“I’m glad they didn’t put anything about sabotage in the message…we’d have NIS banging down our door right now.”
“If that’s what it is, they’ll need to figure out for themselves what’s going on inside the Alabama. The NIS can’t help them where they are now.”
Bushbaum walked to a large map on the wall and took note of the approximate position of the Alabama. “We’ll need to figure out how to let the families of the crew know about the death when the boat hits Taiwan. At least we’ve got a week to figure that out.”
“They’ll find out before then,” said the captain with a sigh. “They always do.”
Here’s how they found out.
Lieutenant John Knight was Engineering Duty Officer who had recommended the change to the new refrigerant — he was the cocksucker EDO that Captain Soldato had fantasized about finding and beating. He was a Naval Academy graduate who’d dreamed of being a submarine officer himself, but at his pre-commissioning physical, he’d learned to his shock that he was colorblind. Submarine officers need to be able to distinguish the red and the green of port and starboard running lights from the periscope; colorblindness was a disqualifying disability. Knight became an EDO because it was as close as he could get to being on a submarine.
He was in charge of a group of engineers, both civilian and military, who were charged with understanding every facet of the submarine fleet’s air conditioning and refrigeration plants. The switch to a new refrigerant, designated R-118, was the result of an exhaustive two year-long study that he and his team had conducted. They’d approved the new Freon because it was more stable in transport, it was more efficient within refrigeration machinery, and yes…it was cheaper. And many different varieties of Freon can, theoretically, break down into other possibly dangerous by-products under various conditions. But the studies they’d done, in conjunction with the manufacturer, had indicated that the amount of R-118 and the amount of heat necessary to cause the transformation into Phosgene were enormous. Like good engineers, they’d decided that the advantages of the change outweighed the potential risks. And, in reading that terse message from the Alabama, Knight realized that they’d made a disastrous miscalculation.
He knew that there would be possibly career-ending consequences for his mistake, but decided quickly that, while he was still in a position to do something about it, he would make sure that no other boat suffered from his error. Rather than try to cover his ass by arguing that R-118 was still safe, or that the men of the Alabama must somehow be at fault for the casualty, Knight quickly drafted an emergency safety flash message, explained it to his chain of command, and had it approved and transmitted. By midnight, R-118 was banned from US submarines.
Knight then worked to prepare for a hastily scheduled 0800 meeting with Admiral Patrick Cheever, NAVSEA-08, the man charged with all the engineering on all the navy’s nuclear submarines, the heir to Rickover’s throne. Banning R-118 had been easy; the details would be hard, and the details were what Knight worked on all night. The meeting was convened precisely on time with Cheever at the head of a table crowded with officers, every one of whom outranked Knight. It was held in a spartan conference room dominated by a scarred table and mismatched chairs; all of Naval Reactors took pride in their no-frills environs. It was yet another vestige of the reign of Admiral Rickover, who bragged that he had designed the Nautilus, the world’s first nuclear submarine, from an office that was a converted women’s restroom.
Despite the array of heavy brass that stared back at him. Knight was so exhausted, and so determined to right any wrong that led to a tragedy, that he was beyond intimidation. He was also certain that however badly he might have fucked up, no one else in the world understood the refrigeration plants of US submarines better than he. He began his brief.
“There are three groups of submarines to consider,” he explained. “The first and largest group is those still using the old refrigerant, R-114. They are obviously fine, and just need to cancel any plans they had for switching to R-118.” He allowed his audience to view a large list of submarines on the screen, then clicked his mouse and called up the next slide.
“The second group consists of those boats currently at sea that have already switched to R-118. There are only two, both out of Bangor.”
“Coincidence?” asked the Admiral. It was the first word he’d spoken.
“No sir. We decided to achieve the modification one squadron at a time, and Trident submarines, with their large refrigeration capacity, were made the top priority. The two boats are the Alabama and the Florida. I recommend we recall them both immediately.”
“The Alabama will not be recalled,” said the admiral. Everyone waited for him to elaborate, but he did not. As an engineering duty officer, Knight was once again intrigued by the secretive missions of the boats that he devoted his life to, even though they stubbornly refused to allow him, as an engineering duty officer, to know their mysteries.
“Well sir, there’s probably very little R-118 left onboard the Alabama anyway.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he snapped. “She’s staying at sea. The Florida we can discuss.” With that the most spirited debate of the morning began. Some argued that that while the incident on Alabama had been a disaster, it was probably a fluke, and that Florida could safely complete her patrol and switch out refrigerants in a normal refit. Others argued that now that disaster had struck, they had no choice but to correct the situation immediately: the position Knight advocated. Florida had only been at sea three days, was not yet alert, and with a long patrol ahead of them why take that chance? After ten minutes of arguments and counter-arguments, all heads turned to the admiral.
“Bring her in,” he said. There was no uncertainty in his voice, and Knight watched the officers who had advocated leaving Florida at sea squirm a little in their seats.
It was an unusual step, recalling a boat like that, and would require logistical mountains to be moved, but suddenly everyone agreed with the admiral that it was necessary and the calls were made to squadron and the machinery began to move to get Florida back to Bangor and get its new refrigerant replaced with the old. It was settled. “There is one other boat to consider,” said Knight.
“Enlighten us, lieutenant.”
“Alaska, sir. Also in Bangor. Just completed the modification to R-118 in refit, but she’s sitting at the Delta Pier.” Knight himself had been on the phone with Alaska’s engineer just days before discussing the change and how smoothly the operation had gone.
“Well that’s easy,” said the admiral. “Tell them to switch back.”
A message was composed and hurriedly sent to Squadron 17.
Lieutenant Dean Hysong was preparing for his last patrol on Alaska. He had decided to stay in the Navy, and had orders to the ROTC unit at Creighton, where he hoped to get an MBA on the navy’s tab during his two-year shore tour. As the most experienced junior officer in the wardroom, he was the DCA, or Damage Control Assistant, in charge of A-Gang. The refit was in its final days, and he was eager to get home, eager to be with his wife as much as he could. Of course, every man longed to be with his wife in those final days, but Dee Dee was unusually hot, unusually energetic, and unusually demanding in bed. It had been six days since he’d touched her, which was torture. But even worse, he knew soon he’d be gone for one hundred days or more, and every minute he spent on the boat pierside, while his wife waited for him at home, passing the time with crunches and leg lifts, seemed a crime against nature.