Grant left the sub's Sonar and Radio Room, returning to the torpedo room on 03 level. He and Adler made a good team. Adler had one of the coolest heads and steadiest hands for anyone he'd ever seen around explosives. He had responded to Captain Stafford's question that he could count on his contact. There wasn't a doubt in his military mind. Joe Adler was as good as they came.
He pulled his luggage, known as “cocoons”, away from the bulkhead and knelt down to check everything one more time. The two black fiberglass, waterproof cocoons looked more like 250 pound bombs but weighed only 25 pounds each, and once in the water had neutral buoyancy. One held his clothes and weapons, the other his diving gear and the makings for a variety of IED's. Adler would provide whatever else he'd need from the EOD 'cookbook', depending on the type of IED required.
Throughout the rest of the day he stayed pretty much to himself, considering there weren't too many places a visitor could go on a submerged submarine. Shortly after lunch, he slipped on his Navy shorts and T-shirt and went to the port side, aft of the torpedo racks, carving out a small niche to use as his personal fitness center. Sweat poured from his face, his muscles ached. For 45 solid minutes, all out, non-stop, he pushed himself through his ritualistic sit-ups, pushups and flutterkicks. His breathing was deep, heavy, the acrid smell of oil and grease creeping into his senses. But he kept his mind focused on reviewing and formulating events for that evening and the time beyond that, when all his energy and intelligence would come into play. Few were aware of his assignment — millions would never know.
At 1815 hours he walked aft to the crew's mess. He already had an early light dinner in the cramped Wardroom with Stafford and his officers, but this would be just a snack to tide him over. He'd need the extra protein and carbohydrates because it was going to be a long evening, with his work cut out for him. It would take a lot of fuel for the body.
The crew's mess hall had many uses, not excluding emergency sickbay and auditorium. It was a gathering place for the enlisted men, to get the latest scuttlebutt, play cards, or just read. A mass of overhead fluorescent lights illuminated the room, in sharp contrast to the brown paneling covering the bulkheads. Various plaques and awards won by past and present crews were displayed throughout.
Heads turned when he walked in. An officer getting food in the enlisted mess? Creating a stir for the second time since he'd come aboard, Grant acknowledged the submariners with a nod and smile. His reason for coming aboard was pretty hush-hush, even the boat's Radioman, Sparky Johnson, known as the "1MC of scuttlebutt", hadn't a clue, at least that's what he claimed. The crew had only been informed they'd be receiving a passenger.
Other than that, the Bluefin's orders were standard. They'd be going through the routine of firing solutions on the fleet that night, keeping in practice. And that much was correct, but there would be a slight interruption, a slight variation in the routine.
Grant grabbed a tray and started through the chow line, ordering a cold, turkey sandwich with extra white meat and mayo on whole wheat bread. He slid the food tray along the metal rack and reached for a plain baked potato, and a banana, not completely ripe. He took the last piece of apple pie, just because it looked good. The ice cubes “clinked” as they bounced against each other on the bottom of the glass, then he poured some "bug juice" from the juice machine. Watching the strawberry-colored liquid flowing into the clear plastic glass, he wondered who the hell came up with the name "bug juice" for Kool-Aid.
While he waited for his sandwich to be made, he spotted a copy of the latest issue of All Hands on one of the tables close to the end of the chow line. One side of the magazine was folded under, exposing an article that caught his eye. Very curious, he sat on the edge of the bench, reading the title "Fastest Ship in the Fleet". Immediately, he thought of the Bronson and her classified status. But it was just a review of the new Surface Effect Ship, a hydrofoil with speeds of over 75 knots that was being tested in Panama City, Florida. On his way out of the mess hall, carrying his tray full of food, he felt the stares of the few remaining submariners sitting at the tables.
For ten minutes Grant waited alone in the sub's Radio Room, a headset hanging around his neck, one leg propped up against the wall. Sparky Johnson was somewhat reluctant to turn the communication's gear over to him again and did so only after some reassurance from Master Chief Davis. Tossing the crumbled Snicker's candy wrapper into the trash, he finished the last mouthful of cold milk.
He glanced at his watch and slipped the headset on, just as the signal came at precisely 2030 hours. "Whatcha got going, Joe?"
Adler's voice came in clear, his message brief. "Sir, flight ops have ended. This might be a good time for you to lock-out."
"I'm outta here," Grant said. "Have all the friends and relatives mustered around 2125 hours."
"Roger that, sir!"
On his way to the torpedo room to start getting ready and pick up his gear, he made a detour and stopped by the captain's stateroom. The steel door was ajar, the curtain pushed aside. "Sir?"
Stafford was sitting at his desk sorting through his mail. He peered over the top of his wire-rimmed bifocals. "Come on in, Grant." He put the two page letter on the desk, a small photo attached to the corner. "Just reading my niece Patty's letter. She had to tell her uncle about the money the tooth fairy left her."
Grant leaned toward the desk, looking at a toothless, smiling face in the photo. The little girl was wearing a Bluefin baseball cap, the printing on the paper indicative of a six year old. "Uh, she's very cute, sir. Must be hard for her to whistle, though."
Stafford laughed and nodded in agreement. "Yeah. Her three brothers give her a hard time."
"Sir, it's about time for me to head out. My ride's on the way," he grinned as he pointed overhead.
Stafford took a final sip of black coffee as he stood up. "Guess that's my cue to man the Conn. Anything else we can do for you?"
"No, sir, just keep the Bluefin trim and aim me in the right direction."
Stafford acknowledged with a quick smile, knowing the orders Commander Stevens had and what he was preparing to do.
Ten minutes later, Grant was outfitted in his thermal underwear, with the rest of his diving gear spread out around him in precise order. There was a tapping on the watertight door and he responded, "Come."
Master Chief Davis walked in, carrying a cup of coffee. "Hope I didn't keep ya waiting, sir. There was a slight disagreement between a couple of the boys in Sonar."
"No problem, Master Chief."
"Sir, can I have one of my men get ya something to drink?"
"No thanks." He reached down and picked up his bulky drysuit, a special suit used for diving in frigid water. "But I could use your help with this."
Except for the arms, leg cuffs and the area that fit around the face, the butyl rubber was covered with canvas to prevent tearing of the rubber itself. Davis held the suit while Grant stepped in through the opening in back, an opening from just below the neck to the butt. As if it were a pull-over sweater, he put his head through the neck opening, pushed his arms down the sleeves, then adjusted the rubber around his face. Davis twisted the excess section of rubber in the back forming a knot, sealing the suit. Then he put the knife and web belt around Grant, double-checked the seal on the chest canister and gave Grant a thumb's up.
Davis carried one of the cocoons as Grant followed behind with his swim fins, mask and the second cocoon. He walked through the narrow passageway, then followed Davis and climbed the ladder to the 01 level, catching curious stares from the submariners, especially after seeing the unusual breathing apparatus on his chest.
"Hold it a minute, Master Chief." He walked toward the ladder leading up to the Conn and called: "Captain?"