by Cliff Happy
Her final revelation was regarding her captain, whom she saw sporadically and usually only after daylight hours when he was back from attending meetings at the squadron headquarters. After another week on board, he was still as great an enigma as he’d been at their first meeting. When not attending meetings, he could be found night or day somewhere on board working alongside his officers and men on repairs or consulting with the dwindling number of civilian contractors. The crew’s feeling toward him bordered on reverence. Everyone had a sea story about how they’d witnessed the Blade tearing into someone, but no one she met actually had ever had their captain raise his voice to him personally. O’Rourke’s description of Brodie being a “freak” was accurate as well. Kristen could find no evidence that he slept, although she knew he must. But when she left the sub each evening at midnight, she often saw him still laboring with the night shift. Yet each morning, when she arrived at seven, he could still be found somewhere on board working.
Despite her firm belief that he’d intentionally set her up to fail, she couldn’t resist a grudging respect for him.
Chapter Twelve
Wolf’s Den, USS Seawolf
A week following her failed attempt at taking the engineering exam, Kristen climbed through the tunnel leading from the engineering spaces and into the forward section of the Seawolf. The crew had taken a break from their daily routine for their noon meal. She walked through the packed Wolf’s Den, having to maneuver her way around several crewmen carrying trays of food and looking for an available seat.
She recognized her flying squad seated together in a pair of booths along one wall and nodded politely toward them. She recognized several other men from engineering, but knew few of the men who worked in the forward half of the submarine.
Derisively known as “conners” by the men in engineering, the crew who worked in the forward half of the submarine were the radio and sonar operators, the helm and planesmen, the torpedoman’s mates, and other specialists who drove and controlled the submarine, hence their nickname. On the other hand, as far as the conners were concerned, the men in engineering were little more than deck apes; mindless mechanics whose job was to keep the boat moving while the conners did the fighting.
Kristen understood this rivalry, or so she thought.
Machinist Mate Second Class Alfonso Gameroz was one of the “flying squad.” He noticed Kristen maneuver her way through the crowded Wolf’s Den as she headed for the wardroom. Gameroz wasn’t a big fan of officers, but he was warming up to her fast. He’d been in the Navy barely three years and was hoping to make a career out of it, and despite feeling screwed over at having to return to sea without even a few days to go back to East L.A., he was still proud to be a member of the Seawolf.
Seated at a table nearby were five torpedomen and among them was a third class petty officer named Randle. Gameroz and Randle didn’t get along at the best of times, but had learned to keep their distance to avoid trouble. COB didn’t stand for rough knuckles on board—unless he was the one doing it—and Gameroz didn’t like the idea of crossing the stocky, no-nonsense Master Chief.
“Man, I can’t wait to tap that ass once we get out to sea,” Randle uttered to the general laughter of his buddies at his table.
Gameroz looked up and saw Randle leaning out from the table, admiring Lieutenant Whitaker as she disappeared down the passageway.
“I’ll split her like a ripe melon,” Randle added with a wild-eyed grin.
“Hey, fuck stick!” Gameroz snapped. “Let the lady be.”
Randle was still smiling broadly at his own wit, but looked at Gameroz with contempt. “Fuck you, spick. I wasn’t talking to you anyway.”
Gameroz came out of his seat before the rest of the flying squad could restrain him. “What did you call me you, pendejo?!”
Kristen was opening the door to the wardroom when she heard what sounded like a riot erupt back in the Wolf’s Den. She immediately turned back toward the sound of trouble. It took only a few steps to reach the mess deck where she found complete pandemonium. Most of the crewmen were pressed up against the bulkheads and cheering on the combatants. In the center of the crew’s mess, a small host of men were wailing away. In the center of it she recognized Gameroz, one of her men, going at it with a blond-haired, corn-fed giant. She had no idea what had caused the sudden uproar but knew it was her job to stop it.
“Break it up,” she shouted as best she could, wishing she had a set of lungs like COB. She grabbed a sailor who was preparing to throw a punch, pulled him aside, and stepped into the middle of the fray. Seeing an officer suddenly in their midst, those not involved headed for the nearest exit. But at the aft entrance to the mess deck, COB and O’Rourke appeared as Kristen reached the center of the maelstrom. She saw Gameroz land a powerful uppercut to the bigger man’s jaw which caused him to stand up straight, but the big man didn’t go down. Instead, he reared back to give Gameroz a shot. Thoughtlessly, Kristen grabbed the big man’s forearm.
COB and O’Rourke were shouting for everyone to break it up and wading into the scene as the big man, not realizing who’d grabbed him, swung back with his free arm. Kristen never saw the elbow, but she felt its impact as it struck her hard on the left cheek.
For a brief second her whole world exploded in blinding pain, and she saw stars. Staggering back, she caught her heel on a chair leg and went down. She hit the deck hard, landing on her butt before falling back. Her left hand shot to her cheekbone, expecting to find blood flowing. There was no blood—thank God—but she had to shake her head clear before she could get back up. As she opened her eyes, she saw that the entire mess deck had become deathly silent.
Every eye was now wide open in shock and staring right at her. Even COB and O’Rourke had frozen in mid step. They were looking at her as if she’d sprouted a second head. She then saw the man who’d struck her. He was towering over her, his fists clenched, but the color had drained from his face, and he looked as if he were staring down at his own grave.
“That’s it, Randle!” COB barked with his gravelly voice which sounded more menacing than Kristen had yet heard it. “You’re fuckin’ dog meat.”
Kristen slowly got back to her feet, finding a friendly pair of hands helping her up. She turned her head and saw Gibbs—the ever present Gibbs—helping her to a chair.
“Here you go, Miss,” he said with deep concern in his eyes. He handed her a rag filled with ice. “We’d better get some ice on that before it starts swelling.”
COB and O’Rourke cleared out the mess deck in seconds and separated the two main combatants. Gameroz stood in a corner, his eyes still filled with fury as he glared menacingly at Randle. The broad-shouldered torpedoman’s mate stood in another corner, looking as compliant as a lamb.
“It was an accident, I swear!” Randle offered hopefully.
“I’ll show you an accident, madres!” Gameroz snapped angrily, clearly not yet finished with Randle. He took a step forward, but O’Rourke planted the palm of his hand against the fiery Latino’s chest and pushed him back.
“He started it,” Randle offered lamely.
Kristen held the ice to her throbbing cheek. Beside her, kneeling down, Gibbs glared at Randle as if he were ready to start fighting himself.
“That’s right, maricon,” Gameroz responded menacingly, still anxious to get at Randle. “And I’m going to finish it.”
“Gameroz! Shut the fuck up!” COB barked like an angry junkyard dog, finally silencing the irate sailor.
“I swear, COB,” Randle almost pleaded. “I didn’t know who it was.”
“I don’t give a red piss,” COB snapped angrily. “The Blade is going to have your nuts when he gets back on board!”
It was now just the six of them in the Wolf’s Den. Even the mess men in the galley had cleared out. Randle was visibly shaking. “COB, please,” he begged. “It was an accident.”
“Forget it, shitbird,” COB replied. “Save your sob story for The Man. See how he takes i
t.”
Kristen’s head had finally cleared, although she was still seeing stars in her left eye. Randle’s elbow had caught her square on the cheek, but the entire left side of her face was stinging. “Hold on a second, COB,” she cut in.
The gruff old chief turned toward her. “You just rest, Miss,” he said respectfully. “We’ll handle this dirt bag.” He looked back at Randle. “My only regret is that once the Blade gets finished with you, there won’t be anything left for me.”
“COB, no!” Kristen insisted.
“Just take it easy, Miss,” Gibbs suggested.
Kristen lowered the rag containing the ice and stood up, facing COB. “You can’t tell the Skipper.”
COB and O’Rourke looked at her as if she was being naïve. “Miss Whitaker, this shitbird isn’t worth your time. Now, just go see the Doc and have him take a look at that eye. We’ll handle this.”
Kristen shook her head. “COB, I don’t care about him,” she replied referring to Randle. “Do with him what you want, just don’t involve the captain.”
“What are you getting at, Lassie?” O’Rourke asked from where he was still keeping an eye on Gameroz who looked to have killing in mind.
“The captain has enough on his plate getting the boat ready for sea, meetings at headquarters, and phone calls from everyone in the chain of command demanding he expedite repairs. He doesn’t need this drama.” This wasn’t the entire reason Kristen wanted to keep the incident from the captain. She didn’t trust him, and she’d been unable to handle a simple matter of two crewmen fighting. He might very well use this as an excuse to be done with her.
COB shook his head as if she were being foolish. “Oh, trust me, Miss. The skipper is gonna know about this.”
“Not if we don’t tell him,” she replied, hoping she might be speaking the truth.
“Wishful thinking, Lassie,” O’Rourke chimed in. “The Blade’ll know. And when he finds out, he’ll gut Randle and the three of us if we try and cover this up.”
“COB,” Kristen reasoned. “The captain is under enough pressure right now. You’ve seen what’s going on. He doesn’t have time for this kind of nonsense. Besides….”
“Besides what?” COB asked.
Kristen forced a wiry smile on her face, doing her best to hide the throbbing pain. “Since when can’t a couple of Chiefs inflict more punishment on a wayward seaman than a commanding officer?” It was a challenge, and she knew it. But the last thing Kristen wanted was to draw more attention to herself, and if the captain learned of this, there would be far more attention than she wanted.
“I got a better idea, COB,” Gameroz offered. “Lock me and this pendejo in the paint locker.”
“Shut up, Gameroz,” COB said, his voice now calm. He took a couple of steps toward her and stopped just a foot away, lowering his voice. “Listen, Miss. I understand what you’re trying to do. But there’s no way in hell we can keep this from the skipper. He will find out.” COB’s tone made it seem like an absolute certainty.
“Maybe,” she admitted. “But I’d like to try and keep him out of it. You and Senior Chief O’Rourke can handle Randle as you see fit. If the captain finds out and gets angry, I’ll take the heat for it.”
COB hesitated, his eyes still studying her face. He glanced over at O’Rourke who just shook his head in disagreement. But COB relented. “All right, Lieutenant. We’ll try it your way. But, I suggest that after you have Doc take a look at that shiner, you get back to engineering and make yourself scarce. If the skipper spots you, then the jig’s up.”
“Whatever you say, COB,” she agreed with relief.
Chapter Thirteen
Headquarters, Submarine Development Squadron-5, Bangor, Washington
Captain Brian Hayes had spent twenty-two years in the Navy to reach his current position. He’d worked carefully every minute of every day over his career to avoid the pitfalls that might ruin any chance of gaining flag rank, and he was now just one promotion short of making admiral. He’d worked hard to get the right assignments in Washington, D.C., where he’d made the right political connections. He’d spent his required time as a department head, then XO and finally as a captain of a submarine. After leaving command of his last submarine, he’d taken a brief tour back inside the Beltway at the Pentagon, and those carefully maintained contacts had helped him land his current position as commodore for the elite of the elite in the submarine community. Submarine Development Squadron-5, or DEVRON-5 for short, was where the best the US Navy submarine forces came. Responsible for evaluating new equipment and developing new tactics, it was the kind of high-visibility command men like Hayes hoped for. More importantly at the moment, DEVRON-5 was the parent command for all three of the Navy’s Seawolf submarines, and it was here where the most dangerous, most critical missions were relegated. With a successful tour here, he was guaranteed flag rank and further promotion.
With this in mind, he’d worked hard to prevent any embarrassment coming his way. He’d carefully created a staff he knew he could count on for their competency as well as—and perhaps more importantly—their loyalty, as he’d hand-picked the captains for the Jimmy Carter and the Connecticut. Again, he’d been very careful in his choices, choosing men he thought he could count on. But then had come the debacle of the USS Jimmy Carter “bumping” into an undersea mountain. This had been the kind of incident that destroyed careers, and Hayes had moved fast to insulate himself from the calamity. He’d relieved the boat’s captain immediately, and—regardless of what a mishap investigation might reveal—the man would never step foot on a submarine again. They’d been friends, but friendship only went so far.
But this had been just the beginning of the troubles that befell him. The Jimmy Carter had been forced to abort her mission. The mission was considered “top-priority” by the National Command Authority, and was classified so high that even Hayes didn’t know the extent of it. But, no sooner had word reached the National Command Authority that the Jimmy Carter had been forced to abort her mission, than they’d insisted he replace the damaged submarine. However, with the Connecticut in dry dock for a lengthy overhaul, the only submarine he had left was the Seawolf, the lead boat of the class. There were other submarines in the Pacific Fleet, but Admiral Beagler—Hayes’ direct superior—had insisted the Seawolf be prepared immediately to assume the mission. Hayes understood why. Although there were other submarines in service routinely carrying out classified missions, none had the combination of stealth, firepower, and deep-diving capability of these three Seawolf-class boats.
It was hardly what Hayes preferred. Sean Brodie, the mercurial captain of the Seawolf, wasn’t one of Hayes’ chosen. He was the last holdover from the previous commodore’s command, and Hayes felt no loyalty directed toward him from the Seawolf’s captain. Not to mention, that after nearly four years at the helm, Hayes suspected Brodie was burnt out. Hayes knew the weight of command and the long hours. Hayes himself had given two marriages to the Navy and knew that the perks of command were barely worth it when compared to the mental and physical thrashing most commanding officers went through. Additionally, upon the Seawolf’s return to port after the last mission, there’d been a significant turnover among her crew as new personnel replaced those leaving sea duty and heading to shore commands. This meant the Seawolf’s crew was inexperienced, even if their captain wasn’t. But replacing him had been out of the question. The CIA—for some reason—loved him and two years earlier had pressured the Navy to keep Brodie in command for an unprecedented second tour.
There was a knock at the door.
“Enter,” Hayes answered automatically and looked up from his desk to see the familiar face and undisciplined mop of hair enter. Brodie was dressed in khakis as expected and, despite the disheveled appearance of the out-of-regulation hair, the sub captain’s uniform was immaculate. This was, at least, something.
Brodie didn’t come to attention, not that Hayes expected him to. “Good afternoon, Commodore.”
Brodie was already assessing the unexpected visitor.
“Captain Sean Brodie, this is Craig Schaffer, from the President’s National Security Council.”
Brodie shook an offered hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Captain,” Schaffer greeted. His guest from Washington was about thirty-five, short, and a bit rotund, but from what Hayes had learned during their brief visit, highly intelligent. More importantly, he was a politician, and Hayes knew this meeting was potentially explosive. Hayes had learned the ways of Washington politics when he’d served as a military aide to a senator for two years. But Brodie... there wasn’t a political bone in his body.
Brodie nodded politely. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“Call me Craig,” Schaffer insisted as the three men sat down. Hayes took a seat in a second arm chair alongside Schaffer, facing Brodie who sat alone on a small sofa.
There was a long period of silence as Brodie, sitting comfortably, waited patiently. It was just one of many annoying traits Hayes didn’t care for. As the commodore, Hayes expected a certain level of deference from his subordinates, and he took Brodie’s unwillingness to comply as a sign of arrogance. But if Brodie was impressed by their guest from the National Security Council, he gave no indication of it. Hayes eyed Brodie sharply, but the captain appeared unflappable.
The silence lingered on as both Hayes and Craig expected Brodie to break the silence, but the submariner held his tongue. Then, as if to accent what Hayes considered his irreverent attitude, Brodie glanced at his wristwatch.
“We aren’t keeping you from anything, are we, Captain?” Hayes asked pointedly, growing annoyed with his subordinate.
Brodie’s gray eyes gave no indication what he was thinking. Just another thing Hayes didn’t like about the man. “That depends, Commodore,” Brodie replied with an even tone that wasn’t disrespectful, but at the same time, didn’t show the kind of regard Hayes routinely received from his subordinates.