Seawolf Class

8

"Commander Thomas Garrett, reporting aboard, sir."

He stood in the narrow doorway leading into the captain's office, a cramped space at best, even aboard a modern Seawolf-class boat, tucked away next to the captain's quarters off the main forward passageway. Captain Lawless was squeezed in behind his small desk, on which a laptop computer was perched. Opposite, a master chief in khakis, a burly man in his fifties with a crisp mustache and eyes that missed nothing, leaned back in a chair, cradling a mug of steaming coffee. The mug bore the legend "COB."

Lawless held out his hand, and Garrett passed him the bulky manila government envelope containing his orders and personnel records. The captain unwound the string tie, pulled out the cover sheet, and scanned it briefly. "Okay, Garrett. Welcome aboard." He nodded at the chief. "Master Chief Kevin Dougherty. Chief of the Boat."

"Master Chief."

"Good t'meet you, sir," Dougherty said, reaching across and shaking his hand. "Welcome aboard."

"Commander Garrett will be replacing Mr. Joslin as XO," Lawless explained. "Temporarily." He came down hard on the final word.

Dougherty gave him a scrutinizing scan, top to bottom and back again. "Weren't you skipper of—"

"Yes, COB," Garrett replied.

"I think I'll have our XO take us out this afternoon, COB. Any problem with that?"

"No, sir. None at all." Dougherty grinned as though he shared a secret with the captain. "We'll just have the fender crews standing by!"

"No need, COB," Garrett said. He grinned. If he was going to be accepted by the Seawolf's crew, if he was going to have a prayer of fitting in, he would need to join in the fun. "I'll be fine… unless, of course, there are any Russian subs tied up at Yokosuka."

Dougherty laughed. "Heh! I'll be sure to have the lookouts keep a sharp watch!"

Lawless was going through Garrett's service records. He'd pulled out the thick folder that included his health records and began thumbing through the pages. Uh-oh, Garrett thought. Here it comes.

"Interesting" was Lawless's only comment, at least for several long moments as he stopped to read a page. "I find this somewhat disturbing, Commander," Lawless said at last. "You are under prescription for moderate to severe clinical depression."

"Yes, sir." He glanced briefly at Dougherty, who was carefully studying his coffee. The contents of a man's health records were confidential. While his commanding officer would have access to them, by rights no one else on board save the medical staff would normally be privy to their contents. A submarine's Chief of the Boat, however, was a special case, a minor deity who served as the direct link between the enlisted personnel and the officers — especially the boat's executive officer, who was responsible for the crew's performance. He needed to build trust with Dougherty, needed to build it both ways, and to build it quickly. Chances were, Lawless would share the information with the COB in any case. "Zoloft, one hundred milligrams."

"Is this something stemming from what happened with your former command?"

"That was a contributing factor, sir. As were my divorce and the apparent sidetracking of my career. You'll note, sir, that I have a clean bill of mental health."

"So long as you take your pills." Lawless frowned. "I am sorry to hear about your personal troubles, Commander. But this medical condition worries me. Depression is a killer. It is also a primary occupational hazard on board a submarine. Most submariners suffer from depression, to one extent or another, at some point in their careers. But if you are to be my exec, I need to know that you will function efficiently, without question, without hesitation. And I need to know that you will work well with my crew, that you will always be available to them, that you will not degrade their performance with your problems."

"You don't need to worry about that, Captain."

"I do need to worry about it, Commander. The Navy pays me to worry. I need to know I'll be able to count on you when the pressure's on. I expect you to do things by the book, Mr. Garrett, by the book."

"All I can say, sir, is that you'll have to give me a chance to prove myself."

"That is exactly what I intend to do. You'll have your chance. One. That's all I ever give anyone. Am I clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Lawless continued to page through Garrett's personnel record as if searching for something more, something to use. Garrett wondered if he'd been dismissed.

Lawless looked up. "Ah, Commander? One more thing."

"Yes, sir?"

He tapped the open folder he was going through. "Do you know what this is?"

Garrett couldn't see it from where he stood. "No, sir."

"Your security file." Lawless studied it a moment more. "Says here you've been dating a Japanese girl."

Garrett felt a cold fist closing in his gut. "That's right."

"That's a bit unusual, isn't it? Someone working for ONI, having a relationship with a foreign national?"

He had reported his relationship with Kazuko, as was required. Especially these days, the authorities were nervous about the possibility of terrorists getting hold of intelligence dealing with U.S. military deployments, base plans, or security.

"No, sir. Some of the guys at ONI are married to locals. Sir."

"I wouldn't want one of my officers to have trouble with enemy identification."

Anger flooded Garrett, coloring his face, but he kept his response rigidly under control. "That is not a problem with Ms. Mitsui, Captain."

"It had better not be. She only needs to gook us once—"

The racist epithet, used as a verb, burned. "That is uncalled for! Sir!"

"Is it?"

Garrett forced himself to unclench his fists. To relax. To press back the white fury. "Yes, sir. It is. Is there anything else? Sir."

He sighed. "No, no. Not now. Dismissed, Commander. COB? Why don't you show our new exec to his quarters, get him settled in."

"Aye aye, sir."

Garrett found himself trembling as he stepped out into the passageway. That damn racist bastard! Was it possible people still thought that way, felt that way in this day and age?

He took a deep breath. Yes, of course it was, unfortunately. Since September 11 and the start of the War on Terrorism, anyone not obviously American-born was suspect, along with anyone, American or not, who was a Moslem.

"This way, sir," Dougherty said, squeezing past him. A short way down the passageway to a cabin marked executive officer.

"Thank you, Master Chief."

"No problem, sir. Uh… listen… "

"Yes?"

"Don't let the Old Man get under your skin, Commander. He has a knack for pushing hard to find weakness, y'know?"

"Is that what you call it?"

"Don't get me wrong, sir. The captain's great. The men love him. But he can be damned tough on you until he gets your measure, until he knows what you're made of, you understand? He'll really put the pressure on in order to check out your crush depth, if y'take my meaning. Don't let him get your goat."

Garrett relaxed a bit. "Thank you, COB. I'll try to remember that."

"This is a good boat. The captain worked hard to get this assignment. He beat out I don't know how many other qualified submarine skippers to land it. The men are good, too, the very best of the very best. Only the best would get duty aboard the 'Wolf."

"I would have expected nothing less."

"Good. So, if you'd like to come on aft to the wardroom, I'll start introducing you around."

"Thanks, COB. I'd like that."

Four of the Seawolf's officers were in the wardroom, seated around the table that nearly filled a compartment that was relatively large by submariner standards.

"Lieutenant David Ward, our weapons officer," Dougherty said. "Lieutenant Ronald Simms, navigation. If we get lost, it's his fault."

"Fuck you, COB."

"Any time, sir, anyplace. The tall, gangly guy in the corner there is Lieutenant Tollini, our dive officer. And over by the door, where he can make a quick getaway, is Lieutenant j.g. Neimeyer, fresh out of sub school and ready to conn the Seawolf all by his lonesome. Gentlemen, this is Commander Garrett, our new exec."

The four nodded and murmured greetings. "Fresh meat!" Ward added. "You seen the skipper yet, sir?"

"Just did."

"Then you know what to expect. Seawolf is a tight boat."

"The brasswork shines," Simms added. "And if it doesn't, the Old Man'll damn well know why. By the book, people, by the book!"

"Good to meet all of you," Garrett said. They looked like a good group… but wary. All submariners, in Garrett's experience, were a bit reserved with newcomers and outsiders. It had to do with the job, where silence was more than golden, where secrecy was the rule, and where you depended on the other members of the crew to work together to make sure you returned to the sunlight alive after each time the boat dived.

It had been a while since Garrett had been aboard a submarine, or even associated closely with submariners. Was it their natural Silent Service reticence he sensed? Or something more?

He would have to get to know them better to decide.

"So, anyone get a load of the new XO when he came aboard?" Torpedoman's Mate First Class Jordan Larimer asked the others. Midday dinner was over and the mess tables wiped down. Larimer and four other Seawolf sailors had gathered there for a break and some scuttlebutt with cups of coffee or juice before getting back to the routine of preparing the sub for departure.

"I saw him," Engineman Second Class Bennett said. He shrugged. "Didn't look like much. Another ring-knocker."

"Annapolis, huh?" Sonar Tech Chief Eric Toynbee said. "Takes more'n that to turn out a good submariner. Right, Queenie?"

He slapped the youngster on the bench next to him hard enough so the kid almost spilled his bug juice. Ken Queensly was Seawolf's newest sonar tech, a skinny, gangly looking kid with Coke-bottle glasses and the awkward air of a computer geek.

"Right, Chief," Queensly said. "I heard he was a full commander, though. What are we going to do with two commanders on board?"

"Stay out of trouble," Larimer said, and the others laughed.

"On a ship," Toynbee explained, "and in the boats, the guy running the show is always 'Captain,' no matter what his rank. And if he's captain of a boat, he's God Almighty Hisself. There is no question who is in charge."

"But, I mean, do we call him 'Commander' or 'Mister Whatsisname'?" Queensly asked.

It was a fair question. In Navy rank protocol, a lieutenant commander was generally called "Mister" and addressed by name, while full commanders and up were addressed by their rank and name… unless, of course, they were captain of a ship, in which case they were always called "Captain."

"Well," Toynbee said, stroking his chin, "sir will do until he makes his wishes known."

"How the hell'd we manage to get an O-5 as XO?" Bennett wanted to know.

"The way I heard it," Radioman First Class Wayne Shaeffer said, "this guy had a boat of his own, the Greeneville. He collided with a Jap fishing boat off Hawaii and—"

"You're full of shit," Toynbee said, laughing. "That guy was booted clear out of the Navy. Excuse me… he took early retirement as an option. This ain't the same guy."

"Naw, I'm telling you it is," Shaeffer said. He leaned forward and let his voice drop to a conspiratorial murmur. "I got a buddy at Pearl, stationed at the comm center. He said there was orders for this guy to take Mr. Joslin's place, only he'd been a sub driver before and got busted for colliding with a Jap ship a few years ago."

"Then your buddy's full of shit," Toynbee insisted.

"You gentlemen are talking about the Ehime Mara," a new voice said. They turned in their seats as a man in officer's khakis with the three gold bars on his shoulder boards of a full commander stepped through the watertight door and onto the mess deck. The COB was close behind him.

"Attention on deck!" Toynbee barked, but before any of them could rise, the newcomer waved them back.

"As you were," he said. "Don't mind me. I just happened to catch your conversation coming down the passageway. The boat you're talking about was the USS Greeneville, a Los Angeles-class submarine, SSN 772. She surfaced under a Japanese fishing boat nine miles south of Diamond Head, Oahu, in February of 2001. The Ehime Maru was a Japanese research-fishing vessel carrying a number of students on board. She was torn open when the Greeneville performed an emergency surface exercise under her, and she sank in two thousand feet of water. Nine Japanese nationals were killed, creating a serious international incident and ruining several promising Navy careers.

"Greeneville's skipper was Commander Scott Waddle. I didn't know him personally, but by all accounts he was a good man and an excellent sub driver. According to the testimony at his Board of Inquiry, he did not receive key sonar information on the Japanese vessel's location in time before surfacing… and his routine periscope sweep before the exercise indicated the area was clear. The chief, here, is right, though. Commander Waddle retired from the service shortly after the incident. A damned shame. It was a sad end to a promising naval career."

An awkward silence followed. Chief Toynbee finally said, "Uh, thank you, sir,"

"Don't mention it. Always glad to be of help."

"As I was saying, sir," Dougherty said, "this here's the enlisted mess. And since it's the largest common area on the boat, it doubles as our rec center, movie theater, and all-round hangout joint. These goldbricking gentlemen are Chief Toynbee, our head sonar tech…

TM1 Larimer… RM1 Shaeffer… EM2 Bennett… and ST3 Queensly." He looked at the men around the mess table. "This, people, is Commander Garrett, our new XO."

"Gentlemen," Garrett said, smiling pleasantly. "Good to meet all of you."

"Welcome aboard, sir," Toynbee said.

"Thanks, Chief. I like what I see so far."

"If you'll come this way, sir… " the COB said, ushering Garrett toward the aft passageway.

They waited in silence for several moments, until the new officer was out of earshot. "Whew!" Bennett said. "What do you make of that?"

"Seemed like an okay guy," Toynbee said. "Not stuck-up, like some ring-knockers I've known."

"I dunno," Larimer said. "He was laying it on pretty thick with that lecture. Like he was tryin' to make a point or something."

" 'Course he was," Toynbee said. "He was telling us that he'd heard us talking about him!"

"Man!" Queensly said, adjusting his glasses on his nose and staring at the door through which the two had exited the mess deck. "His ears must be as good as mine!"

Ken Queensly had been assigned to the Seawolf straight out of sonar tech school, with one of the highest grade averages ever recorded. Though he would be spending the next several months rotating through all of the Seawolf's departments before winning the coveted submariner's dolphins, it was clear that his true talent lay with the gang in the sonar shack. He was one of those rare and gifted individuals who could pull the slenderest threads of information out of garbled noise, working at a level beyond the capabilities even of most computer-assisted electronics, a level that seemed to be nothing less than psychic to others. His hearing was incredibly acute, and his assessment of Garrett's hearing high praise indeed.

"Bullshit, Queenie," Toynbee said. "He heard us, all right… but you didn't hear him coming!"

The others laughed, and after a moment Queensly joined in. "This is going to be an interesting deployment," he said. "We're going to have to watch every word we say!"

Garrett stood on the Seawolf's weather bridge, looking past the lines of Navy ships moored to the Yokosuka piers at the dark waters of Tokyo Bay beyond. The sun had just set in red-orange glory behind a stretch of clear sky to the west; the rest of the sky was overcast, with the promise, borne of a fresh, wet, northeasterly breeze, of more rain to come.

The city lights were on all the way north up the coast, from Yokosuka itself to Kawasaki to the vast, illuminated sprawl of Tokyo over the horizon. The gleam and glow of brightly colored lights caught the moving waters of the bay in dancing shimmers of reflected illumination, a magnificent sight.

"Bridge, Conn," a voice called over the 1MC. "Pilot tug reports they are ready to guide us out."

Garrett could see the tug, standing off astern and to starboard, one of the ugly, chunky powerhouse workhorses of any naval facility. She was accompanied by a harbor patrol boat that would escort them clear of Tokyo Bay.

"Conn, Sail. Acknowledged." Captain Lawless turned and looked at Garrett. "Well, Mister Garrett," he said, emphasizing the title. "You have the conn. Take us out, if you please."

"Aye aye, sir," he acknowledged. "I have the conn."

It was possible that the captain's use of "Mr. Garrett" was a calculated insult, a way of forcibly reminding him that he was Seawolf's executive officer and operating only under the captain's orders and at his sufferance, but Garrett didn't care, couldn't care one way or the other. He was in command of a submarine once again… and what a submarine! The Seawolf, SSN-21. He could almost feel the quiet, steady hum of power running through the soles of his shoes and the tips of his fingers, ready and responsive to his direction.

He touched a switch on the comm console in front of him. "Deck party!" he called. "Make all preparations for getting under way. Secure the brow! Line handling parties, fore and aft, stand by the lines."

"Secure the brow, aye, sir" came back from Chief

Boatswain's Mate Sterling, in charge of the deck crew below. In moments the ramp connecting Seawolf's aft deck with the pier to port had been swung away and secured on the pier. Line-handling parties fore and aft, each man wearing a bright orange life jacket over his dungarees, began queuing up, ready to release the Sea-wolf from the dock.

Back in the old days, all of a submarine's surface maneuvers were conned from the weather bridge atop the sail. Now it was possible to conn a sub in or out of port from her control room, but there remained an air of tradition, of rightness in skippering the boat away from the dock and out onto the high sea from the bridge. Garrett had only rudimentary instrumentation to rely on — a compass and bearing indicator, a speed indicator, the intercom link with the control room and through the headphones of the men bossing the deck details.

"The brow is cleared away, sir," Sterling said over the 1MC.

"Very well. Single up lines fore and aft. Prepare to cast off."

"Single up lines fore and aft, aye aye, sir."

"Lookouts, check astern."

"Clear astern, sir!"

The crew, Garrett was pleased to note, was moving with crisp efficiency. They were well-trained and they were good. They worked together to clear away all of the lines holding Seawolf to the pier, save for a single line off the bow, another off the stern. A diver in full rig stood ready on the deck in case anyone fell in. This was a dangerous evolution, given the submarine's smooth, wet deck, and with the safety rails taken down and stowed. A misstep could mean disaster at worst, embarrassment and delay at best.

He took a last look around. The water was clear astern and to starboard. Behind him, Seawolf's two lookouts continued scanning the area, checking for anything, from drifting trash that might foul the screw to the sudden appearance of an aircraft carrier that might threaten the boat's maneuver.

"Maneuvering, Bridge. Rudder to starboard. Come aft, dead slow."

"Bridge, Maneuver. Rudder to starboard, come aft, dead slow, aye aye."

Gently, gently, Seawolf's stern edged away from the dock. The line handlers aft let the line out, bracing themselves against the movement.

"Cast off aft."

"Cast off aft, aye!" A moment later Chief Sterling's bull voice bellowed out, "Aft line handlers! Cast off!" The line astern flipped over to the pier, where it was caught by shore-side handlers.

Garrett watched the angle between Seawolf and the straight slash of the pier growing larger. When her blunt prow almost touched the pier, he called out, "Cast off forward!"

"Cast off forward, aye aye!"

"Conn, Bridge. Give me three blasts on the horn."

"Bridge, Conn. Three blasts on the horn, aye." Sea-wolf's horn shrilled, three sharp honks echoing across the bay, signaling that she was backing down.

"Maneuvering, Bridge. Bring rudder amidships. Maintain aft revs for dead slow."

"Bridge, Maneuvering. Rudder amidships, maintain aft revs, dead slow."

Slowly, the 331-foot bulk of the Seawolf slid backward through still, black water, edging away from the pier. The tug gave a mournful blast from her whistle, answered by the patrol boat. Garrett leaned over the combing of the weather bridge, watching carefully to make sure that the bow planes safely cleared the pier, that no stray lines—"Irish pennants" — were trailing in the water, that no one in either the deck or shore parties had fallen into the water and was in danger of being run down. The remaining tatters of light in the sky were failing fast, and though the dance and sparkle of harbor lights reflected on the water grew more intense by contrast, visibility overall was quickly fading.

Seawolf's nose was well clear of the end of the pier now. The sailors in the shore working party stood in small groups, watching the submarine slowly back into the bay.

"Maneuvering, Bridge," he said. "Make revs for ahead, slow. Helm, bring us to port, four-five degrees."

"Bridge, Maneuvering. Make revs for ahead, slow. Helm to port, four-five degrees, aye aye, sir."

Seawolf gave a slight bump in the water as her screw stopped, then changed direction, nudging her gently forward. Her helm came over and she began swinging sharply to port, putting the pier and the watching sailors ashore to starboard.

"Maneuvering, increase speed. Make revs for eight knots."

"Make revs for eight knots, aye, sir."

The breeze freshened in Garrett's face. God, it was good to be here again. He'd missed the sea, and he'd missed driving a sub. He turned to Lawless, who was leaning against the side of the weather bridge, staring out across Tokyo Bay.

" I've seen better," Lawless said with a gruff lack of enthusiasm. "You could've made the break past the end of the pier sharper, more crisp."

"Yes, sir." Garrett had already made up his mind that he was not going to let Lawless's attitude ruin this moment.

"All in all, though," Lawless admitted, "not too shabby."

"Thank you, sir."

A blast from the horn of the harbor pilot boat, cruising up ahead, interrupted any further exchange.

"Civilian small craft," the port lookout called out, "five points off the starboard bow!"

Garrett raised his binoculars to his eyes, peering into the gathering gloom in the indicated direction. There… hard to see in the twilight… but he could make out a civilian boat — a cabin cruiser, it looked like — just beyond the harbor boat. A number of people were crowded into the aft well deck or hanging off the boat's flying bridge, and some were waving bottles. Several held a large cardboard sign over the side, crudely lettered NO TO NUKES!

"What are they, Greenpeace?" Lawless asked.

"I don't think so, sir. Looks like a local protest."

"Slant shitheads," Lawless muttered.

Garrett didn't reply. Greenpeace was an international organization that frequently tried to rally local protests against American nuclear presence throughout the world, but they tended to be well-organized and equipped… usually with high-speed Zodiacs, chase boats, and plenty of news coverage. That looked like a drunken boat party. They didn't even have running lights on.

Shitheads those people might be — that was a given if they were mixing alcohol with a cruise on Tokyo Bay at twilight — but the racist epithet bothered Garrett, as had the earlier comment in the captain's office.

Japan had a long history of protest against nuclear power, though the Tokyo government continued to flirt with some highly suspect technologies, like breeder reactors. The carrier currently homeported here at Yokosuka was the Kitty Hawk, one of America's non-nuclear carriers, precisely because the Japanese wouldn't tolerate a nuclear warship based in their territory. They were less stringent with visiting nuclear warships, like the Seawolf, and the U.S. Navy maintained its custom of never admitting whether any of its vessels had nuclear weapons on board. Still, protests occurred from time to time, assembled by citizens with sincere beliefs… and an occasional appalling lack of understanding.

"What do you intend to do, Mr. Garrett?" Lawless asked.

He thought about it. There was no threat from the intruder, and the harbor patrol craft astern was already coming up abeam to intercept the trespassers.

Still…

"Control Room, Bridge. Alert the harbor pilot that I intend to pass him to port."

"Aye aye, sir."

"I think I'd like to put some distance between us and them, Captain," Garrett explained. "Sometimes they stage little surprise ambushes… Ah! Like that!"

They were passing a headland at the edge of the naval base, just beyond the spot where the cabin cruiser was trying to get under way. A number of other civilian boats were there, sheltered behind the headland.

"If they can get in our way, they will," Garrett added.

"Show them our heels, Mr. Garrett."

"Aye aye, sir. That was my intention." He opened the intercom channel again. "Maneuvering, come left ten degrees. Make revolutions for fifteen knots."

"Bridge, Maneuvering, come left ten degrees, aye, sir. Make revs for fifteen knots, aye."

Seawolf's prow slid farther from the land to starboard and farther from the tangle of civilian boats. She accelerated smoothly through the dark water, gliding up on the tug. At Garrett's command they gave one toot on the horn — passing to port — and continued on past. It was a kind of football play, Garrett thought, with the Seawolf making the end run while the tug and patrol boat blocked the opposition.

It was a hell of a way to start a deployment, though, having to dodge the forces of people theoretically on your own side.

He wondered if it was an omen of rough waters ahead.