Fidgeting with a button on his coat, he looked out over the ocean. Storm clouds were brewing to the west, flashing lightning at regular intervals. He knew the sea would soon roughen more, a feeling he loved, like riding a rodeo bull. His first experience with storms at sea was off the coast of Indonesia. Skirting a typhoon, winds still reached seventy knots. While most of the crew on his destroyer was leaning over the rails heaving, he was running laps around the deck, learning to roll with the waves. His addiction was dragging him back in; something Poole could never do. He wanted to do it, but he had to ask Barb. Not that she would mind, since his radioactivity had forced them apart, anyway. The hugging, kissing and spooning had been put on hold until the chelates rid his system of the isotopes; isolation at sea would reduce the temptations.
“Yes, sir,” he said. “I do. I trained him. He was my star pupil. He was like a son to me. I’ll have to fly back tonight, pack a few things and tell my wife. She’ll be glad to have the radioactive monster out of the house for a while. My work will understand; most of the officers are skittish about being around me. They all want me to take sick leave until I stop glowing, anyway. Save that spare bed for me.” He chuckled, winked at Poole, and started up the ramp to the Osprey.
Seconds later, the Osprey lifted from the pad, rotors swirling overtopping waves over the deck, and headed east. Cross waved at his group, disappearing in the distance, then shouldered his duffel bag left by the crewman, and stared out at the approaching storm. Suddenly, he felt at home. He smiled and followed the Captain to his quarters.
“Make your self comfortable,” he said, opening the stateroom door. “I’m going down to engineering and start the crew on the scintillation probe modifications for the UAVs. I’ll have a towable linked up to your sub by morning. Meet me on deck by your sub at 0700 hours and we’ll start the search. The crane operators are ready and I have the UAV operators standing by; all I have to do is tell them about the new sensor suite. I hope that goes over well. Have a good evening.”
He turned to leave then poked his head back in. “I almost forgot. You’re ticketed in the Officer’s Mess as long as you’re on board. Use it for meals, relaxation, reading, watching TV or whatever you want. No phone calls though. Poole instructed me that we’re on a communications blackout. We’ll abide by that. If you have any problems notify me or the XO.”
“Thank you Captain Broward and thanks for allowing me aboard. I just hope I can live up to everyone’s expectations.”
“No problem, son. Either we get out of this together or we don’t. In my book, failure is not an option. See you in the morning.”
SCRUBBED
Dark clouds rumbled low over the main deck, lightning crashed nearby, waves sprayed over the ship, as the 1MC intercom echoed the wakeup call, "Reveille! Reveille! Reveille! All hands heave out and trice up. Reveille!"
Cross jerked up from the uncomfortable bed, wishing he had gotten more sleep. Flipping on the lights, he read the small alarm clock on his bedside table. It said 0500 hours. He had forgotten that he wouldn’t need an alarm; reveille served that purpose. Standing, he looked around, trying to remember the procedures he had once followed. Across the room he flew, as a wave heaved the ship sideways, something else he had forgotten. Quickly he folded the bunk against the wall, pulled on a khaki jumpsuit, slid on his shoes, a “Canyon Glider” cap, and rushed awkwardly down the hallway, fighting rocking, heaving motions, to the head, then the Mess. He was ready for coffee; its pungent aroma led him on. He was remembering the good old days.
Captain Broward sat at a side table, the XO and another officer with him, discussing the day’s plans. Coffee mugs slid around their table splashing out coffee at regular intervals. The storms had changed the ship’s POD, plan of the day, and they were rewriting it.
Moving to the serving line, he heard his name. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the Captain motioning. He stopped and fought his way to the table.
“Good morning Captain,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Mr. Cross, we’re scrubbing the dive this morning for obvious reasons. Your sub, dangling from the crane’s cables, could cause quite a bit of damage to it and our ship’s hull, if a wave rocks us at the wrong time. You understand? We have to wait for smoother seas.”
“Fine sir. What will you have me do today?”
“Engineering. The crew down there is jury-rigging a scintillation probe to fit the robot arms of your sub. The towable option didn’t work; keeping the integrity of your cockpit and all. You could spend some time with them, overseeing your sub’s modifications. I recommend that. We’ll try a dive tomorrow. The storms should move east, leaving us with beautiful blue, diving skies,”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do that. You know where I’ll be if you need me.” He started to leave.
“Oh, Mr. Cross. If you don’t remember, it’s customary to request permission to leave when you’re done conversing with a ship’s officer. Just so you know.”
“Beg your pardon, sir.” He snapped to attention in his jumpsuit, saluted the officers, and said, “Request permission to leave, sirs.”
“Carry on.” Broward said, winked at the XO, and chuckled as he left, headed for the chow line.
The breakfast was great, but horrible memories of his prior military service rang through his mind with each bite. He knew total subservience was necessary in combat situations; commanders couldn’t have their troops saving, “Nah, I don’t think so,” when asked to move to the front line. However, they carried it into peace time, as if they were kings. And they were, of a sort. He preferred democracy, free will, self-choice; it suited him better. He never wanted to die a hero.
Signs to the Maintenance Bay led him to a large spacious dimly lit machine shop: lathes, winches, grinders, drill presses, and welding equipment surrounded the large platform in the center of the room. It looked like an elevator platform. On it, a sixteen-foot-long Bluefin-21 UAV, strapped-down on a rack, surrounded by busy workers, was the center of their attention.
Arc welders sparked rapidly, lighting the room from different directions; fumes of sintered metals, bright blue pulses, pops and sputters accompanied them. He coughed and squinted, shielding his eyes, avoiding the UV rays.
“Hold that tight,” a seaman yelled. “Get me a wrench.” Near him, another seaman held the far end of the probe, measuring, inspecting, and photographing the union with the UAV. It was being retrofitted for a scintillation sensor.
At his approach, a crewman broke off and greeted him. “You must me the sub pilot,” he said. “Welcome to the shop.”
Nodding, he said, “Yes, I’m Matt Cross, the pilot. Doing a Bluefin mod?”
“Yep, it’s our third one. Two more to go. We’ll get them done by mid-day.”
“What about Gilda, my sub? Is she ready?”
“Not yet. Can’t get topside to mod her yet. Way too stormy. Is that what you call her?”
“Yeah, her real name’s Canyon Glider, but I call her Gilda. Much easier to remember.”
“Oh, one of those shipboard romances, huh?” He chuckled, looking back at another welder off to the side of the room.
“Yeah, something like that. We’ve been through a lot together.”
“Well, right now he’s welding a retrofit probe for Gilda. Can’t run cables into the cockpit, too risky, so we’re giving her a self-contained probe she can cradle in her arms. If it senses radiation, it alarms visibly, flashing through your forward viewport. You can’t miss it. Bright blue flashes from a xenon lamp.”