The question of who always bubbled up right behind any decision to finally take the step. Maybe Linda Masters. He liked her, had known her and her family for years. She taught history at the local high school and had the ability to spark interest in a subject most students found boring. In her late 30s, she had an interest in Western art and Old West artifacts, and time spent at an auction with her was an entertaining afternoon. They were comfortable friends, and it could possibly be something more if he wanted to pursue the idea. He’d start with dinner and a movie. If the first date went well, he could invite Linda to the gold crew’s backyard barbecue he always hosted after they had been back in port a couple of weeks. It would give him a chance to see what his broader group of friends thought of her.
Meeting Melinda for the first time had been a bit like getting hit with a two-by-four. He’d thought wow and spent the next year convincing her she should think the same about him. Linda fit into the more thoughtful category, a woman friend who might become more. He was realistic about the idea of being married again. He’d already had a very good marriage. He would be fortunate to find that again. It wasn’t likely a second marriage would have that same intensity of passion that he’d had in his youth. But it could be a good one just the same, if he could find someone equally committed to building a good, strong marriage.
Mark hadn’t yet met his brother’s wife, Charlotte. The schedule hadn’t permitted a flight back to Chicago, but he planned to take a leave and go see them during the next few months ashore. The photo above him and their marriage was what had gotten him thinking again about the possibility for himself. Bryce sounded happy. Mark was relieved and grateful to hear it—he’d have Charlotte to thank for that when he met her, he was sure.
He reached for his When in Port list and added a few more items: find a welcome-to-the-family gift for Charlotte, go fishing with Jeff, take Linda to dinner and a movie, find a good home for Melinda’s dollhouse collection—maybe Melinda’s mom had changed her mind? He tucked the list back under the rubber band.
Odd, of all the things he had around the house that were Melinda’s, it was the dollhouse he had held on to the longest. Its Southern-belle-mansion style was filled with nearly 40 rooms of tiny furniture, wallpaper, little pictures, rugs, lamps. He used to buy Melinda something for it as a gift to mark the beginning and end of patrols. She had loved that miniature house. Looking at it was a way to remember a shared history and good memories. But it wouldn’t do to have it displayed in the living room the first time he invited a woman in for coffee and a conversation.
I wish life was simpler, Jesus, than it is. The thought crossed his mind as a prayer, and it instantly summed up what he was feeling. Life was growing more complex, not less. The day Melinda had been killed in a car accident had been by far the worst day of his life. Now he was lying here planning the future, but truthfully he had no idea what the future held. God did. There was comfort in the simple fact that nothing occurring in his life would be a surprise to God.
His belief in and passion for God was one of the things he and Melinda had shared. He found stability and purpose in the fact God loved him. Key to whom he chose as a wife would be someone who shared his faith. Someone with a nice smile, Jesus, he added to his prayer. He’d just spent 86 days surrounded by guys—a few women were deploying on boomers now, but none had been assigned to gold crew for this particular patrol—and he missed seeing a woman’s smile. He wanted a future with a wife who had a nice smile, and a personality that had her smiling often.
A few handwritten verses were tucked beside the photos. Mark carefully slid a three-by-five card from the band holding it in place, his printing still clear despite the multiple times he’d handled it.
The Son radiates God’s own glory and expresses the very character of God, and he sustains everything by the mighty power of his command. When he had cleansed us from our sins, he sat down in the place of honor at the right hand of the majestic God in heaven.
There were few things in Scripture that touched him more deeply than this verse from the first chapter of Hebrews. He’d copied it over so he could memorize the words describing the person of Jesus, His character, His conduct, and His purpose. He’d started public ministry when he was 30, was crucified at age 33, resurrected three days later, and now He sat at the right hand of God in heaven. Every time Mark read the passage, he came back to the same conclusion. Jesus had hit the sweet spot of a life well lived.
I wish that for myself, God. Mark returned the card to its place. He wanted to have a good next chapter in his life—something that had purpose and value. He closed his eyes on the thought, wondering if what was coming was going to include a new wife, and let himself slide into sleep.
Bishop settled into the captain’s chair in the Nevada’s command-and-control center. The surface above was busy with activity: cargo ships, fishing vessels, even the faint hull noise of sailboats. Both sonar and navigation had their hands full keeping track of everybody. Bishop studied the men around the room. Three months’ worth of conversations and curiosity on his part had filled in large sections of their professional history, personal interests, and situations onshore. They were his crew, his second family, and he knew them well.
He smiled. It was time to get them home. “Navigation, distance to the Strait of Juan de Fuca.”
“Five miles, sir, to the outer buoy.”
“Very well.” The waiting of the last few days was finally over. Bishop reached for the intercom. “Sonar, control. Report all near contacts.”
“Control, sonar. Surface ships, fore and after, the closest 520 feet to our starboard.”
Bishop looked to his right. “XO, bring us to periscope depth.”
The XO confirmed the command, then set it in motion. “Helm, set our depth to 85 feet.” The boat began to rise.
“Leveling at 85 feet, sir,” the planesman confirmed.
“Raise the periscope,” Bishop ordered.
The navigation officer raised it, and the XO moved to the periscope and began a circle turn, searching the waters above and around the boomer. “All clear above and ahead, Captain.”
Bishop went and looked for himself to confirm the finding. “Surface the boat.”
“Surface the boat, aye, Captain,” his XO replied. “Dive Officer, surface the Nevada.”
The dive officer flipped switches on the ballast control board, forcing air into, and water out of, the compartments surrounding the hull, making the submarine more buoyant and taking it to the surface.
The USS Nevada broke the surface with a burst of cascading water. Their normally smooth ride began to feel choppy as the boat responded to waves for the first time, its controlling planes on the sail now out of the water, the boat rocking side to side ever so slightly as it moved forward.
“Petty Officer Hill, please pass me that red case,” Bishop said.
The XO picked up the intercom and flipped the switch to 1MC. “Crew of the Nevada, this is the XO. The captain is breaking out his sunglasses.”
A cheer echoed throughout the boat.
“Open the boat.”
The first lookout headed up the ladder, opening hatches as he went. A rush of air smelling of salt water, pine, and fish swirled inside. After 90 days of filtered air, it was a strong smell, almost tasty it was so sharp.
A communications specialist headed up the ladder, carrying equipment to activate comm lines from the bridge and lookouts above to the command-and-control room below. Behind him, two seamen carried segments of a curved, stiff Plexiglas windshield to outfit the bridge for some protection from the spray kicking up over the bow.
“XO, the captain is transferring to the bridge.” Bishop headed up the ladder after the second lookout man.
The first bright rays of sun to strike his face, the first breeze of ocean air—Bishop cleared the last rung of the ladder and gave himself half a minute to simply stand and appreciate it. The day was nearly perfect. For once they weren’t under a blanket of rain and light
fog, which so often accompanied early mornings along the western coastal waters. Within the near distance, sailboats were skimming in among commercial vessels, and beyond them two ferries transported people and cars. Looking down from the height of the bridge sail, the USS Nevada stretched nearly two football fields before and behind him, the wet, black, curved hull gleaming in the sunlight. He spent 90 days of a patrol in small rooms packed with people, and it was easy to forget just how massive the submarine was until he saw it once again from this perspective. Bishop moved behind the protection provided by the Plexiglas and picked up the phone after it had synced into the system. “Control, bridge. Steady at two-third speed.”
“Bridge, control. Steady at two-third speed, aye, Captain.”
Bishop watched their arrival committee maneuver to match their speed and join up with them. The Coast Guard cutter Vincent settled in off the bow, the Sparks falling in behind. The two vessels were part of the Maritime Force Protection Unit that served the submarine fleet during surface transit. The Nevada had reported their arrival into the area an hour before to give the Coast Guard a bit of warning. It wasn’t often a boomer surfaced. Civilians would inevitably approach, hoping for a better look, and would need to be directed away.
Traversing the 155 miles from the Pacific through the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the Admiralty Inlet, Puget Sound, and then into Hood Canal was a graduate course in navigation and communication. The floating section of the Hood Canal Bridge would be moved aside for them to pass through. They were scheduled to dock at Naval Submarine Base Bangor, Delta Pier B, just after sunset. The next 16 hours were going to be intensely focused activity but also routine. They were now essentially pulling into their own driveway.
The varying depths in the channel during the transit made traveling on the surface the wise course of action. But Bishop never liked the visibility it gave to others. He glanced over at the security officer now standing at the back of the sail, binoculars scanning ships in the area. These were the most dangerous 16 hours of the voyage, since they were fully configured with missiles and their location was now known to anyone watching. Sinking a submarine from land or surface wasn’t nearly as easy as hitting it with a torpedo into its belly. But the lookouts would be scanning for anything that might be hostile, and the Coast Guard cutters were specifically watching for any vessel that might try to ram the submarine. Given the history of the few collisions between a sub and a ship in the past decades, the Nevada would take a collision with a shudder and a few dents in the hull, while the other vessel would be turned into shredded salvage scrap. The bulk of the Nevada was underwater even when they traveled on the surface.
Bishop picked up the phone again. “Control, bridge. XO, would you like the deck?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
Kingman jumped at the opportunity, and Bishop smiled, having expected that. “I stand ready to be relieved.”
Moments later the phone rang back. “Bridge, control. The XO is transferring to the bridge. The weapons officer now has the control-center watch.”
“Very well.”
The XO climbed the ladder and joined Bishop in the sail. Kingman checked in with both lookouts, placed a call to the chief engineer, spoke with navigation, then turned to Bishop. “I am ready to relieve you, sir.”
“I am ready to be relieved.”
“I relieve you, sir.” Protocol completed, Kingman picked up the phone. “Control, bridge. Officer of the deck has passed to the XO. Come to heading 050.”
Bishop watched the buoy markers and the subtle signs of the water current. He had long ago memorized depths and buoy markers throughout this transit. The channel was wide for the first 60 miles, but then narrowed considerably so that every movement became tight point-to-point piloting. He’d keep an eye on things, and keep Kingman from getting himself in trouble.
It took time to turn a submarine. Unlike a vehicle, where a turn of the steering wheel to the right turned the car instantly, a submarine turning to the right might travel another 600 feet forward as it made that turn. When the channel was only 70 feet wide in places, turns had to be begun early and smartly. Running over a buoy marking the channel edge was considered more than bad form. It could risk beaching a two-billion-dollar submarine on a shallow stretch of bottom silt and rock, and cost a commander his job.
“Navigation, bridge. Time to the next turn?” Kingman asked.
“Bridge, navigation. Seven minutes, twenty seconds.”
Hours later the USS Nevada passed through the now-open Hood Canal Bridge, people scrambling out of their cars to watch the massive submarine slip through the opening. Bluffs on either side of the waterway held dense forests coming down to the water, along with a sprinkling of expensive homes glimpsed through the trees overlooking Puget Sound.
The Nevada made the final turn toward home. No matter how many times Bishop made this journey, the impact was still the same—pride in the crew, appreciation of the beauty around him, and a deep sense of relief that another patrol had ended without incident. Their home port appeared ahead on the east shore of Hood Canal.
“Engineering, bridge. All stop,” the XO ordered.
The sub’s forward speed began to slow, and only momentum now carried the boat forward. They came to a peaceful pause, just north of the fourth pier. Two tugboats joined up and nudged the boat in concert toward Delta Pier B. Crewmen turned cleats on the boat’s smooth hull upward to allow mooring ropes to be secured. The Nevada snuggled into its berth.
“Good job, XO,” Bishop said.
Kingman grinned. “Thank you, sir.” Sweat had turned the edges of his hair wet, and his face showed exhaustion to go along with the pleasure. The man had completed an extended workout getting the Nevada in without a scratch on her hull. It was Kingman’s first time navigating the entire 155-mile transit—16 hours in command, figuring out what to do when. Bishop had provided occasional summaries of what came next, just as a good caddy would provide a pro golfer, but Bishop had never needed to step in with stronger advice or direction. Bishop remembered well his first time piloting unassisted through the transit. It was a sweet relief and well-earned success.
People were waiting for them on the pier—contractors and Navy personnel who ran the maintenance and supply operations for Bangor—several of the faces familiar, as many had worked on the base 20 years or more. Security concerns now prevented civilians from being on the pier, so families would be waiting for the crew at the Squadron 17 ready room. Bishop watched as marines from the Weapons Storage Facility took up their station, each of them fully armed. They would remain in place around the clock while missiles were aboard.
The walkway swung over from the pier to Nevada’s exposed surface deck. Bishop pushed up his sunglasses and headed from the sail down the ladder into the command-and-control center. Men were securing the boat, shutting down equipment, and preparing to connect for power to the shore.
Bishop picked up the intercom and set it to 1MC. “This is the captain. Welcome home, crew of the USS Nevada. A good patrol, and a solid chance at the battle E this year. You did the Nevada proud. Families are gathering at the Squadron 17 ready room. Enlisted not assigned duty stations for the overnight watch are dismissed after the boat is secured. Report back to the boat at 0900 for hand-over preparation. All officers report in to the commander. Captain out.”
A good patrol, and he felt the relief of having gotten his men safely home to their families. But as he secured the mic in its place, he knew he would not have anybody waiting for him in the ready room. It was time to change that.
3
After 90 days without sunlight, Commander Mark Bishop preferred running errands at night for his first few days back onshore. Even with dark sunglasses, the sun’s rays seemed overly bright. Life onshore—traffic, dogs barking, advertising everywhere he looked, crowds passing by—seemed loud and chaotic. At night, at least this assault of sights and sounds was tempered. He was a man in good shape, but being in command of a deterrent patrol left hi
m physically beat, tired to the bone. When he stepped onshore the toll made itself felt. For the next couple of weeks he planned on 12 hours of sleep a night to get himself feeling less like an old man, good food, and as much time not being in charge of anything as he could arrange.
The Nevada was still claiming most of his time, yet that was soon coming to a conclusion. Hand-over of the boat to the blue-crew commander was just 10 hours away, at which time this patrol would officially be over. What he wanted tonight was ice cream, and at two a.m. on Bangor base—with his home and a 24/7 supermarket nearly a half hour away—the choices were between what the Squadron 17 ready room had left in the freezer or what the newly opened 7-Eleven across from Bangor Plaza had available.
So, ice cream from the convenience store, then back to the USS Nevada for another three hours of paper work, clear his personal belongings from the captain’s stateroom, and prepare for final walk-through. A skeleton crew was aboard tonight, monitoring the reactor shutdown and off-loading sonar recordings. The full contingent of gold crew would be back at the sub at 0800 for the final crew call and hand-over to the blue crew, with the ceremonial awarding of dolphins appropriately scheduled for the Bangor Plaza Conference Center’s Nevada ballroom at noon.
He would have the privilege of pinning 14 of his crew this afternoon. Getting approved to wear the dolphins—proof you were qualified to call yourself a submariner—required demonstrating the knowledge and function of 70 distinct systems on board, from navigation to missile control. The 70 signatures collected on your qual card came from senior crewmen evaluating your competency. Then you had to survive two verbal exams by the chief of the boat and the captain. Getting pinned with dolphins was a key milestone during the first two years of a submariner’s life. Those being awarded today had earned it.
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