All the block diagrams were compiled in a softcover book that they were encouraged to take notes on, and it was universally referred to, by teachers and students, as “the engineering coloring book.”
The philosophy of the Alliance was treated similarly, in a separate coloring book: broad outlines in a neat, digestible framework. The pre-Alliance world was shown as a jumble of democratic nations, represented by small- and medium-sized blocks — the United States, Britain, Canada — all jumbled on a page, their energies directed in different directions, friendly but tragically unorganized. Opposing them, on the opposite page, was a large, unified block that contained inside it the allied nations of Typhon. Ominously, they were lined up neatly inside the Typhon block, and the lines of their individual borders were dissolving, as if Typhon were feeding on them to gain strength against the peaceful, unorganized nations it preyed upon.
On the next page, though, the Alliance was born: a giant dotted line that surrounded the friendly countries, which had suddenly lined up neatly to face their enemies in the Typhon block. Moody gathered that because the Alliance nations kept their solid borders intact despite their overarching block, they were still free and independent, just better organized to fight their enemy. Twice during their political course, they got word from their instructors that allegiances had shifted. An Alliance nation shifted to Typhon, and a Typhon nation shifted to the Alliance, and they were instructed to scratch out and hand-draw them in their updated positions on the appropriate pages of the coloring book.
She excelled at every stage of training, graduating number one in her class, and was given her choice of orders. She chose Polaris, the most advanced submarine in the fleet.
Once onboard, she soon found out that Chad, her recruiter, wasn’t right about everything. She was not indistinguishable from other military officers. In fact, since their uniforms were all the same, it was generally the first thing officers asked each other at the officers’ club, or the Navy Exchange, or the base gym while making small talk. And it was clear that when you answered “Alliance,” this was somehow a second-class status. Over beers, some regular officers would even confide in her, often while trying to romance her, that while they weren’t talking about her, of course, everybody knew that the Alliance officers were generally men and women who’d been rejected by the regular military. The Alliance recruiters got lists of every reject, which became their feeding ground. The highest compliment that anyone could pay an Alliance officer was that they probably could have made it as a regular. This was a compliment that, to Moody’s disgust, the Alliance officers even paid to each other.
It all just made her work harder, volunteer for every tough position, and pounce on it with a giant chip on her shoulder. On the Polaris, she attacked her qualifications and was promoted twice in a year. After two more years of impeccable fitness reports, and setting a squadron record for the physical fitness test, she was promoted to second-in-command. She got another personalized letter from the Alliance Commander, and oak leaves for her uniform. They had a real dinner in the wardroom to mark the occasion, with a roast beef that Ramirez had found in the darkest recesses of the deep freeze, served with respectable gravy and a loaf of fresh bread that was downright good. After the meal, Captain McCallister pinned the oak leaves on her collar and told her that he was delighted to have her as his Executive Officer.
Just a week later, she stepped into the galley to get a cup of coffee before taking the watch. The coffeepot was full and fresh, and the wardroom door was closed, indicating that someone was having a conversation that they didn’t want overheard. She filled her cup and stood silently for just a minute, her curiosity piqued.
“So that’s the way it is?” She could hear Ramirez through the door.
“She’s worked hard,” said McCallister. “As hard as any officer I’ve ever known. She deserves this. I would have made her my XO regardless.”
“I don’t work hard, Captain?”
“I need you in engineering. She’s not qualified to run that plant, and you know that.”
“So I’m too qualified to be XO?”
“Stop whining,” said the captain, not without affection in his voice. “You’re a fine officer, you’ll get your chance.”
“If I can’t get promoted on this boat, I’ll never get promoted. They’ll never let me off. That’s the curse of an engineer.”
There was a pause; then the captain spoke quietly. “Everything OK with Tracy?”
“Fine,” said Ramirez. “I get letters every mail call, filled with pictures. I send letters every mail call. We’re great at this now, we’ve mastered it.”
“Are you worried?”
“Worried that we might just be good at this: being a couple that never actually sees each other.”
“There’s a war on,” said the captain. “That’s the world we live in. And we’re all beholden to the needs of the Navy.”
“The needs of the Navy?” asked Ramirez. “Or the needs of the Alliance?”
“Tell yourself whatever you need to tell yourself to keep this submarine running and to fulfill our mission. I personally don’t give a shit if you do it for the Alliance or if you do it for the Navy.”
“Did you have to promote her, Captain? Did somebody tell you to?”
There was a long pause as the captain considered his answer. “Yes,” he said. “It’s been encouraged for some time now: they want Alliance officers in command positions. But the guidance was widely ignored. So they formalized it. Every boat gets a Number Two from the Alliance.”
“So Moody is a token.”
“Would you rather have Frank Holmes as your XO?”
They paused for a moment; Hana pictured them drinking their coffee, the easy camaraderie they would never share with her.
Ramirez finally spoke. “To think, they told me an engineering degree would be good for my career.”
“Yeah?” said the captain. “They told me I’d be fighting Russians.”
“Commander Moody?”
She was snapped awake by the appearance of Frank Holmes, that muscular, dogmatic, slightly dense incarnation of the Alliance officer stereotype.
“Sorry,” she said. “I think I fell asleep for a second.”
“About earlier…”
“Forget it,” she said with a wave of her hand.
“Do you want a relief, ma’am? Hit the rack for a few minutes?”
It was incredibly tempting, but her eyes drifted down to the screen in front of her, where they had inched closer to the degaussing range, and their shadow had stayed, maddeningly, the same distance away.
“No,” she said. “No time. Find Hamlin. I sent him to medical a few minutes ago to get fixed up. Tell him to slap a Band-Aid on his head and to meet me in the wardroom so we can talk about what’s next.”
Frank snapped to attention with ridiculous precision. “Aye, aye, Captain.”
He spun on his heel and walked down the ladder to find Hamlin.
CHAPTER FOUR
Two miles away, on the Typhon submarine, Commander Jennifer Carlson listened to the recording from sonar. Her second-in-command, Lieutenant Banach, stood next to her. She pushed a button, and listened again.
“Any ideas?” she asked Banach.
He shrugged. “It’s loud.” He spoke with the thick accent of his native province, and he’d learned to speak in short direct sentences to avoid confusion.