Philadelphia was a Sturgeon-class sub, Tim knew. Sturgeons were real workhorses, but they were old. They were already being phased out in favor of Los Angeles–class subs like Roanoke.
“White lodged a formal complaint against his XO, an officer by the name of Frank Leonard,” Weber continued. “I don’t know the details of the complaint, but it wound up costing Leonard a promotion.”
“Permission to speak frankly, sir?” Farrington asked.
The captain nodded. “Of course, COB.”
“I know men like White, sir,” Farrington said. “They don’t respect authority, they’re lazy, they don’t want to perform their duties or run their drills, and as soon as an officer gets tough on them for it, these mama’s boys run off to lodge a complaint.” He turned to Tim. “White got what he wanted, and the lieutenant commander was passed over for promotion. Unfortunately, it was the third time he got passed over.”
Tim winced. When an officer was passed over for promotion three times, his career with the navy was over. Whatever had happened on Phildelphia, it cost the XO everything.
“Except that we don’t know for sure that’s the kind of man White is,” Weber cautioned. “He also happens to be responsible for singlehandedly saving Philadelphia from catastrophe. Something went wrong in the auxiliary engine room—some aging piece of equipment failed and a fire broke out. According to the report, White didn’t even hesitate. He grabbed a pair of fire extinguishers and charged into the room while everyone else was running away from it. He spent the next month in a hospital being treated for burns.
“Whatever happened between White and his XO, it’s clear he showed extraordinary courage, selflessness, and initiative in saving Philadelphia. That’s ultimately why I accepted his transfer for Roanoke. But I share some of the COB’s concerns about who PO2 White is when there isn’t a fire. I need someone to keep an eye on him, and let Farrington or me know if there are any problems. I believe that you, Spicer, are the man for the job.”
Tim gulped. “Me, sir?”
Captain Weber arched an eyebrow. “Is that going to be a problem, Spicer?”
“No sir. Sorry, sir,” Tim said quickly.
He knew why the captain had chosen him. He had saved one man’s life, and only by being in the right place at the right time, but apparently now he was the go-to guy for keeping an eye on potentially difficult sailors. He supposed he should feel flattered, but he couldn’t help wondering whether this was a good idea. What did he know about keeping White—or anyone, for that matter—on the right path? He was a sonar tech, not a shrink.
“See to it I didn’t make a mistake accepting White’s transfer to Roanoke,” Captain Weber said. “Dismissed.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Tim said.
He turned and started out of the stateroom.
“Actually, Spicer, hold on a moment.”
Tim turned back to him. “Yes, Captain?”
Captain Weber stood up from the desk. “Meet me on the bridge when we launch this afternoon.”
Tim blinked, unsure he had heard properly. The captain usually had officers and essential personnel with him on the bridge when Roanoke pulled out of port, but a petty officer? That would be a first.
“Aye-aye, sir,” Tim said, barely able to contain his smile.
The captain nodded. “Be there at fifteen hundred hours sharp, or you’ll miss your last chance to say goodbye to the sun.”
When Tim was in high school, he had a summer job in a produce warehouse, lugging crates of fruit and 50-pound bags of potatoes from the storage aisles to the loading dock, eight hours a day. It had been hard work—thirsty work, his grandfather had called it—but it had also been gratifying work. Not just for the paycheck, although as a teenager it had been nice to have some spending money, and not just because the manual labor had honed his muscles and built up his strength, but also because it had taught him how to move quickly and easily through cramped spaces. The warehouse had been as big as a football field, but around harvest time they would ship out so many pallets of potatoes, he could barely fit between them. That was how it felt inside a Los Angeles–class sub every minute of every waking hour. Roanoke was barely longer than a football field and only 33 feet across at her widest, on the middle level. The top and bottom levels were even narrower. It wasn’t a lot of space to begin with, and most of it was crammed tight with workstations and equipment.
The middle level of the submarine was devoted to the crew’s living spaces. At the forward end sat the officers’ staterooms, in an area the enlisted men referred to as “Officer Country.” It was where the officers slept in their dorm-like rooms, much to the envy of the enlisted sailors, who were forced to hot-rack for the duration of the underway. The middle level also held the head, the berthing areas where the enlisted men slept, the wardroom where the officers took their meals, the galley, and the mess where the enlisted men ate, which was at the aft end of the corridor, up against the bulkhead that separated the forward compartment from the nuclear reactor and engine room aft. Tim walked briskly through the middle-level corridor while enlisted men hurried back and forth on either side of him in their poopie suits—the unfortunate nickname given to their submarine uniforms: blue coveralls designed to contain body heat in the event of a flood. No one knew where the nickname came from, but they were pretty sure it wasn’t anything good.
A few of the men were shooting the breeze. Had they seen the third Star Wars movie yet or heard the Ramones’ latest album? The sailors Tim knew nodded at him or gave him a clap on the arm and a quick hello, while the newer faces in the crowd dashed purposefully toward their stations. Morale was high. It always was at the start of an underway, even for the most jaded sailors among them. The ocean was in their blood, and they didn’t like to be away for too long.
Tim spotted a sailor standing near the curtained entrance to a berthing area. Everyone else in the corridor was hurrying somewhere, but he was perfectly still. He was facing away, with his back to Tim, one shoulder leaning against the bulkhead as if for support.
“You okay, buddy?” Tim called as he approached.
The man didn’t answer. He didn’t even move.
“Hey,” Tim called. “Everything all right?”
The man jumped as if Tim had startled him. He straightened up slowly, still facing away. He moved stiffly away from the bulkhead and smoothed down his uniform. He glanced over his shoulder at Tim, who recognized him as PO3 Warren Stubic. Only, he’d never seen him like this before. Stubic had always been someone who grabbed life by the horns, who liked to tell raucous stories in the mess, but today he looked distracted and out of it. His face glistened with sweat, and his eyes looked wild.
“You feeling all right, Stubic?” Tim asked, walking closer.
“Fine, fine,” Stubic muttered.
“If you’re not feeling well…”
“I said I’m fine, Spicer,” Stubic insisted.
He bolted past, his shoulder bumping Tim’s as he went by. Tim turned and watched him go, dumbfounded.
The bridge of a submarine was nothing like the bridge of a ship. It wasn’t the room from which the sub was commanded—that was the control room on the top level—but rather a small, open observation platform at the top of the tall dorsal tower known as the sail. When the clock struck 1500 hours, Tim was already on the bridge, determined not to miss his shot. Captain Weber joined him, along with Lieutenant Commander Lee Jefferson, Roanoke’s six-foot-five executive officer, who had played starting linebacker for the Naval Academy and looked as though he still could. As a commissioned officer, Jefferson wore a different uniform from the blue coveralls of the enlisted men, and to Tim it looked a hell of a lot more comfortable—a starched and pressed khaki shirt and pleated khaki slacks, with the gold oak-leaf pin on his collar that marked him as a lieutenant commander.