“Good morning, Seaman Avila.”
“Good morning to you, Captain. Welcome home,” returned Petty Officer Second Class Adrian Avila.
The bright-eyed Hispanic enlistee from Piano, Texas had been with the Cheyenne for six months, and was showing himself to be a bright, inquisitive young man, well on his way to qualifying for his silver dolphins.
“Who’s the current OOD?” questioned Aldridge as he began his way down the gangway.
“Lieutenant Laird, Sir,” answered Avila efficiently.
“Shall I let him know that you’re on the way down?”
“You needn’t bother,” said Aldridge with a shake of his head.
“The good lieutenant will know soon enough.”
Aldridge entered the submarine through a deck hatchway positioned just abaft of the sail. As he climbed down the ladder’s iron wrungs, the familiar scent of machine oil met his nostrils. All too soon, the direct light from above was blotted out as he continued climbing further downward into the Cheyenne ‘s artificially lit interior.
He continued on, straight to the officer’s wardroom.
Seated at his customary spot near the head of the table was his XO. Bob Stoddard was totally engrossed in the examination of a detailed bathymetric chart, and Aldridge stood there silently for a moment before announcing his arrival.
The wardroom directly adjoined the portion of the boat that contained the officers’ living quarters. It occupied a rather spacious compartment lined with woodgrain paneling. A single rectangular table was situated in the center of the room. Here the officers ate their meals, talked shop, and held court with other elements of the crew when necessary.
The chair at the head of the table was reserved for the captain. Hung on the bulkhead beside it was a large photograph showing a gently rolling plain, covered with brightly colored wild flowers and clumps of golden scrub. This picture had been taken outside the city of Cheyenne, Wyoming, their warship’s namesake.
Aldridge recognized the piece of music softly emanating from the wardroom’s stereo as being from the soundtrack to the movie, Lawrence of Arabia. Two months ago, while on leave in London, Bob Stoddard got the chance to see a newly edited, 70mm version of this classic movie. Infatuated by its exotic score, he purchased a tape of the recording, which he brought back to the ship and had since listened to religiously. Though Aldridge himself preferred jazz, he had to admit that he had grown quite fond of Maurice Jarre’s Academy Award winning score.
Most of the other officers also enjoyed it, prompting one of them to go out and buy a video tape of the movie for the Cheyenne’s film library.
The sudden entrance of Petty Officer Howard Mallott alerted the others to Aldridge’s presence.
The portly, bespectacled chief of the Cheyenne’s mess burst into the wardroom carrying a tray of food.
“Why hello, Captain,” said the personable master chef as he placed the tray beside the XO.
“Can I get you some lunch?”
With this, the XO looked up from the chart he was studying and cast a surprised glance on the boat’s commanding officer.
“Greetings, Skipper. I didn’t realize that you were aboard.”
“I just got here, XO,” replied Aldridge as he walked up to the table.
“What are your serving, Chief?”
“Turkey burgers, Captain,” answered Mallott proudly.
“It’s something new that I just got the recipe for. Half the cholesterol of beef, and just as tasty.”
Aldridge inspected the plateful of food that included mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli, and a gravy smothered turkey patty that looked much like a chopped beef steak. A slice of apple pie and a mug of black coffee completed this meal.
“Looks awfully good, Chief,” reflected Aldridge.
“Why don’t you go ahead and bring me a tray. But forget the pie. I’m carrying along a couple of extra pounds that I didn’t have when I left here last week, and the only dessert that I’m going to be having on this next patrol is an extra twenty-five sit-ups.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes, Captain,” said Mallott, smiling. Aldridge was well known for his insistence on physical fitness.
Aldridge helped himself to a mug of coffee and sat down at the head of the table.
“Go ahead and eat while it’s hot, Bob. I’ll just have a look at this chart.”
While the XO cut into his meal, Aldridge commented, “Looks like someone’s planning to take the Cheyenne out to sea shortly.”
“I didn’t get a chance to tell you, Skipper,” managed the XO between bites.
“Our sailing orders came in about a half hour ago. We’re due out on this afternoon’s tide.”
“Then it looks like I got back here just in the nick of time,” added the Captain.
“Any hint as to why the rushed departure?”
The XO spooned down a bite of mashed potatoes before replying.
“The entire packet’s on your desk along with your other mail. It seems that Command needs us to shake up a NATO ASW exercise that’s currently taking place out in the North Sea.”
“That’s all fine and dandy, Bob. But is the Cheyenne ready to go on patrol right now? We were supposed to have until midnight tonight to finish up that Mkll7 modification and get the boat ready for SUBROC.”
“Everything’s been taken care of, Skipper. As we expected, Lieutenant Hartman has been right on top of those engineers. It looks like they’ll be done a couple of hours early, which means we can get those civilians off of here and still catch the late afternoon tide. I made certain that all personnel on leave were called in. In fact, I was just about to have the quartermaster track you down when you showed up here.”
“At least you weren’t going to set sail without me,” returned Aldridge with a wink.
“How’s that turkey?”
“Marvelous, Skipper. I would have never known it wasn’t beef unless Chief Mallott told me otherwise.”
“Did I hear someone mention my name?” interjected the chef as he arrived with another tray of food.
“Bon appetit, Captain.”
“I understand from the XO that you’ve got a winner with this turkey,” commented Aldridge.
“Nobody loves a thick, medium rare chopped beefsteak smothered with onions more than me, Mr. Mallott. So let’s see what this new recipe of yours is all about.”
Howard Mallott looked on as the captain picked up his fork and cut into the patty. The Cheyenne’s commanding officer smelled the piece he had cut off before putting it into his mouth and thoughtfully chewed.
“Well, what do you think, Captain?” expectantly asked the chief.
Without allowing his expression to reveal his verdict, Aldridge nodded.
“I’m impressed, Mr. Mallott.
Would you mind writing down the recipe for me?
My wife is going to love this dish.”
“With pleasure, Sir,” replied the beaming chef, who marched out of the wardroom thrilled by the captain’s compliment.
“Did Susan and Sarah get off on time?” quizzed the XO. He cleaned off his plate and went to work on his pie.
“They should be well on their way to Prestwick by now. Susan’s so well organized that they made the 10:15 ferry with time to spare. That should put them at the airport about ninety minutes before their flight to the States is scheduled to depart. Susan’s folks will be picking them up in Norfolk. But they’ve got a lot of territory to cover until then.”
Steven Aldridge chewed in reflective silence, his thoughts unexpectedly returning to the joy-filled week that he had just completed. The XO was content to polish off his pie and quietly sip his coffee.