The driver dropped him at pier security. As before, they took the contents of his pockets for scanning and put him into the millimeter wave scanner. He rolled his baggage onto a conveyor leading to a large machine, presumably X-raying the bags. The security petty officer opened Pacino’s duffel, rifled through the contents, did the same to the backpack, then zipped them back up, nodding at Pacino and buzzing open the heavy bulletproof glass door.
Pacino hurried down the pier to the Vermont. To the right, the looming gigantic hull of the tender ship Olympus took up half the length of the pier, the support vessel a cruise ship painted gray, but with the bowling alleys and shops replaced with weapons storage bays and machine shops, with offices for the squadron staff and the commodore in command.
It was a little after eleven in the morning when he arrived at the brow to the ship. A different petty officer awaited him. He returned the man’s salute, the youth a third class petty officer in a formal white crackerjack uniform, his rating emblem showing an arrow and a headset. A sonarman.
“Petty Officer Sanders,” Pacino said, reading the man’s nametag. “I’m Pacino, taking over sonar from Mr. Eisenhart.”
“I know, sir,” Sanders said. “Welcome aboard. Your identification?”
Pacino handed his military ID to Sanders, who scanned it into a device by the phone Faraday cage. It beeped green lights and Sanders handed it back. Pacino handed over his phone, then headed over the gangway to the aft hatch. He stopped, faced the flag, saluted it, then turned to the “doghouse” over the plug hatch, shouted “down ladder!” and dropped his duffel to the deck below. He looked around him at the sunny May Sunday morning, took a deep breath of real air, then climbed down the ladder into the chamber. As always, the overpowering smell of the submarine invaded his senses, as if to command him to leave the surface world behind and concentrate on the submerged universe. Pacino grabbed his duffel and backpack and muscled it all through the hatch, then followed the passageway around forward on the port side to the three-man bunkroom.
The ship was quiet, the only sound the bass hum of the air handlers blowing air in the diffusers in the overhead of the passageway and the bunkroom. Pacino looked around. Inside the door of the three-man room, the deck was two feet wide and four feet long, with three cubbyholes on the forward bulkhead, three racks opposite the door from the passageway. The wall to the right of the door had hooks with hanging uniforms. The upper and middle bunk were strewn with books and folders and clothes. He’d barely unpacked his duffel into the lowest cubbyhole and the space under the bottom bunk when a knock came at the doorjamb. Pacino straightened up and turned to see a tall thin white-haired man with wire-rimmed glasses in working khakis, his anchor-and-star collar emblems showing him to be a senior chief petty officer, his name tag reading “R. NYGARD, TMSC(SS).” The chief torpedoman, Pacino thought. Above his pocket were pewter-colored submarine dolphins.
“You’re Pacino?” the chief asked in an unfriendly, no-nonsense tenor.
“Yes, Senior Chief,” Pacino said. Nygard didn’t extend his hand, so Pacino didn’t offer to shake hands. “Duty Officer wants to see you in the wardroom,” Nygard said.
“Who’s the Duty Officer?” Pacino asked to Nygard’s back as he was withdrawing down the passageway.
“Doctor No,” Nygard called over his shoulder. Pacino hadn’t met a person named “No,” or was it “Noe”?
Pacino took the aft ladder to the lower level, through the crew’s mess to the wardroom, where spread out on the table were three tablet computers, multiple printouts, binders and a slight, short officer, like Pacino, a junior grade lieutenant, obviously of Chinese descent. He had a round, full, almost chubby face, wearing a half-smirk as if he’d break into a grin in a second. His expression was open and friendly. He glanced up at Pacino over his half-frame reading glasses, stood up and reached across the table to shake Pacino’s hand.
“I’m Lieutenant No, first name Li,” he said. “Torpedo Officer. I work for Sprocket like you do.” His accent reminded Pacino of a midshipman in his company at the Academy who’d been from Chicago.
“I didn’t see you at the ship’s party,” Pacino said.
“I was there, got there half past midnight. On party nights, we split the duty. Weapons Officer had the duty after midnight, which was why he wasn’t drinking. By the time I got there, you’d already shlunked.”
“‘Shlunked’?” Pacino asked, wondering if that were some Mandarin or Cantonese word.
“Shlunk. Irish slang for someone who disappears from a party without saying good-night, whether by sneaking out or passing out. I take it, your case was the latter. Be careful, the XO will give you that as a nickname. Shlunk Pacino. Too bad you don’t remember, though. I hear you had a wonderful time dirty dancing with the Dominatrix Navigatrix.”
Pacino rubbed the hair on the back of his head, not knowing what to say. He’d better toughen up his alcohol tolerance, he thought. Hard liquor on the deck with his dad hadn’t prepared him for this fiasco.
“Anyway, I wish I’d known earlier you were coming in today. I’d have had more time for you.” No stood up, removed a key around his neck and handed it to Pacino. “As of right now, you’re the duty officer under-instruction. First task? Get the reactor started.”
Pacino looked at No, nodded, and reached for a phone. He looked up the code for maneuvering and punched in the three buttons and heard the phone buzz. “Engineering Duty Officer,” Dankleff’s voice called.
“It’s Pacino,” he replied. “I’m duty officer under instruction.”
“Ah, Mr. Pacino,” Dankleff said, sounding pleased. “Just the man I want to speak to. I need permission to start the reactor. You’ll need to call the engineer. Tell him we have no class alpha discrepancies. Tell him we did the estimated critical position and it’s in the expected range. Tell him we’re on shorepower running in natural circulation on both loops. And tell him we’re manned aft for reactor startup.”
Pacino grabbed a pen and a blank pad of legal paper belonging to Li No and scribbled notes.
He took the landline phone and dialed the engineer’s cell phone.
“Lewinsky,” the engineer’s deep voice barked.
“Engineer, this is Pacino, Duty Officer Under Instruction.”
“Go ahead,” Lewinsky said, his voice clipped and almost angry.
“Engineer, the reactor is natural circulation on both loops, ship is on shorepower,” Pacino said formally. “Estimated critical position is calculated and is within spec. Watches are manned aft for the startup. The out-of-commission log shows no class alpha discrepancies. Request permission to start the reactor, sir.”
“Don’t call me ‘sir,’” Lewinsky said. “You have my permission to start the reactor and my recommendation to the captain is we start the reactor now. Get back to me after you call the skipper.”
“Understood, Engineer,” Pacino said, unconsciously standing at attention. Lewinsky hung up. He looked at Li No. “Engineer concurs.”
No shrugged. “Call the captain.”
Pacino dialed the commanding officer’s cell phone number. Immediately Seagraves’ baritone came over the phone line. There was noise in the background, as if he were in a restaurant. Pacino identified himself and that he was the under-instruction duty officer, then repeated the status to the captain and added that the engineer recommended reactor startup now.
Seagraves said, seriously, “Duty Officer Under Instruction, you have permission to start the reactor.”