by Henry Martin
Only used when Pasadena was riding the surface, the bridge was a confined area at the top of the submarine’s sail. The OOD—it was Green, the big African American kid—had about fifteen knots on, and a cold wind knifed right through Castillo’s foul weather jacket. He heard the furious flap-flap-flap of the American flag behind him. Castillo threw a quick glance back at Green’s phone talker and then did a double take.
The talker was Senior Chief Washington.
Normally bridge phone talkers were junior firemen or seamen, kids who hadn’t even qualified helmsman/planesman yet. Not the chief of the boat.
“I think I’ve been set up,” said Castillo dryly.
“Not at all, Skipper,” said Washington cheerfully. “Mr. Green just needs to make a quick run to the head.”
Castillo grunted. Now he knew he’d been set up. Captains didn’t relieve j.g.’s so they could make quick runs to the head.
Green gave him a searching look. “If that’s okay with you, Captain.”
Castillo sighed. The cob was obviously determined to talk to him alone—he might as well get it over with. “Give me your turnover, Green.”
The JO spent a minute describing the ship’s status and pointing out various contacts. Castillo listened carefully—not because he didn’t have the bubble, but because he wanted to make sure his kid did. A submarine captain was always training.
After Green was done, Castillo saluted him. “I relieve you, sir.”
The kid grinned at the anachronism of his captain calling him “sir,” and saluted back. “I stand relieved.” And then he hustled down the ladder.
Castillo glanced back at Washington. “Cob, you have a knack of cornering me when I don’t want to talk.”
The cob’s smile was a flash of white against his dark skin. “Beg your pardon, Captain, but when people want to talk to me isn’t always as the same as when they need to talk to me.”
Castillo picked up a set of binoculars and trained them on Keet. In the time it had taken him to get back to Pasadena, the big ship had hauled the DSRV out of the ocean. He watched them swing it over the monster ship’s deck.
“How bad is it?” asked Washington softly.
Castillo never took his eyes off the Keet. The rescue vehicle was a fat submarine, painted in garish orange and white vertical stripes. The crane operator slowly began to lower it to the deck.
“The Japanese never violated Russian waters, so they’re off the hook. I showed that son-of-a-bitch Russian admiral my orders from CINCPACFLT. The Ruskies may try to pretend this was some sneaky American plot, but they’ll really know I acted on my own initiative. And if they make a big stink about it, they’ll have to acknowledge that we could’ve gotten their men out earlier. It’ll blow over.”
“No, sir,” said Washington gently. “How bad is it for you?”
Castillo put down the binoculars and turned to look at Washington who was staring intently at him. It was funny, until now he hadn’t really thought about exactly what they were going to do to him.
“Fast attack commanders are supposed to take risks,” he said slowly, thinking it through. “So I don’t think they’ll relieve me. I expect there’s an admiral or two at Pearl who’ll light me up pretty good once we get back from patrol.” He paused. “It probably means a letter in my jacket,” he said quietly.
A letter of reprimand. So no Trident command and no flag of his own. He might not even make O-6.
And he thought he couldn’t feel any worse.
“I hope not, Captain,” Washington said fiercely.
Castillo shrugged.
“But if you were confronted with the same set of facts tomorrow, you’d do the exact same thing, wouldn’t you, Skipper?”
It wasn’t really a question.
“What’s on your mind, Cob?”
“I tried to tell you before, Captain. When Rickover wrote the book on the nuclear navy he did a great job. We’ve never had a reactor accident. But his book, his philosophy, made some people think that they could get through life just by following directions: pull this lever back, turn this knob three notches counterclockwise.” The cob shook his head. “If you’ll excuse me for sayin’ so, Captain, life isn’t really a paint-by-numbers evolution.”
Castillo turned to look at the Keet in the distance. “No,” he said softly, “life isn’t really a paint-by-numbers evolution.”
“If you know that, really know that in your gut, you’ll be better prepared when the next crisis rolls around.”
“So this was just a training ex for the Captain,” said Castillo bitterly.
“No, sir, it wasn’t just that, but sometimes you have to take the good with the bad.” The cob hesitated. “Sometimes a man can make all the right calls, and the world still screws him.”
Castillo raised his binoculars. “You’re just full of all kinds of cheerful, Cob.”
“Sir, it’s my job to keep an eye on the crew for you.”
Castillo was startled to hear ferocity in the Cob’s voice. He looked over at Washington. Some terrible emotion twisted the man’s features.
“Captain, there’s not a boy down below who wouldn’t do anything you asked him to, who wouldn’t follow anywhere you led. You’re not a failure to them.” Fiercely: “You’re not a failure to any of us.”
Castillo suddenly remembered Seaman Cole grinning at him and for the second time that day he felt overpowering emotion washing through him.
“Thank you, Senior Chief,” said Castillo softly.
“I just thought you should know,” the cob said gruffly.
The two men passed the next few minutes in silence. Green came back up and Castillo turned the deck over to him, but he didn’t go below. Instead he stayed on the bridge, binoculars in his hand, watching the movements of the Russian fleet. Castillo was so tired that his body hurt, but the cold wind was bracing, the white-capped blue of the sea was beautiful, and the sun was warm on his face.
He was on the bridge of his submarine.
And, right then, there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.
The End
© 2012 by Steven Mohan, Jr.
Submarine Image © Marc Sublet (www.istockphoto.com)
ABOUT HENRY MARTIN
Henry Martin is a former naval officer who served on both submarines and surface ships and a writer whose work has appeared in markets as diverse as Interzone, Polyphony, On Spec, and several original DAW anthologies under the name Steven Mohan, Jr. His work has won honorable mention in the Year's Best Science Fiction and the Year's Best Fantasy and Fiction.
His work can be found online at Amazon.com.
WANT MORE FAST-PACED NAVAL ACTION? LOOK FOR WINTER DRAGON, ON SALE NOW AT AMAZON.COM.
Commander Mark Castillo of the submarine USS Pasadena draws a routine duty: bird-dogging a Chinese naval exercise. But what happens next is anything but routine. Pasadena watches as a Chinese submarine sinks a Chinese destroyer. Neither the People's Republic of China nor the United States understand what's really happened. The Americans believe they've witnessed another Tiananmen Square. The Chinese think they've been attacked by the lurking American submarine.
And the two most powerful nations on Earth stumble towards war.
It will be up to Castillo and diplomat Sandra Johnson to unravel the mystery--before all Asia is consumed in the fire of a Winter Dragon.
WANT A PULSE-POUNDING POLITICAL THRILLER? LOOK FOR PAPER EAGLE, ON SALE NOW AT AMAZON.COM
The Nine-Eleven planners were inventive—and ruthless. But the world’s lone superpower has learned al-Qaeda’s tricks and hit back hard. The terrorists are on the run.
Until they up their game.
The Sheikh is a new breed of terrorist, infinitely more dangerous than his predecessors because he understands America’s tremendous strengths—and her hidden weaknesses. And nothing will stop the Sheikh from showing that the United States is a Paper Eagle.
Only one American, a CIA analyst named Bridget Thorne, has the insight
and courage to stop this brutal genius. But she’ll have to move fast. Because the Sheikh’s plan begins with a horrific massacre at a cold and lonely border crossing, and it only gets worse from there.
And if Bridget isn’t clever and very careful, the Sheikh will more completely damage the United States than any other terrorist in history.