, his immediate superior in the watch section, Lieutenant Commander Brian Cowlings, was no happier about having duty than Forsythe was. And, furthermore, Cowlings didn’t like him. Didn’t like him one little bit. So Forsythe anticipated that to work off his own frustrations, Lieutenant Commander Cowlings would probably spend a good deal of the next twenty-four hours chewing on Forsythe’s ass.

Cowlings was an engineer, the chief engineer of the boat. He was one of the men Forsythe would have to convince that he was qualified in order to earn his submarine pin.

Forsythe watched as the off-going duty section streamed down the wooden planked gangway connecting the submarine to the pier. Like rats deserting a sinking ship. It was still a few minutes before 0700 but every watch station had been turned over, every watchstander relieved by someone in Forsythe’s section.

Since the submarine had gotten in late last night, the off-going duty section had stood watch from around midnight until 0700. After Forsythe had double-checked everything in his division — he was the auxiliaries officer — gone over his duty roster again, worked out a few small problems connecting to shore services, it was well after 0200. He had contemplated heading ashore for a couple of quick beers and coming back to the submarine and getting up an hour later to assume the watch, but immediately realized that that would be a bad idea. Standing your first in-port duty while still blotto from the night before was no way to impress anyone, and he was quite certain that Lieutenant Commander Cowlings would not only smell the stale beer on his breath but would also be able to peer deep inside his soul and realize just how unworthy a submarine officer Ensign Forsythe was.

“Ready for colors?” a voice behind him asked. “If you don’t check, it will go wrong.”

A submariner’s motto. Check, recheck, and triple-check. Because when you were a couple of thousand feet below the surface of the sea, it was highly probable that anything that went wrong would kill you. Professional paranoia was part of being a submariner.

Forsythe turned and snapped off a smart salute to Lieutenant Commander Cowlings. “Yes, sir. Just went over the roster and verified that everyone is on board. They all know their assignments, we checked with harbor local for the correct time, and there are no special holidays or days of mourning to observe.”

“Where’s the flag?” Cowlings waited. Forsythe’s blood ran cold.

The flag. Dammit, the flag! Where the hell is it? The boatswain’s mate would know, but where was the boatswain’s mate? Does anyone in the duty section know where it is?

Cowlings smiled slightly. “It’s considered highly inappropriate to hold morning colors without an American flag, Ensign. Now, unless you want to get your boys together and start coloring a tablecloth, I suggest you find it. You have—” Cowlings glanced at his watch—“fifteen minutes.”

Fifteen minutes. The submarine was crammed with nooks and crannies, and the first place that the Ensign thought to look was the boatswain’s mate’s locker. But the locker would be secured, accessible only to the boatswain’s mate of the watch or someone with a master key. And Lieutenant Commander Cowlings had the master keys.

“Sir, if I might have the master keys, I can—”

Cowlings pulled the keys out of his pocket and dangled them enticingly in front of Forsythe. “You mean these?”

Forsythe reached for them, but Cowlings pulled them back, keeping them just slightly out of his reach. A red flush spread up his face, burning over his cheek bones.

Just what the hell is this? He knows I need them to get in the locker — he’s determined to make me look stupid in front of the captain, I just know it. Somebody ashore will be sure to tell the skipper that colors didn’t go down right, and the captain will blame me.

But Cowlings is the command duty officer. It will look just as bad for him, because he’s responsible for my performance.

“Fourteen minutes, Lieutenant. And counting.” Cowlings waited.

A test. This is a test of some sort. The realization dawned in his mind with a blinding flash. I’m supposed realize something, supposed to understand what I need to do. The smile on Cowling’s face changed slightly as he saw the junior officer consider the problem from a new angle.

He doesn’t expect me to be bounding around the deck, trying to grab the keys from him. That’s horseplay, not allowed on watch. Besides, it would look undignified, and an officer is supposed to — that’s it. An officer.

Forsythe turned to Chief Petty Officer Billdown, the chief of the watch, who was standing slightly behind him. “Chief?”

“Yes, Ensign?” Forsythe could tell by the chief’s tone of voice that he’s been expecting it, and he detected a note of approval.

“Chief, please locate the American flag and assemble the color guard.”

“Right away, Ensign.” Forsythe watched him go, resenting the trick that Cowlings had played on him, but knowing he would remember the lesson well.

Cowlings nodded. “Good job. They still teach that story about the new army officer?”

“Yes, sir.”

Forsythe knew the story well. A group of army lieutenants was tasked with putting up a standard issue field tent. None of them had ever done so before, and the results, as they issued a series of highly confusing and explicit orders to their troops, were ludicrous. The troops had been told beforehand to obey every order precisely as it was given.

The last second lieutenant watched the others carefully. When his turn came, he turned to his sergeant, and said, “Sergeant, have the men put up the tent.” The tent went up in minutes. The moral was that any task could be accomplished much faster and more accurately by doing what an officer was supposed to do: using the chain of command to get the most out of the talents and skills of the men assigned to him.

“Sinks in better with an actual lesson.” Cowlings tossed him the master keys. “I’ll observe colors with you, then I’ll be in my stateroom. Call me if you need me.”

They stood side by side as the national anthem rang out and the flag soared quickly to the top of the flag pole. As he listened to the music that never failed to set something aquiver inside of him, Forsythe suppressed a grin. Maybe it wouldn’t be such a bad duty day after all.