While in the background, the graceful strains of Lawrence of Arabia filled the wardroom with the magic of the desert.
The spell was broken by the arrival of a short, stocky officer, who held a clipboard in his hand.
Lieutenant Andrew Laird was a relative newcomer to the crew. He was the boat’s navigator, and currently its OOD. It was in regard to this latter responsibility that he was presently functioning.
“Lieutenant Commander Stoddard, I have that personnel update that you requested,” offered the young officer stiffly.
The XO took the clipboard and hastily skimmed it.
“Well, you can scratch the Captain’s name off of the list of those we’re still waiting for, Lieutenant.
That leaves us only three crew members short.”
“Seamen Thomas and Crawford are on their way from Hunter’s Quay even as we speak, Sir,” replied the OOD.
“That just leaves us without Petty Officer Carter.”
“We certainly don’t want to leave for sea without our best man in sonar,” interrupted the captain.
“He should be here within the hour, Sir,” returned the OOD.
“I called the Glasgow telephone number he left us. A woman answered and said that Mr.
Carter left for Gourock on the eleven o’clock train.
That should put him in Dunoon at approximately one, Sir.”
“That’s still cutting it awfully close, Lieutenant,” said Aldridge.
“I want someone down at the ferry terminal with a car, right now. And if Carter’s not on that one p.m. boat, the driver’s to call in immediately.”
“Yes, Sir,” snapped the OOD.
Yet before Laird could leave to carry out this order, he had to field one more inquiry from the XO.
“I see that those four civilian engineers are still with us, Lieutenant. Will they be able to finish up in time, or will we have to take them out to sea with us?”
The OOD answered a bit hesitantly.
“I’m waiting for an update from Lieutenant Hartman, Sir. He promised to give me a definite time, but as of five minutes ago, I still haven’t heard from him.”
“Well then, get on it,” urged the XO.
“Otherwise you’re going to have to be the one to tell those civilians that they’ve been picked to be the exclusive guests of the USS Cheyenne for the next eight weeks.”
“I’ll do so at once, Sir,” said the OOD.
Only then did the XO return his clipboard, indicating that his audience here was over. As Lieutenant Laird disappeared through the forward hatch, the XO grunted.
“We’ll make a proper officer out of that kid yet.”
Steven Aldridge offered his own opinion of Laird’s competency while sipping his coffee.
“I don’t know, Bob. I think he’s coming along just fine. He’s only been with us less than two months, and don’t forget what it was like when you pulled your first patrol on a 688” The XO rolled his eyes back in their sockets.
“Guess I’m just turning into the same type of hard-nosed, insensitive taskmaster that I always despised when I first got into nukes ten years ago.”
“That, my friend, comes with the territory,” quipped Aldridge stoically.
“Now I’d better get back to my cabin and unpack, then I’ll get to work trying to put a dent in that paperwork that’s been piling up on my desk all week. See you topside when the tide turns, Bob.”
“I’ll be there, Skipper,” returned the Cheyenne’s second-in-command as he watched Steven Aldridge push away from the table to get on with his duty.
Two and a half hours later, both senior officers were gathered in the sub’s exposed bridge as promised.
The sun was peeking through the clouds as the USS Cheyenne engaged its engines and headed for the open sea.
With a patrol boat leading the way, the 360foot attack sub remained on the surface as it exited Holy Loch. The town of Dunoon soon passed on the starboard, and Steven Aldridge spotted the ferry that had conveyed his family across the firth earlier in the day just leaving its berth at Gourock on the opposite shore. Ever alert for any nearby surface traffic, the sub hugged the deepwater channel that would take it almost due south.
The large cement stack and trio of huge fuel storage tanks belonging to the Inverkip power station soon passed to their port, while the flashing beacon known as the Gantocks signalled the starboard extent of the channel. Beyond this beacon on the firth’s western shore rose a sloping, tree-filled hillside that culminated at the summit called Bishop’s Seat, 1,651 feet above sea level.
“Believe it or not, you can just make out Ailsa Craig with the glasses, Skipper,” observed the XO.
Putting his own binoculars up to his eyes, Aldridge soon enough spotted this distinctive volcanic-like formation splitting the channel up ahead.
“Well, I’ll be,” he muttered.
“That’s a good forty-seven miles away.”
“That’s certainly a first for me,” revealed the XO.
“Usually from here we’d be lucky enough to spot the
Cumbrae isles, or even Arran.”
Notorious for thick fogs, blinding rains squalls, and heavy winds, the Firth of Clyde was more often than not a navigator’s nightmare. But Steven Aldridge had already learned never to anticipate the weather in Scotland, as he found out during the glorious week just passed.
“I guess we should count our blessings, XO,” reflected the Captain.
“This transit looks to be one of the easiest yet. And it’s a tribute to the crew that we’re right on schedule.”
“They sure worked some miracles, Skipper. Although for a moment there, I didn’t think we’d ever get away on time. Lieutenant Hartman kept those engineers on board to the very last second. Those white shirts were sweating bullets, afraid that they’d have to go along with us. And as they were climbing up the gangplank to the Hunley, who passes them going the other way but Petty Officer Carter.”
“We can be thankful for that,” said Aldridge.
“Did anyone find out what held him up?”
The XO flashed a wide grin.
“Scuttlebutt says that our romeo in the sound shack met a comely little Gourock lass on the train down from Glasgow. Luckily she didn’t keep him in her apartment longer than an hour, or we’d be without his services.”
“I thought he already had a girlfriend back in Glasgow,” countered the Captain.
Again the XO snickered.
“From what I hear, Mr.
Carter attracts women like my wife collects bills.”
“He does have that certain air about him,” added the Captain, who looked up as a Boeing 747 airliner could be seen climbing into the blue heavens above the eastern shores of the firth.
Steven Aldridge knew that this plane originated in nearby Prestwick airport, and could very well be the one carrying his family homeward. And as the plane turned to the west and disappeared into a thick cloud bank, Aldridge found himself forming a silent prayer: that both of their long journeys would be safe ones.
Chapter Five
To the rousing strains of Greig’s Peer Gynt, the Bell 212 landed on the Falcon’s helipad. Jon Huslid had been seated in the copilot’s position, and made certain to compliment the helicopter’s attractive pilot before joining his teammates in the main cabin.
“That was a wonderful landing, Karl. Are you going to stick around the Falcon for awhile?”
The pilot answered while skimming the cockpit’s instrument panel.
“It doesn’t look that way, Jon.
Since the Chief hasn’t said any differently, it looks like I’ll be returning to Stavanger to get on with the job I was on my way to when they diverted me to Lake Tinnsjo.”
“Well, I hope that we didn’t inconvenience you too much. God knows what Magne’s got in store for us here. Now don’t forget, I still owe you that photo session. Just name the time and place, and I’ll try my best to be there.”