Seawolf Mask of Command

by Cliff Happy

  This was no joke. She was going to sea.

  She looked up at him, and now the rapidity of her breathing was unmistakable. She gestured toward the stacks of computers and sound equipment. “My final report isn’t finished yet, Admiral…”

  Loyalty and dedication to duty were two traits he admired greatly. She had them in spades. Her dream was to be the first woman on a submarine, and now she had orders in hand to become that woman, yet she hesitated because of the obligation she felt to complete her task here.

  Beagler brushed off the not-so-insignificant task. “We’ll manage.” Tapping the papers in her hand, he added, “Besides, your orders have you departing immediately.”

  Silence.

  She was hardly a fool. Fools didn’t graduate at the top of their Academy class. Fools didn’t work for Beagler. Yet, she seemed at a loss for words. Was this the outpouring of emotion? Disbelief? Shock?

  “Unless you’ve changed your mind,” he prodded gently, knowing she hadn’t.

  “No, sir,” she managed. “Not at all, Admiral. I just…”

  He nodded in understanding, wishing he could tell what she was thinking. Even now, with victory literally in her grasp, she refused to celebrate. Perhaps she was even smarter than he thought. Despite the difficulties in getting this far, Beagler knew from experience that the toughest part was still ahead.

  “Then I suggest you get packing, unless you want your leave cut short.” As with all permanent change of station orders, Kristen would receive thirty days of leave to help her make the transition. “Bremerton, Washington in winter is quite a change from sunny Hawaii.”

  She managed a nod as her eyes seemed lost in deep thought.

  “Well, I’ll leave you to it then,” he offered, sensing that perhaps she preferred to be alone rather than allow her emotions be put on display. He turned to leave as his aide withdrew to the hallway.

  As Beagler took his leave she stopped him, “Sir.”

  He looked back over his shoulder at her. She was still standing as if riveted to the floor. She appeared to be struggling to find the right words. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

  “Thank you, Admiral.” They were simple words, but they were sincere.

  “Don’t thank me just yet, Kristen,” he confided. “You’re going to the Seawolf,” he informed her. “I know her captain.” He paused for a moment to consider his lengthy relationship with the anything-but-conventional commanding officer of the Seawolf. “Rest assured, your biggest challenges lie ahead of you.”

  Chapter Two

  USS Albany, Barents Sea

  “Con, sonar,” came the voice through the speaker.

  Captain Albert Styles reached up and took the microphone down from the overhead speaker. “What is it, sonar?”

  “We’re picking up another power plant signature, Captain,” came the reply. “Another Typhoon, sir.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Styles’ executive officer whispered next to him. “Are we at war and someone just forgot to tell us?”

  Styles was beginning to wonder the same thing. Washington had been monitoring the Russian Navy more closely since intelligence began detecting signs of a marked increase in work in and around their submarine bases. Satellite imagery had picked up what appeared to be repairs and preparations for getting their aging submarine fleet back into an operational state. It was why the Albany was patrolling just outside the big Russian base at Polyarny.

  With the exception of a few aging chief petty officers and the admirals back in Norfolk, there was no one left who remembered the Cold War firsthand, but whatever the Russians were up to, it sure looked big as far as Styles was concerned. “Anything on ESM?” he asked his XO, referring to their electronics antenna peeking up above the waves.

  “A lot of radio chatter up there,” he replied dutifully. “They’re definitely coming out.”

  “How many does that make now?” Styles asked his operations officer, wondering how many Russian subs they’d counted leaving port.

  “Eight ice breakers leading out six Akulas, three Typhoons and what we believe to be the Borei, Captain.”

  The Borei was the newest Russian ballistic missile submarine, and the US Navy knew almost nothing about her. Captain Styles again spoke into the microphone, addressing his sonar room, “Chief, make sure you’re running a tape on the Borei.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “Should we go up and take a peek?” the XO asked.

  Styles knew it was a risk, but with little information available on the Borei, he thought the risk worthwhile. The Albany’s periscope had a radar absorbing coating to help conceal it, and Styles would only have the scope above the waves for a few seconds. He nodded his head and stepped up onto the periscope pedestal.

  Prior to raising the scope, he did a final check with his sonar and radio room to make certain there were no unexpected threats waiting above like an antisubmarine helicopter loitering directly above them. Once relatively sure they were safe from immediate danger, he raised the scope. Everything he would see was automatically recorded for later analysis. As planned, the scope was above the surface for barely three seconds, during which time Styles swept the view across the entire armada sallying forth out of Polyarny for—what he prayed—was just an exercise.

  Once the scope was again below the surface, he ordered a course change to reposition the Albany to better observe the unexpected Russian deployment. Certain they were again safely hidden beneath the waves and not about to be run over by the approaching Russian submarines, he turned his attention to the film. One by one he and his fellow bridge officers identified the various submarines coming out or harbor. The Borei—despite being a ballistic missile boat—was conspicuously smaller than the Typhoons. This in and of itself was an oddity. Russian sub design had been going for ever larger submarines.

  Styles couldn’t help wonder what other secrets she might be hiding.

  Chapter Three

  Pier D, Bremerton, Washington

  Lieutenant Junior Grade Kristen Whitaker looked through the car window at the cold Puget Sound rain. Upon getting her dress uniform back from the dry cleaners, she’d gone over it with an iron to make certain it was impeccable. Her uniform cap was brand new. Her shoes were shined to a mirror gloss. Her four ribbons were perfectly centered one eighth of an inch above her left breast pocket. Her hair was impeccably braided. She’d spent years preparing for this moment, and she’d done everything she could to make her first impression a good one.

  Except she’d forgotten her umbrella.

  Dummy.

  Kristen looked at the gate leading to Pier D. It was only twenty yards away, but she could barely make out the two civilian rent-a-cops on duty cowering under the awning of a guard shack. She’d be soaked to the skin before she got halfway to the gate. She contemplated the gloomy skies, hoping there might be a break in the rain. But low clouds hung over the harbor like a shroud and gave no indication of a let up anytime soon.

  “Maybe you could check in tomorrow, ma’am?” the female petty officer who’d driven Kristen from the squadron headquarters in Bangor offered. “Your orders say you don’t have to report for another four weeks.”

  Kristen glanced back at the pudgy African American who’d been so kind to her—the only one who had—when Kristen checked into the squadron headquarters earlier in the day. Kristen knew the petty officer was right. Upon receiving her orders from Admiral Beagler back in Hawaii, she’d forgone any leave due her and rushed directly to Washington well ahead of schedule. So she could, in good conscience, return to her nice, dry room at the barracks and wait until the next day.

  What’s another day?

  Kristen shook her head. “It’s just a little rain. A little rain never hurt anybody,” she assured the petty officer who looked up at Kristen’s hair.

  “If you say so, ma’am,” the petty officer replied skeptically. “Maybe we could run to the Base Exchange and get you an umbrella…”

  “No, I’ve waited long enough for this,
” Kristen replied and took her uniform cap and set it firmly on her head, knowing it would look more like an old sack by the time she reached the pier beyond the gate. She looked back at the petty officer a final time. She wasn’t one for ostentatious displays of emotion. Quite the opposite in fact, but she appreciated politeness and kindness.

  “Thank you for… everything.”

  “No problem, ma’am,” she replied with a conspiratorial grin. “Us girls gotta stick together, right?

  Kristen reached over and squeezed the woman’s hand. “Right.”

  “Give’em hell, ma’am.”

  Kristen took a deep breath and grabbed her soft leather briefcase before opening the door and stepping out into the torrential downpour. She walked across the pavement to the gate, and, as she’d feared, she was soaked through to the skin before she reached the puzzled guards. Kristen stepped under the awning leading to the metal detector and handed her security badge over to the men.

  She waited patiently as they looked through her briefcase to make certain she wasn’t carrying anything hazardous and ran her security badge through a card reader. Kristen stood calmly, doing her best not to show the combination of excitement and nervousness she was feeling.

  Her whole life had been in preparation for this moment. The last four years especially so, as she’d fought the naval establishment, deep-seated prejudice, and more than a healthy dose of chauvinism to reach this point. No woman had ever done what she was about to. She’d sacrificed nearly everything short of her life to get here, and no rain would stop her now. She clipped her security pass back in place, stepped through the checkpoint, went past the vehicle barriers, and onto the pier itself.

  Any thought that her years of struggle weren’t worth it faded as she saw the dark, menacingly beautiful shape of the submarine tied up along the pier. Despite the taciturn demeanor she carefully maintained, she couldn’t resist a shiver of excitement followed by a queer numbness as she looked upon her personal Holy Grail. Mooring lines held the nine-thousand-ton beast fast along the pier. Dockside, there were half a dozen trucks and vans from various contractors who were helping the crew get the submarine ready for sea.

  As if in a dream, Kristen walked down the pier toward another security booth, this one positioned at the top of the gangplank leading to the dark hull of the submarine. As she walked, relishing every moment, her senses struggled to absorb every sight, sound, and smell. Diesel fumes mixed with saltwater and the smell of burning metal as a symphony of power drills, metal grinders, torches, hammer drills, portable generators, and countless other tools roared while men worked feverishly.

  She stopped at the second security checkpoint where two armed crewmen wearing bulletproof vests were on duty, inspecting security badges yet again before allowing anyone onto the submarine. They each eyed her curiously, apparently not expecting her.

  “What can we do for you, ma’am?” a chunky Latino named Ramirez asked from under the protection of the checkpoint roof.

  Kristen knew this would be just the first of many tests she would have to face now that she’d gotten what she wanted. Rear Admiral Beagler had warned her before leaving Pearl about “being careful what you wish for.” He’d been instrumental in helping her achieve her goal of serving aboard a submarine, but even he’d felt it necessary to warn her that the difficulties she’d endured to this point would pale in comparison to actually serving on a real sub. As she stood in the driving rain, she looked at the petty officer, hoping she didn’t appear too bitchy as she replied smoothly, “You can start by snapping out a salute, Petty Officer Ramirez.”

  Although required to salute all officers, it was quite common for sailors in the Navy to conveniently forget this simple protocol, especially when the salute was for junior officers. Properly chastised, Ramirez and his fellow sentry saluted, and Kristen returned it smartly.

  “Sorry ma’am,” Ramirez apologized. “What can we do for you?”

  “I’m checking in,” she replied trying to sound professional and matter of fact at the same time. It was no secret she was coming, but she wasn’t scheduled to arrive for nearly a month, so she wasn’t surprised by their looks of disbelief.

  “No shit?” Ramirez thought out loud.

  “No shit,” she replied as she handed over her security badge.

  Ramirez and the other sailor were momentarily dumbstruck. Neither man seemed to know just how to act, but Kristen had grown accustomed to this reaction over the past few years since she first stunned the Navy by requesting transfer to the submarine forces as something other than a staff officer in headquarters. The men she’d encountered every step of the way were unaccustomed to dealing with women, and instead of just treating her like any other junior officer, they’d always stumbled and fumbled around her.

  These two managed to recover enough to finish signing her in, returned her security badge, and issued her a personal dosimeter she was required to wear at all times while aboard the nuclear-powered submarine. She secured both to her uniform and then looked back up at the two petty officers, giving them a brief, expectant stare—which was enough.

  They offered her a salute in parting, and after returning it, she stepped up onto the gangplank and then down toward the Seawolf.

  If she’d been excited before, Kristen was now nearly floating on air—and a little nauseated—as she walked toward the submarine. So many times over the last few years she’d gotten her hopes up that she might realize her lifelong ambition only to have those hopes dashed on the rocks of convention. But not now. Not this time. She had made it. The years of ramming her head against a brick wall were behind her. Nothing would stop her now.

  The Seawolf pointed toward the sea, her rudder sticking out of the water. A portable work shed was positioned over the forward hatchway, and although she could hear the staccato sound of a hammer drills from inside the shed, she couldn’t see what the workers were doing. Numerous lines draped over the hull provided water, electricity, phone service, and other shore-based services to the submarine. On the sail she noticed more men working. They paused their labor briefly to watch as she descended the gangplank. She assumed they knew just who she was. Her posting to a fleet submarine had made the cover of Navy Times and had even been mentioned in the national news.

  She looked at the hull as she stepped down onto the hard rubber surface. The historic nature of this step was as significant to her as that made by Neil Armstrong when he’d taken a “great leap for mankind.” She knew few others could possibly understand how important this moment was to her. Kristen wasn’t an emotional person; in fact, the term “cold fish” had been used on more than one occasion to describe her, but she could feel true emotion welling up within her as she took a few steps across the hull toward the weapons-loading hatchway. It was normally used for loading torpedoes and missiles, but was currently being used as a personnel entrance while the forward hatch was undergoing some sort of maintenance.

  A removable canopy was positioned over the hatch to prevent rain pouring in. Kristen stepped under the shelter and without further delay climbed down into the submarine itself. Anticipating the difficulties of negotiating stainless steel ladders as she moved through the submarine, she’d forgone her dress skirt and pumps and was wearing slacks and loafers.

  She climbed through the weapons hatch and down into the forward section of the submarine. Two crewmen dressed in blue coveralls called “poopie suits” were servicing a control panel as she appeared between them. Both stopped and stared as she appeared. By the looks on their faces, she might have been an alien. But before they could utter a word of greeting or disbelief, Kristen saw an ensign, also dressed in coveralls, appear.

  Kristen faced him, immediately aware of the incredibly claustrophobic conditions surrounding her. There was nowhere she could look that wasn’t chocked full of equipment. Pipes, electrical conduit, junction boxes, emergency equipment, and machinery took up every possible space. Kristen was an engineer and loved machinery, but it struck her tha
t the Seawolf designers hadn’t planned it with comfort in mind for its crew. In fact, as far as the submarine’s design, the human component had been an afterthought.

  According to his coveralls, the ensign’s last name was Martin. Her analytical mind immediately surmised that he’d only been aboard a short while. It took an officer fifteen months just to complete the various schools necessary to reach a submarine, and the time for promotion from ensign to lieutenant junior grade was only twenty-four months.

  “There you are, Lieutenant,” he greeted her with a smile. “Welcome to the Seawolf.”

  He was shorter than Kristen at about five-seven, and slightly built. He had light brown hair, dark eyes, and glasses. Her own glasses had fogged up in the rain, and she removed them as he welcomed her.

  “Thank you, Ensign Martin,” she responded stiffly. His smile and words of welcome were meaningless to her. The cliché, “Talk is cheap,” was something she’d seen proven time and time again over the past few years.

  He scratched his nose, and she noticed grease stains on his elbows and more grit on his fingers and under his nails. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his ill-fitting coveralls looked like a shambling mound of wrinkles.

  “We just received word from the squadron that you were reporting in today,” he explained as he motioned for her to follow him. “We weren’t expecting you this soon.”

  “So I gathered,” she replied curtly. The activity outside the submarine had made her think of an overturned anthill, but now inside she was reminded of a beehive. Men were working everywhere. Civilian contractors mixed in with the submarine’s personnel and naval technicians who looked to be literally replacing, repairing or inspecting every piece of equipment on board. The sounds outside had been nothing compared to the constant din inside the sub as officers and chief petty officers directed work gangs, power tools roared, and men strained to carry out their tasks. At the same time she took in these sights and sounds, she was struck by the menagerie of odors assaulting her keen senses. The bitter smell of solder and acetylene, the pong of human sweat, the antiseptic scent from the air purifiers, the powerfully pungent aroma of cleaning solvent that fought—unsuccessfully—to cover up the other odors all added to her impression of being in a stuffy, metal world surrounded by mindless machinery serviced by flesh.