Blind Eye; Silent Waters; Janus Effect

by Jan Coffey

  The rain was pounding sideways again. McCann wanted to get out of it. “From my experience working with Electric Boat and Newport News, this all sounds routine, Ms….Ms….”

  “Russell. Amy.”

  “What I’m trying to tell you is that nothing you’ve said is relevant, from my perspective,” he said curtly. “Your shipyard management agreed to turn this job around in less than twenty-four hours. Not even having started this installation, you appear overwhelmed. My recommendation is that you bow out, Ms. Russell, and let someone with more experience take charge here.”

  She turned her head and mumbled something that suspiciously sounded like “arrogant bastard.”

  “Did you say something?”

  “Faster,” she said brusquely. “This job will get done much faster if I’m left to do it. Unless you want your sub tied up to our dock for a couple of extra days, my suggestion is that you cooperate a little and let me get the job done.”

  McCann momentarily considered making a call to move her off of the assignment. He didn’t have anything against her age or gender. Experience, though, mattered a hell of a lot.

  “How familiar are you with the system?” he asked.

  “Very. I managed three installations on 688-class upgrades, and one for a SRA, Selected Restricted Availability, on the Seawolf.”

  The cold rain was starting to trickle down his neck. “What do you need from me?”

  “I want to see and test the system and determine the revision level before I bring the crew and material on board.”

  “Sea trials are over. We’re not going for any spin around Long Island Sound so you can test the system.”

  “I’m not asking you to take me on any spin. I can test the system at the dock. I just need access to the control room to get everything I need.”

  “Have you read the rejection report?” he asked.

  “Of course I did,” she responded, obviously growing impatient. “But ‘it ain’t working’ wasn’t much of a help.”

  He glowered down at her. “I was the final signature on that report, Ms. Russell. I don’t recall that phrasing in it.”

  “Really?” She pushed the brim of her hardhat back. “I’m kidding.”

  “At four o’clock in the morning?”

  “You were being pretty condescending, Commander.”

  “Ms. Russell—”

  “From the first moment I stepped into your path, you’ve been treating me like a moron, sir.” She put a hand up when he tried to interrupt. “Despite being a woman, I’m a ship superintendent. People don’t walk in off the street and get this position. I have an electrical engineering degree and six years of shipyard experience. My specific training has been in sonar and navigation systems, and I was one of three people from Electric Boat who were sent to SPAWAR to get trained in testing and installation procedures for the new ESGNs. The management above me and the crew and supervisors who report to me have absolute confidence in what I do, and in what I direct them to do.”

  “Ms. Russell…” He tried to interrupt again, but she shook her head and continued, her voice rising over the wind.

  “I know the procedures, sir. I know the requirements. I also know only an idiot would replace such an expensive and major system without first looking at the inspection and rejection reports. Yes, they were detailed—as much as they could be—but they didn’t answer specific questions that I have. I’ve done everything that can be done at my end.” She shrugged. “Now, as far as how quickly you’d like to have your boat out of here, it’s up to you.”

  McCann was impressed. He knew he could be arrogant, brusque, and even intimidating. He knew he’d been all that over the last few minutes. In fact, he probably had been ever since he’d woken up to Parker’s phone call this morning. Still, she’d stood up to him, her voice never wavering while she’d listed her qualifications and her beefs.

  “All right. I’ll ask again,” he said in what he felt was a more civilized tone. “What do you need from me?”

  “Permission to come aboard, sir, and test the system ahead of the production crew’s arrival.”

  “You have papers?” He extended a hand.

  She quickly pulled the clipboard from under her arm but didn’t open the hinged metal cover that protected the paperwork. “Let’s duck into the Pipe Shop. I don’t want my papers dissolving in the rain before I even get started.”

  Leading him around a corner, she pulled open a door and motioned him inside. The shop appeared to be empty, but the lights were on. It was dry and warm and had the distinctive smell of pipe welding. As they crossed the concrete floor, McCann saw a figure appear behind the glass window of an office door. A piping foreman, blueprint in hand, nodded to them when he recognized the ship super, before going back to work.

  “I can’t believe it,” Russell said, walking toward one of a half-dozen workbenches on the shop floor.

  “Can’t believe what?”

  She put her clipboard down on the workbench. Clean sheets of cardboard had been taped onto the bench, and the rain that dripped off her hardhat formed dark spots on the work area. Opening the clipboard, she pulled out work orders and copies of the inspection reports. She handed him a work order before answering him.

  “You aren’t as bad as I expected,” she said as he glanced at the documents.

  “You were expecting Shrek?” he asked.

  He could see her face clearly for the first time. He was right. She was young. Her face was pretty. Her eyes glistened in the shop light.

  “I’m not talking about your looks, Commander.”

  “What then?”

  She shrugged. “The other sub service officers I deal with. None of them are too comfortable with women.”

  “I beg to differ,” he said absently, turning his attention back to the paperwork.

  There was a long pause. “I didn’t mean that the way it came out.”

  He raised an eyebrow and shot her a curious look.

  She shook her head. “I’m talking about working with women. Especially women in management. As good as you might be working with other men, it seems like most of you guys lack confidence when you’re dealing with women.”

  He fought back a laugh. “You think I lack confidence, Ms. Russell?”

  “No, but you definitely have preconceptions. When I introduced myself, you automatically assumed that I wasn’t qualified to do the job.”

  He was about to argue but she was starting to roll. “Don’t try to deny it, Commander. I don’t blame it on individuals. The system breeds it into you. The male-warrior culture you live in.”

  “You seem to know a lot about it,” McCann put in. “Was psychology a minor in college?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do know a lot about the lifestyle but that’s not only from books. And I do think a certain mindset develops in men who are stuck with one another for so many months at a time.”

  “We’re not stuck with one another,” he said, hiding a smile as he handed the paperwork back to her.

  “Whatever. You know what I mean. I think I’d be healthier if they allowed women to ride these boats.”

  “Women are often on submarines.”

  “Yeah…as passengers.” She carefully put her papers back in her clipboard and closed it. “Researchers, scientists, observers. And only on special occasions. I’m talking about regular crew.”

  “You build them, Ms. Russell, so you should know why that isn’t happening. Depending on the boat and the mission, you could have three to a bunk in the crew’s quarters. Hot racking.” He looked at his watch. “Mixed gender crews sleeping in shifts for five or six months at a clip? That’s just looking for problems.”

  “Hot racking. Wonderful term. I always thought that it sounded awfully painful.” She pulled up the collar of her jacket. “Sorry. No more questions unrelated to electrostatic gyro navigator testing and installation. Can you take me on board now?”

  “Do you need to bring any of your people with you?”


  “No. I’m only doing some testing.” She cocked her head. “And I can handle it on my own, Commander.”

  The way she drawled her words told McCann that he must have sounded doubtful again.

  “Glad to hear it. You have what you need?”

  “I need to pick up a testing device at one of the shops. But it’s practically on our way.”

  He looked up at the sky as they left the shop. The rain wasn’t stopping. She kept his pace with ease.

  “What’s your work schedule?” he asked her.

  “I have a crew of ten, with supervisor, ready to come aboard at 6 a.m.” She touched his arm, pointing to the door to a large building. “Let’s take a shortcut out of the rain.”

  McCann followed her up a short flight of stairs past a door. The building was a maze of corridors and offices, but she led him through it without hesitation. He knew that the shipyard superintendent had offices a few floors above.

  “What’s your plan for physically bringing the new system on board?”

  “Bringing that crew on at six will give us time to break down the unit, move the malfunctioning components, and prep everything for the new installation. That takes a little bit of time. No one will be standing around twiddling his thumbs. When first shift gets rolling after seven, we’ll bring the new unit on.”

  They walked out of the building onto a paved street. The light green corrugated steel walls of the Ways loomed ahead of them, gleaming from the rain and the floodlights that illuminated the company’s name high above.

  The huge, cavernous building actually housed two work facilities. The near side consisted of a wide floor with steel rails embedded in the concrete to move the cylindrical sections of the subs under construction. The sloping Ways took up the far side of the building. Years ago, McCann had attended the launching of one of the last 688-class subs, standing atop the ship as it slid backwards into the river. Since that day, the far side of the building had pretty much sat empty. Hartford was tied to the pier on this side of the Ways.

  “Right here.” She motioned to an ancient shop nestled against the high green walls. “You can come inside if you like, or wait here. It’ll take me thirty seconds.”

  He welcomed any reprieve to get out of this weather, no matter how short the duration. Inside, there were three men working on an electronic panel. All of them looked up and nodded. McCann acknowledged them.

  He waited right inside the door as Russell went toward the back of the shop to get what she needed. The place was crammed with more equipment than the inside of a sub. Boxes, wires, benches, panels, all kinds of components crowded every aisle.

  The men turned their attention back to their work, and McCann looked out through the dirty glass of a small window. As he watched the rain fall, a door opened and a man dressed in a security raincoat came out of the Ways, looked briefly down the road, and then turned up an alley next to the shop. A couple of moments later, a second security guard came out.

  McCann immediately spotted the drawn pistol the guard was holding inside his partially snapped raincoat. Before McCann could think of the possible reasons for it, the guard tucked the weapon into the holster under his raincoat and followed his partner into the alley.

  ~~~~

  Chapter 3

  USS Hartford

  4:10 a.m.

  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.