He remembered five years before when he first reported to the Naval Nuclear Power School in Charleston. His first impression had been one of disbelief when he saw an alligator saunter across the parking lot in front of him and disappear into the murky snake-infested swamp surrounding the building on the Cooper River that housed the nuclear engineering classrooms. He could not believe that the navy had selected such a dismal place to train the top one percent of its people.
It had been summer. June to be exact. Right after he graduated from UCLA. The heat and humidity, the biting insects, the incessant buzz of a million locusts all made the place virtually unbearable, and the discomfort was amplified by his brand-new half-polyester khaki uniform, adorned with the bright gold bars of an ensign. Not to mention, he had taken ill. Exhausted from his marathon drive across the country, he had come down with a bad case of strep throat, a very bad case. On his first day in Charleston he could barely muster the energy to drive to the doctor. He went to a civilian doctor because he did not want his illness to jeopardize his chances in the nuclear program. The doctor recommended that he spend the next several weeks in bed to allow the antibiotics time to take effect, but in Lake’s mind that was not an option. He was motivated at that time and he wanted to make a good first impression on his instructors and his fellow classmates. He convinced the doctor to give him a steroid shot so that he would have enough strength to attend class on the first day.
But on the first day at school, as he walked across the steamy parking lot feeling both weak and dizzy, he knew it was foolish to try to attend class. The Naval Nuclear Power School was one of the hardest and fastest-paced engineering schools in the country, and doing well there meant long sleepless nights hitting the books. He could not possibly hope to put his body through that kind of regimen in its current condition. So he set up an appointment with his class “counselor,” a pointy-nosed lieutenant who had spent his entire career teaching in a classroom. Lake didn’t dare mention his illness, but instead pleaded with the lieutenant to allow him to start classes with the next group of officers in the fall, citing personal reasons. It was an innocent enough request, and certainly three or four months of light duty would see him completely recovered. But the deprecating answer he received from the lieutenant-counselor served only as a portent of the many injustices to come in Lake’s young naval life.
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Ensign Lake?” The lieutenant had spat out the words. “Anything to postpone the day you’ll have to join the fleet, eh? I’ve seen this a hundred times. You piece-of-shit ensigns are all alike, looking for any excuse to get out of your commitment. Maybe you’ll find another excuse when it’s time for the next group to begin, huh? Then you’ll have a whole year off, and I’ll have to explain to the CO why I held a student back. Now you tell me, why the hell I should put my ass on the line for some sorry-ass ensign who probably just wants the time off so he can spend it with his girlfriend?” The lieutenant paused, eying him with open antipathy. “Well?”
Lake had no answer. Obviously, the counselor had already made up his mind. Any further groveling would just give the bastard more pleasure.
“You have two options, Mr. Lake,” the counselor continued. “Whichever you choose makes no difference to me. You can dispense with your stupid request chit and get your ass back in class where you belong — or you can drop out of the program.”
As Lake left the so-called counselor’s office, the lieutenant called after him.
“Oh, Ensign. One more thing.”
Lake turned to see an evil sneer on the lieutenant’s face.
“If you end up failing your exams and dropping out of the program, don’t worry! The Supply Corps’s always looking to pick up our table scraps. I’m sure, with enough training, you’d make a fine motor pool supervisor someday.”
Lake stood in the hall outside the lieutenant’s office for several dejected and speechless minutes. When he finally headed back to class, he could still hear the lieutenant-counselor laughing through the closed door — laughing at him. The lieutenant had practically called him a liar to his face. These days, Lake would never let some desk-jockey asshole treat him like that. But back then he was just an ensign, and far too afraid of challenging a senior officer’s authority. So, he rejoined his class and resolved to make the lieutenant eat his words.
He spent every night for the next six months with his nose buried in the books, fighting back the chills from the fever that never seemed to go away. Somehow he found the energy to sit through eight hours of lecture each day. He struggled through calculus, physics, thermodynamics, mechanical engineering, electrical engineering, reactor dynamics, chemistry, and radiological controls. For every two tests he passed he failed one. The engineering student who had graduated from UCLA with a 3.88 grade point average had to make do with an average far lower than any he’d ever experienced in his life. Some of his fellow officer-students failed too many tests and were abruptly dropped from the program. They were bound for the surface fleet or the Supply Corps. Lake came close to failing out many times but always managed to keep his head above water. At last, he passed the final comprehensive examination, a grueling eight-hour test, with just four points to spare. His class ranking was nothing to write home about. In fact, he was ranked dead last — but at least he had passed!
He spent the next six months learning how to operate a nuclear power plant by practicing on an old decommissioned ballistic missile submarine sitting in the Cooper River. Through that experience and the four months spent at the Submarine Officers’ School in Groton, the label of “last in his class” dogged him at every turn. His confidence shot, he had trouble in almost every course in the curriculum. For the first time in his life, the sigma cum laude UCLA graduate learned how it felt to be in the bottom 10 percent. He resented the jerk-of-a-counselor for that, but he resented the navy even more. An institution that employed such people and gave them such power to make or break an officer’s career right from the start did not deserve his allegiance.
Lake had hoped that his attitude would change once he got to his boat. Once he made it to the real navy. There he could start with a clean slate. The day he received his orders to the USS Providence (SSN 719), a fast attack submarine based out of Pearl Harbor, he actually felt excited about it. He felt optimistic for the first time in a long time. The thirst for adventure he had once known as a midshipman began brewing once again in his blood. Had he known then what awaited him on board the Providence, he would have found a way out of the submarine service altogether.
Two months later, he graduated from sub school. The navy gave him six travel days to get to his new ship in Hawaii, but he traversed the distance in less than four days, reporting a whole day early. Orders in hand and brimming with excitement over his new life at sea, the bright-eyed Lake marched across the Providence’s gangway for the first time with the lively step of a man with a positive outlook. But all his hopes and dreams of a brighter future soon faded. He met Captain Carl Christopher on that first day. Everything after that was just a blur. A bad dream that was better left forgotten.