The Golden U-Boat

Chapter Four

It was a typical cold, overcast fall morning in Dunoon, Scotland, as Captain Steven Aldridge, his wife Susan, and six-year-old daughter Sarah strolled through the town’s central shopping district. The narrow sidewalks were filled with dozens of other pedestrians, most of whom were bundled up in thick woolen sweaters and carried several parcels each.

Unlike America, travelling by foot was still practical in a small town such as Dunoon, and the Aldridge family fit in as if they were locals.

“Oh look, Daddy. There’s a pastry shop. Can we go in and get some cookies?”

Sarah Aldridge followed up this request by catching her father’s glance and flashing him her warmest smile. This tactic never failed to do the trick, yet just as her dad was about to agree, her mother intervened.

“There will be no more cookies for you, Sarah Aldridge, until you’ve had your lunch. Why, you’ve already eaten two pastries this morning, and you put away a breakfast earlier that could have fed a horse.”

“Oh Mom, you’re no fun,” said Sarah with a pout.

“You’re the one who will be no fun when I put you to bed with a bellyache,” returned her mother.

“Look Sarah, there’s the fishmonger’s shop,” observed her father in an effort to change the subject.

“Shall we go in and see what the day’s catch is?”

Sarah’s eyes opened wide.

“I’ll say, father. Maybe Mr. Angus has still got that octo pussy in there.”

They entered the shop and found its portly proprietor perched over the concrete counter cleaning a load of flat, hand-sized fish. He only needed to take one look at the newcomers who had just entered for a wide grin to turn the corners of his wrinkled face.

“Well, if it isn’t my very favorite Yank family,” greeted the old-timer, who had fluffy white hair and long gray sideburns.

“Good morning, Mr. McPherson,” replied Steven Aldridge.

“We just stopped in to say hello and check out the day’s catch.”

“Mr. Angus, do you still have that octo pussy questioned Sarah. She watched the fishmonger split open the flat belly of the fish he was cleaning.

Stifling a chuckle, Angus shook his head.

“So the wee lass wants to see an octopus. I’m sorry, my dearest. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with these lovely Dover sole that came right out of the sea only a few hours ago.”

The fishmonger picked up one of these fish by its tail and bent over to show it to his fair-haired guest.

“Why, I bet you never saw a fish with both of its eyes on the same side of its head before,” he added.

“Look at that, Father!” exclaimed Sarah in amazement.

“It really does have two eyes on one side. Why’s that?”

Steven Aldridge accepted a playful wink from the fishmonger as he attempted answering his daughter’s question.

“The sole’s a bottom fish, Sarah. That means it spends most of its life laying flat on the surface of the seafloor. Instead of having one eye constantly buried in the sand, mother nature moved both of them together like this, so that it wouldn’t be wasted.”

Not really certain what her father was talking about, Sarah was already bored with the sole. She gasped in wonder when she viewed a tank of live lobsters on the shop’s opposite wall. She quickly ran over to have a closer look, leaving the adults to their conversation.

“So tell me” asked Angus eagerly.

“How did you like lona?”

This time it was Susan Aldridge who answered.

“It was gorgeous, Angus. In fact, the whole trip worked out just perfectly.”

“Even the weather cooperated,” added Steven.

“We only had one full day of rain.”

The fishmonger seemed genuinely impressed with this.

“Now that is something. The gods of the Highlands must have been smiling on you.”

Pleasantries were interrupted by the sight of a police car with its emergency lights flashing passing down the street. Angus was quick to explain its significance.

“Looks like they’re clearing the streets for the parade.

At least it looks like the rains will hold off until it’s finished.”

Suddenly realizing the late hour, Steven Aldridge called out to his daughter.

“Come on, Pumpkin. It’s almost time for the parade.”

This served to pull Sarah away from the tank. As her mother took her hand and led her to the door, the youngster looked up to the old fishmonger and waved.

“Goodbye, Mr. Angus.”

“Goodbye to you, lass,” returned the old man.

“Save three of those sole for us, Angus,” added Susan Aldridge.

“I’ll pick them up later on our way home.”

“Will do, Mrs. A. Enjoy the parade.”

As they stepped outside, Steven said his own goodbyes before turning to follow his family.

“See you later, Angus.”

“I’ll be here, Captain. By the way, why no uniform?”

Aldridge shook his head.

“As far as the U.S. Navy is concerned, I’m still officially on leave, my friend. Uncle Sam will have me back in the flock soon enough.”

“I hear you, Captain. Enjoy it while you can.”

Steven returned the Scot’s salute and hurriedly left the shop. The foot traffic was headed one way now, down toward the wharf side war memorial where the ceremony would be taking place. Securely linking hands, the Aldridge family followed the crowd past the collection of quaint one-story shops that made up this section of Dunoon. They passed the new YMCA building, and entered an open square, that was bordered by a park on one side and the blue waters of the Firth of Clyde on the other. It was beside the park side walkway that a large group of townspeople had gathered. Steven recognized several denim-clad American sailors in this crowd. Even in their civvies, these young men had the good old U.S.A. written all over them.

The war memorial itself was nothing but a large stone cairn with several bronze plaques set into it.

Inscribed on these tablets were the names of the brave local servicemen and women who died as a direct result of World Wars I and II. Immediately in front of the cairn, facing the empty street and the waters of the firth beyond, a compact wooden reviewing stand had been set up. No sooner did the

Aldridge family fall in alongside the mass of onlookers, when the shrill sound of massed bagpipes broke in the distance. Hearing this caused the crowd to buzz with excitement, and even Sarah found herself thrilled.

“Listen, Father, the pipers are coming!”

Steven anxiously looked to his left, and soon spotted the marching column of kilted musicians responsible for this distinctive clamor. They were dressed in green, yellow and black tartans. Together with a line of drummers, they were playing a spirited rendition of Scotland the Brave. The music was an excellent arrangement, and Steven couldn’t help but be inspired when he spotted the squad of U.S. Marines who followed the band. Dressed in traditional olive green parade uniforms, the leathernecks marched with exacting precision. Each of the soldiers was well over six feet tall, and in superb physical shape. Steven knew that this crack complement came from the nearby navy base at Holy Loch, where they provided security.

Behind the Marines followed a unit of junior cadets, a group of local dignitaries, and a dozen or so disabled veterans, several of whom were in wheelchairs.

Two white-haired veterans carried the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes, and as the band turned toward the crowd, the two flag carriers broke from the ranks and approached the reviewing stand.

Here they were greeted by a tall, erect figure, dressed in kilts, a brown tunic, and the regimental bonnet of a senior army officer. This individual waited for the marching column to come to a complete halt before signalling the sergeant major to order, “Parade rest!”

The senior officer then approached the marchers and reviewed their ranks. He paid particular attention to the veterans, each of whom he engaged in a brief conversation. He also questioned several of the cadets, and appeared to convey a job well done to the leader of the Marines. Then after a cursory inspection of the band, he returned to the reviewing stand, saluted, and initiated a short speech.

“We are gathered today on the fiftieth anniversary of the United States of America’s official entrance into World War II. This is a solemn occasion, yet it is a joyful one all the same, because without America’s invaluable help, the United Kingdom would have been forced to continue the struggle against Nazi tyranny on its own.

“Hundreds of thousands of our sons and daughters died for this cause. Even a small village like Dunoon paid its share of the ultimate price of freedom, with the brave lads and lasses whose names are etched in bronze behind me. We shall never forget them. Nor shall we ever forget the individuals who serve our country’s armed forces today. It is because of their selfless vigil that world conflict no longer stains our shores in blood.

“I remember a time not so long ago, when the waters of the firth before me were filled with hundreds of vessels drawn from ports throughout the free world. These convoys risked death on the cold seas to provide England with urgently needed supplies to fuel its continued war effort. As a young ensign, I was assigned to a frigate whose responsibility was to provide convoy escort, and I personally shared the horror of a German U-boat raid.

“Today the mighty warships that patrol the waters of the firth fear no such attack. In these times of fragile peace, their job is to deter any aggressor from ever again attempting to force their way of life upon ours. Because of this, we enjoy a life of free84 dom and democracy that is the envy of every other nation on earth. We shall always remember the names of those whose lives were taken so that this greatest of all gifts could be ours. God bless you all, and may peace by with you always.”

Issuing yet another salute, the senior officer nodded to the sergeant major, who ordered the column to resume its march. They did so to the strains of such traditional pipe favorites as Captain OrrEwing, Culty’s Wedding, and Farewell to the Creeks.

A blustery wind began gusting in from the northwest, and the crowd wasted little time dispersing. As Susan bent over to zip up the collar of Sarah’s parka, Steven noticed that a familiar duo of blue-uniformed naval officers had gathered beside the war memorial. They were in the process of speaking to the officer who had just given the address, and Steven couldn’t resist going over to pay his respects himself.

“Susan, why don’t you take Sarah and get started with lunch. I see Admiral Hoyt and Bob Stoddard over there, and I just want to say a quick hello before joining you.”

As a veteran Navy wife, Susan was accustomed to doing things on her own.

“Go ahead, Steve, but don’t be too long. I know that you’re dying to find out how things are going on the Cheyenne. But don’t forget that you’re still on leave. And besides, you should have worn a heavier coat if you’re going to be out in this wind much longer.”

Thankful for her wifely concern, Steven glanced down at his daughter.

“Now be a good girl and eat all of your lunch, Pumpkin. And then we can stop off for those cookies that you wanted.”

“Can I have chips ‘n fish, Father?” asked the six year old.

“Chips ‘n fish it is,” laughed Steven, who caught his wife’s eye and playfully winked.

“I’ll meet you at the Old Mermaid. Go ahead and order me a pint of Export. I’ll be there to drink it by the time the head settles.”

Though Susan would have liked to lay odds against this, she smiled, took her daughter’s mittened hand, and began walking back toward town.

Steven watched until they were safely across the street before walking back toward the war memorial.

The taller of the two U.S. naval officers was the first to spot him. There could be no missing Lieutenant Commander Robert Stoddard’s gangly six-foot frame, wholesome Nebraska-bred good looks, and the unlit corncob pipe that perpetually hung from his mouth. As Executive Officer of the 688class attack submarine, USS Cheyenne, Stoddard was Steven’s right-hand man. They had been together for over a year now, and had long ago established that tight bond that every succesful command team needs to be an effective one.

Beside his XO, in the process of addressing the kilted master of ceremonies, was Admiral David Hoyt, Jr.” commander of the U.S. submarine base at Holy Loch. A former history instructor at Annapolis, Hoyt was a competent administrator, who earned his dolphins in the days before Nautilus and the advent of Rickover’s nuclear navy. A bit given to long winded discourses when his favorite subject, maritime history, was being discussed, the admiral was also well known for his love of golf. He thus accepted the orders sending him to Scotland with open arms, for he was finally stationed in the legendary birthplace of his favorite sport, and had his choice of its many fine courses. Steven Aldridge wasn’t a bit surprised as he approached the trio of officers and heard the nature of Hoyt’s animated remarks.

“… and there I was, all set up for my first real crack at a birdie on Glen Eagle’s infamous eighteenth hole, when what sprints out onto the green and steals my ball but a fox! That damn red varmint must have thought that my Titleist was a grouse egg, the way he snagged it in his jaws and took off for a nearby creek bed. You know, I never did find that frigging ball again.”

“My Lord, Admiral,” chuckled his kilted colleague.

“How on earth did you ever score that one?”

Deadly serious, the admiral answered.

“As far as I was concerned, I was already out a damn good ball, so to hell with taking a penalty stroke. But wouldn’t you know that I proceeded to three putt a ten foot shot. And out of all that, I ended up with a bogey.”

To the roar of laughter, Steven Aldridge closed in on the trio. It proved to be his XO who greeted him.

“Good afternoon, Skipper. I didn’t expect you back until tomorrow.”

Aldridge accepted his second-in-command’s firm handshake and that of his base commander.

“It’s good to see you again, Captain,” added Admiral Hoyt, who realized additional introductions were in order.

“Brigadier General Hartwell, I’d like you to meet Captain Steven Aldridge, commanding officer of the USS Cheyenne.”

While the two men shook hands Admiral Hoyt continued.

“Brigadier Hartwell is with the Scot Guard, and as ranking senior officer in this district, was responsible for today’s ceremony.”

“I enjoyed your speech very much, sir,” said Aldridge.

The Scot looked directly into the newcomer’s eyes and curtly replied, “Why thank you, Captain. It was an honor to have been chosen to give it.”

“Now what’s this about you being back from your leave a day early,” interrupted Admiral Hoyt.

“I hope everyone is all right in that wonderful family of yours.”

“They’re doing fine, Admiral. In fact, Susan and Sarah are waiting for me to join them for lunch at the Old Mermaid. We had a great time in the Highlands.

But since they’ll be flying back to the States tomorrow afternoon, Susan decided to get back early.”

“Captain Aldridge has a wonderfully precocious six-year-old daughter by the name of Sarah, who loves a proper fish ‘n chips,” said Admiral Hoyt to Brigadier General Hartwell.

“Or chips ‘n fish, as she calls them,” added Steven.

The Scot’s expression warmed.

“I’ve got a six-year-old granddaughter myself, Captain Aldridge, who’s a devout aficionado of your MacDonald’s hamburgers.

Why, whenever we pass one, no matter what time of day it is, she’s after me to stop and purchase her a sandwich.”

The sudden arrival of Dunoon’s mayor gave Aldridge and his XO time to step aside and have some words in private.

“It really is good to see you again, Skipper. I can see in your face that your leave was a relaxing one.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, XO. Susan and Sarah had me on the go every free moment of the day and night.”

“Did you have any difficulty driving on the wrong side of the road, Skipper?”

Aldridge grinned.

“It was a bit tricky at first. Of course, I figured that if I could pilot a seven-thousand-ton submarine down a foggy channel in the dead of night, driving a Rover on the left hand side of the road couldn’t be that difficult.”

The two laughed, and Aldridge’s tone turned serious.

“How is the refit going, Bob?”

The XO shifted his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other before answering.

“As far as I can see, right on schedule, Skipper. We’ll be taking on the first of our SUBROC’s tonight, with the final modifications to the Mkll7 fire control system due to be completed twenty-four hours later.”

“So you managed it without me, huh, XO? I knew you would, especially with the able assistance of our esteemed weapons’ officer. So tell me, did Lieutenant Hartman get much sleep while I was away?”

“You know better than that, Skipper. From the very beginning, the good lieutenant took on this project like it was his responsibility alone. He’s on it day and night, and nothing gets done without Hartman’s personal okay.”

“We’re very fortunate to have a guy like Ed Hartman aboard the Cheyenne, Bob. I know that he can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, but his attention to detail can really make the difference if we’re ever called on to launch those fish of his.”

“I hear you, Skipper. But I still think that the guy has to lighten up some. You know what they say about all work and no play.”

Suddenly aware of the time, Steven Aldridge grimaced.

“Speaking of the devil, I’ve got a date over at the Old Mermaid to keep. Would you care to join us?”

“It sounds like it would be fun, Skipper, but we’re due at a formal reception at city hall.”

“Well, make me proud, XO,” said Aldridge as he prepared to convey his goodbyes to Admiral Hoyt and their Scot host.

“And I’ll see you back on the ranch sometime tomorrow afternoon.”

By the time Steven arrived at the pub they had picked for lunch, the creamy head on the pint of beer his wife had ordered had long since disappeared.

Yet the lukewarm lager was tasty all the same, and the thirsty fifteen-year navy veteran managed to empty the pint in three lengthy swigs. Their fish and chips were as delicious as ever, and only after stops at both the bakery shop and the fishmonger’s did they return to their cottage overlooking Hunter’s Quay.

Later that evening, long after Sarah was tucked warmly in her bed and while Susan was still busy packing, Aldridge slipped on his overcoat and went outside. The wind that had been with them all afternoon had turned icy. Pulling up his woolen collar to counter these frigid gusts, he glanced up into the sky and found a myriad of twinkling stars shining forth from the crystal clear heavens. Pleasantly surprised by this breathtaking sight, he looked around him. From his current vantage point, he could see the entire length and breadth of that inlet of water known as Holy Loch. Having supposedly gotten this auspicious name several centuries ago when a sailing ship bound to Glasgow sunk here with a load of soil from the Holy land in its hold, the loch was currently home to a U.S. Navy submarine base. A major component of the base itself could be seen floating on the choppy waters of the loch. This ship was the sub tender, USS Hunley. Inside the Hunley was stored almost everything that a submarine would need to continue extended operations. This included food, spare parts, fuel, and even weapon reloads.

It took a trained eye to spot the minuscule red light that lay amidships, near the waterline of the Hunley. Also bobbing with the swells, this light was the only visible evidence of Aldridge’s present command.

It belonged to the sail, or conning tower, of the USS Cheyenne. During its current refit, the Cheyenne was berthed beside the Hunley, their hulls separated by a line of hard rubber fenders.

If there was more light present, Aldridge knew that he would also see the upper portion of his boat’s black hull. Three hundred and sixty feet long from the tip of its conical bow to its tapered stern, the Cheyenne was almost as long as the massive tender, though the majority of his command’s mass lay perpetually hidden beneath the inky waters.

127 men made this vessel their home. Designed primarily to hunt other submarines, the Cheyenne was powered by a single pressurized, water-cooled nuclear reactor that drove geared steam turbines. A single shaft could propel the ship at speeds well over thirty knots, while its specially welded, high-yield steel hull allowed it to attain a maximum diving depth of some fifteen hundred feet. The sub was also fitted with the latest in digital electronic sonar and fire-control systems.

In addition to carrying a full complement of MK 48 torpedoes, the Cheyenne was also equipped with Harpoon anti-ship missiles, the Tomahawk cruise missile, and with the completion of their current refit, the SUBROC antisubmarine rocket. All of these advanced weapons were designed to be launched from one of the vessel’s four twenty-one inch midship’s torpedo tubes, thus giving Aldridge an incredibly diversified arsenal of firepower.

Altogether, the Cheyenne was one of the most awesome warships ever built. Proud to have been picked to lead her into harm’s way, Steven Aldridge could visualize his men at work inside its cylindrical hull.

Only a spartan crew would currently be manning the control room. This space would be completely lit in red to protect their night vision. The majority of action would be taking place in the forward torpedo room, where the modification to their fire-control system would go on throughout the entire night.

Ever vigilant in this portion of the ship, Lieutenant Edward Hartman would be doing his best to insure that the work was being done correctly. Most likely the bleary-eyed weapons’ officer would be sipping on one of the innumerable mugs of hot black coffee that he had already downed today, counting the minutes remaining until the refit was scheduled to be completed.

Hartman was a consummate worrier and a stickler for detail, two traits that made him one of the finest young officers in the entire submarine force.

Back in the Cheyenne’s engineering spaces, a full detail would be on duty monitoring the ship’s reactor.

This was Lieutenant Rich Lonnon’s exclusive realm. The brawny New Yorker was a graduate of MIT. Highly intelligent, Lonnon was never afraid to get his hands dirty along with the rest of the enlisted men. He also put in his fair share of work hours, and was most likely on the job at this very moment, insuring that all was well with Cheyenne Power and Light.

The ship’s galley would also be open at this late hour. By its very nature submarine duty could be boring, tedious work, and Petty Officer Howard Mallott and his devoted crew made meal times something to look forward to. Right now the Cheyenne ‘s brightly painted mess would be rich with the scent of perking coffee. A variety of fresh sandwiches would be available, along with an assortment of other suitable late night snacks. Only recently, Mallott had managed to bring a corn popper on board, and was proud of the fact that he could serve the crew piping hot popcorn at fifty fathoms. This snack was also greatly appreciated when the Cheyenne’s very own movie theatre was operational.

One of the few compartments that would most likely be empty at this hour would be the sonar room, or as it was affectionately called, the sound shack. Recently the Cheyenne had been lucky enough to get the services of one of the best sonar men in the business. Petty Officer First Class Joe Carter had previously been an instructor in his arcane art at the San Diego Naval Facility. Blessed with ultra sensitive hearing and an uncanny degree of intuition, Carter was versed in every aspect of their BQO, — 5 sonar suite. Such a system was incredibly complex, and the twenty-six-year-old, black St.

Louisan made the most out of its large active passive spherical bow sonar, conformal passive hydrophone array, and PUFFS fire-control system. He was also responsible for the boat’s BQR-23 towed sonar array.

Designed to allow pinpoint spotting of the enemy, without having to be distracted by the inherent sounds of the Cheyenne’s own signature, the array was housed in a prominent fairing that ran almost the length of the hull. The winch that deployed it was located between the bow itself and the forward end of the pressure hull. Thus the Cheyenne was equipped with the state-of-the-art when it came to the critical sonar functions, that were, after all, the eyes and ears of the boat whenever they were submerged.

Twenty-four hours from now, Steven Aldridge would be dressed in dark blue coveralls and be an integral component of this team. But right now he had other responsibilities. A familiar voice broke the silence around him.

“Penny for your thoughts, sailor.”

Thus brought back to dry land, Aldridge turned and set his eyes on his beloved wife. Susan was wrapped in her ski parka and carried two steaming mugs of herb tea in her gloved hands.

“My guess is that you were thinking about another woman,” added Susan as she reached her husband’s side and handed him a mug.

“And I bet her name is Cheyenne” “I confess. You’re right. Do I still get to keep my tea?”

Susan flashed a warm smile and cuddled up to him.

“You know I’m not the jealous type.”

“No, come to think of it, you never were,” reflected Steven fondly.

As they stood there silently sipping their tea, Steven’s thoughts returned in time to the day they first met. Twenty years ago, both of them had been aspiring sophomores at the University of Virginia.

As a participant in the school’s excellent Naval ROTC program, Steven knew from the beginning that his goal was a career in the Navy. He therefore made certain to take a full curriculum of mathematics and science courses, in which he excelled. It was basic English that proved to be his downfall. A tutor was therefore suggested, and into his life walked Susan Spencer, a bright-eyed, vivacious, English major from Norfolk. Steven got that peculiar feeling in his stomach from the first time he laid eyes on her. She was petite, with dark eyes, curly brown hair, and a figure kept trim with daily aerobics. She seemed cool to his ardor at first, though when Steven learned that she was a Navy brat like himself, the two found a common bond.

In an incredibly short period of time, Steven’s English grades improved to the point where the tutorial sessions were no longer needed. They had never gone out on a real date, and as their professional relationship came to its end, Steven summoned the nerve to ask her for dinner and a movie. Miraculously enough, she accepted readily.

They saw each other regularly after that, and by the time summer vacation rolled around, Susan felt comfortable enough to invite him to meet her folks.

The Spencers lived in Virginia Beach. Her father worked nearby, at the Oceana Naval Air Station. He was a Viet Nam veteran who held the rank of commander and had over 400 carrier landings under his belt. When Steven learned that he was currently involved with the P-3 Orion program, his nervousness quickly faded into a barrage of questions relating to the science of antisubmarine warfare. The two talked for hours, and Susan and her mother actually had to pry them apart just to get them to the dinner table.

One month later, Steven asked Susan to marry him, and she immediately accepted. One thing that they both agreed upon from the outset was that they would wart until Steven’s career was well online before having children. It was on the day that he was promoted to the rank of Lieutenant Commander that Sarah was conceived. And they were currently working on a brother for her.

“Finish with the packing yet?” asked Steven dreamily.

“The last trunk is nearly full,” said Susan with a sigh.

“Then how about going in and giving little Andrew one more try,” offered Steven.

Susan squeezed his hand and purred.

“I’d like that very much, sailor. I truly would.”

The dawn was all too soon in coming. With the bare light of the new day filtering into their bedroom, they once more made love, this time with an urgency that hinted at their inevitable parting. With the warm aftereffects of their shared passion still fresh on his mind, Steven reluctantly rose from their bed. As he stepped from the steaming hot shower, the aroma of strong coffee greeted him, he dressed himself in the freshly pressed set of khakis that he found hanging on the bathroom door.

Breakfast was a sad affair, with Sarah rattling on about her desire to go hiking with a flock of sheep once again, and the forlorn lovers silently staring at each other from across the kitchen table. Time seemed to fly by, and all too soon the suitcases were securely stowed inside the Rover’s boot. And the last thing Susan saw, as she left her home of the past two months, was the barely discernable, black upper hull of the USS Cheyenne, as it floated on the calm surface of the nearby loch.

“Be good to my man,” she whispered to the wind, as she ducked into the Rover, feeling almost as if she were handing Steven over to another woman.

The ferry that would take them to Gourock, the first leg of their long trip to America, was faithfully waiting at Dunoon’s main dock. Sarah was an avid sailor and couldn’t wait to board the sturdy vessel.

As she ran ahead to begin her exploration of the ship, Steven loaded their suitcases onto a trolley, which he handed over to a grizzled deckhand. He included a five pound note and strict instructions that once the ferry reached Gourock, the deckhand would make certain that both his family and their baggage found its way onto the train to Prestwick airport.

Steven Aldridge took his wife in his arms, and as sailors and their women have done from the first time that man went away to sea, they kissed, and cried, and parted, each to go their separate way until the fates willed them together again.

Steven waited on the docks until the ferry was well across the waters of the firth. He could still see images of Susan and Sarah gathered at the stern railing waving their goodbyes as he heavily turned to get on with his duty. His own sea bag lay in the Rover’s boot, and he sped through Dunoon, proceeding directly to Hunter’s Quay.

Two serious-faced Marine sentries, who most likely were participants in yesterday’s parade, thoroughly checked his I.D. before allowing him entry into the base itself. Aldridge returned their salute, and drove to the parking lot reserved for officers. He was fortunate to get down to the dock just as a launch was getting set to leave for the tender.

With thoughts of his family already slipping from his consciousness, Aldridge seated himself in the whaleboat’s bow and peered out at the massive tender that they were rapidly approaching. The USS Hunley’s distinctive squared hull was packed with equipment and dominated by a large crane. Sailors scurried over its deck, their efforts focused solely on caring for the needs of the partially submerged, black-hulled vessel that lay floating close beside it.

Several individuals could be seen gathered in the top of the Cheyenne’s relatively small sail, and Steven Aldridge felt as if he had been gone from his command for months, instead of a mere seven days.

Security concerns forced him to be dropped off on the Hunley, instead of right onto the Cheyenne’s deck.

As he climbed onto the tender, he had to pass the inspection of yet another duo of no-nonsense Marine sentries. One of these leathernecks held a German shepherd on a short steel leash. Stationed here to detect tect illegal drugs, the canine nonchalantly sniffed Steven’s seabag then backed away, signalling that he was free to continue on.

To get to the gangway leading to the Cheyenne,” he traversed a passageway that led him past a cavernous storeroom packed with spare parts, and a compartment holding one of the Hunley’s many fine machine shops. To the hiss of a welder’s torch, he climbed down a ladder, traded salutes with a trio of enlisted men, and began his way down an exterior corridor, whose ceiling was lined with snaking electrical cables.

One of the sailors who was busy working on a portion of this cable network was a young woman.

Interestingly enough, there were several hundred women on board the tender, making it one of the most integrated ships in the entire fleet.

A section of the Hunley’s railing had been removed and replaced with a covered gangway that led down toward the waterline. Alertly perched at the top of this gangway was a denim-clad sailor with a Browning combat shotgun at his side. The slightly built enlisted man had a bristly brown moustache, and Aldridge readily identified him.

“Good morning, Seaman Avila.”

“Good morning to you, Captain. Welcome home,” returned Petty Officer Second Class Adrian Avila.

The bright-eyed Hispanic enlistee from Piano, Texas had been with the Cheyenne for six months, and was showing himself to be a bright, inquisitive young man, well on his way to qualifying for his silver dolphins.

“Who’s the current OOD?” questioned Aldridge as he began his way down the gangway.

“Lieutenant Laird, Sir,” answered Avila efficiently.

“Shall I let him know that you’re on the way down?”

“You needn’t bother,” said Aldridge with a shake of his head.

“The good lieutenant will know soon enough.”

Aldridge entered the submarine through a deck hatchway positioned just abaft of the sail. As he climbed down the ladder’s iron wrungs, the familiar scent of machine oil met his nostrils. All too soon, the direct light from above was blotted out as he continued climbing further downward into the Cheyenne ‘s artificially lit interior.

He continued on, straight to the officer’s wardroom.

Seated at his customary spot near the head of the table was his XO. Bob Stoddard was totally engrossed in the examination of a detailed bathymetric chart, and Aldridge stood there silently for a moment before announcing his arrival.

The wardroom directly adjoined the portion of the boat that contained the officers’ living quarters. It occupied a rather spacious compartment lined with woodgrain paneling. A single rectangular table was situated in the center of the room. Here the officers ate their meals, talked shop, and held court with other elements of the crew when necessary.

The chair at the head of the table was reserved for the captain. Hung on the bulkhead beside it was a large photograph showing a gently rolling plain, covered with brightly colored wild flowers and clumps of golden scrub. This picture had been taken outside the city of Cheyenne, Wyoming, their warship’s namesake.

Aldridge recognized the piece of music softly emanating from the wardroom’s stereo as being from the soundtrack to the movie, Lawrence of Arabia. Two months ago, while on leave in London, Bob Stoddard got the chance to see a newly edited, 70mm version of this classic movie. Infatuated by its exotic score, he purchased a tape of the recording, which he brought back to the ship and had since listened to religiously. Though Aldridge himself preferred jazz, he had to admit that he had grown quite fond of Maurice Jarre’s Academy Award winning score.

Most of the other officers also enjoyed it, prompting one of them to go out and buy a video tape of the movie for the Cheyenne’s film library.

The sudden entrance of Petty Officer Howard Mallott alerted the others to Aldridge’s presence.

The portly, bespectacled chief of the Cheyenne’s mess burst into the wardroom carrying a tray of food.

“Why hello, Captain,” said the personable master chef as he placed the tray beside the XO.

“Can I get you some lunch?”

With this, the XO looked up from the chart he was studying and cast a surprised glance on the boat’s commanding officer.

“Greetings, Skipper. I didn’t realize that you were aboard.”

“I just got here, XO,” replied Aldridge as he walked up to the table.

“What are your serving, Chief?”

“Turkey burgers, Captain,” answered Mallott proudly.

“It’s something new that I just got the recipe for. Half the cholesterol of beef, and just as tasty.”

Aldridge inspected the plateful of food that included mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli, and a gravy smothered turkey patty that looked much like a chopped beef steak. A slice of apple pie and a mug of black coffee completed this meal.

“Looks awfully good, Chief,” reflected Aldridge.

“Why don’t you go ahead and bring me a tray. But forget the pie. I’m carrying along a couple of extra pounds that I didn’t have when I left here last week, and the only dessert that I’m going to be having on this next patrol is an extra twenty-five sit-ups.”

“I’ll be back in a few minutes, Captain,” said Mallott, smiling. Aldridge was well known for his insistence on physical fitness.

Aldridge helped himself to a mug of coffee and sat down at the head of the table.

“Go ahead and eat while it’s hot, Bob. I’ll just have a look at this chart.”

While the XO cut into his meal, Aldridge commented, “Looks like someone’s planning to take the Cheyenne out to sea shortly.”

“I didn’t get a chance to tell you, Skipper,” managed the XO between bites.

“Our sailing orders came in about a half hour ago. We’re due out on this afternoon’s tide.”

“Then it looks like I got back here just in the nick of time,” added the Captain.

“Any hint as to why the rushed departure?”

The XO spooned down a bite of mashed potatoes before replying.

“The entire packet’s on your desk along with your other mail. It seems that Command needs us to shake up a NATO ASW exercise that’s currently taking place out in the North Sea.”

“That’s all fine and dandy, Bob. But is the Cheyenne ready to go on patrol right now? We were supposed to have until midnight tonight to finish up that Mkll7 modification and get the boat ready for SUBROC.”

“Everything’s been taken care of, Skipper. As we expected, Lieutenant Hartman has been right on top of those engineers. It looks like they’ll be done a couple of hours early, which means we can get those civilians off of here and still catch the late afternoon tide. I made certain that all personnel on leave were called in. In fact, I was just about to have the quartermaster track you down when you showed up here.”

“At least you weren’t going to set sail without me,” returned Aldridge with a wink.

“How’s that turkey?”

“Marvelous, Skipper. I would have never known it wasn’t beef unless Chief Mallott told me otherwise.”

“Did I hear someone mention my name?” interjected the chef as he arrived with another tray of food.

“Bon appetit, Captain.”

“I understand from the XO that you’ve got a winner with this turkey,” commented Aldridge.

“Nobody loves a thick, medium rare chopped beefsteak smothered with onions more than me, Mr. Mallott. So let’s see what this new recipe of yours is all about.”

Howard Mallott looked on as the captain picked up his fork and cut into the patty. The Cheyenne’s commanding officer smelled the piece he had cut off before putting it into his mouth and thoughtfully chewed.

“Well, what do you think, Captain?” expectantly asked the chief.

Without allowing his expression to reveal his verdict, Aldridge nodded.

“I’m impressed, Mr. Mallott.

Would you mind writing down the recipe for me?

My wife is going to love this dish.”

“With pleasure, Sir,” replied the beaming chef, who marched out of the wardroom thrilled by the captain’s compliment.

“Did Susan and Sarah get off on time?” quizzed the XO. He cleaned off his plate and went to work on his pie.

“They should be well on their way to Prestwick by now. Susan’s so well organized that they made the 10:15 ferry with time to spare. That should put them at the airport about ninety minutes before their flight to the States is scheduled to depart. Susan’s folks will be picking them up in Norfolk. But they’ve got a lot of territory to cover until then.”

Steven Aldridge chewed in reflective silence, his thoughts unexpectedly returning to the joy-filled week that he had just completed. The XO was content to polish off his pie and quietly sip his coffee.

While in the background, the graceful strains of Lawrence of Arabia filled the wardroom with the magic of the desert.

The spell was broken by the arrival of a short, stocky officer, who held a clipboard in his hand.

Lieutenant Andrew Laird was a relative newcomer to the crew. He was the boat’s navigator, and currently its OOD. It was in regard to this latter responsibility that he was presently functioning.

“Lieutenant Commander Stoddard, I have that personnel update that you requested,” offered the young officer stiffly.

The XO took the clipboard and hastily skimmed it.

“Well, you can scratch the Captain’s name off of the list of those we’re still waiting for, Lieutenant.

That leaves us only three crew members short.”

“Seamen Thomas and Crawford are on their way from Hunter’s Quay even as we speak, Sir,” replied the OOD.

“That just leaves us without Petty Officer Carter.”

“We certainly don’t want to leave for sea without our best man in sonar,” interrupted the captain.

“He should be here within the hour, Sir,” returned the OOD.

“I called the Glasgow telephone number he left us. A woman answered and said that Mr.

Carter left for Gourock on the eleven o’clock train.

That should put him in Dunoon at approximately one, Sir.”

“That’s still cutting it awfully close, Lieutenant,” said Aldridge.

“I want someone down at the ferry terminal with a car, right now. And if Carter’s not on that one p.m. boat, the driver’s to call in immediately.”

“Yes, Sir,” snapped the OOD.

Yet before Laird could leave to carry out this order, he had to field one more inquiry from the XO.

“I see that those four civilian engineers are still with us, Lieutenant. Will they be able to finish up in time, or will we have to take them out to sea with us?”

The OOD answered a bit hesitantly.

“I’m waiting for an update from Lieutenant Hartman, Sir. He promised to give me a definite time, but as of five minutes ago, I still haven’t heard from him.”

“Well then, get on it,” urged the XO.

“Otherwise you’re going to have to be the one to tell those civilians that they’ve been picked to be the exclusive guests of the USS Cheyenne for the next eight weeks.”

“I’ll do so at once, Sir,” said the OOD.

Only then did the XO return his clipboard, indicating that his audience here was over. As Lieutenant Laird disappeared through the forward hatch, the XO grunted.

“We’ll make a proper officer out of that kid yet.”

Steven Aldridge offered his own opinion of Laird’s competency while sipping his coffee.

“I don’t know, Bob. I think he’s coming along just fine. He’s only been with us less than two months, and don’t forget what it was like when you pulled your first patrol on a 688” The XO rolled his eyes back in their sockets.

“Guess I’m just turning into the same type of hard-nosed, insensitive taskmaster that I always despised when I first got into nukes ten years ago.”

“That, my friend, comes with the territory,” quipped Aldridge stoically.

“Now I’d better get back to my cabin and unpack, then I’ll get to work trying to put a dent in that paperwork that’s been piling up on my desk all week. See you topside when the tide turns, Bob.”

“I’ll be there, Skipper,” returned the Cheyenne’s second-in-command as he watched Steven Aldridge push away from the table to get on with his duty.

Two and a half hours later, both senior officers were gathered in the sub’s exposed bridge as promised.

The sun was peeking through the clouds as the USS Cheyenne engaged its engines and headed for the open sea.

With a patrol boat leading the way, the 360foot attack sub remained on the surface as it exited Holy Loch. The town of Dunoon soon passed on the starboard, and Steven Aldridge spotted the ferry that had conveyed his family across the firth earlier in the day just leaving its berth at Gourock on the opposite shore. Ever alert for any nearby surface traffic, the sub hugged the deepwater channel that would take it almost due south.

The large cement stack and trio of huge fuel storage tanks belonging to the Inverkip power station soon passed to their port, while the flashing beacon known as the Gantocks signalled the starboard extent of the channel. Beyond this beacon on the firth’s western shore rose a sloping, tree-filled hillside that culminated at the summit called Bishop’s Seat, 1,651 feet above sea level.

“Believe it or not, you can just make out Ailsa Craig with the glasses, Skipper,” observed the XO.

Putting his own binoculars up to his eyes, Aldridge soon enough spotted this distinctive volcanic-like formation splitting the channel up ahead.

“Well, I’ll be,” he muttered.

“That’s a good forty-seven miles away.”

“That’s certainly a first for me,” revealed the XO.

“Usually from here we’d be lucky enough to spot the

Cumbrae isles, or even Arran.”

Notorious for thick fogs, blinding rains squalls, and heavy winds, the Firth of Clyde was more often than not a navigator’s nightmare. But Steven Aldridge had already learned never to anticipate the weather in Scotland, as he found out during the glorious week just passed.

“I guess we should count our blessings, XO,” reflected the Captain.

“This transit looks to be one of the easiest yet. And it’s a tribute to the crew that we’re right on schedule.”

“They sure worked some miracles, Skipper. Although for a moment there, I didn’t think we’d ever get away on time. Lieutenant Hartman kept those engineers on board to the very last second. Those white shirts were sweating bullets, afraid that they’d have to go along with us. And as they were climbing up the gangplank to the Hunley, who passes them going the other way but Petty Officer Carter.”

“We can be thankful for that,” said Aldridge.

“Did anyone find out what held him up?”

The XO flashed a wide grin.

“Scuttlebutt says that our romeo in the sound shack met a comely little Gourock lass on the train down from Glasgow. Luckily she didn’t keep him in her apartment longer than an hour, or we’d be without his services.”

“I thought he already had a girlfriend back in Glasgow,” countered the Captain.

Again the XO snickered.

“From what I hear, Mr.

Carter attracts women like my wife collects bills.”

“He does have that certain air about him,” added the Captain, who looked up as a Boeing 747 airliner could be seen climbing into the blue heavens above the eastern shores of the firth.

Steven Aldridge knew that this plane originated in nearby Prestwick airport, and could very well be the one carrying his family homeward. And as the plane turned to the west and disappeared into a thick cloud bank, Aldridge found himself forming a silent prayer: that both of their long journeys would be safe ones.