“As planned, we’ll be entering Tongue of the Ocean by way of the Andros Trench.”
A tall, lanky sailor entered the wardroom carrying a thermos of coffee. He nervously cleared his throat upon spotting the newly arrived officer seated at the table’s head.
“What can I get for you. Captain?” managed the sailor, whose soft voice had a southern drawl to it.
“Some coffee for starters,” replied Slater.
“What kind of hot cereal do we have this morning?”
“I believe it’s oatmeal, sir,” said the redheaded sailor, whose hand slightly shook as he filled Slater’s ceramic mug with piping hot coffee.
“That will be fine,” said Slater, who looked the young sailor in the eye and continued.
“Say, you’re new aboard Lewis and Clark, aren’t you, son?”
“That I am, sir,” replied the seaman rather sheepishly.
“Well, what’s your name and where are you from?” asked Slater as he warmed his hands on the sides of the mug.
“I’m Seaman Second Class Homer Morgan, sir, from Eureka Springs, Arkansas.”
There was a look of fondness on Slater’s face as he responded to this revelation.
“That’s beautiful country, Seaman Morgan. My wife’s family is from Little Rock, and several years ago they took me on a float trip on the Buffalo River. Boy, did we ever have a wonderful time.”
“Why I practically grew up on the Buffalo,” revealed Homer Morgan with a bit more enthusiasm.
“I envy you, son,” said Slater dreamily.
Not certain what to say next. Homer Morgan shyly diverted his glance downwards and turned for the galley to get the captain’s oatmeal. Around the wardroom table, a moment of introspective silence followed. Slater sipped his coffee, and visualized his week spent with Mimi and her mother and father in the magnificent wilds of northwest Arkansas. Tim Bressler finished off his hotcakes, while Lieutenant Ferrell folded up the chart and stood.
“I’ll be in control monitoring our course change, sir,” said the navigator.
“We’ll join you there,” instructed Slater, who caught his navigator’s glance and added.
“The key element in this whole approach will be locating the Andros Trench, and then following it straight into the test range. Can you handle it, Mr. Ferrell?”
“No trouble, sir,” returned the navigator as he turned for the forward doorway and just missed colliding into Seaman Morgan, who had been rushing into the compartment with the captain’s breakfast in hand.
Slater sweetened his oatmeal with honey, and was in the process of pouring in some skim milk, when the intercom rang. It was Tim Bressler who alertly picked up the nearest telephone handset and spoke into the transmitter.
“XO here.”
“Officer of the Deck, sir,” replied a steady voice on the other end of the line.
“We’ve got an unidentified submerged contact, designated Sierra three.”
“Have the tracking party initiate a TMA,” returned Bressler.
“I’ll be right with you.”
The XO hung up the handset and addressed Slater.
“Sonar contact. Skipper. Suspected submarine.”
Pete Slater hastily swallowed down a mouthful of oatmeal and stood.
“It never fails to happen right at mealtime. Lead the way, XO.”
It took them less than a minute to reach the control room, where they joined a bespectacled, blond-haired officer beside the firecontrol console.
“What have you got Officer of the Deck?” greeted Slater.
The OOD pointed towards the ceiling-mounted repeater screen.
“Sierra three is bearing three-two-five, at approximately five thousand yards, sir.”
“How many ranges do you have on it?” quizzed Slater.
“Two, Captain,” answered the OOD.
“And how many legs?” asked Tim Bressler.
“This is our fourth, sir,” returned the OOD.
“Why don’t we take a look and see precisely where we are,” offered Slater, who led the way over to navigation.
Todd Ferrell was draped over a detailed bathymetric chart of Northeast Providence Channel, and barely looked up with the arrival of the three newcomers.
“Where are we, Mr. Ferrell?” questioned Slater.
The navigator picked up a blue grease pencil and made a small x in the waters off the northeastern coast of Andros Island.
“Our latest SINS update puts us right here, sir,” he reported.
“We’re scheduled to make our turn to the southeast and enter Tongue of the Ocean in another seven minutes.”
“This is one hell of a time to have a bogey in our midst,” reflected Bressler.
Pete Slater thoughtfully rubbed his dimpled chin, as he studied the chart.
“We’ve still got plenty of room.
Let’s maneuver and get another leg on him.”
“Will do, Captain,” responded the OOD as he turned for the helm to carry out this directive.
With his gaze still centered on the chart. Slater quietly expressed himself.
“If it is indeed another submarine out there, you can bet the farm that it’s not one of ours. These waters have been cleared for our use only.”
“Do you want to sound battle stations. Skipper?” asked Bressler.
“Let’s hold off until we get a definite tag on it,” answered Slater.
“Who knows, maybe Sierra three is nothing but a wayward whale.”
“And what if it turns out to be a hostile?” asked Ferrell.
Slater looked up and directly met the navigator’s concerned glance.
“Then the Lewis and Clark will do what she does best, Mr. Ferrell. And afterwards, we’ll be able to attain our destination as planned, this time with the waters of the Andros Trench all to ourselves.”
Back in the boat’s wardroom. Homer Morgan was surprised to find the compartment completely empty.
The captain had barely touched his oatmeal and his coffee. As the sailor cleared off the table, he wondered if the food was at fault, and he made certain to pass on his suspicions upon returning to the galley.
“It seems the CO doesn’t like our chow. Chief,” commented Homer to his immediate superior. Petty Officer First Class Vince Cunnetto.
The Lewis and Clark’s portly head cook barely paid this observation any attention as he completed a minor repair to the trash compactor.
“That’s news to me,” managed Cunnetto, who studied the gasket that he had just installed on the compactor’s inner lid.
“Well I just returned from the wardroom and the captain left behind a bowl of oatmeal and most of his joe,” added Homer.
Cunnetto held back his response until he was certain that the gasket was properly fitted.
“Most likely, he was called away by an emergency of some sort. Homer.
The old man enjoys his hot cereal in the morning, and I’ve yet to hear a complaint out of him.”
To make certain that his cooking wasn’t the cause, Cunnetto walked over to the stove and sampled the remaining oatmeal. It tasted fine to him, and after diluting it with a cup of hot water, he readdressed Seaman Morgan.
“If you’re gonna make it here in the galley, you can’t take leftovers so seriously. Homer. The crew is frequently called back to work at unexpected times, and you’ll be encountering your fair share of waste that has nothing to do with poor quality.” “I hear you. Chief,” said Homer apologetically.
“It’s just that this being my first day servin’ the wardroom and all, I wanted things to be perfect.”
“What do you think of Captain Slater, Homer?” quizzed Cunnetto as he returned to the compactor and pulled open its upper lid.
“He sure seemed like a nice fellow, Chief. He even noticed that I was new, and took the time to ask my name and where I was from. Did you know that his wife was from Little Rock, and that he once floated the Buffalo river with her parents? Why I practically grew up on that river!”