Christopher had certainly not told Edwards anything about the incident, and this was the first he’d heard of it. Perhaps it was the short turnover, Edwards thought, or perhaps Christopher simply had forgotten to mention it. Deep down, he knew different.
“I remember the day after one of them checked off the ship,” Lake continued, “this whole damn crew went about their duties, acting like nothing happened. They were probably scared crapless if they said anything, they’d be next. And that’s exactly the kind of culture I’m talking about, sir. One of their own gets driven insane by the captain, one of their own shipmates, and they don’t do a damn thing about it! That poor sailor was here one day, gone the next, and nobody ever complained even once or even sent a freaking grievance to Com-SubPac. No one had the balls to do it, and that makes me sick. Not that anyone up at ComSubPac would have listened to a complaint, but it’s the principle of the matter. That’s what I can’t stand. To hell with ’em, sir!”
“How about you, Mr. Lake? Did you file a complaint?” Lake smiled complacently and looked out at the sea. “What do you think, Captain? I’ll bet Christopher warned you about me. I’ll bet he told you that I was a slug and a troublemaker. Well, sir, now you know why.”
It was too bad, Edwards suddenly thought, that junior officers only spoke candidly to their captains on their last day aboard.
“Bridge, Radio,” The speaker on the portable bridge suitcase squawked. “Captain, a conference has been established with ComSubPac. We are piping the signal to your stateroom.” Edwards nodded to Lake, who then spoke into the microphone, “Radio, Bridge, aye. The captain has the word.”
Before starting down the ladder, Edwards took one last look at the distant mountains of Oahu and breathed a long sigh.
“Quite a view isn’t it, Mr. Lake? Just think, this may be the last time you’ll ever see it. Better cherish it,” he said grinning, and then disappeared into the sail.
Lake gazed out at the clouds drifting down to touch the sharp cliffs beyond the blue horizon. A small wave crashed against the sail, washing his face and shirt with a cold salt spray. A dolphin leaped from the wave as if to say “hello” and then fell back into the sea just off Providence’s port amidships. All the memories of the past three years came rushing to the forefront of his thoughts.
The conference with ComSubPac probably boded ill for the Providence. He had been in boats long enough to know that. But, it did not matter to him. The ship would pull in to reprovision and he would catch the first taxi to the airport and be gone from this place forever.
Admiral Quentin Chappell’s static image appeared on the display of the small laptop computer in Edwards’ stateroom. The image looked snowy and faded in and out as the ship’s communications transceivers and the satellite link synchronized. The video teleconference was a relatively new capability for submarines. Surface ships had had it for years, but with submarines and their limited antenna space it had always been a question of bandwidth. On a good day with a good connection the quality of a conference equaled that of an Internet meeting. Add to that the cryptography modems required for top secret conferences and the image became choppy and the sound erratic. The other person’s voice often sounded like it was coming through a fan blade. Still, it was an invaluable means of communicating with ComSubPac. Voice messages lacked the personal interaction. They lacked the feeling and intent that could be expressed in a videoconference.
From the small booth bench seat adorning one side of the room, Edwards waited impatiently for the video conference to begin. He would cast an occasional irritated glance at his executive officer whose bulky body engulfed a small fold-up desk chair in the center of the room and who nervously flipped through the pages of a spiral notepad.
Edwards did not think much of his XO and made very little effort to hide his feelings. What was the point? Lieutenant Commander Warren Bloomfield, overweight in a uniform two sizes too small, always out of breath, always in the background and never in the lead — no matter how many times Edwards had mentored him — never put forth any extra effort to assist in running the ship. The executive officer’s duty was to help enforce his captain’s policies and to act as an advisor when needed. Bloomfield, on the other hand, spent most of his time in his quarters. He had no ambition, no passion, no command presence, and — to Edwards — no apparent talents. In Edwards’ mind, Bloomfield was useless as an officer, and Edwards had little to no respect for the man. He was sure Bloomfield would be perfectly content to spend his time in complete anonymity, and it was obvious to all, including the crew, that he was simply biding time, waiting for the day he would retire. Through some miracle, he’d achieved the rank of lieutenant commander, though Edwards couldn’t imagine how.
A rumor floating around the ship suggested that he had given up years ago when his ex-wife supposedly left him for another woman. But Edwards had trouble mustering even a small amount of sympathy for the slug. What bothered Edwards the most was Bloomfield’s apparent reluctance to help him understand anything about the ship’s history. When Edwards first took command, he had expected Bloomfield to help him get up to speed on Providence’s problems, the ship’s personnel, any nuances that a new captain might want to know, especially after the quick turnover from Christopher. Instead, Bloomfield had feigned ignorance with statements like “Captain Christopher knew about that, sir, I was not in the loop,” or “Check with the engineer, sir, he might be able to help you.” It baffled Edwards how the man could have held the position of executive officer for four years and be so evasive about everything. He was one of those few who slipped through the cracks and managed to finagle an XO spot, in spite of his incompetence.
Bloomfield’s chubby fingers suddenly removed a pen from his left breast pocket, as if he were preparing to take notes, but Edwards figured it was more likely to be used to calculate his retirement pay.
The speakers crackled and buzzed and the image of the admiral became much clearer now. Admiral Quentin Chappell’s face with its immense age lines and crow’s feet appeared on the small screen. The admiral’s close-cut gray hair was immaculately maintained at the same length, to the point that it looked like a skullcap. His khaki shirt, now only visible down to just below his shoulders, displayed the gold stars on his collar. They represented his rank and the immense responsibility he bore as the special operations deputy to the Commander Submarines Pacific. Chappell’s immediate boss, ComSubPac, commanded all forty-two submarines of the Pacific Fleet and all of their supporting units. And Chappell spent most of his time thinking of different ways to use them.
“Hello, Dave. Hello, Warren,” the admiral said cordially. The encryption made his voice sound electronic. He could obviously see them now too from a small camera mounted above Edwards’ laptop.
“Good morning, Admiral,” Edwards replied. “We were quite surprised to get your message this morning, sir.”
“Yes, I know. It can’t be helped. Listen, you did an excellent job out in the Red Sea, Dave. It being your first deployment with Providence, you should be proud of what you’ve accomplished. You deserve to come home with honors.”