Across the street, the windows of the bars were empty and dark. Open to a steady stream of business until two o’clock in the morning each night, they’d be open again at 8:00 a.m. sharp. One day, out of curiosity, McCann had gone into one of them, a place popularly known as The Sink. A half hour before the shipyard whistle blew, the signal for the noon ‘dinner’, the bartenders were busily lining up mugs of beer six deep on the heavily marked bar. It was a constant source of surprise to the commander that any work got done after the yardbirds had finished drinking their dinner.
Not that submariners were exactly teetotalers, he thought. In fact, he could have used a shot of something strong himself right now. Anything to jolt his system back into gear. He entered the covered passageway that all pedestrians entering the shipyard had to pass through.
Behind the plate-glass windows of the security station, five armed security guards were visible, and one of them stood by an open door waiting to check badges. Another stood behind him.
As one of the guards came out of the booth and stood on the first step, McCann transferred the coffee into his briefcase hand, unbuttoned his raincoat and pulled it open to show his badge. “Commander McCann, USS Hartford. You’re doing some work on her.”
The guard glanced at the gold dolphins pinned to his chest, at the identification badge, and then at McCann’s face before looking down at the clipboard. “Can you spell your last name for me, sir?”
He did, and the guard scanned a list.
“It might be at the top,” McCann said dryly.
“One moment, sir.” He backed up into the booth and said something in a low voice to an older security guard who was sitting behind a desk. The older man looked at McCann through the glass and picked up a telephone.
McCann felt the first prickles of annoyance beginning to rise under his collar. The second annoyance of the morning, he quickly corrected himself. The first had happened when his X.O. had called an hour ago asking McCann to go in for him.
The entrance passageway was acting like a wind tunnel. McCann took a sip of his coffee, but it was already cold. He dumped the entire thing in a trashcan next to the door.
“Is there a problem?” he asked shortly.
The younger guard looked through the door. “No, sir. Just give us a second.”
Another damp gust of wind blew through him. His pant legs were already soaked, and feeling cold, he buttoned up his coat. The hill running down to the docks was deserted, with the exception of a few security guards walking up toward the gate. The work being done on his ship was considered an emergency, and the yard management had promised to bring in a special crew for it. McCann hoped they were already here.
The older guard in the booth was still waiting to talk to someone on the phone. Another level of management. More bureaucracy than the navy.
Another guard, bulked up in his winter rain gear, appeared at the other end of the passageway.
“Commander McCann?”
The voice came from the doorway, and McCann turned to look into the round, ruddy face of an older man wearing a tie under a gray cardigan.
He read the man’s badge. Hale. He was the director of security. In early, McCann thought.
“What’s the problem, Commander?”
“You tell me, Mr. Hale.”
“No problem at all, sir. It’s just that we weren’t expecting you. My men have one of your officers on the list for this morning,” the director said pleasantly. “They’re pushing through the paperwork for you right now. Something happen to Lieutenant Commander Parker?”
“A last minute emergency. He couldn’t make it.” McCann flipped the collar of his coat up against the breeze. “I only got the call an hour ago.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Hale said amiably. “Couldn’t start this job at a civilized hour, could they?”
“I was promised it would be finished by noon. That’s all I care about.”
“We have it down here that the rest of the crew is due back this afternoon. Getting underway tonight?”
“We’ll see how it goes,” McCann answered. He wasn’t about to discuss sailing orders.
“Sounds like you’ve got a long day ahead.”
A long, wet day.
“But I guess it makes no difference if it’s night or day once you dive.”
McCann didn’t bother to answer as he looked down onto the shipyard. He could just see the stern of his sub tied to a dock near the North Yard Ways. A support building at the head of the dock blocked his view of the rest of it.
“So, how long will you be going out for?”
McCann had no interest in the man’s chitchat. “We won’t be going anywhere if I don’t get down to my ship,” he said impatiently.
“Right. Right.” Hale flushed bright red and turned in the doorway. Pointing to a form that was printing out on a machine in the corner, he told the younger guard to bring it over. He quickly slipped it onto a clipboard and handed it to the officer. “Please fill in this form, Commander, and you can be on your way.”
As McCann looked at the clipboard, a drop of rain fell from the peak of his hat onto the paper. His temper snapped.
“What the hell is this?” he said, shoving the paperwork back into Hale’s hands. “I’m not applying for a goddamn job, and I’m not trying to get security clearance. None of this applies. I’m the captain of a U.S. naval vessel that docked in this shipyard eight hours ago. I have a job to do, here, and—”
“Commander, we’re only following standard security procedures.”
“Bullshit. Hartford is here for a twenty-four hour stay. This is no different than any goddamn SRA. That ship is under my command, and no shipyard personnel are allowed on board without my permission. And if you think I’m going to stand here while precious time is wasted, you’ve got another thing coming.”
Nuclear submarines based in the Atlantic regularly returned to Electric Boat or Newport News shipyard for SRAs — Ship Restrictive Availability work. That was the equivalent of tune-ups or other related work that had to be done on cars. During the work, the crew generally stayed with the ship and shipyard security was well versed on how to handle the navy personnel. There was no reason for this confusion.
“Commander, you’re getting upset over—”
“I’ve wasted enough time here,” McCann snapped at him. “Where’s your office? I’m calling the DOD security coordinator from your phone. And I want the third shift yard superintendent here now.”
Hale glanced down at the form and looked as if he’d been hit with a bat.
“Christ. This is the wrong form.” He whirled around and started shouting at the younger guard. “What the hell is going on?”
If it weren’t for the fact that these morons were armed, McCann might have bulled his way through and let them straighten things out on their own. But he wouldn’t put it past them to shoot him in the back and explain later. Of course, that was assuming they could even hit him.
McCann stepped into the security booth.
“All right. I’m giving you exactly two minutes,” he warned. “Then I’m calling the director of NAVSEA and EB’s general manager…at home.”
“That won’t be necessary, Commander. I have the right form here,” the older man mumbled. He held another clipboard out for McCann. “This only requires your signature. Nothing else.”
He looked down at the list of his crewmembers on the piece of paper. “This is the same form I sent over to Security yesterday.”
“Correct. We need your signature to allow them to come back this afternoon.”
“I signed this form last night,” he said, moving down the list, double-checking the names.