The periscope sighting he had just made proved that the time for training was over. A quick glance at the ceiling mounted sonar repeater indicated that the surface ship they had been sent to escort wasn’t built with acoustic stealth in mind. As the last of the great super liners the Queen Elizabeth 2 was designed for speed, safety, and comfort. And as it looked, it was going to take a full effort on the part of the Polk’s engineering staff to keep up with this stately greyhound of the Atlantic.
Kram returned his attention to the periscope. As he was bending over to peer out the eyepiece, another individual joined him on the platform, his husky voice wasting no time in getting his attention.
“Skipper, Commander Gilbert just informed me that they’re ready for us down in the rec room.”
Kram stood up straight and looked over to meet the expectant glance of the Polk’s chief of the boat, Mark Inboden. COB, as he was better known, was the sub’s senior enlisted man. As such, he held a pivotal position, responsible for being the interface between the Polk’s fourteen officers and the rest of its crew.
A gentle, intelligent man who was raised in the hills of Arkansas, COB worked closely with Kram and his XO to maintain a safe, productive working environment. Since the average age of the crew was barely twenty-three, this was often quite a challenge. Officers and enlisted men alike had long ago adopted Inboden as their proverbial father figure, and any problem, big or small, personal or work-related, sooner or later made its way to COB for a solution.
“Would you like to take a peek at the big lady before we take off?” Kram offered.
COB shook his clean-shaven, heavily furrowed face that he wouldn’t.
“That’s okay, Skipper. It looks like I’ll have plenty of opportunities.”
“That’s if the folks back in Polk Power and Light can keep up with her,” replied Kram. “Bodzin’s already got her going a good twenty-six knots, and she’s barely out of New York Harbor.”
Kram proceeded to follow COB around the periscope platform’s curtained wall and down into the control room. The compact, equipment-packed compartment was dimly lit in red to protect the crew’s night vision.
Kram passed by the two seated helmsmen, with Chief Stanley Roth, the current diving officer, positioned between them.
“We’ve sure heard enough of the Queen over the sonar feed, Captain,” interrupted the amiable Roth, an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth.
“But what’s she look like on the scope?”
Kram answered without stopping. “Big!”
COB slapped Roth’s palm as he passed by. They turned left at the ballast-control panel and headed aft into the next compartment. This elongated, narrow space had two long consoles lining each of its bulkheads. Both were vacant, and it was here that the members of the SEAL team would coordinate the activation of the dry-deck shelter and the launching of the SDV.
A sharp left took them past the space where the SINS, the Ship Inertia Navigation System, was stowed. Against the after bulkhead they stepped through an access way and entered the former missile magazine.
Kram, leading the way, headed for a nearby stairwell where a tall, muscular SEAL dressed in shorts and a Tshirt almost ran over him. The young, sweat-soaked commando was jogging, and Kram alertly stepped aside to let him pass.
This portion of the Polk was the exclusive realm of SEAL Team Two.
During the refit, the missiles had been removed, though the tubes remained. There were sixteen in all, located in two parallel rows of eight each. A narrow catwalk encircled the entire magazine. It was this latticed steel track that the SEAL was running on, with sixteen and one-half laps equaling a mile.
The engineers at the shipyard had ingeniously modified the empty tubes so that they could store extra equipment. The SEALs made good use of this space to stash their weapons, ammo, diving equipment, and assorted combat gear. Tube six was where the access to the dry-deck shelter was located. A ladder extended upward through a pressurized trunk that led to the shelter itself. Cold, wet, and dark, the trunk was a foreboding place to visit, and Kram had a sincere respect for the brave men whose work took them there.
The stairwell they eventually reached took them down to Three Deck, where a short passageway brought them into the relatively spacious compartment normally utilized as the crew’s activity space. On this occasion, it was being used as the special operations briefing room.
Twenty-five officers and enlisted men were presently packed into the compartment, with a mix of both Polk crew members and SEALs. As usual, the SEALs occupied the right half of the room, where they had set up three tables, one behind the other. Several of the seated SEALs had laptop computers in front of them, with their associates standing beside them or at the back of the room.
Benjamin Kram’s arrival generated an immediate response from a wiry, khaki-clad officer, who had been standing beside a large display screen at the front of the compartment. Only a few months younger than Kram, Comdr. Doug Gilbert was SEAL Team Two’s commanding officer. Of medium height and build, Gilbert was still in superb physical condition, though he had long since stopped trying to hide the streaks of gray that colored his trim moustache and brown crew cut.
“Captain’s here, ladies! Let’s get started,” informed Gilbert.
By the time Kram reached the vacant chair reserved for him in the front row, the idle chatter that had initially greeted him dissipated. In its place rose Gilbert’s firm voice.
“We’ll be beginning this briefing with the latest met update. Chief Murray, you’re on.”
A ruggedly handsome, dark-haired SEAL, who was seated at the front table, alertly stood and turned to address his audience. “Weather topside continues to look good. Air temp is seventy-six degrees, with a light west wind and steady barometer. This quiet pattern extends all the way up to Nova Scotia, where a minor low-pressure front has stalled off the Grand Banks. I don’t foresee this front giving us any problems, though I can’t say the same for the one I’m about to show you.”
The chief picked up a remote-control device beside his open laptop, and pointed it toward the front of the room. The display screen there activated with a click, its flat, black surface filling with a satellite weather map showing the southeastern coastline of the United States and extending well out into the Atlantic to include the Bahama Islands chain. In the waters north of the Bahamas, a circular mass of cloud cover was visible, and this was the feature that Chief Murray highlighted with an electronic cursor.
“As of thirty minutes ago, this gents, is the newest tropical storm of the season. The National Hurricane Center has just labeled it Marti.
I’ve got the latest data on Marti. Just came in within the last couple of minutes from a NOAA overflight. Though she’s still rather unorganized, they’re picking up increased rotation, with winds up to sixty knots near the center, and the storm moving to the north-northeast. Bermuda has already posted storm warnings as a precautionary measure, yet we still don’t know for certain if she’ll even get that far north.”
“What’s the normal course to take for storms forming in that portion of the Atlantic?” asked Benjamin Kram.
Chief Murray addressed the remote control to display a greatly expanded map showing the entire North Atlantic basin. As he initiated his answer, he activated the cursor to highlight corresponding areas of the Atlantic.
“On her current course and speed, Marti should pass well north of Bermuda, skirt the eastern U. S. coastline, and make landfall over the Canadian Maritimes. But this time of the year, the Gulf Stream has a tendency to push storms much farther east.