Seawolf Mask of Command

by Cliff Happy

  Chapter Five

  The Wolf’s Den, USS Seawolf

  Kristen waited impatiently by the rear entrance to the crew’s mess deck. Meanwhile, work continued throughout the submarine, the men seemingly unimpressed by her being on board. Those who saw her ignored her or—in most cases—were simply too tired to take notice. Since leaving the captain’s cabin, she’d been driven back to her barracks on base to change into a working uniform and was now waiting for her department head to arrive.

  As a new officer on board, she was automatically assigned to the engineering department in order to begin preparing her for the infamous engineering watch officer exam. It was just the first of many tests she would be subjected to over potentially years before she earned the coveted gold dolphin pin. Most officers arrived on board as ensigns after completing months of training on nuclear reactors followed by the submarine officer course. Although Kristen had finished both of these courses at the top of her class, she’d been bounced around the Navy for another two years pending a decision on her petition to serve on a submarine. Thus, she was checking aboard as a senior lieutenant junior grade and was nearly three years behind where she should be in earning her qualification badge.

  A thunderclap-like sound startled her, and she turned abruptly to see a gruff, broad-shouldered lieutenant commander glaring at her with a look that could blister paint. He’d just dropped a three-inch thick binder on a mess table, and he was looking at her as if she were something stuck to the bottom of his shoe.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” she said politely, drawing her five-foot, ten-inch frame to attention. She was slightly taller than he, something she knew men tended to detest. His uniform was covered in grime and grease stains, and she knew intuitively that he was the chief engineer. Her new boss. She saw the name stitched on his coveralls: Kaczynski.

  He responded by dropping a custody receipt and ink pen on top of the binder. “That’s your qual binder. Lose it, and I’ll have your ass. Got it?” he grumbled.

  Kristen knew what the qualification binder was. It was a book filled with checklists for every system and compartment she’d have to become certified on before earning her dolphins. It was also classified and couldn’t leave the skin of the ship. In fact, when not in her immediate possession, she needed to find a place to keep it where it wouldn’t get lost.

  She signed for the book, not bothering to try and make small talk with the man. She’d already pegged him as a chauvinist pig. She’d dealt with his kind enough over the last three years to know the best way to deal with him was to kill him with professionalism and resolve. Kristen knew she would never change his mind, and he would go to his grave believing she had no business on a sub. He wasn’t the first, and she knew he wouldn’t be the last. The problem was that she would be assigned to the engineering department for the foreseeable future and would have to deal with whatever he dished out.

  “I’ll get right on it, sir,” she assured him as she tucked the binder under her arm.

  “No you won’t, Lieutenant,” he sneered. “You’ll get your ass back to engineering and get to work. This isn’t some pleasure boat you’re on, lady.”

  She was accustomed to swallowing angry retorts, and instead of telling him where he could stick his sneering tone, she settled for a simple, “Aye-aye, sir.”

  Four hours later, Kristen found herself soaked to the bone once more. This time, instead of rain, it was bilge water from her supervision of the replacement of a failing pump. The task had hardly been demanding, but she assumed it wasn’t meant to be. It had simply been menial, mindless work. But at least she was on board, she kept telling herself. What was more, she was finally doing what she’d been trained to do and what she’d always wanted. She could accept Kaczynski’s hazing as long as she was on board.

  The engineering compartment—her new home—was enormous, with machinery squeezed in everywhere. Besides the reactor, which was in its own space, there were the massive reduction gears, two separate steam turbines, air handling and purifying equipment, a desalinization plant, condensers, generators… the list seemed endless. As part of her engineering exam, she would have to demonstrate proficiency on all of it.

  After replacing the bilge pump, she found Kaczynski standing by the reduction gear housing. A crew of men was servicing the entire assembly that provided power to the submarine’s pump-jet propulsor, driving the nine-thousand-plus tons of submarine at over thirty-five knots. She stood beside him until he noticed her. When he did, she reported that the pump had been changed successfully.

  “Is that a fact?” he asked as if doubting her.

  “That is a fact, sir,” she replied, keeping her anger in check. She’d already allowed the captain to bait her; she wouldn’t allow it to happen again.

  “Who signed off on the repair?” he asked skeptically.

  “Petty Officer Darby,” she reported, referring to the quality control inspector who’d signed off on the work order. “What’s next, sir?” she asked, making it clear she was still anxious to work.

  He glanced at the gear housing and then pointed to the bottom of it. “We’ll be replacing the gear oil as part of the maintenance cycle. Why don’t you see if you can manage to drain it without breaking a nail.”

  Kristen wanted to laugh in his face. But she’d learned that this would only encourage him, so, once more, she swallowed her pride. “I’ll do my best, sir,” she answered, trying not to sound too much like a smart-ass as she ignored the snickering enlisted men who’d heard the chief engineer’s snide comment.

  She consulted the technical manual, as was customary. Although more difficult than changing the oil in a car, it was basically the same in principle. Kristen connected a drain hose to a fitting positioned at the lowest point underneath the main casing for the reduction gear housing. The other end of the hose was then connected to a series of barrels. The lubricant would be collected, removed from the boat, and tested for metal deposits and viscosity breakdown before it was recycled for use again. But, prior to it draining into the barrels, the lubricant would pass through a magnetized wire mesh designed to capture any metal shavings. It was expected there would be some wear, despite the high degree of engineering and metallurgy as well as the high quality of the lubricant used. The basket’s contents would then be inspected by the chief engineer or a senior machinist mate looking for any sign of excessive wear on the gears. By close analysis with a trained eye, the shavings could hint at a problem in the gears’ alignment causing excessive wear.

  This critical step was part of the detailed instructions laid out in the technical manual. Once everything was properly in place, she checked it all again to make certain she hadn’t missed a step before crawling under the housing. She grabbed the large steel wheel that opened the valve to allow the lubricant to drain out and turned.

  Except it wouldn’t move.

  She readjusted her position, braced a boot against a solid anchor, and tried again using the anchor for leverage. But the wheel still wouldn’t budge. She readjusted her position twice more and strained with all of her strength—which for a woman her size was exceptional. But the valve still wouldn’t open. She felt a combination of annoyance and anxiety. The idea of asking Kaczynski or any of the men who’d smirked at her was something she wanted desperately to avoid, even if just for vanity’s sake. She repositioned herself a final time and with both hands on the wheel and both feet braced on a solid anchor, strained with all of her might, but it simply wouldn’t move.

  Kristen recalled one of the arguments used by some of the men who thought it unrealistic for women to serve on submarines: “Women are not physically strong enough to do the work required, and they would be more of a hindrance to the crew than a help.” She closed her eyes, trying to think of how she might avoid asking anyone for help, when she felt someone tap her left shoulder.

  She was lying on her back under the main casing, breathing heavily after several attempts to open the valve, as she looked back behind her and saw the
captain kneeling down under the casing. He was dressed in grease-stained coveralls, his sleeves rolled up, and oil and grease stains on his hands and face. He offered her a long pry bar. “The sump valve gets encrusted with grit and solidified lubricants, so it can be pretty tough to bust loose,” he explained. “This oughta help.”

  Kristen nodded, feeling like an idiot for not thinking of using a pry bar for leverage, and blushed slightly in embarrassment as she took it. “Thank you, Captain.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Brodie said as if it was nothing before disappearing as suddenly as he had appeared.

  Kristen placed the metal pry bar into the wheel, appreciating the fact he hadn’t tried to be all macho by sliding under the casing with her to show her how “a real man does it.” But, as he obviously realized, once she had the additional leverage of a six-foot pry bar multiplying her strength, the wheel broke loose with the first push.

  Within fifteen minutes the lubricant had drained, and she removed the inspection basket. As expected, she saw small pieces of metal. But, to her dismay, she also noticed some pieces too large to be a good sign. Kristen returned to the deck above where Kaczynski was supervising the removal of the last of the ancillary equipment connected to the reduction gears.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Kristen said as she came up behind him carrying the basket.

  He turned, a smirk already forming on his face as he readied some nasty quip. She assumed he’d tightened the valve, and the surprised look on his face verified this suspicion as he looked at the basket she was carrying and realized she’d gotten it open despite his sabotage. “What is it now, Lieutenant?” he asked adding emphasis to the last two words.

  “I thought you might want to see this right away, sir,” she replied politely, ignoring his tone and the cocky smirk. He reminded her of the arrogant skirt-chasers she’d encountered while at the Academy and then afterward wherever she’d been stationed. He was a first class jerk.

  He glanced at the basket. “Oh, yeah?” he asked and stepped forward. “So you’re a machinist mate now, are you?”

  Kristen kept her anger in check. Her carefully crafted façade betrayed nothing as she answered in a cold, level tone, “No, sir. However, I am an engineer and did well enough in advanced metallurgy to recognize when a gear isn’t properly aligned to think it important enough to report.”

  She saw his face redden in a combination of anger and embarrassment. She’d tried to keep any sarcasm out of her tone, but thought she might have failed. She saw the veins on his forehead bulge slightly as he prepared an angry rebuttal. She steeled herself for the storm, having weathered many more before. Then, inexplicably, she saw his eyes leave her and fixate briefly behind her; a moment later the anger left his eyes and the testy quip was forgotten.

  Kristen didn’t understand what had caused the sudden change in the chief engineer’s countenance, but was relieved to be spared another tongue lashing. She stood impassively as his eyes, now looking rather contrite, dropped to look into the basket as he cleared his throat nervously. She continued to hold the mesh basket over a bucket to prevent any remaining lubricant from dripping onto the deck and waited for the engineer’s assessment. But there was no denying it was bad news.

  He exhaled deeply upon seeing the small metal shavings.

  “Sorry, sir, but I thought you’d want to know sooner than later,” she offered, her voice once again perfectly respectful.

  Unexpectedly, the captain appeared beside them and looked into the basket. Kristen stood quietly, knowing the gears needed to be realigned but not wanting to offer her opinion unless asked. She doubted either man would.

  She wasn’t mistaken.

  The captain nodded his head in understanding and said easily enough, “All right Ski, I’ve got this one.” Brodie shoved a dirty rag into a back pocket and then, as he glanced at the open access panels of the reduction gear housing, ran a dirty hand through his bushy hair and motioned toward the gears. “Give me a crew of the best men you can,” he ordered. “Try not to use married men. They’re away from their families enough as it is. I’ll see if we can have it finished before morning.”

  Not surprisingly, the engineer blanched. The engineering spaces were his responsibility. Kristen thought it odd the captain was even working in the space. Certainly he was an engineer, as were all submarine officers, but captain’s weren’t supposed to get their hands dirty with such tasks. She assumed Brodie hadn’t gotten the memo.

  Ski replied with a voice she barely recognized, “I got it, Skipper,” he argued easily. “You’ve got other things to worry about.”

  Brodie shook his head. “You were here at zero-three-hundred this morning. Connie will burn me in effigy if I don’t get you out of here at a decent hour,” Brodie replied simply. “Just give me some good men, and we’ll handle it.”

  Kristen stood impassively, as if a spot on the wall, but she watched and listened, sensing she was missing something in this simple exchange.

  “Sir, I really should be here….” Kaczynski responded.

  The captain placed a hand on Ski’s shoulder in a friendly manner and for a brief moment the two men made eye contact. “That’s an order,” Brodie said easily, with a friendly smile making it appear to all of those present like he was having a warmhearted discussion with his friend and chief engineer.

  Kristen watched Kaczynski as the captain spoke, and saw the engineer pale slightly. She was missing something. There had been nothing in the captain’s tone to indicate he was in anyway displeased, but for some reason, the Chief Engineer was now uncomfortable. The only thing Kristen was absolutely certain about was that it hadn’t been her actions that made the engineer uncomfortable.

  “Uh…” Kaczynski began to protest.

  Kristen noticed the captain’s hand tense slightly on Ski’s shoulder and he cut the engineer off before he could say more, “And I know you’d never disobey any order of mine. Would you Ski?”

  Kristen waited calmly, wondering what she was missing. But, with this last few words from the captain, Kaczynski folded and nodded in agreement. “No, sir, I wouldn’t.”

  Brodie released his grip and patted Ski’s shoulder. “Go home, give Connie a kiss for me, and have a few beers for the rest of us. We’ll see to your light work.”

  “Good night, sir,” Kristen said respectfully to Ski as he was dismissed.

  To her surprise he looked at her, and the malice was missing from his expression. She still didn’t understand what had just happened. It appeared innocent, just two friends talking, but Ski’s entire demeanor had changed, and he said politely, “Good evening, Lieutenant.”

  Several unmarried machinist mates and non-rated seamen volunteered, with some prodding, to stay and help with the realignment process as well as Senior Chief O’Rourke. O’Rourke, Kristen soon learned, was not only the senior enlisted man in the engineering spaces, he was also a first-rate machinist. COB soon arrived as well, determined to lend a hand despite Brodie’s objections. The old seaman deftly ignored Brodie’s prodding to go home. Kristen, anxious to learn all she could and be as useful as possible, stayed as well, and the small work gang got to it.

  Although clearly the senior person present, Brodie didn’t supervise. Kristen saw he mostly relied on O’Rourke and COB to direct the men and double check the manuals. Kristen, determined to prove her willingness to work, was quick to volunteer for any task, which included sliding herself inside the casing to help position laser leveling devices on various mounts.

  It was arduous and extremely precise work, and it took all night long to get it right. But Kristen was accustomed to hard work, and when they were finally finished before morning chow call, she couldn’t help but smile with tired satisfaction. She’d been up for the previous twenty-four hours and couldn’t quite suppress a yawn as she and the others paused for a moment to admire their handiwork. Despite being filthy and tired, she thought it had been a good night. She’d worked shoulder-to-shoulder with the seamen and petty officers to her
left and right, as well as the captain. At first, several of the men had been uncertain how to treat her. But after a liberal amount of grease and grime had all but plastered her coveralls, arms, and face, the men forgot she was a woman and concentrated on the task at hand. It was, for Kristen, one of the most satisfying experiences of the last few years. It was exactly what she wanted—to be treated like everyone else and not objectified because of her sex.

  After the last check was complete, Brodie addressed them all, thanking them for their effort and then giving them the rest of the day off. Kristen noticed COB and O’Rourke glance at one another and exchanged looks of “fat chance.” Neither seemed like the type who would take a day off as long as the sub wasn’t ready for sea. Orders or not, each would be right back to work after a shower and a change of clothing. The rest of the men smiled happily and thanked the captain as they headed for the tunnel leading out of engineering toward the forward section of the hull.

  COB, O’Rourke, and the captain were leaning against a railing, none apparently going anywhere fast. O’Rourke had an unlit cigarette in between his lips and grease stains all over his hands and face like the rest of them. Kristen was hardly gifted when it came to understanding people, but she didn’t need any such gift to realize these three far more seasoned submariners might not appreciate her company. She was a “NUB.” Or “non-useful-body” which applied to all officers who hadn’t earned their qualification badge. Knowing they probably preferred to be alone, she was about to excuse herself.

  “You seem to like being wet, Lieutenant,” Brodie offered after assessing her appearance.

  She glanced down at her soiled coveralls, and saw she was still wet from working in the bilge and crawling around the reduction gear assembly. Was he teasing her? Was this just another game? She responded honestly, not yet willing to let her guard down. “Not really, sir.”

  A crooked smile appeared on his lips. He was apparently in a good mood after the long night’s work. “I was beginning to think you would’ve preferred being in the SEALs,” he teased while O’Rourke and COB watched with minor amusement.