Another torpedoman shouted, “Grab hold of something, Stubic. We’re about to dive!”
He held on to the steel support of the torpedo rack. A moment later, the deck tipped dizzyingly downward. He closed his eyes. This must be what it would be like to be awake when they lowered you into the grave.
CHAPTER FOUR
Tim Spicer’s first watch section went smoothly, though not quickly. As one of Roanoke’s sonar techs, his job kept him planted in front of a sonar display screen for the full six hours of his watch. It was harder work than it looked. People thought he got to just sit there, basically watching TV, goofing off until a blip appeared on his screen. But the reality was more like being a guard in a maximum-security prison. He had to be on constant alert, his mind focused and continually interpreting data. If he took his eyes off the sonar display for any extended time, he would be leaving his boat vulnerable to attack. Staring at a screen for six hours straight was enough to leave even the strongest mind feeling wrung out. But, of course, there was nothing dangerous for the sonar to pick up yet as they sailed north from the Hawaiian islands—just other friendlies sailing into and out of port.
The details of a submarine’s military operations were routinely classified and were never revealed to the crew until they were underway. It was a security measure designed to prevent leaks, but it also meant Tim had no idea where they were going until Captain Weber finally got on the main circuit and announced their orders. Roanoke would be sailing toward Petropavlovsk on the Soviet Union’s Kamchatka Peninsula. Tim recognized the name. Petropavlovsk was where the Soviets kept their biggest submarine facility, Rybachiy Nuclear Submarine Base. The news put him on edge. Not that this was an unusual op. The navy was constantly sending boats to the international waters near the Soviet Union, and besides, Roanoke was a fast-attack sub, a hunter-killer, she could certainly hold her own if she found herself in trouble. But the state of the world had become a lot more agitated lately, worse than Tim could remember. Earlier this year, a South Korean 747 jetliner bound for Seoul had been shot down by a MiG fighter after apparently straying into Soviet airspace. All 269 civilians aboard had died. Two months later, terrorists had blown up a US military base in Beirut, killing 227 marines. If the navy wanted to send Roanoke to the very edge of Soviet waters, there was surely a good reason for it, but suddenly it felt a lot more dangerous than it normally would.
When his watch was over and another tech came to relieve him, Tim left the sonar shack. Crossing the control room toward the stern, he could see that White and Bodine had already been relieved at the helm by two other sailors. He kept walking, through the attack center, which housed the equipment necessary to operate Roanoke as a warship, through fire control, where the combat control systems were maintained and operated, until he reached the main ladder, which led down to the middle and lower levels.
The growling of his stomach reminded him that he hadn’t eaten in half a day. He climbed down the ladder to the middle level and made his way to the mess. He got in the chow line and grabbed a long foil-wrapped hoagie sandwich from the heating rack on the counter. It was supposed to be a fried-shrimp po’boy. Tim had never had such a thing before, but his hunger made him adventurous. Besides, the chow on Roanoke had never let him down. Holding his tray, he scanned the crowded mess deck, looking for a place to sit. The mess had six tables, each with a bench for four or five men, bolted to the floor on either side. A lot of the sailors who had been on the first watch section with Tim were eating now, so most of the tables were filled to capacity. He spotted Jerry White in the crowd and noticed a free seat at his table, right across from him. The captain had asked him to keep an eye on the new transfer, and this seemed as good an opportunity as any to get acquainted. Tim walked over to the table and put his tray down across from White.
“Mind if I join you?” It was a question one rarely had to ask in the mess, but he figured it was a good way to break the ice.
White looked up at him. “Suit yourself,” he said, and took a bite of his sandwich.
Tim sat down. “White, isn’t it?”
White nodded, chewing.
“Tim Spicer,” Tim said, extending his hand across the table.
White shook it. His grip was strong and confident. “Call me Jerry. When I hear ‘White,’ I think of my father.”
“Then you can call me Tim,” he said. “Is your father in the navy too?”
Jerry shook his head. “He manages a used-car lot back in Idaho.”
“So what brought you to the service?” Tim asked.
Jerry looked at him for a long moment, then said, “I grew up in Idaho, and the family business was used Buicks and Subarus.”
“Point taken,” Tim said. “Welcome to Roanoke.”
Jerry chuckled, his blue eyes flashing with intelligence. “A submarine with the same name as the sixteenth-century colony in North Carolina where everyone mysteriously disappeared? You can’t tell me that’s not a bad omen.”
Tim frowned. “I don’t think that’s what she’s named after.”
“I was joking,” Jerry said. “Don’t people make jokes on this boat?”
“Not good ones,” Tim said. He unwrapped the foil around his po’boy and took a bite. The crisp bread and battered shrimp crunched between his teeth. He chewed for a moment, enjoying the spicy, savory taste, then looked down at the sandwich in surprise.
“Something wrong?” Jerry asked.
“No, I just never had Cajun food before,” Tim said. “It’s damn good.”
“I guess you’ve never been to Louisiana, huh?”
“Nah,” Tim said. “Before they sent me to Pearl, I was stationed in San Diego and Tudor Hill.”
“Tudor Hill?” Jerry said, growing more animated. “The listening post in Bermuda?”
Tim smiled. “I know. I was lucky. I spent more time working on my tan than listening to submarine traffic.”
“Damn right, you were lucky,” Jerry said. “While I was freezing my tits off in Idaho, you were soaking up sun on the beach.”
“Hey, now, I know a thing or two about freezing,” Tim said. “I’m from Maine, a little town up north called Presque Isle. It’s farther north than Nova Scotia! On good years, we saw five months of sunny days. On bad years, maybe three.”
“Why the fuck would anyone live there?” Jerry asked.
Every new sailor on Roanoke had his guard up for a while. Even Tim had been a little prickly when he first joined the crew. But now, judging from the smile on his face, Jerry’s guard was coming down. So far, he struck Tim as an all right guy. Maybe keeping an eye on him wasn’t going to be so hard after all.
“Potatoes,” Tim answered.
Jerry raised his eyebrows. “Come again?”
“My folks were farmers,” he said. “I never really took to it the way they did, but that’s not why I left. It was the damn winters. Ice and snow are one thing, but the darkness—that’s what bothered me the most. Elsewhere, kids spend their free time flying kites or riding bicycles. Me, I spent my free time inside, praying for sunshine.”
“Strange that you would go into the submarine service, then,” Jerry said. “It’s always dark down here. Permanent midnight, and no moon.”
“We all have to face our fears sometime,” Tim said.
“I guess so,” Jerry said. “How’s that working out for you?”
Tim gave a half shrug. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”
When Jerry White had first entered the mess, he was worried, as he had been ever since his transfer orders came through, that he might never fit in on Roanoke. Leaving the sailors he had served with on Philadelphia and transferring to a boat where he didn’t know anyone was hard enough, but a lot of these guys already seemed to know each other pretty well. It was easy to feel like the odd man out, as if he were still that shy high school kid worrying about who he was going to sit with in the cafeteria. He certainly hadn’t expected to leave the mess thirty minutes later having made a friend. Tim Spicer seemed like an okay guy—a little stiff, maybe, but his friendliness had put Jerry at ease. Maybe this transfer wouldn’t be so bad after all.