“We’re at sixty-five feet, Mr. Willingham.”
Taking in this information from Chief Brawnly, the Diving Officer, the Razorback’s current Officer of the Deck, Lieutenant Scott Willingham, efficiently approached the vessel’s periscope station.
“Secure from the dive. All ahead one-third on course two-six-zero.
Up scope. Seaman Powers, how’s she handling?”
From his seated position to Willingham’s left, the Razorback’s bow planes man responded.
“She’s a bit sluggish with that load on our back, but nothing that we can’t handle, sir.”
Expecting just as much, the OOD hunched over and pressed his forehead into the periscope’s rubber viewing coupling. The sun was bright, the sky blue, as he grasped the scope’s two handles and slowly circled. Other than an occasional slap of water, the viewing lens was clear of any surface traffic. While he continued his careful scan of the horizon, he was barely aware of the gathering taking place behind him at the control room’s navigation station. Huddled around a bathymetric chart of the waters off of Point Arguello were the Captain, the XO, and the Navigator.
Comprised of a variety of squiggly lines detailed in various shades of blue, this chart showed a fairly accurate description of the ocean’s depth.
Their present course was drawn in pencil. Beginning at the dock facility on the Point’s southern tip, they were heading in a straight line toward the west.
Currently they were six and a half nautical miles off the coastline, with over 300 feet of water between their hull and the seafloor. From this point westward, the Pacific’s depth increased rather rapidly, to a sounding of over 10,000 feet in nearby Arguello Canyon.
“Exactly where will we be dropping off the Marlin?”
queried the XO, who shifted his ever present corncob pipe into the corner of his mouth.
Exeter made a small X mark at the extreme eastern tip of submerged Arguello Canyon.
“This position should serve us perfectly. The ocean floor is some two thousand feet deep here. Since it’s rather doubtful that the debris field extends further westward, the crew of the Marlin plans to begin their initial sonar scan at these coordinates. If the bottom looks clear, they’ll gradually work their way eastward. This will allow them to doublecheck our initial scan.”
“When will they begin the job of actually conveying the debris topside?” asked Lieutenant McClure.
Exeter was quick to answer.
“That depends on Will Pierce. Though his primary task is to determine the field’s exact perimeters, he’s got the green light to begin the recovery of any debris fragments which catch his eye.”
“Scuttlebutt has it that commander Pierce is a strange one,” observed the XO nonchalantly.
“The Marlin’s senior chief was telling me just last night that the commander even insists on personally doing minor maintenance on the DSRV. He treats it like it was a part of him.”
“We can all sleep easier tonight with that in mind,” added Exeter, who caught the glances of his two senior officers.
“I’ll be the first to admit that Will Pierce is a unique officer all right. We worked together during a joint exercise several years ago, and even then his manner of command was solely his own.
Half the time his khakis had more grease on them than those of our own engineers. Though there’s certainly nothing wrong with an officer rolling his sleeves up and getting down to nuts and bolts, perhaps Pierce does take such things to an extreme.
Some even whisper that this particular eccentricity comes to haunt him at promotion time, yet who’s to say? The one thing that the Navy can be sure of is that, when duty calls. Will Pierce and the Marlin will be there to do the job. Perhaps he might not do it with all the finesse of an Academy graduate, but the results will be there, and that’s the bottom line.”
Returning his eyes to the chart, Exeter continued, “I’m going to slip back to my cabin and try to make a dent in some of that paperwork that’s waiting for me there. Give me a ring when we’re about to let the Marlin go. Until then, put sonar on active bottom search. Perhaps some of that debris down below us has shifted. If there’s nothing else, gentlemen, I’ll be expecting to hear from you in another half hour or so.”
Exeter’s efficient movements were all business as he pivoted from the navigation table and crossed the control room’s width. Upon passing the periscope well, he noticed that the Razorback’s current OOD was anxiously hunched over the scope, in the process of scanning the surrounding waters. Well aware of Lieutenant Willingham’s continued diligence, he knew it wouldn’t be long until the young officer had a command of his own. Ever mindful of his own spirited efforts during his first years of duty, Exeter silently admired the youngster’s gusto while turning down the corridor that lay to his right. As he passed the stairway that led down to the sub’s second level, his thoughts were already returning to the pile of correspondence that waited for him beyond the next hatchway.
Meanwhile, downstairs in the Razorback’s galley, Seaman First Class Lefty Jackman was busy wolfing down his second stack of buttermilk pancakes and his third helping of sausage of the morning. Seated in the booth opposite him was Seaman Second Class Seth Burke, who was still working on his first stack. Both sonar technicians were in the process of filling their stomachs for the long duty shift that would soon be theirs.
Oblivious to the hushed chatter of the sailors who were seated in the booths around him. Lefty was arguing his point while waving a piece of link sausage in the air.
“I tell you, Tex, that Russian sub is following us.”
Seaman Burke answered skeptically, his words flavored by a West Texas drawl.
“Ah, c’mon, pawdner, there’s no way the Russkies would waste one of their nukes following this ole rust-bucket. It’s got to be a coincidence.”
Stuffing the sausage into his mouth. Lefty was quick to reply.
“Coincidence? You’ve got to be kidding me. I’ll accept a chance meeting off the Straits of Juan de Fuca, but for us to tag ‘em again down by San Clemente, less than two weeks later, is a bit much. No, I tell you that they’ve been trailing us all along.”
Still not buying his coworker’s argument, the freckled Texan shook his head.
“The important thing is that we were able to pick ‘em up on both occasions. Billy Powers tells me that the Skipper sure was pissed when Command called us off the last pursuit. The way Billy told it, the Old Man almost bust a gut when he was forced to divert us up northward to look for this missile wreckage.”
“I don’t blame the Captain,” retorted Lefty.
“It’s hard to believe that the Brass still don’t have then-priorities straight. The Razorback’s a first-line man of-war.
Sure, we might be a bit slower and have to surface for air a few times more than a nuke, but we can still hold our own. To place us on a salvage mission is a complete waste of the taxpayers’ money.
We’re an attack boat and ought to be treated as such.
To let those Russians off the hook like we did gives me a bellyache.”
Looking on as Lefty stuffed another mouthful of hotcakes into his mouth, Seth grinned.
“I doubt that’s the cause of your tummy problems, pawdner. I still don’t know where in the blazes you put all that chow, but you certainly can pack those vittles away.
Have you always had this kind of appetite?”
Lefty answered after gulping down a mouthful of milk, “This ain’t anything, Tex. You should see me at mealtime when I’m in training. Why, during football practice I can never get enough inside of me.”
“Your poor family must have some food bill,” reflected the fair-skinned Texan.
Lefty nodded.
“My father always said from the day I first joined the Navy that I’d eat Uncle Sam broke.