He wasn’t sure why, but at that moment something clicked inside him. Letting down Ketterling was bad enough, but the thought of letting down Lieutenant Lake made him reach for something deep inside himself. Lake was his division officer. Division officers had come and gone in his career. He had never let down any of them before. From his days as a seaman through each successive stripe affixed to his sleeve, he had taken pride in being the one guy in the division that a div-o could count on. Lake wasn’t the best div-o he had had by far. He was disorganized, which Reynoso loathed, and the guy was condescending, often ignoring his suggestions. But there was one thing that Lake did long ago, one noble act that Reynoso would never forget, and he simply could not let him down.
Ketterling had moved to pick up the grounding rod, obviously planning to do it himself, but Reynoso snatched it up from him. With the calmness and dexterity of a completely changed man, Reynoso locked his eyes on the swinging loop, allowed three seconds to judge the period of its motion. Then he lunged with the hook in a wide arcing swing. This time the hook landed squarely in the eye of the loop and Reynoso quickly pulled on it once to engage the locking mechanism. Then he raised his hands and backed away, a signal to the helo that the grounding lanyard was securely latched to the ship’s ground. The helo and the ship were now at the same electrical potential, and the danger was finally past.
The man in the helo’s doorway waved his hand then disappeared inside to prepare his cargo for lowering. Reynoso continued backing away until he was even with the open hatch in the deck where the rest of the men stood, immediately receiving several pats on the back from Ketterling and the other sailors.
“Damn helo pilots!” Ketterling shouted in his ear. “They never can hold that thing steady! Good job!”
Reynoso smiled at Ketterling’s kind remarks. Very generous in front of the junior sailors, but they both knew he had panicked. Reynoso knew Ketterling would never say anything about it. The seasoned master chief was above that. In the end he had done it, and that’s all that mattered to Master Chief Ketterling.
They both looked up to see the pallet, laden with boxes of food and supplies, swing out from the helo’s side door on a small pulley.
“Tepper, Jorgenson!” Ketterling yelled, “Get your asses over here and guide that pallet down!” He winked at Reynoso before following the two junior sailors aft.
Reynoso grinned, happy that Ketterling seemed pleased with his performance. He then cast a searching glance toward the bridge, half-hoping to see Lake’s smiling face and maybe a “thumbs up.” But Lake wasn’t even looking in his direction. He already had a phone to his ear, probably talking to the engineering officer of the watch, telling him to complete all his overboard waste discharges before the ship submerged again.
Reynoso shrugged and returned aft to help the others unload boxes from the pallet and pass them down the hatch to the waiting bucket brigade of sailors below. The supplies were few, yet they were eagerly received by the distressed supply chief in the crew’s mess two decks below. Boxes of fresh fruits, fresh vegetables, and milk. Boxes containing Kimwipes and spare parts. All made their way down the long ladder to the second deck and were neatly stacked for the supply chief to take proper inventory of each one. The pallet was soon reduced to its wood frame base, which was fervently hefted and cast over the side by Jorgenson and Tepper at the direction of Ketterling.
Finally, a satchel of mail and dispatches was lowered from the helo and Reynoso, being the only member of radio division present, took custody of it. The man in the helo doorway waved that there was nothing more to lower, and Ketterling skillfully pulled the quick release on the ground rod releasing its hold on the helo’s lanyard, severing the electrical link between the Seahawk and the Providence. Then, like an eagle newly released from captivity, the helo increased power, nosed down, and banked away to starboard, the forceful draft from its rotors kicking up a splattering sea mist that coated the men on deck in salty spray.
The men on deck watched with silent envy as the Seahawk quickly gained altitude and speed, settling on a direct course back to Oahu.
“Those bastards,” Ketterling said. “They’re in a damn hurry. Must have a tee time to meet or something.”
Reynoso chuckled and was about to make a comment when a stern voice came from the bridge.
“You men quit skylarking and get below, damn it!” Lake shouted from his high perch.
Lake was certainly in a foul mood, and Reynoso wondered what the next few weeks in Radio Division would bring. Lake wouldn’t be much help now, though the short-timer lieutenant had been of little help before. Reynoso would have to run things again, like he had always done. In the absence of a radio chief and with a languid division officer, Electronics Technician First Class Julio Reynoso would have to fill the gap once more. Who knows, he thought, maybe someday someone would take notice of all his hard work and approve his promotion to chief petty officer. Then again, maybe not.
“Do what the asshole says, boys,” Ketterling muttered under his breath. Lake and the lookouts on the bridge were already disappearing into the sail.
Reynoso and the rest quickly stowed the equipment on deck and one by one dropped down the hatch. Ketterling was the last one down and pulled the hatch shut behind him, shoving the hatch lanyard into Reynoso’s hands to hold while he spun the wheel and dogged the hatch tightly shut against its ring.
Reynoso glanced at the satchel of dispatches he had dropped on the deck at the base of the ladder below.
Who knew where Providence was going now? He was sure the answer lay in the satchel, nicely sealed in a robust envelope marked all over with “Classified Materiaclass="underline" Top Secret.”
“The officer of the deck has shifted his watch below decks!” the 1MC speaker announced, echoing throughout the ship. “Rig for dive!”
With the hatch secure, Reynoso followed Ketterling the rest of the way down the ladder and scooped up the satchel. He took the forward passage heading up to the radio room, his thoughts drifting from his near brush with death to his routine duties. He needed to make sure they copied the latest broadcast before the ship went deep.
Wherever Providence was headed it didn’t matter to him. Deep down, he loved this life. With no attachments ashore, it was all he had. This cruise was nothing more than another chance to excel.
Chapter 4
"So, let me get this straight,” Edwards said sternly. “You hacked into Le Temeraire’s computer network and downloaded a virus infecting all of their machines. Is that it?”
“It wasn’t exactly a virus, sir. It was just a little program I wrote. It wasn’t nothing dangerous, sir.”
The accused, a very nervous-looking Fire Control Technician Second Class Shoemaker, stood in his best white jumper uniform at the opposite end of the table, his bleached white “dixie cup” hat pushed low on his brow, his eyes appropriately staring straight ahead. Edwards glanced at Shoemaker, then at Shoemaker’s chain of command standing at attention and lining the table’s left side, and then to the forty or fifty other faces in the crew’s mess staring back at him. He sat alone at the head of one of the long dining tables, the off-watch hands filling the other tables and those without seats crowding the walkways, some only able to poke their heads into the room from the fore and aft passageways for lack of adequate space. Captain’s mast usually drew a large crowd. An unpleasant yet intriguing diversion from their daily tasks at sea.
Providence had been cruising southwesterly through the dark ocean depths at full speed for the last two days, maintaining a good twenty-five knot average only to be broken by the periodic trips to communications depth to copy the latest message traffic. The strain of continuous high speed was putting her engines through the paces, but the big twins kept turning and gave no indication of their desperate need of servicing. As an added precaution, Edwards had ordered the main engine lube oil strainers, normally cleaned daily, to be cleaned every watch in an effort to provide them with the cleanest oil possible. The engine room mechanics were not happy about it. It was but one more annoyance in their miserable lives. The dashed hopes of returning to Pearl Harbor had not gone over well with most of the men, but once Providence got well on her way and the dream of seeing home port faded from a reality to an uncertainty, from an uncertainty to fantasy, the crew resumed their daily tasks and the seagoing routine, though it seemed most were merely going through the motions. It had taken them a couple of days to get back into the swing of things. That’s why Edwards had chosen to wait until now to hold captain’s mast.