Ohio Class

11

ST2 Roger Caswell entered the sonar room, still groggy. He laid his hand on ST1 Penrod's shoulder. "I relieve you," he said.

"You're welcome to it," Penrod said. Dobbs walked in behind him, relieving another watch-stander. Chief Sommersby was already there, a fresh mug of coffee in hand as he leafed through the sonar log.

"Anything interesting?" Caswell asked.

"Whales humping," Sommersby said, replacing the log. "And the usual commercial targets."

He chuckled as he took his seat. So far as submariners were concerned, there were two and only two types of seagoing vessels: other submarines and targets, meaning all surface traffic. A peculiar view of the outside world, he thought, but one that certainly reflected the submariner's unique perspective.

"We've got one noisy broadband contact," Penrod said, pointing at a bright line slanting across the waterfall, "but that one's ours."

"Our pet zoomie," Sommersby said. "He took the Manta out for another test run an hour ago. He's been out ahead of us since."

"What," Caswell said, "he couldn't sleep?"

"I think he just misses all of that sun and sky shit," Dobbs said.

"Sun?" Sommersby asked. "What is this 'sun' thing of which you speak?"

"Big ball of flaming gas up in the sky," Caswell said. "I read about it once."

"Ah! Sounds like Chief Griswold's been at it again," Sommersby replied, nodding. "At least he's letting them rip out in the open now, instead of in the goat's locker."

"How's he getting up to the roof?" Penrod asked.

"Damfino. Maybe he pays the zoomie to take him topside when he needs to fart. In which case, the guy's doing the rest of us a real service!"

Caswell took Penrod's place at the console while the good-natured bantering went on. He yawned.

Day and night meant nothing on board a submarine. Standard orders dictated four-hour watches, standing one in three, which meant that when he was working 0800 to 1200 one day, like today, his next watch would begin at 2000 tonight and last to 2400 tomorrow morning.

Technically, that left eight hours of free time between watches… but besides sleep, he needed to perform other incidentals, including eating, taking care of personal needs, and — above all — continuing to study for his quals.

Together with perhaps a quarter of Ohio's crew, Caswell was a nonqual — or, in the more usual shipboard terminology, a fucking nonqual. During his first six months or so on board a submarine, a newbie was expected to rotate through every one of the ship's departments, primarily learning damage control and emergency procedures, and passing a test administered by each department head. Only when he'd demonstrated proficiency in every area of the boat was a new submariner accepted as fully qualified; a trusted member of the team.

After three weeks at sea, Caswell's body had begun adjusting to this new way of dividing the waking and sleeping periods of his day, but he still felt like he was running short on sleep. Since there was no actual night on board the Ohio, at any given time roughly a third of the crew would be at their duty stations, while another third or more would be in their racks.

His rack in the enlisted berthing area was a box smaller than a coffin, with a two-inch-thick mattress resting on a hinged lid that, when opened, gave him access to his small personal storage locker. The fluorescent lighting in the compartment was always on. Darkness— and his only bid for privacy — was provided by the curtains he could draw shut between his rack and the passageway. And there was always noise… men talking, men getting up or racking out, and all the thumps and bangs that accompanied men going about their duties in a closely confined space.

You learned to live with it.

Tougher to live with, though, was the hazing. All nonquals got the treatment, to one degree or another. In a way, it was a mark of belonging — at least until he earned his final qualifications and received the coveted silver dolphins of the true submariner.

So far, Caswell hadn't been hit too badly — the dead, wet fish in his rack and the usual round of being sent to find a skyhook or a left-handed blivet was about the worst of it. In fact, he'd heard tales of much worse— sailors who'd had their shampoo replaced with Nair, for instance… and were then regaled by their shipmates with stories of the dangers of living and working on board a nuclear submarine.

In fact, the crossing-the-line ceremony last week had been a lot rougher. When Ohio had crossed the equator east of the Philippines, all pollywogs — personnel who'd never before crossed the equator — had been brought up on charges before King Neptune, and forced to do various unmentionable things with various unspeakable substances from the galley and elsewhere.

And now Caswell was a pollywog no longer, but a true son of Neptune, and he had the certificate to prove it. He just wished some uninterrupted sleep came with the package.

He relaxed at his console, eyes on his waterfall, and slipped on the headphones that let him listen to the ocean depths around him. On the broadband channel he could hear the gentle susurration of the water as Ohio slipped along at almost twenty-five knots. At that speed, sonar was largely useless unless the target was very noisy or very close.

The Manta matched both criteria; he could hear it plainly — a kind of high-pitched whine with a deeper throb to it, coupled with the hiss of its wake.

Eyes closed now, as though in deep meditation, Caswell listened….

Lieutenant Commander Hawking opened up the Manta's throttle, putting the nimble little craft into a high-speed banking turn. Ninety knots! Not quite like putting an F/A-18 Hornet through its paces, but it would do.

At one hundred meters, the water was clear but utterly dark. Switching on his headlights, he seemed to be moving alone in a vast, empty bubble of deep and hazy blue.

His fuel cells were draining fast. It was time to go home.

He opened the sound channel to Ohio.

"Ohio, Ohio, this is Manta. Do you copy?"

"Copy, Manta," came the reply over his headset. "Go ahead."

"Open the barn doors, folks. I'm bringing this baby in."

"Manta, you are clear for approach."

"Thank you, Ohio. Open wide and say 'ah…. '"

The sound channel gave him the direction to Ohio, while Doppler ranging gave him an estimated distance— half a mile, more or less.

The run this morning had let him complete the last few items on his predeployment checklist. His superiors back on Oahu might have some quibbles, but so far as Hawking was concerned, the Manta was tight, hot, and ready to take on the real world.

What he didn't understand was why his shipmates on board the Ohio weren't more excited. The Manta's technology was damned impressive. Her fuel cells alone represented a major leap forward in power generation for small underwater craft. In the future, they might well allow the deployment of whole fleets of microsubmarines, robots raging independently across the world's oceans or deploying from manned submarine mother-ships. Manned fighters like the Manta, operating from undersea carriers like the Ohio conversions, might make hunter-killer boats like the new Virginia class obsolete.

Somehow, though, neither Ohio's officers nor her crew seemed that interested in the Manta. Or maybe, Hawking thought, it was simply that he himself had yet to be fully accepted by the rest. He'd tried being his usual open, friendly self, even with the enlisted men, and if he'd not been rebuffed directly, then at the least they'd maintained a cool distance.

No matter. He'd made a breakthrough yesterday afternoon, while going over the checklist for the Manta. A young first-class torpedo man who called himself Moonie had been assigned to the work detail loading the Manta's kinetic-kill torps, and Hawking had managed to strike up a friendly conversation. He had an idea he wanted to try, and the guy had loaned him a music CD so he could pull it off. The CD was already loaded and cued. All he needed to do was switch it on and patch it through the deep sound channel.

Ohio materialized out of the gloom dead ahead, vast and dark. He was approaching her bow-on. A slight adjustment of the controls would send him down the sub's starboard side.

"Manta, this is Ohio. Reduce speed and alter course to maintain safe clearance."

" Ohio, this is Manta. I've got it covered."

At just under ninety knots, the Manta began rolling as it shrieked past the huge vessel. Hawking switched on the CD and patched it through….

Caswell could hear the approaching Manta. In fact, the high-pitched flutter of its wake was pretty near all he could hear. "What the hell?"

"What is it, kid?" Sommersby asked.

"Sounds like the zoomie's coming straight for us."

"He's coming down the starboard side," Dobbs said. "Sounds like a high-speed torpedo, doesn't he?"

Reaching out, Caswell switched to the broadband deep sound channel….

Caswell jumped in his chair as he yanked the headphones off his ears. "What the fuck?"

"What's the matter, Cass?" Sommersby demanded.

Caswell pointed shakily at the headphones on the console. He could still hear a harsh, hip-hop beat rattling from the earpieces.

"That son of a bitch just tried to deafen me!" The racket, in fact, was loud enough that every man on board the Ohio could hear it, muffled and distorted by the water and the boat's hull, and overlaid by the fluttering whine of the passing fighter sub. The heavy, thumping beat, however, was insistent, and as intrusive within the submarine's normally silent world as a blaring, too-loud stereo in the car next to yours at a traffic light.

"What is that?" Dobbs asked. "Rap?"

Sommersby picked up the headset and held it to his ear. He smiled. "M.C. Hammer. Our zoomie likes puns."

"Puns?" Dobbs asked.

"M.C. Hammer. Operation Sea Hammer. Cute. Real cute. I just hope for his sake the skipper shares his sense of humor."

"Mr. Hawking," Stewart said above steepled fingers. "Do you have any idea what the very first order in my order book reads?"

Hawking was standing on the other side of the desk, at rigid attention. He'd come to attention when he reported to Stewart moments ago, and Stewart had not yet told him to stand at ease. "No, sir."

"It's the same as the first order in every sub captain's book. No guesses?"

"No, sir."

"It's remain undetected. Do you have any idea how deadly your little stunt out there this morning could have been?"

"Sir, there wasn't another vessel for five hundred miles in any direction."

"Really? How do you know this?"

Hawking opened his mouth as though to reply, then clamped it shut again.

"For your information, mister, sound travels well under water. Very well. It can reflect off the bottom and off of the thermocline and travel hundreds of miles; a phenomenon we call convergence. If there was an enemy submarine out there, even a thousand miles away, he heard us. Or, rather, he heard you."

"Sir, I didn't think there was any harm."

Stewart leafed through the papers in Hawking's personnel folder, which he'd had delivered to his desk an hour before. "You did go to submarine school, didn't you? It says you did… New London, right here."

"Yes, sir."

He leafed through more pages in the service record, then stopped, reading one of the sheets more closely. He'd noticed this one when he reviewed Hawking's record upon being assigned to the Ohio, but hadn't actually read it carefully. "My God."

"Sir?"

"This is a letter of reprimand. It says that while you were stationed on board the Eisenhower, you performed a low-altitude high-speed maneuver without proper authorization, passing 'level with the flight deck' and just a few meters to port—"

"I buzzed pri-fly, yessir."

"I should have known. You're a hot dog."

"Uh… I had a bet with—"

"I don't care if you had communion with the Pope!" Stewart studied the man at attention before him a moment. "You have jeopardized the security of this mission and the safety of this vessel. I don't know what they expected of you when you were flying Hornets off the Ike, but that kind of behavior is something I will not stand for!"

He read through several more pages. "In fact, it seems you were given an offer you couldn't refuse. They were going to pull your flight status. You got out of it by volunteering for the Manta project. Mm. Did the people at the submarine research facility know they were getting a hot dog from the fleet?"

"Uh, I believe it was deemed best not to worry them, sir."

"Uh-huh. I'll believe that."

"Sir… I am sorry, and it won't happen again."

"You're damned right it won't!" The words were a growl.

"I just… "

"Go on."

"Sir, I just didn't think it would do any harm! It's not like we're up against the Soviets or anything like a world-class twenty-first-century navy! We're still a couple of thousand miles from the Gulf, and the Iranians don't have shit to track us! Hell, I figure the Manta puts more noise into the ocean than that CD did."

"Mister," Stewart said, his voice very low, and very dangerous. "Don't you dare lecture me on my assets or my strategic imperatives on my own boat! What the Iranians have or don't have is beside the point!

"As for making noise… I'm well aware of how noisy that toy of yours is. I was under orders to take it and you on board, but I have yet to determine whether it or you will be of any use on this operation. Frankly, I doubt it, because a submarine's mission always involves laying low and remaining undetected."

"I'm aware of that, sir."

"Your head is aware of it, maybe. But not your heart. Are you aware, Commander, that this vessel has already come under attack, just after we left port and while we were still within American territorial waters?"

"Uh, yes, sir. I was briefed."

"We might be a couple of thousand miles from our AO, and we might be fighting a third-world enemy who has technology we consider primitive… but I absolutely will not jeopardize this mission or this ship by underestimating him. Is that clear?"

"Clear, sir."

"Another point. I wonder if you understand how sensitive some of our sonar equipment is. Your little impromptu concert out there could have damaged some of the Busy-one gear. It could also have injured the hearing of my sonar technicians, and, let me tell you something, Commander — on this boat, on this mission, my lowest-ranking sonar tech is worth twenty of you. No, I take that back. There's no comparison, because you are a fucking nonqual who doesn't know how to conduct himself, is of no use to the boat or the mission, and who doesn't know how to exercise good judgment or self-discipline! Do you have anything to add?"

Hawking looked pale, although that might have been the effect of the fluorescent lighting in the overhead. "Sir, it was a joke. Maybe… well, I guess I went too far, and I apologize. But sir, the Manta is a valuable asset, and I would like an opportunity to prove that to you, and to the Navy."

"A combat mission may not be the best venue for offering that proof. Until further notice, Commander, the Manta is off-line. You will report to the XO, Commander Shea. I believe we can find some admin duties to keep you out of our hair. Dismissed."

"Sir, I—"

"Dismissed!"

"Aye aye, sir!" Glowering, Hawking turned, opened the door, and walked out.

Stewart stared at the door a moment before closing the personnel folder and setting it aside on his desk. Lieutenant Commander Hawking was something of an anomaly on board a submarine. The SEALs were also "guests," supernumeraries with no specific duties who could hinder the smooth operation of the boat, but they kept to themselves in the area set aside for them and didn't try to mix. Hawking, on the other hand, having gone through sub school, was convinced that he was part of the crew, but hadn't yet figured out that a newbie wasn't a submariner until he'd completed his qualifications.

In fact, there was no room on a submarine for anyone who couldn't pull his own weight. Back in WWII, sub personnel had to actually know all aspects of all departments — not just emergency procedures — so that any man could fill in anywhere on board where he was needed. That level of broadband competence wasn't possible today, so specialized was the training and knowledge required for each station. But it was still a goal to shoot for.

Maybe, Stewart thought, if he required Hawking to go through the quals program… That hadn't been in the man's orders, but a sub skipper had broad powers in so far as what he required of personnel stationed on board his vessel. He'd talk to Shea and the COB about it later.

At least it might keep that young hot dog out of trouble.

Hawking entered the officer's wardroom and made straight for the coffee mess. Damn the man! Admin duty! Admin duty! He was an aviator, damn it, Hawking thought, and a submariner; not a pencil-pusher!

Oh, he knew the others on board didn't accept him as such. Ohio's crew was a close-knit and cliquish bunch, and they kept tight and quiet around people they considered to be outsiders. Same with the SEALs, or worse. That lot didn't talk to anybody!

Angrily, he poured coffee into one of the mugs painted with Ohio's logo, then added sugar and creamer. He now had the strong feeling that Moonie had set him up by giving him that CD and suggesting that he play it while "flying" past the Ohio. Well, there would be a reckoning. Indeed there would!

Returning to the wardroom table, he sat down and indulged in a sulk. At least Ohio's crew did talk. But they kept their distance — a superior distance — and as a member of a naval elite, he wasn't used to that kind of treatment. They were so freaking snide. Just yesterday he'd said something to Lieutenant Commander Carter, the engineering officer, about being a submariner. He'd pronounced the word as he'd always heard it pronounced — "sub-MAR-i-ner." Carter had looked at him as though he'd just crawled out of the bilge, and said "Commander Hawking, a sub-MAR-i-ner is the brand of wristwatch the Captain wears. The officers and crew of the Ohio are 'sub-muh-REE-ners.' "

Carter had been careful not to include him in that definition, Hawking had noticed.

Well, he would show them. Somehow.

He took a sip of coffee, blinked, and set the mug down again. Hawking was not, by nature, introspective. He was damned good at what he did, and he tended not to indulge in soul-searching or angst. However, it was beginning to occur to him that this time around he was the one with the problem, not everyone else around him.

Oh, it was still everyone else on the goddamned boat who was acting like assholes. There was no question about that. But Hawking was self-aware enough to know that he was overreacting to the treatment he was getting, and he wanted to know why.

The answer, he thought, lay in the fact that he was a member of an elite group within the Navy. Aviators— they never called themselves "pilots" — were the modern knights-errant of the service, very much in the public eye, very much used to the glory and the headlines that came with their position.

There was a paradox there. Hollywood tended to portray aviators as glory hounds and loose cannons. In fact, although there were a few hot dogs, most aviators were cool and calm to the point of being dispassionate, professional, competent — and very much team players, as opposed to their lone-wolf rep on the silver screen.

At the same time, though, most aviators grandly accepted the acclaim and the notoriety. Hawking, for instance, never had any trouble picking up willing women ashore. He considered it one of the perks that came with the job. And now he was an outsider, tolerated but not accepted as a member of the community.

And that thought rankled.

"Hey, Cassie?" The COB stood in the doorway to the sonar room. "I need to see you a moment."

"S-Sure, Master Chief." He looked at the other sonar watch-standers, as if to say, What'd I do? Dobbs shrugged and Sommersby shook his head. No hints there.

"We've got your station covered, kid," Sommersby told him. "Go on."

Caswell followed O'Day forward and down one deck, then aft to the mess hall. At least, he thought, if the Chief of the Boat was about to give him an ass-chewing, it wasn't bad enough to warrant being hauled up to the ship's office. But he couldn't imagine what it was he'd done.

Caswell took a seat at the COB's gestured invitation. "Sorry to interrupt," he said, "but a familygram just came through for you. I thought you'd want to see it in private."

Caswell instantly felt a cold fist clench in his stomach. Familygrams — instituted by the legendary Admiral Zumwalt thirty years before — were intended as morale boosters: short, often maddeningly cryptic messages sent to and from a sub with the regular radio traffic, which helped keep the crew in touch with their families.

Normally, this was a good thing… a twenty-five-word announcement of the birth of a daughter, a first tooth or a first step, or even of the need to get a plumber to fix the frozen pipes at home. Familygrams from home helped keep the men going, helped remind them of what was really important. But when the Chief of the Boat delivered one personally, and in private, the damned thing was more like the traditional telegram, almost certainly bearing unpleasant, even disastrous news. We regret to inform you…

He took the flimsy from O'Day's hand and opened it.

The words blurred for a moment. Damn… damn… damn! He'd been more than half expecting this to happen, but the reality…

"You okay, son?" O'Day asked.

Caswell nodded, not trusting himself to speak. He wadded up the message flimsy, looked around for a waste receptacle, and seeing none, stuffed the ball into a pocket of his blue poopie suit.

"Life sucks," O'Day said. "You need some time to yourself? I'll square it with your division chief."

"N-No, Master Chief," he said. "I think I'd better get back to my watch."

"Suit yourself. If you need to talk, though, my office door is open."

"Yeah… "

Somehow, thoughts reeling, he made his way back up to the sonar room.