“Sir, we just needed the rotary switch for a replacement, but there were none in the fleet, so we ordered and found an entirely new washing machine, ripped the rotary switch out of it, brought it to A-gang and abandoned the rest of the new unit on the pier.”
“Gangbanger’s brute force method comes through again. Well, okay then,” the executive officer said. He looked up at the gathered officers. “We won’t be going over admin today, people, but take any time while we’re on alert to catch up on your deliverables. Also, the captain and I will be walking the spaces to inspect stowage for sea, so get with your divisions and take a strain to ensure seaworthiness, and for God’s sake, clean the hell up. Everything better be goddamned sparkling and shiny. Eng, you have anything?”
“No, sir,” Elvis said.
“Nav?”
“Yes, sir,” Romanov said, her pretty face clenching into a hard frown. “The watch officers on the way out — Mr. Lomax and Mr. Pacino — need to study the tides and charts, and be aware of the tide situation as the day goes on. If the alert turns into an order to get underway, take a few minutes to review the tides for that time of day before you get to the bridge. Once the maneuvering watch is stationed, you won’t have time to look at the tides and chart, so make sure you’re doing it now and throughout the day. Clear?”
Pacino and Lomax nodded. “Yes, Nav,” Lomax said obediently.
“Weps?”
“Nothing for me,” Spichovich replied.
Quinnivan slapped the table. “Very well. Officers’ call is complete and sat. Let’s go make some money.” Without another word he grabbed his cup and his tablet and vanished through the captain’s end door.
Pacino showed Easy Eisy the warning notification that flashed when he put in his search for ‘Sotheby superyacht.’ If Eisenhart were disturbed at Pacino’s search, he didn’t show it. He went into his own tablet and adjusted settings for what seemed like fifteen minutes while Pacino studied the charts of Norfolk, Hampton Roads and Virginia Beach, checking the nominal depths of the channel, the outbound traffic separation scheme east of Virginia Beach, the buoy numbering, then the tides, starting with the tide situation as of 0800. Finally Eisenhart said, “Try it now.”
Pacino entered the intel files and searched for information on Elias Sotheby’s disappearance. A long article came up, marked TOP SECRET—FRACTAL CHAOS, with video clips available and photographs. The photos XO had shown him were embedded in the article. Suddenly, finally, it seemed all too real.
Pacino checked the brass bulkhead chronometer. Just as the minute hand clicked to the twelve of the hour of 0800, the overhead speakers of the 1MC announcing circuit clicked with XO Quinnivan’s voice.
“Communications emergency, communications emergency. Navigator, Communicator and Radio Chief, report to radio.”
“And here we go,” Lomax said, standing.
“What’s happening?” Pacino asked.
“Suit up and look at the chart and the tides one final time,” Lomax said. “This communication emergency will be a message to us to go, the go-code. We’re outta here.”
The 1MC clicked again, then Quinnivan’s voice came over. “Station…the maneuvering watch!”
Pacino made his way through the mad crowd of crewmen hurrying to their maneuvering watchstations, up the ladder to the upper level and across to the narrow passageway to his half-a-six-pack berthing room. He ditched his working khaki uniform and put it on one of the hooks on the wall, grabbed his digital camo working uniform from the lower locker along with his binoculars, jumped into the uniform, put the binoculars around his neck and grabbed a USS VERMONT baseball hat with the ship’s name embroidered above gold dolphins and below, the embroidery spelling SSN-792. The uniforms they’d given him already had his name embroidered over the pocket, with an American flag patch on the left shoulder and the Vermont emblem patch on the right. All that was missing were gold submarine dolphins, he noted with dismay.
Pacino debated whether to take his jacket with him, then decided that despite it being May, the winds topside from their passage would make it cold. He pulled it on, thinking if it were too hot topside, he could toss it somewhere in the bridge cockpit. He grabbed his handheld computer and clicked again to the chart and the tides, seeing that high tide would be in ninety minutes. He clicked to a real-time satellite image of Port Norfolk and noted the traffic, which was light for a Monday morning. He put the handheld in a pocket in his jacket, the pocket sized for the tablet, then opened the door and hurried into the passageway.
He stepped down to control to check in with the officer of the deck, Lieutenant Lomax, and the navigator, Lieutenant Commander Romanov. Pacino looked around the room, which seemed large when unoccupied with the ship shut down in port, but which was now cramped and bursting with people, all shoulder-to-shoulder, every console seat filled, the crew all donning wireless headsets with boom microphones. Lomax stood behind the ship control station, checking the status displays for tank levels and the main ballast tank vent indicator lights. He seemed far away, absorbed while he handed Pacino a full body harness and a lanyard. Pacino stepped into the harness. He looked over at the navigation console, the large electronic table displaying the harbor chart.
The navigator stood at the electronic chart table, holding her hand to her earphone as if straining to hear someone. She looked up at Pacino as if she sensed his glance and nodded once at him, deeply serious. Lieutenant Commander Lewinsky, the engineer, stood at the command console, standing contact coordinator watch, his job to monitor the radar display and periscope to keep an eye on shipping traffic and report the contacts to the bridge. Lewinsky’s best engineering officer of the watch, Lieutenant junior grade Li No, would be aft running the engineering watchsection in maneuvering. The ship control pilot for the run would be the DCA, Lieutenant Dankleff, with the chief of the boat — the COB — Master Chief Quartane, as copilot.
The exec, Lieutenant Commander Quinnivan, stood next to the navigator at the chart table, frowning at the track laid down by one of Romanov’s navigation electronics technicians. As Lomax had told him before the watch, the XO would be supervising all the action from control, being wary for any mistake by a watchstander. When it came time to leave, the captain, Commander Seagraves, would be on the bridge with them, standing on top of the sail surrounded by the temporary handrails that made up the “flying bridge.”
The navigator’s almost hostile voice was grating as she nagged him one final time, her voice projecting at him though she kept her eyes on her chart. “Mr. Pacino, you checked the chart and the tides?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Lomax spoke quietly to the engineer at the conn command console, with its large ultra-high-definition periscope display, the periscope view trained aft to look into the channel. When they finished, Lomax had a few words with Quinnivan, the two officers looking over at Pacino for an instant. Pacino felt his stomach quiver with nerves as the harbormaster’s civilian pilot walked into the room. An old, grizzled sailor well into his sixties clamped his harness on, spoke quietly to the navigator, then vanished out of control.
Executive Officer Quinnivan motioned Pacino over.
“Yes, sir,” Pacino said, standing at attention.
“Listen, young Pacino, Vermont is a combat submarine. You fookin’ drive it like you stole it, understand? The navigator and captain will step in if you’re standing into danger. But the biggest mistake a conning officer can make is being tentative. You be aggressive up there. Remember, Patch, when that last line comes off? The USS Vermont is at war.”