Seawolf Mask of Command

by Cliff Happy

  “I’m sorry, Captain. I was just bored sitting around doing nothing. And if Gibbs brought me one more home remedy for burns, I was going to scream.”

  Her reference to Gibbs was rewarded with a knowing smile. “He can be a little protective,” Brodie agreed as he led her into the control center. “But loyalty has always been a quality I admire.”

  “Mister Gibbs is certainly that,” Kristen agreed.

  “All right,” he said as he turned to face her. Kristen saw that COB and Weps were already dressed in rain jackets, harnesses, and buoyancy compensators in preparation for going on deck. “During the evolution, you can station yourself here on the bridge and help Ryan with navigation.” This sounded good, but really meant doing nothing since the Seawolf wouldn’t need the plotting tables while tied up alongside the Frank Cable.

  “Thank you, sir,” she replied, knowing he was giving her a job, but that job would guarantee she couldn’t exert herself. She must not have been able to hide her disappointment sufficiently, because he raised an eyebrow at her again.

  “It’s either that or I have the Master-at-Arms escort you to your quarters. You decide.”

  “I would be pleased to assist Lieutenant Walcott, sir,” she replied in defeat.

  “Good girl,” he said as Gibbs appeared carrying a full inclement weather suit for Brodie.

  “I was told it’s raining topside, Skipper,” Gibbs informed him as he offered Brodie the rain trousers. Brodie declined and took just the jacket. Kristen stepped aside as Brodie went to the periscope pedestal, reminding her of Cary Grant in the movie Destination Tokyo.

  “Up periscope,” Brodie ordered.

  Graves was beside him as Brodie began a three hundred sixty degree surface search. The image he was seeing was displayed on a television monitor bolted to the bulkhead.

  “It looks all clear, Skipper,” Graves reported, watching the screen.

  “All clear, Captain,” Ryan Walcott agreed.

  Ever since the USS Greeneville had surfaced and accidentally rammed the Japanese fishing vessel Ehime Maru in 2001, US submarine captains began taking extra precautions before surfacing, even when in the middle of the ocean as the Seawolf currently was.

  Brodie took his eyes out of the scope, and the periscope slipped back down into its housing. He’d had it above the surface for less than five seconds. He then grabbed a microphone connected to a speaker above his head and pressed the switch. “Sonar, con. Report all contacts.”

  “Con, sonar. Our only active contact is the Frank Cable,” came the reply a moment later from the sound room.

  “All right then,” Brodie said calmly and glanced at the clock. It was precisely 1945. “Chief of the Watch, surface the ship.”

  “Surface the ship, aye, sir,” the Chief of the Watch echoed his command automatically.

  As soon as the bridge above broached the surface, Brodie leapt up onto the ladder leading up through the sail with the grace and athleticism of a dancer. He was immediately followed by his bridge crew. Kristen watched the men go up, wishing she could be going up with them. She’d always wanted to be on a submarine’s bridge on the surface at night. As a child, she’d dreamed about it.

  But no sooner had she had this thought, than a small shower of cold seawater came crashing down through the open hatch. She heard a couple of the men following Brodie groan as the cold water struck them, but could have sworn she heard Brodie cackling like a little kid on a playground.

  Kristen stood by the two navigation tables and watched the events unfold before her. Graves, who stayed in the control room, kept an eye on everything as Brodie, on the bridge, sent down instructions regarding course and speed. It took less than thirty minutes for the Seawolf to tie up along the submarine tender, and as soon as they were secured, things got very busy.

  In less than five minutes, the first SEALs came on board, carrying their heavily laden bags of equipment, cases of ammunition and what she assumed were explosives. The SEALs she saw moving forward to the torpedo room were an eclectic assemblage at best. There was no set uniform, and it appeared they each wore a hodgepodge of whatever struck their fancy. Mustaches and beards were prevalent, as was a certain air of confidence.

  As she watched them moving back and forth, she spotted one particularly nasty looking one. He was short, at about 5-8, but he had a barrel for a chest and arms as big as her waist covered with tattoos. He was certainly physically intimidating, but his eyes looked almost lifeless, and his deeply tanned face reminded her of leather. As he passed by, he shot her a look that made her feel like he was measuring her for a coffin.

  Kristen considered just what these warriors’ mission might be. They were certainly a lethal looking bunch, and she was thankful that whenever they went ashore to cause whatever trouble they were looking to get into, she would be safe and sound on the Seawolf.

  “Jason, this is Brodie,” Kristen heard the captain’s voice over a squawk box.

  “Yes, sir?” Graves answered.

  “Is Lieutenant Whitaker still in the con?”

  Graves looked her way and then answered that she was.

  “Ask her to come up,” Brodie ordered.

  Graves gave her a nod which she clearly understood, and she headed for the ladder leading to the bridge at the top of the sail. Kristen had no idea what Brodie wanted, and the possibility that he might just want to talk to her was a fantasy she didn’t dwell upon. Instead, she thought he might consider a chance to see the heavens after two weeks underwater a bit of a reward. Regardless, she raced up the ladder as quickly as her blistered arm would allow.

  She reached the bridge and was immediately struck by the darkness. She’d expected the bright lights of the Frank Cable to be bathing the Seawolf in a brilliant glow. But instead, it was pitch black with no lights visible.

  “Coming up,” she warned the men on the bridge.

  “Come up,” she heard the voice of Petty Officer Second Class Eric Reynolds. He was one of the two men Brodie used routinely to handle the radios and other communications while on the bridge.

  Kristen could see nothing at first, but she soon felt a pair hands directing her. “Right here, ma’am,” Reynolds offered as he leant her a hand.

  Kristen climbed up and found her footing in the inky blackness. The rain had stopped, but thick clouds obscured the stars. “Thank you, gentlemen. I was told the captain needed to see me.”

  “Up here, Lieutenant,” she heard Brodie’s voice. He was standing on the sail directly behind the bridge.

  Kristen climbed up on the sail, feeling both Collins and Reynolds gingerly trying to help her up.

  “Watch out for her injuries, boys,” Brodie warned. Kristen then felt a powerful hand grip her outstretched hand, and she was nearly lifted up the rest of the way.

  “Watch your footing, Lieutenant,” Brodie warned. “It’s a little slippery up here.”

  Kristen could barely make out Brodie’s shoulders even though he was close enough she could feel his warmth. His hand moved behind her, slowly guiding her away from the edge. As he did so, she became aware of a second man on the sail. He was tall, taller than Brodie, and his shoulders were just as broad. Her first thought was that he was one of the SEALs.

  “I was told you needed me, sir,” she reported. Brodie’s hand was still lingering near the small of her back, as if ready to catch her if she should begin to fall. He didn’t touch her, but every time the submarine rocked gently in a wave, she felt his hand there.

  Brodie began by introducing their guest, “Lieutenant Whitaker, this is Lieutenant Commander Fitzgerald from the Naval Mine and ASW Command out of Corpus Christi.”

  Kristen was shrouded in darkness, and she hoped her expression was not visible as she felt her body tense in revulsion at hearing the man’s name. Almost instantly she tasted bitter bile in the back of her throat. There was a long pause as she recovered sufficiently to form words.

  “Welcome aboard the Seawolf, sir,” Kristen managed, but she offered no hand o
f greeting. Instead, she stood stiffly, keeping her thoughts to herself.

  “I hadn’t expected to find you out here, Kristen,” he said. His voice was the same deep baritone she remembered.

  She said nothing, but her skin felt like it was crawling off her body. She had the sudden urge to take a hot bath. There was a long pause on the sail as everyone waited for Kristen to say something, but she didn’t utter a word.

  Brodie broke the silence after several long uncomfortable moments, “I’m afraid,” he explained, “the two drone operators and the technician Commander Fitzgerald brought with him have been quarantined on board the Frank Cable.”

  Fitzgerald interjected in explanation, “The three of them came down with flulike symptoms including diarrhea as well as nausea twenty-fours after we boarded the Cable. Bad luck really, since I’m told time is of the essence.”

  “Indeed it is,” Brodie responded in the darkness and glanced at Kristen. “Is everything all right, Lieutenant?”

  “How can I be of assistance, Captain?” Kristen answered, turning her head toward Brodie and speaking to him and not their guest. The sooner she was away from Fitzgerald, the better she would feel.

  Again there was a long pause. In the inky blackness, she couldn’t see his eyes, but she could almost feel Brodie studying her, and the strange sensation of being x-rayed came over her. He knew something was wrong. Just how he knew she wasn’t certain, but he knew. But then she realized that, upon hearing Fitzgerald’s name, she’d moved unconsciously closer to Brodie and was literally pressed against his arm behind her.

  “I need to know if you can handle the equipment, Lieutenant?” Brodie asked her after a few seconds of reflection. “We can’t risk bringing three men with the flu on board, especially if they are in as bad a shape as Commander Fitzgerald reports.”

  Kristen kept her eyes on Brodie. “No sir, not with patrol crud already going around the boat.” After two to three weeks at sea, the various germs each member of the crew brought onboard coalesced into a series of upper respiratory infections that spread throughout the boat. Known by the crew simply as “patrol crud,” Kristen had suffered a minor bout with it herself, and she estimated over half the crew was currently infected, with a dozen on bed rest. The last thing the Seawolf needed, with half the crew already sick, was to introduce another strain of flu virus into the hull.

  But Kristen knew the real question Brodie was asking. They were bringing LMRS drones on board. These drones were highly sophisticated machines designed to enter enemy minefields and map them. Although she didn’t know their orders, it seemed logical to assume they would need the drones to help penetrate a minefield. Without the assigned equipment operators, Kristen would have to handle the gear herself, relying on the knowledge she’d gained while assigned to the mine warfare command before going to Hawaii. Kristen could not afford to be reckless with her answer. She had to be absolutely certain she could handle it. Otherwise, she would be putting all of their lives in danger.

  “Commander Fitzgerald has volunteered to come aboard with us to help handle the gear,” Brodie added.

  Kristen resisted the urge to tell the captain that Fitzgerald’s help wasn’t welcome, but she swallowed the comment. Brodie, with his exceptional powers of observation, had already noticed something in her tone of voice, and she couldn’t very well say she didn’t want Fitzgerald on board, even though she would sooner see Fitzgerald dead than talk to him again.

  “I’m not sure, sir,” she answered honestly. “It’s been almost a year since I touched any of it, and there might have been some modifications I’m not familiar with,” she answered. “Will I have access to the current operational and technical manuals?”

  Brodie glanced at Fitzgerald. “Commander?”

  “Of course, everything you need,” Fitzgerald assured them.

  Kristen still didn’t look at him. Instead, she continued facing Brodie, waiting for his orders.

  “What do you think, Lieutenant?” Brodie asked.

  Kristen was running it through her mind. She couldn’t afford to guess. If she screwed up, she would potentially kill everyone. But Kristen also knew Brodie need an answer immediately. “I think I can handle it, sir,” she replied. “But I’ll need some help.”

  “I can help,” Fitzgerald said.

  Kristen could almost see his arrogant smile. She recalled his bear-like paws, the foul stench of his aftershave, his razor stubble… she shivered at the vivid memory.

  Brodie did not address him, instead he spoke to her. “Tell me what you need.”

  Kristen thought for a few moments and then answered, “I’ll need Senior Chief Miller and also Ensign Martin.”

  Kristen heard the long pause followed by the captain offering a brief question, “Ensign Martin?”

  Kristen knew Martin had been on shaky ground the entire patrol and hadn’t impressed the captain or anyone else for that matter. “He has a computer engineering degree from Virginia Tech,” she explained. “I’m going to need someone with those skills to help inspect the gear and troubleshoot any glitches.”

  “Done,” he replied, apparently trusting her judgment. His simple answer carried the weight of gold on the Seawolf. “What else?”

  “I’ll need to get below right now and start checking the equipment. It’s been awhile since I’ve laid my hands on any of it, and if we’re going to need the drones, I want to get re-familiarized with them and run some tests. Maybe even do a few practice runs before I have to do it for real, sir.”

  “All right, I’ll see to it you have everything you need. If you have any problems…” he paused for a moment and then stressed again, “any problems at all.” He let the sentence fragment linger in the air as if to drive his meaning home. “I want to know about it at once.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kristen responded immediately. “Will there be anything else, sir?”

  “That’s it, Lieutenant. Get to work.” In the darkness, she could barely make out his silhouette against the night sky.

  “Aye-aye, Captain. I’ll be in the torpedo room.”

  It was a bit cramped on the sail and the footing wet and slippery. Brodie adjusted his position and took her hand. “Lend a hand there, Collins,” he ordered. Kristen gripped Brodie’s hand tight for support as she stepped down into the darkness of the bridge and felt a pair of willing hands take her arms. She grimaced slightly as they touched her burns, and she must have tensed noticeably because Brodie, who helped her down reminded the two men, “Watch the burns, boys. Watch the burns.”

  “Aye, Captain,” came the reply from the two men who carefully helped Kristen maintain her footing in the darkness. Kristen noticed how gentle they were all trying to be with her. It annoyed her a bit to have the captain, officers, and men treating her as if she were some frail creature, but she knew it was to be expected. Even before the fire, the crew had begun to accept her presence on board. She was still a Nub of course, and when passing others in passageways, she’d often been forced to flatten herself against a bulkhead to allow the others to pass. Crewmen had greeted her with politeness, but there had seldom been any honesty in their required greetings. But since the fire, the crew had been treating her with a much higher level of deference. Men got out of her way and greeted her not just politely but respectfully, tipping caps and giving her reassuring smiles.

  On the sail, Brodie watched as Kristen disappeared into the red glow of the open hatch leading down from the sail and to the control room below.

  “With your permission, Captain, I’ll collect my gear and go below. I would like to inspect the drones as well,” Fitzgerald offered.

  “Just one moment, Lieutenant Commander,” Brodie stopped him briskly. “How do you know Lieutenant Whitaker?”

  Brodie had sensed something happen when he’d introduced Kristen to Fitzgerald. For a brief moment, he’d thought she might be scared. Upon hearing the man’s name, she’d moved closer to Brodie, and she’d never once spoken directly to Fitzgerald. He knew he couldn�
�t be certain, but he’d clearly heard her catch her breath at the mention of Fitzgerald’s name, and she’d stiffened beside him. He’d felt it.

  “She worked for me at Corpus awhile, sir.” he offered. “She was competent enough, but a bit of a prude if you know what I mean,” Fitzgerald chuckled softly. “Can I go below, sir?”

  A dead silence hung over the sail for several more seconds.

  Brodie thought for a moment. Kristen was no coward. She’d proven herself already more than once to have steady nerves under pressure. But she’d been uncomfortable around this man for some reason. Brodie’s instincts were telling him to tell Fitzgerald to get off the Seawolf, but he had to consider his mission first. The mine reconnaissance drones were absolutely essential. Without them, the Seawolf might as well go home. Fitzgerald was, by all accounts, a competent officer and a duty expert in mine warfare; Brodie would be a fool to tell him his services weren’t needed.

  “Report to the executive officer in the control room,” Brodie ordered. “He’ll see to your billeting and other arrangements, Mister Fitzgerald,” he added, subtly and unconsciously changing the way he addressed the officer from referring to his rank to simply, “Mister.”

  Chapter Thirty Four

  Torpedo Handling Room, USS Seawolf

  The torpedo handling room was a cavernous space when empty. But with fifty torpedoes, missiles, decoys, and now two LMRS drones, the vast space had become a bit overcrowded. Adding to the already cramped space, the SEALs were moving in, making it almost claustrophobic.

  Kristen climbed down into the controlled chaos as the SEALs were storing their gear and setting up hammocks. She knew next to nothing about the SEALs, except for the fact she wanted nothing to do with their line of work. But as she moved through the crowded torpedo room to where the drones were, she got a close look at the commandos and figured by their appearance that they could probably take care of just about any problem that came their way.