Only two months before, she had turned sixteen.
The day of her birthday, Carla had taken her downtown for her driver’s-license test, which she had barely passed. Her latest crusade was to convince her parents to lend her the money to buy a car.
Philip’s first answer had been a definite no. Carla had enough trouble disciplining Carmen as it was. A car could make things considerably worse.
When she had offered to take a summer job at the country club as a junior tennis instructor, Philip had found himself wavering. His daughter had never shown an interest in working before. Perhaps a car would make her more responsible.
In the end it had been Carla who had definitely put her foot down. Not influenced at all by Carmen’s baby-blue eyes or heart-warming smile, Carla had put off even considering getting another car, at least until the first report card of the fall was received. Then, if Carmen’s grades showed a substantial improvement, she could once again bring the subject up for consideration.
Though his youngest had pouted for an entire evening after he had agreed to this, she was soon her old self over breakfast. After polishing off half a cant elope a bowl of cereal, three pieces of trench toast, six slices of bacon, and two glasses of milk, she had been off to the tennis courts with her racket in tow and her new beau to charm. Though this had only occurred the previous morning, for some reason it felt like a lifetime ago.
Shaking his head and smiling, Philip felt closer to his wife than he had ever felt before. Twenty years was a long time to spend with one person, and he knew that he was very fortunate to have her as his wife. They had met during college. Both had attended the University of Kansas. He had known from the first date that she was the one for him. The way Carla told it, he had never had a chance of escaping even if he had wanted to.
They had been married soon after graduation, and she had been with him on that proud day he was commissioned an ensign in the United States Navy.
Because his area of special study had been nuclear physics, he had been invited to attend submarine school in New London, Connecticut. He had immediately accepted and had not been sorry since.
Raising a pair of rambunctious girls out of a suitcase wasn’t the easiest of jobs, but like all military parents, they had managed. Now, all too soon, both girls would be on their own, and he and Carla would have the house all to themselves. Perhaps now Carla could at long last complete her Master’s and get that college-level teaching position she had always dreamed of. And of course there was his own desire to some day get his Doctorate.
Thus lost in thought at the picture of his beloved family, Philip Exeter found his concentration abruptly broken by the harsh ring of the comm line.
With practiced ease his hand shot out to pick up the black handset mounted on the wall before him.
“Captain here.”
The voice on the other end was smooth and sure of itself.
“Captain, it’s the XO. I thought you’d like to know that we’re just about to cross Mauler’s southern perimeter.”
“Very good, Lieutenant Benton,” returned Exeter, who was still a bit shaken by this sudden call to duty, “I’m on my way up to the control room.”
Hanging up the receiver, he stood and, well aware of the pile of unread correspondence that still awaited his examination, left the confines of his cabin. As he entered the hallway, he noticed a single figure seated at the wardroom table. Completely captivated by the plateful of sausage and eggs that he was hungrily wolfing down, the Razorback’s Engineering Officer, Lieutenant Theodore “Smitty” Smith, was startled by Exeter’s sudden appearance.
“Well, good morning. Captain. I thought I was all alone back here.”
“You soon will be, Smitty. How’s our ventilation system looking?”
Putting down his knife and fork, the lieutenant was quick to answer.
“We’ve just about got it one hundred percent. Captain. Of course, that main condenser still has to be replaced, but with a little luck she should get us through this cruise without too much sweat.”
“Good job, Lieutenant. Keep me informed if she gives you the slightest hint of trouble.”
“Will do. Captain,” snapped the junior officer, who waited for Exeter to completely disappear through the hatch before returning to his breakfast.
Not giving this encounter a second thought, Exeter continued on toward the Razorback’s control room.
The passageway he was presently crossing was narrow and cramped. On his left was the sealed door to the radio room. The massive vault-type combination lock on its door was an aftereffect of the Walker spy case.
Whereas the room used to be open to the entire crew, entry was now strictly limited.
The staccato noise of a typewriter broke from the right side of the corridor. Hastily Exeter poked his head into the sub’s general office. Inside this elongated cubicle was a copier machine, various file and storage drawers, and just enough space for the boat’s Supply Officer to do his thing in. Currently pecking on the typewriter was the most junior officer on the staff, Ensign Oliver Tollbridge. Without drawing his attention, the Captain peered over the ensign’s skinny shoulders, and saw that he was typing up a revised list of the Razorback’s current video library. Not desiring to interrupt this allimportant task, Exeter silently backed out of the office and continued on towards the boat’s bow.
Swiftly now he passed through a corridor lined with a myriad of pipes, cable, and copper fittings.
This area of the sub also held the gyroscope, various ECM gear, and their unmanned Mark 101A firecontrol system. The stairwell on his left led downward, to the boat’s second level. There was stationed the sonar and torpedo rooms, the crew’s quarters and galley, and, toward the stern, the Razorback’s engine compartment. Continuing on past this stairway, Exeter emerged into the control room.
As always, this section of the boat buzzed with activity. Bisecting the room was the periscope station.
It was here the captain and the current Officer of the Deck usually positioned themselves.
An alert seaman noticed Exeter’s arrival and spoke out clearly for all present to hear.
“Captain’s in the control room.”
With familiar ease, Philip Exeter scanned the compartment to determine the boat’s exact status. Before him, he identified the lean figure of the current OOD, Lieutenant Scott Willingham. In the process of scanning the horizon with their forward periscope, the blond-haired khaki-clad officer quickly circled the metal-mesh platform, his shoulders bent, his eyes snuggled firmly into the periscope’s sights.
To this station’s left was the boat’s nerve center.
Here Chief of the Boat Lester Brawnley parked his hefty figure before the diving station. Ever alert to any change in their depth status, the chief sat before the board responsible for adjusting their trim and determining their buoyancy. By merely triggering the opening or closing of a variety of valves, he could vent air into their ballast tanks or add heavier sea water.
The actual up, down, or sideways movement of the boat was regulated by the two planes men seated in the forward portion of the room, to the chief’s right.
Two seamen first class presently sat in the upholstered “drivers’ ” chairs, their hands carefully gripping the aircraft-type steering wheels that guided the Razorback’s wanderings. Before them was mounted the ever-important depth gauge, which read a steady sixty-five feet.
Exeter took in the calm chatter of the control room’s personnel and, satisfied with what he heard, crossed over to the compartment’s rear.
Here was placed the navigation station. Perched before its compact metal table, both the XO and Lieutenant McClure scrutinized a detailed bathymetric chart of the Gulf of Santa Catalina. The Captain was just taking in their current position, in the waters between San Clemente and Catalina islands, when the firm voice of the OOD spoke out excitedly.