“With all due respect, sir, commanding officer’s prerogative will not save us at a general court martial. What you’ve ordered Konhausen to do is illegal, in my opinion, and I intend to place my objection in the deck log.” He paused, then added, “And I intend to report this to ComSubPac when we return.”
Tremain nodded. He thought about how he would have responded if he were in Cazanavette’s shoes. Several years ago, he would have said the same thing. Back when he was too focused to see the big picture. Back when his career meant more to him than anything else.
“Fair enough, XO. I respect you for voicing your opinion. But consider this. Item number one in our patrol order tells us to ‘sink enemy shipping.’ It’s a general order. Why is it general? Because ComSubPac knows that he can’t be out here on patrol, telling us how to do our jobs. He can’t place contingencies for every situation in our patrol order. He would be wrong to do that. He simply gives us tools and expects us to bring back results. Our tools are eighty-five men, a Balao class submarine, ninety thousand gallons of fuel, a five-inch gun, and twenty-four torpedoes. ComSubPac expects us to use our own judgment. My judgment says that we can’t accomplish the mission unless we modify those detonators.” He paused. “Now, make whatever entries you like in the log, but we are going through with the modifications. Is that clear?”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Cazanavette’s response was reluctant and overly professional. His expression showed that his opinion had not changed. “Will that be all, sir?”
“Yes, XO.” Tremain smiled politely.
Cazanavette rose and left the wardroom.
Sipping his coffee, Tremain considered the path he had chosen. He was sure that the detonators were the problem. Either way, there would be no covering up his decision. As soon as Cazanavette made his report to ComSubPac his career would be over, whether this turned out to be a good patrol or not. But at least he would have this one last patrol to pay back the bastards that killed his ship and crew. He would make them pay come hell or high water or BuOrd regulations.
And, besides, a general court martial would also mean that he would be with Judy sooner — and the sooner the better. She would be able to cure him of the burning hatred he felt inside. Her soft voice would cleanse him of the intolerable madness he felt coming over him of late during the nights, when all his thoughts were of the Seatrout, and of visions of the faces of her dead crew, and of revenge.
“You're doing it wrong, Mr. Wright,” the petty officer electrician said as he yanked the tool from Wright’s hands. They were both lying on their sides in a crawl space not quite three feet high. The wooden grating upon which they crawled covered the ship’s massive forward battery. The battery itself was the size of a two-car garage. It and its twin in the aft compartment could provide Mackerel with enough power to run submerged for nearly one hundred miles at five knots, or enough power to blow the submarine a hundred feet in the air, according to the electrician. The batteries were the oxygenless power source that made Mackerel a true submarine. They were also one of her greatest weaknesses because they did not last long and it took several hours on the surface for the diesel engines to recharge them. Several hours during which Mackerel was exposed and vulnerable.
Wright was being instructed in the fine art of lining up for one such battery charge. O’Connell had informed him earlier that since he was the junior officer on board, it would be his task to check the battery charging line up. O’Connell had suggested that he should get some practice so that he could do it quickly when they reached hostile waters. Wright had just climbed into his rack for a few hours of desperately needed sleep when the lieutenant knocked on the bulkhead outside and informed him that it was time to do the line up.
Now Wright tried to keep his eyes open as the scrawny petty officer showed him how to check the electrolyte level in each of the battery cells. He felt slightly sick, and the irregular rocking of the ship did little to help, especially in the confined space of the battery well.
What time was it? Wright wondered. He could not tell. He just knew that it was late and that he had never felt so tired in his whole life, and this was still the first night of the patrol.
It had been a long day for him.
During the weapons load that morning, he had learned how to load a torpedo into the torpedo room using the weapon-shipping hatch. During the fuel load, he had learned the intricacies involved with the transfer and storage of diesel fuel. During the stores load he had discovered most of the nooks and crannies on the cramped submarine used to stuff the thousands of tin cans and boxes of dry goods that would be consumed over the course of two months.
When the ship got underway, O’Connell had placed him on the main deck in charge of a section of linehandlers. Actually, he had gotten in the way more than he had assisted, but the seamen seemed to understand the incompetence of the young new ensign and they had worked around it. No sooner had he come down from the deck than O’Connell had whisked him away to the control room and shoved him in front of the chart table to plot periscope bearings for Cazanavette as the ship navigated away from Oahu. Cazanavette had swung around on the periscope, marking bearings to different landmarks in the blink of an eye, while Wright scrambled to write them down and plot them as fast as he could. Whenever he fell behind, the XO harshly reprimanded him, prompting the enlisted quartermaster at his side to step in and help him to catch up. He had begun to sweat profusely when the realization overcame him that the safety of the ship depended on the accuracy of his plotting. If he was off even a tenth of a degree the XO might make the wrong course recommendations to the officer of the deck and run the ship aground on any one of the many sandbars in the channel. It was all stuff he had learned at submarine school. But now, it was real. When the ship had opened the distance to land considerably, the piloting party was finally secured. Only then had Wright noticed that his shirt was soaking wet from perspiration. He felt physically and mentally drained. The XO suddenly became informal again and complimented him on his plotting.
As if he had not suffered enough for one day, dinner came as no relief. The whole meal, the other officers chided him about his interlude with Margie the night before, and they did not let up. He knew it was all in good humor — all except for the harassment from Tee, who made it clear that he wanted Wright to stay away from Margie when they got back to port. Wright assured him that he wanted nothing more than to stay away from her, but he could tell that Tee would probably bring the issue up again many more times in the next two months. Then O’Connell had tried to change the subject and mentioned something about how he should get started learning how to rig the ship for dive. Next thing he knew, he was following a petty officer around, checking dozens of valves in each compartment, making sure they were in the proper position for safely submerging the ship. After two hours of checking valves shut and open, he had secretly retired to the small stateroom he would be sharing with O’Connell and George Olander. He just wanted to get a few hours sleep, just a few. But that had been wishful thinking. His eyes were shut for no more than a minute when O’Connell walked in and told him he should watch the electrician do the line up for the evening’s battery charge. Reluctantly, Wright had obeyed.