“Sorry…” whimpered the nav.
“Maybe it’s not too late,” said the commander. “But you have to start acting with the appropriate level of vigor.”
“What should I do?”
“You’ve got one of the most important jobs on the boat,” said the commander. “And it’s not because you can turn the handle on a purple valve. There’s a reason I chose you, the navigator, for this mission. You’re one of the few men who can single-handedly destroy this boat.”
“How?” asked the navigator.
But he was already gone.
Jabo slept exactly twenty-five minutes after Hallorann left his stateroom, and when he awoke, he did feel much, much better. He knew it wouldn’t last, knew there would come a point early in the watch where no amount of coffee could overcome the sleep deficit he’d accumulated, but for the moment he just felt grateful for the one hundred and five minutes of sleep he’d gotten. And Hallorann’s fear had been accurate….he had no recollection of talking to him, or of the yellow sheet of paper that was sitting on his desk, lost among a sea of paper that was awaiting his review. But Jabo felt so good that he walked to the shower whistling, with a towel around his waist, and when he came back to the stateroom, ten minutes later, he was humming. Kincaid was back, sweaty and winded, taking off his running shoes.
“Did you violate those safety tags on the treadmill?” asked Jabo.
“I considered it. Fucking stupid. I ran in missile compartment upper level as best I could. I hate running up there.”
“I’ll talk to the cruise director.”
“Fuck you. I’m glad you got your nap in, slacker.”
Jabo laughed at that, started stepping into his poopie, while Kincaid nosed around his desk. He held up the yellow paper and laughed.
“I see that nub found you with this…he was trying to get everybody to look at it, we finally realized you are running the investigation, sent him down to you.”
Jabo took the sheet, began to vaguely recall the conversation with Hallorann. More clearly he remembered seeing the yellow paper in the master chief’s Polaroids. He looked at his watch. “I need to take the watch,” he said. “I’ll take a look at it on the conn.”
“I have a feeling if you don’t, that nub will come after you. He seems like a determined type of guy.”
Molly Hein came to Angi’s house already in her workout clothes, and then they left together in Angi’s car. They were already a little late for the step aerobics class in the gym base that they attended every Tuesday and Thursday when the men were at sea. The instructor was Dee Dee Hysong, the ridiculously fit, ridiculously blonde wife of a lieutenant on Alaska.
“We’re going to be late,” said Angi. “Dee Dee is going to glare at us.”
“That’s why I like being late,” said Molly. “But that’s not why she glares at us. It’s because you’re in better shape than her. She can’t tolerate that.”
Angi patted her belly. “If that’s true, she’ll be happy to see this.”
“How much longer do you think you can do stuff like this?”
“As long as they let me. Then we can just start going to McDonald’s and getting fat together.”
“You’ll never be fat,” said Molly. “You’re one of those mutants.”
Angi laughed. “Just because you drag me to these classes. You’re a good influence on me.”
“You’re a bad influence on me. I’m going to tell Jay I want to have a baby now.”
“God, don’t blame me for that…”
“Hey, if I can’t get a job, what the hell…I might as well stay barefoot and pregnant.” Molly, like her husband, had a degree from MIT. But with the frequent moves and the limited opportunities in a navy town, she’d been unable to get a career started. Angi had studied to be a teacher at Vandy, and was fully licensed to teach kids with learning disabilities — in Tennessee. After arriving in Washington State, she learned that the requirements and licensing were sufficiently different that it would take half their sea tour, and an equally significant chunk of Danny’s sea pay, for her to obtain her Washington state license. She sympathized with her friend’s frustration.
Angi turned on to Trigger Road, the short drive complete from her house to the gate. Cars were backed up as uniformed marines checked every ID and looked over every auto. A stern gunnery sergeant was supervising the stepped up inspections.
“Heightened security,” said Molly. “Must be because of all the China stuff.”
“The protestors are here, too,” said Angi. There was a small cadre of them just outside the gate, aging hippies in tie-dye, peasant skirts, and white pony tails, handing out flyers with large smiles on their faces. They’d had a long-standing agreement with the base, who allowed them to show up on Tuesday mornings and exercise their freedom of speech just outside the gate while submarine sailors worked to defend that right inside. One of them approached Angi’s car, and she started to roll down here window.
“You actually take their flyers?” said Molly.
“Usually. Just seems rude to say no.”
“God, you are a such nice person.”
Angi took the paper from an older looking man wearing a peace-sign medallion and a crucifix. He nodded thankfully and moved on to the car behind them. She looked it over.
“AMERICAN NUKES TO PROVOKE CHINA??!!!” There was a black, cartoonish silhouette of a surfaced submarine above the headline, with a nuclear trefoil symbol, as well as the red stars of the Chinese flag.
Recent statements by the State Department indicate a serious reinterpretation of the nuclear non-proliferation treaty is underway. Officials in the current administration seem to believe that providing Taiwan with nuclear weapons would not be a breech of the treaty which has been honored by the United States (and 189 other nations) since 1970, and is considered a cornerstone of international nuclear peace efforts.
China meanwhile has stated that it will not tolerate a nuclear Taiwan, and that it will consider any attempt to arm Taiwan as an act of war. The Red Army is on alert and the Chinese fleet is operating feverishly.
Are we going to provoke China into starting World War III? Is the United States trying to provoke a nuclear conflict? Are the destabilizing nukes coming from behind these gates?
A car honked. Angi, startled, dropped the flyer into her lap. She realized her heart was pounding. The Marine at the gate was waving her forward, looking annoyed at her for holding up the line.
Two cars behind her in that line was Captain Mario Soldato. He saw Angi’s Honda, but Angi did not see him, and he prayed silently that the commotion would not cause her to turn around and spot him. Angi was smart, very intuitive, and knew him well; if she saw him, she would see the worry in his eyes and that would make her worry. He turned around and glared at the lieutenant in the minivan who was leaning on his horn; the junior officer, noting the four stripes on Mario’s shoulder boards, quickly let up.
Mario had taken a rare afternoon off to spend with Cindy and her sister Sue Ellen, who’d flown in from South Carolina, where her husband, a Marine, had just made colonel. The two sisters were intensely competitive about their husband’s careers, and they both were enjoying the fact that their husbands had made O-6, held command, and were now assured not only of decent pensions, but of having served complete, fulfilled careers. Mario took pleasure in the sisters’ conversations, who in a very old-fashioned, southern way, regarded their husband’s military successes as their own. He’d met them for lunch at The Keg, in Bremerton.