Silent Waters

Chapter 3

Lee Brody filled his coffee mug and sat back down at the mess table. Taking a sip, he put the mug down on the padded plastic table cover and gazed with satisfaction into the black steaming liquid. Submarine coffee was the best in the navy. No question.

He looked around the mess deck. Everything shone. Shipshape and ready for sea. As it should be. After all, if everything had gone according to schedule, Hartford would be a hundred miles off Long Island by now. Even so, Brody felt good. Two crew members were sitting and talking at the far table. He took another sip. He could feel the soft thrum of the engines; it was a sensation that always gave him that warm feeling of anticipation, of a journey — no, an adventure — about to start.

Growing up near the shipyards in Newport News, Virginia, Brody had always been fascinated by submarines. He’d been aware of them for as long as he could remember. He’d seen them being built, their cylindrical hulls peeking out of the corrugated steel buildings that hung out over the water. He’d seen them tied to the docks, and he’d seen their sleek black forms gliding through the choppy green waters of the outer bay. He’d known men who’d worked on them, sailed them.

Sailing on subs was what he’d dreamed of as a kid as he sat on the pier watching them. He knew from an early age that he would have a life at sea.

Being a sailor matched his personality. The summer he graduated from high school, he’d enlisted. Now, at twenty-three years old, he had no family that he was in touch with anymore. He didn’t care much about the news. He might read the NASCAR results occasionally, but he didn’t really care if Dale Jr. won or if Jeff Gordon won. He never argued politics because he had a notion that government had too much power over people, but not everyone understood that and he couldn’t really explain it. Actually, he had little interest in what happened on the outside. The navy was his world. His family.

It didn’t bother him in the slightest that, every time the hatches slammed shut, he was cut off from the rest of the world for months at a time. Not like some of the other bubbleheads on his crew. He never got close to marrying, never even had a steady girlfriend. No kids that he knew of. No mortgage payments to make. His home was right here. It was the sub he was riding, and the one hundred thirty guys he shared it with were his brothers.

Three years he’d been riding submarines. Electronics was his thing, so he’d trained in sonar tech, working his way up to petty officer second class. Brody knew he was damn good at what he did. His commanding officer, McCann, knew it too. The C.O. told him at his last review that, after this patrol, he wanted to send Brody to school for a new system that was going to be installed on the upgraded 688s and the Seawolf-class boats. That way, McCann said, he’d also be right in line for petty officer first class when he’d put in the requisite time.

Brody didn’t know how to feel about that. The promotion was nice, but it meant that he’d probably be transferred to some other boat to work with another crew. He hated change. He liked what he had. He liked this C.O.. McCann was a decent guy. He was tough, but he had a solid relationship with this crew. Brody had served under three different skippers, and McCann was the best he’d seen. But everyone knew that the commander wouldn’t be staying long. Two more patrols and McCann would be up for captain. He’d get that fourth gold bar, too. He was on his way up. Before that happened, Brody knew he’d have to think hard about where he wanted to be.

The sonar man took his dishes to the galley. There were only the three of them in the enlisted mess; nine in total remained aboard for the twenty-four-hour turnaround it would take to fix what was wrong.

They had left their berth upriver at the sub base yesterday, the tug casting off when they reached the mouth of the Thames River. Everyone on the crew thought they’d be away at least six months. They were being deployed to the Indian Ocean and Persian Gulf. But they hadn’t got much past Groton Long Point when the gyro navigator had shit the bed. Instead of coming about and going back up to the sub base again, the boat waited until the orders had come through to pull into one of the empty berths at the Electric Boat shipyard. These people had built most of USS Hartford. And from what Brody understood, they had a replacement system on hand and everything would be done today.

It was surprising when the C.O. had granted leave to most of the crew for the duration. The men loved it. Most of them had moved their families to the area when they’d first been stationed here.

But Brody had been happy to volunteer to stay aboard. The food was better, and he’d already put himself onto his six-hour sleep schedule. He was also looking forward to starting work on a training manual for one of the new systems in his free time. Without the hustle-bustle of the daily duties, he could get a good start.

He nodded to the other two on his way out of the mess. They were thumbing through some motorcycle magazines.

“When are the yardbirds supposed to get here?” the new galley man asked. Dunbar had been brought aboard to replace one of the old cooks who’d retired after thirty years. The other, Rivera, worked the torpedo room.

“They’re supposed to be on the job at 0600,” Brody answered.

“Who’s gonna babysit them?” Rivera called after him.

“No one’s been assigned. The yardbirds will stick to the control room, and the officer of the watch will keep an eye on them. Also, I was told last night the X.O. will come back this morning to go over it all with them.” Brody headed for the door.

“Want to play some poker?” Dunbar called after him.

“Nah.” Brody shook his head. “I got some work to do.”

“Shit, man,” Rivera complained. “You got plenty of time for work once we get underway again.”

Brody waved them off and stepped into the narrow passageway outside the mess deck. He wanted to get into the sonar room and take some notes for the manual. Remembering his notebook, he started toward the NCO’s quarters.

As he passed the gangway leading down to the torpedo room, a movement below caught his eye. Someone was down there. Brody paused, doing a quick recount of who was on board. Himself. The two in the mess. The deck officer and a radio man in the control room. The reactor technician. In the engine room, the machinist’s mate and one motor monkey. A seaman topside, standing watch.

Even though there were auxiliary power plant units aft of the torpedo room, the reactor man wouldn’t have been checking them now. He wouldn’t leave his station in Maneuvering where he was monitoring the reactor. Nobody should have been in the torpedo room.

He peered down through the opening and listened. Two pairs of legs moved into his line of vision. Black stretch pants. Black sneakers. Nothing any of the crew would wear.

“Who the hell’s down there?” Brody shouted.

A sharp blow to the back of his head was the only answer he received.