A cover of grey clouds had accompanied them for most of the flight. Yet as they touched down on the runway, the sun broke through, illuminating the modern terminal building and a thick grove of trees nearby.
These trees belonged to Norfolk’s botanical garden.
On a past trip to the area, Moore’s flight had been delayed and he had spent time exploring this gorgeous park, whose several hundred acres were dotted with sprawling lakes, sculpture gardens, and an abundance of native flowers and plants.
The airport itself was not nearly as crowded as National, and they readily proceeded to their gate. Because they had been flying on a turboprop commuter plane, they unloaded right out onto the tarmac. It was a warm afternoon, and Moore spotted a khaki-uniformed chief waiting beside the terminal building.
“Chief Hunter?” he asked this sailor, after securing his seabag from the collection of luggage pulled from the plane’s cargo hold.
“Ah, you must be Commander Moore,” replied the relieved chief, who was assigned to the base’s public affairs office.
“Welcome to Norfolk.”
“Thanks, Chief,” said Moore, who followed his escort through the terminal and into a white sedan with U.S. Navy plates.
It took a good quarter of an hour to reach the front gates of Norfolk Naval base. Quite content that this trip took place with a minimum of conversation, Moore accepted the salute of a tough-looking Marine sentry who carefully eyed each of the car’s occupants before allowing them entry.
“The base has just gone on a stage-two alert,” informed the driver as they headed towards the pier area.
“Scuttlebutt has it that we might be deploying a carrier group to the Med in response to the latest terrorist threat there.”
Such rumors continually circulated on almost every military base worldwide, and Moore merely grunted in response, his attention focused on the large auxiliary ship that they were headed towards. He identified this vessel as they pulled into a parking lot beside the pier.
He took one look at the assortment of black-hulled submarines moored in pairs beside this ship, and recognized it as the sub tender, USS Hunley.
“Thanks for the lift, Chief,” said Moore, who reached into the back seat and grabbed his seabag.
“Enjoy your visit, sir,” returned the senior enlisted man.
Moore left the confines of the automobile, and before walking out onto the pier where the subs were moored, had to pass through another security check, protected by a steel barrier. This time he had to show his military I.D. in order to gain entrance to one of the most restricted areas on the entire base.
The dock was crowded with supplies and personnel.
He found the vessel that he was looking for moored at the very end of the pier, beside a somewhat smaller 637 class vessel. Moore’s stomach nervously tightened as he climbed onto the Sturgeon class vessel, then proceeded over an adjoining gangway, with a banner identifying the submarine as the USS Hyman G. Rickover.
An alert sailor holding an M-15 rifle stood at the end of the gangway, and Moore addressed the moustached sailor stationed at the adjoining watch stand.
“I’m Commander Thomas Moore.”
“Welcome aboard the Rickover, sir. I’m Chief Ellwood, the boat’s COB. If you’ll just let me have a look at your orders, we’ll get you checked in and headed below deck.”
Moore pulled out his orders, and watched as the chief of the boat, or COB for short, read them, then checked his name off a clipboard-held roster.
“Do you know your way around a 688, sir?” asked the COB.
“I’m afraid not. This will be my first embark,” answered Moore directly.
“No matter,” returned the chief of the boat.
“I’ll have Petty Officer Lacey here escort you below deck and get you settled.”
A tall, lanky, dark-haired sailor stepped forward, and grabbed Moore’s seabag. He then led the way around the boat’s sail, and over to the forward access trunk.
“Just follow me, sir, down into the wardroom,” said the brown-eyed youngster.
“What’s your specialty aboard the Rickover, son,” asked Moore, who took one last look at the sky above.
“I’m a senior sonar tech, sir. When my team’s on watch, you’re always welcome to join us in the house of pain.”
“House of pain?” repeated Moore.
Lacey smiled.
“That’s what we call the sonar shack, sir. Come visit us and you’ll see why.”
“I’ll do that,” returned Moore, who followed his personable escort down a ladder, into the dark innards of the sub.
The distinctive odor of amine met his nostrils. This ammonia derivative was used in the ship’s air scrubbers, and Moore remembered the familiar scent from his days spent servicing boomers in Holy Loch.
The ladder led him to a narrow interior corridor.
Looking forward, Moore could just see several men gathered inside the control room. His guide led him in the opposite direction, down a stairway, and further aft into a long hallway. They passed a small copy machine, a paper shredder, and a bulletin board where the plan of the day was displayed. Chief Lacey beckoned to the left, towards the wardroom. The door to this compartment was open, and one person sat at its large, rectangular table.
“Doc, where should I stow Commander Moore’s gear?” asked the senior sonar technician.
The boat’s corpsman looked up from the report that he had been reading.
“Bunk two in the nine-man berth,” he answered, while taking a look at their newly arrived guest, and adding.
“Hi, I’m HM1 Johnson, but you can just call me Doc, like everyone else on board.
Please have a seat, sir, while I give you your TLD and a patch to keep you from getting seasick.”
The TLD turned out to be a small, grey plastic dosimeter that Moore was instructed to hook on his belt. This device would be checked at the conclusion of his cruise, and would determine if he had been exposed to any ionizing radiation.
Moore knew that it was extremely unlikely that he’d be exposed to any radiation while aboard the Rickover. America’s nuclear submarines had been painstakingly designed, with the crew’s safety a primary factor. The face of the man responsible for this costly effort, stared back at him from a plaque on the wardroom wall.
Admiral Hyman G. Rickover, the boat’s namesake, was the father of America’s nuclear navy. For sixty three years, he served his country with distinction.
Through his untiring efforts. Nautilus put to sea on January 17,1955. For the next three decades, Rickover applied the lessons learned from the world’s first nuclear-powered submarine, resulting in a radically new generation of undersea warships. His skillful technical direction, foresight, and unrelenting perseverance allowed the United States to attain a preeminence in the field of naval nuclear propulsion. Moore had never had the honor of meeting Rickover, whose legacy was visible in the form of one of the most technically advanced warships ever to sail beneath the seas.
With his TLD firmly hooked onto his belt and the circular medicated patch stuck behind his right ear, Moore was given a quick tour. Immediately outside the wardroom were the officers’ quarters. He was shown the head that he would be using, and got a lesson on flushing the toilet and using the shower’s water restrictor.