"That smell, whatever it is." She smiled and kissed me again. "It's not a bad smell," she said, "it's kind of a…submarine smell. Like diesel oil or machinery, or something."
"Well, I'll shower again when-"
She touched her finger against my lips. "No," she said softly, "we'll shower when we get home. And don't plan on much sleep tonight."
Holding her tightly against me, I felt her warmth and the final relief from the aching separation that we had both experienced.
Thirty feet from where we stood, three naval officers with more gold on their uniforms than I had ever seen climbed out of an official black U.S. Navy limousine. They stood near the side of the car and quietly watched the men walking across the brow. Captain Harris and Lieutenant Dobkin were the last to come through the control room hatch and appear on the deck of the boat. They were immediately joined by two armed guards from the submarine base. As the guards escorted the men across the brow toward the pier, I noticed that Dobkin was carrying a black briefcase with heavy locks attached to the top. The case was big enough to hold hundreds of glossy photographs, and a large pair of steel handcuffs secured the handle of the briefcase to his left wrist. The men climbed into the limousine, and it sped away.
Keiko and I walked down the pier to our car, hand in hand. She told me that she had seen the broom and knew that we had been successful.
"I can't say anything-" I started to say, when she interrupted me.
"You don't have to say anything at all, honey," she said softly as our hands tightened. "I'm proud of you, I'm glad you're back safely, and I love you."
We drove away from the pier and the Viperfish, turned left on Kamehameha Highway, and rushed past the vast fields of sugar cane to the quiet little apartment waiting for us in the hills of Oahu.
Epilogue
SEPTEMBER 1968. At a secret ceremony on the Pearl Harbor Submarine Base, Capt. Thomas Harris received the Distinguished Service Medal, one of the highest honors awarded by the U.S. Navy. This was the first time since 1914 that an officer of his rank had received such a commendation, and an appropriate notation was made in his service record.
At a remote corner of Pearl Harbor Submarine Base, on the deck of the USS Viperfish, a high-ranking entourage, on behalf of President Lyndon B. Johnson, sequestered the crew for a special ceremony. Unlike all other such ceremonies, there was no announcement of the event, and the uniform of the day was dungarees. Ribbons were handed to each man, and an admiral read a quick message:
The President of the United States takes pleasure in presenting the Presidential Unit Citation to the crew of the USS [Viperfish (SSN-655)], for service as set forth in the following citation:
For exceptionally meritorious service in support of National Research and Development efforts while serving as a unit of the Submarine Force, United States Pacific Fleet. Conducting highly technical submarine operations, over an extended period of time, the USS [Viperfish (SSN-655)] successfully concluded several missions of significant scientific value to the Government of the United States. The professional, military, and technical competence, and the inspiring devotion to duty of [Viperfish] officers and men, reflect great credit upon themselves and the United States Naval Service.
Lyndon B. Johnson
JANUARY 1969. The official black Navy limousine approached the Marine guard gate at the end of the long bridge connecting the city of Vallejo to the nuclear submarine shipyard on Mare Island, California. Slowing near the guard, the driver rolled down his window and briskly returned the Marine's salute.
"May I see your identification, sir?" the guard asked the white-haired man in the back seat.
"This is Admiral Hyman G. Rickover," the driver said authoritatively.
"Thank you, sir," the guard answered the driver, looking again at the man in the back seat. "May I see your identification, sir?"
The guard knew exactly who the man was; all the guards had known he was coming for days. And if there ever was a time to follow orders precisely to the letter, this was it.
The back door opened. Looking furious, the white-haired man jumped out. He moved around the guard and started marching down the street in the direction of Mare Island.
"Sir, you must show your identification!" the guard called, his right hand nervously fingering the top of his pistol.
The man continued walking as the driver and the other passenger in the limousine flashed their identification cards and moved forward to pick up the man. The Marine guard raced to the nearby Marine Corps office, ordered a relief guard in his place, and mustered five more men. They all jumped into a military pickup truck and chased behind the limousine, across the bridge and across Mare Island in the direction of the USS Viperfish.
While Captain Harris waited in the wardroom, I stood the reactor shutdown watch in the engine room of the boat. We were both awaiting Admiral Rickover's arrival. We had known he was coming, and everybody had worked to ensure that the engine room was in perfect condition for his inspection. Alone in the maneuvering area, I paced back and forth and watched the meters while waiting for the baggy pants to show at the top of the engine-room hatch.
"He's coming!" Seaman Gerard Snyder called down from his station on the topside deck of the Viperfish. "A black limousine and a pickup truck filled with Marines!"
Pacing more vigorously, I wondered if the admiral was going to bring some of his NR men and suddenly remembered the Rickover-inspired purges on other boats.
The limousine, still followed by the Marines, screeched to a halt at the pier next to the Viperfish, and everybody climbed out. On board the Viperfish, Snyder quickly checked his uniform and nervously patted his.45-caliber pistol at his side.
"Request permission to come aboard!" one of the NR men in a dark blue officer's uniform called out as three men moved across the brow.
Snyder saluted the group and replied, "May I see your identification, sir?"
The officer turned and pointed to the white-haired man. "This is Admiral Hyman G. Rickover!"
"Attention on deck!" Snyder hollered as everybody standing nearby saluted the men again. "May I see some identification, sir?" he repeated.
As the men glared at Snyder, the young submariner suddenly brightened. They were testing him, that had to be the answer. They wanted to see if he would remember to check the shipyard access list. The admiral certainly would be on the access list.
"Would you like me to check for the admiral's name on the access list, sir?" Snyder asked.
The men became further enraged as they turned and stormed off the Viperfish. Snyder looked down at the access list and wondered if he had said something wrong. Shortly after the limousine screeched a streak of rubber down the pier, Snyder called me in the engine room.
"He's gone!"
"Gone?" I said into the telephone. "Admiral Rickover is gone?"
"He's gone and so are the Marines!"
Several minutes later, after a call to the Viperfish, Captain Harris left the boat and crossed Mare Island to the U.S. Naval Headquarters office. As he walked into the room, Admiral Rickover was waiting.
"You do not want me down on your boat?" the admiral demanded. "Are you still keeping some of those goddamn deep-submergence secrets you didn't want to tell me last year?"
"Of course, you may come aboard our-"
"And you are two goddamn weeks behind in refueling the reactor!"
"You know about that, Admiral," Harris said, trying to keep a calm voice. "The shipyard lost the tip of a glove into the..."