His berth was off an adjoining corridor, on the way to the crew’s mess. This cramped, dimly lit compartment held three tiers of three bunks apiece. His bunk was immediately inside the sliding doorway, on the middle level. A fluorescent light was situated above the sole pillow. Doubting that he’d be able to turn over in such a tight space, he stowed away his personal belongings in a small metal locker at the foot of the bed. He then lifted up the mattress, revealing the compressed space reserved for the rest of his clothes.
Just as he finished unpacking, a solidly built, blond haired officer dressed in blue coveralls entered and introduced himself.
“Commander Moore, I’m Lieutenant Hopkins, the boat’s supply officer. Please feel free to call me Hop.”
“Pleased to meet you,” replied Moore, who was instantly set at ease by the supply officer’s warm smile.
“I understand that this is your first submarine embark, sir. I’ve taken the liberty of putting together a welcome-aboard packet for you. It contains a brief history of the Rickover, a schematic plan of its layout, our meal schedule, and a list of officers and petty officers.”
“I appreciate that,” replied Moore, as he took possession of a grey folder with the Rickover’s imprint on it’s cover.
“The captain sends his regards, sir. And he has invited you to join him topside on the sail as soon as we’re underway.”
“And when will that be?” asked Moore.
Hop looked at his watch and answered, “We should be casting off any minute now. Why don’t we proceed to the control room, so that I can introduce you to some of the other officers?”
Moore followed Hop to the deck above. The control room was abuzz with activity. No bigger than a small garage, the compartment was packed with equipment and men. He took a moment to familiarize himself with this important portion of the boat.
In the center of the room were the dual periscope wells. They were mounted into a slightly elevated platform, where the officer of the deck usually operated.
From this vantage point, the OOD had an unobstructed view of the helm to his left. It was here that the two planes men were seated, along with the diving officer and the chief of the watch.
On the other side of the compartment was the firecontrol console, with a narrow doorway leading directly into sonar. While the navigation plot occupied the back portion of the room.
True to his word, Hop introduced Moore to several of the Rickover’s officers. The investigator met Lieutenant Roger Taylor, the boat’s slightly built, bespectacled navigator, who looked more like a scholar than an undersea warrior. The current OOD was Lieutenant Douglas Clark, a short-haired, intense-looking redhead.
Lieutenant John Carr was the weapons officer.
Known as Weaps for short, Carr was a ruggedly handsome blond from Laguna Beach, California, where he practically grew up on a surfboard.
The atmosphere inside the control room seemed to intensify when the COB entered and took a seat between the helmsmen. With an almost theatrical flair, he took a fat cigar out of his pocket and lit it.
“COB always lights up a stogie before we set sail,” informed Hop.
“It guarantees us good luck.”
“I’m all for that,” said Moore, who had to reach up for a handhold when the deck lurched sideways.
“We’re on our way,” said Hop.
“Why don’t I go grab you a jacket before you go topside and join the captain.
It can get awfully chilly up there.”
Five minutes later, Moore was climbing up the sail’s interior ladder. During this steep ascent, he passed by a sailor — with a sound-powered telephone around his neck — he was stationed inside the access way in the event of an emergency. A rush of cool air whistled past as Moore somewhat awkwardly made his way to a narrow opening cut in the top portion of the sail. Two men wearing bright orange submergence suits were stationed there, focused on the view visible through a small, wraparound plexiglass windshield. Before the newcomer could introduce himself, a deep, bass voice boomed out from above.
“Commander Moore, why don’t you join me up here?”
A firm hand guided him further upwards, until he was standing on top of the sail itself. A detachable tubular steel enclosure extended as far back as the raised periscopes. While holding onto this rail for balance, he joined the other three men stationed there. All were dressed in orange survival suits. One of them wore a sound-powered telephone, while his shipmate readied a pair of binoculars.
“Some view, isn’t it?” said the deep-voiced, broad shouldered sailor who stood between them.
Moore cautiously looked up and scanned the portion of the channel visible before them. The Rickover was already underway under its own power. With the water surging over its rounded bow, the sub was transiting Hampton Roads, on the way to the open ocean.
The piers of the Navy base were passing on the right, and Moore spotted several warships, including an Aegis class cruiser and one of the new Arieigh Burke class guided-missile destroyers. They passed by a trio of Gator freighters, and the two aircraft carriers that Moore had spotted earlier from the air.
“I’m Captain John Walden,” said the deep-voiced officer who had invited Moore to his current perch.
“Welcome aboard my ship.”
“Thank you. Captain,” managed Moore as he gazed out at the massive square stern of the USS America. The crew of the carrier were topside, in the midst of an inspection, and Moore found himself speechless.
“That’s a sight I’ll never tire of,” said the Rickover’s commanding officer.
Thomas Moore nodded, then redirected his line of sight back to the channel. A cool wind whipped at his face, and he was thankful for the jacket and gloves that the supply officer had provided.
“I hope that you were able to get settled into your new quarters all right,” remarked Walden.
“I know that they’re not much, but space on this boat is at a premium right now. I even have a couple of junior officers hot-bunking.”
“I’ll be just fine, Captain,” returned Moore.
A huge container ship passed them, on its way in from sea, and Moore watched as the Rickover carefully maneuvered itself into the center of the main channel. As the phone talker constantly called out the latest sounding, the Hampton Roads Bridge Tunnel gradually took form in the distance. The Captain waited until several small fishing trawlers were safely out of the way before ordering an increase in speed.
When this directive was finally relayed, the three-hundred and sixty-foot-long vessel wasted no time gaining momentum. A white bubbling wake spewed out from the sub’s single propeller, and all too soon the forward portion of the deck was awash as a result of this increased velocity.
“I understand that you’re with the NIS,” said Walden discreetly.
“And that this is your first submarine embark.”
“You’ve got it. Captain. And to tell you the truth, I’m still not certain just why I’m here.”
“Join the crowd, Commander. My orders are just as sketchy. We’re currently on our way to Port Canaveral, to pick up the DSRV Avalon. Then we’ll be heading to the Tongue of the Ocean. My hunch says that this deployment has something to do with the loss of the Lewis and Clark.”
Thomas Moore had full authority to share the exact purpose of his mission with the Rickover’s CO, yet he decided to wait for a more opportune moment before saying any more about it. Standing silently on the sail, he allowed his thoughts to wander to the passing scenery.
The sea had a calming effect on him, and before he knew it, they were crossing over the Hampton Roads tunnel and turning due eastward to penetrate the Chesapeake Bay bridge.
A pair of air-cushioned landing craft sped by, on their way to the nearby Little Creek naval amphibious base. In the distance, a Sea Stallion helicopter could be seen pulling a seaborne mine countermeasure sled.