Seawolf Mask of Command (17 page)

Kristen thought about the change and just what might have caused it. While working with the “flying squad,” she began to realize that even those men who’d bet against her passing the engineering exam felt she’d gotten screwed by Ski and the captain, and they didn’t like it. They’d seen how she’d worked herself to exhaustion, never complaining, just hard labor, and these men respected officers who were willing to lead by example and not just point at problems and expect them to be miraculously fixed.

Her final revelation was regarding her captain, whom she saw sporadically and usually only after daylight hours when he was back from attending meetings at the squadron headquarters. After another week on board, he was still as great an enigma as he’d been at their first meeting. When not attending meetings, he could be found night or day somewhere on board working alongside his officers and men on repairs or consulting with the dwindling number of civilian contractors. The crew’s feeling toward him bordered on reverence. Everyone had a sea story about how they’d witnessed the Blade tearing into someone, but no one she met actually had ever had their captain raise his voice to him personally. O’Rourke’s description of Brodie being a “freak” was accurate as well. Kristen could find no evidence that he slept, although she knew he must. But when she left the sub each evening at midnight, she often saw him still laboring with the night shift. Yet each morning, when she arrived at seven, he could still be found somewhere on board working.

Despite her firm belief that he’d intentionally set her up to fail, she couldn’t resist a grudging respect for him.

Wolf’s Den, USS Seawolf

A
week following her failed attempt at taking the engineering exam, Kristen climbed through the tunnel leading from the engineering spaces and into the forward section of the
Seawolf.
The crew had taken a break from their daily routine for their noon meal. She walked through the packed Wolf’s Den, having to maneuver her way around several crewmen carrying trays of food and looking for an available seat.

She recognized her flying squad seated together in a pair of booths along one wall and nodded politely toward them. She recognized several other men from engineering, but knew few of the men who worked in the forward half of the submarine.

Derisively known as “conners” by the men in engineering, the crew who worked in the forward half of the submarine were the radio and sonar operators, the helm and planesmen, the torpedoman’s mates, and other specialists who drove and controlled the submarine, hence their nickname. On the other hand, as far as the conners were concerned, the men in engineering were little more than deck apes; mindless mechanics whose job was to keep the boat moving while the conners did the fighting.

Kristen understood this rivalry, or so she thought.

Machinist Mate Second Class Alfonso Gameroz was one of the “flying squad.” He noticed Kristen maneuver her way through the crowded Wolf’s Den as she headed for the wardroom. Gameroz wasn’t a big fan of officers, but he was warming up to her fast. He’d been in the Navy barely three years and was hoping to make a career out of it, and despite feeling screwed over at having to return to sea without even a few days to go back to East L.A., he was still proud to be a member of the
Seawolf.

Seated at a table nearby were five torpedomen and among them was a third class petty officer named Randle. Gameroz and Randle didn’t get along at the best of times, but had learned to keep their distance to avoid trouble. COB didn’t stand for rough knuckles on board—unless he was the one doing it—and Gameroz didn’t like the idea of crossing the stocky, no-nonsense Master Chief.

“Man, I can’t wait to tap that ass once we get out to sea,” Randle uttered to the general laughter of his buddies at his table.

Gameroz looked up and saw Randle leaning out from the table, admiring Lieutenant Whitaker as she disappeared down the passageway.

“I’ll split her like a ripe melon,” Randle added with a wild-eyed grin.

“Hey, fuck stick!” Gameroz snapped. “Let the lady be.”

Randle was still smiling broadly at his own wit, but looked at Gameroz with contempt. “Fuck you, spick. I wasn’t talking to you anyway.”

Gameroz came out of his seat before the rest of the flying squad could restrain him. “What did you call me you, pendejo?!”

Kristen was opening the door to the wardroom when she heard what sounded like a riot erupt back in the Wolf’s Den. She immediately turned back toward the sound of trouble. It took only a few steps to reach the mess deck where she found complete pandemonium. Most of the crewmen were pressed up against the bulkheads and cheering on the combatants. In the center of the crew’s mess, a small host of men were wailing away. In the center of it she recognized Gameroz, one of her men, going at it with a blond-haired, corn-fed giant. She had no idea what had caused the sudden uproar but knew it was her job to stop it.

“Break it up,” she shouted as best she could, wishing she had a set of lungs like COB. She grabbed a sailor who was preparing to throw a punch, pulled him aside, and stepped into the middle of the fray. Seeing an officer suddenly in their midst, those not involved headed for the nearest exit. But at the aft entrance to the mess deck, COB and O’Rourke appeared as Kristen reached the center of the maelstrom. She saw Gameroz land a powerful uppercut to the bigger man’s jaw which caused him to stand up straight, but the big man didn’t go down. Instead, he reared back to give Gameroz a shot. Thoughtlessly, Kristen grabbed the big man’s forearm.

COB and O’Rourke were shouting for everyone to break it up and wading into the scene as the big man, not realizing who’d grabbed him, swung back with his free arm. Kristen never saw the elbow, but she felt its impact as it struck her hard on the left cheek.

For a brief second her whole world exploded in blinding pain, and she saw stars. Staggering back, she caught her heel on a chair leg and went down. She hit the deck hard, landing on her butt before falling back. Her left hand shot to her cheekbone, expecting to find blood flowing. There was no blood—thank God—but she had to shake her head clear before she could get back up. As she opened her eyes, she saw that the entire mess deck had become deathly silent.

Every eye was now wide open in shock and staring right at her. Even COB and O’Rourke had frozen in mid step. They were looking at her as if she’d sprouted a second head. She then saw the man who’d struck her. He was towering over her, his fists clenched, but the color had drained from his face, and he looked as if he were staring down at his own grave.

“That’s it, Randle!” COB barked with his gravelly voice which sounded more menacing than Kristen had yet heard it. “You’re fuckin’ dog meat.”

Kristen slowly got back to her feet, finding a friendly pair of hands helping her up. She turned her head and saw Gibbs—the ever present Gibbs—helping her to a chair.

“Here you go, Miss,” he said with deep concern in his eyes. He handed her a rag filled with ice. “We’d better get some ice on that before it starts swelling.”

COB and O’Rourke cleared out the mess deck in seconds and separated the two main combatants. Gameroz stood in a corner, his eyes still filled with fury as he glared menacingly at Randle. The broad-shouldered torpedoman’s mate stood in another corner, looking as compliant as a lamb.

“It was an accident, I swear!” Randle offered hopefully.

“I’ll show you an accident, madres!” Gameroz snapped angrily, clearly not yet finished with Randle. He took a step forward, but O’Rourke planted the palm of his hand against the fiery Latino’s chest and pushed him back.

“He started it,” Randle offered lamely.

Kristen held the ice to her throbbing cheek. Beside her, kneeling down, Gibbs glared at Randle as if he were ready to start fighting himself.

“That’s right, maricon,” Gameroz responded menacingly, still anxious to get at Randle. “And I’m going to finish it.”

“Gameroz! Shut the fuck up!” COB barked like an angry junkyard dog, finally silencing the irate sailor.

“I swear, COB,” Randle almost pleaded. “I didn’t know who it was.”

“I don’t give a red piss,” COB snapped angrily. “The Blade is going to have your nuts when he gets back on board!”

It was now just the six of them in the Wolf’s Den. Even the mess men in the galley had cleared out. Randle was visibly shaking. “COB, please,” he begged. “It was an accident.”

“Forget it, shitbird,” COB replied. “Save your sob story for The Man. See how he takes it.”

Kristen’s head had finally cleared, although she was still seeing stars in her left eye. Randle’s elbow had caught her square on the cheek, but the entire left side of her face was stinging. “Hold on a second, COB,” she cut in.

The gruff old chief turned toward her. “You just rest, Miss,” he said respectfully. “We’ll handle this dirt bag.” He looked back at Randle. “My only regret is that once the Blade gets finished with you, there won’t be anything left for me.”

“COB, no!” Kristen insisted.

“Just take it easy, Miss,” Gibbs suggested.

Kristen lowered the rag containing the ice and stood up, facing COB. “You can’t tell the Skipper.”

COB and O’Rourke looked at her as if she was being naïve. “Miss Whitaker, this shitbird isn’t worth your time. Now, just go see the Doc and have him take a look at that eye. We’ll handle this.”

Kristen shook her head. “COB, I don’t care about him,” she replied referring to Randle. “Do with him what you want, just don’t involve the captain.”

“What are you getting at, Lassie?” O’Rourke asked from where he was still keeping an eye on Gameroz who looked to have killing in mind.

“The captain has enough on his plate getting the boat ready for sea, meetings at headquarters, and phone calls from everyone in the chain of command demanding he expedite repairs. He doesn’t need this drama.” This wasn’t the entire reason Kristen wanted to keep the incident from the captain. She didn’t trust him, and she’d been unable to handle a simple matter of two crewmen fighting. He might very well use this as an excuse to be done with her.

COB shook his head as if she were being foolish. “Oh, trust me, Miss. The skipper is gonna know about this.”

“Not if we don’t tell him,” she replied, hoping she might be speaking the truth.

“Wishful thinking, Lassie,” O’Rourke chimed in. “The Blade’ll know. And when he finds out, he’ll gut Randle and the three of us if we try and cover this up.”

“COB,” Kristen reasoned. “The captain is under enough pressure right now. You’ve seen what’s going on. He doesn’t have time for this kind of nonsense. Besides….”

“Besides what?” COB asked.

Kristen forced a wiry smile on her face, doing her best to hide the throbbing pain. “Since when can’t a couple of Chiefs inflict more punishment on a wayward seaman than a commanding officer?” It was a challenge, and she knew it. But the last thing Kristen wanted was to draw more attention to herself, and if the captain learned of this, there would be far more attention than she wanted.

“I got a better idea, COB,” Gameroz offered. “Lock me and this pendejo in the paint locker.”

“Shut up, Gameroz,” COB said, his voice now calm. He took a couple of steps toward her and stopped just a foot away, lowering his voice. “Listen, Miss. I understand what you’re trying to do. But there’s no way in hell we can keep this from the skipper. He will find out.” COB’s tone made it seem like an absolute certainty.

“Maybe,” she admitted. “But I’d like to try and keep him out of it. You and Senior Chief O’Rourke can handle Randle as you see fit. If the captain finds out and gets angry, I’ll take the heat for it.”

COB hesitated, his eyes still studying her face. He glanced over at O’Rourke who just shook his head in disagreement. But COB relented. “All right, Lieutenant. We’ll try it your way. But, I suggest that after you have Doc take a look at that shiner, you get back to engineering and make yourself scarce. If the skipper spots you, then the jig’s up.”

“Whatever you say, COB,” she agreed with relief.

Headquarters, Submarine Development Squadron-5, Bangor, Washington