Seawolf Mask of Command (37 page)

“Contact bearing, two-seven-eight,” she announced as she picked up the first distinguishable sound.

“That should be a biological,” Fabrini told her. “We classified it earlier.”

Kristen nodded and looked back at a dry erase board with current contact information. She should have already done this, but it had slipped her mind. She turned back to her station and continued checking the sounds not yet identified.

It was slow and tedious, with the vast majority of sounds being natural ocean background noise such as schooling fish or whales singing to one another hundreds of miles away. The ocean was an incredible medium for carrying sound waves, and a chief she’d met at the basic course had told her about listening to whales mating off the Azores Islands while he was still off the coast of Florida several thousand miles away.

But the work was exactly what Kristen needed to get her mind off the pain in her arms and the recent near disaster. She had to concentrate completely, shutting out everything from her mind except the sound.

“Contact!” she called out thirty minutes later. “Transients bearing two-zero-five,” she reported to Fabrini.

The Petty Officer immediately sent the contact report to the control room where Brodie was. A moment later the
Seawolf
went to general quarters, with all hands going to their battle stations for the simulated torpedo attack.

“What does it sound like, Hicks?” Fabrini asked.

Hicks was on the classification stack and not yet focused on the bearing Kristen had given. He shook his head. “I don’t have it yet.”

Fabrini looked down toward Greenberg who was on the spectrum analyzer. “Whatcha got, Jimmy?”

Kristen glanced toward Greenberg who was staring at his own screen but shook his head. “Nothing yet.”

Kristen turned back to her waterfall displays and made a few minor adjustments to her system.

“Are you sure, Lieutenant?” Fabrini asked, clearly trusting his more experienced sonar operators over her.

Senior Chief Miller returned to the sonar shack as Kristen worked to identify the sound. She vaguely heard Fabrini explain to the Chief that, thus far, she was the only one who’d heard it. Kristen knew they doubted her, but she was equally certain of what she’d heard.

Miller reached across her and plugged in a second set of headphones so he could listen to exactly what she was hearing. Kristen made a slight adjustment. He then reached across her and, without asking permission, made another adjustment. “There’s something there all right,” Miller replied. “Damn faint though,” he added. Again they checked with Greenberg, but he’d yet to pick it up.

“What do you make of it, Lieutenant?” Miller asked.

Kristen concentrated, trying to recall the thousands of hours of tapes of ship sounds she’d listened to while stationed at Pearl Harbor. She’d downloaded literally every undersea noise the US Navy would give her access to, and she’d listened to every one of them. She glanced up at Miller. “Single screw, with four blades…” she paused, concentrating a little more. “But there is something else, like maybe a grinding noise along the shaft.”

Kristen saw Fabrini raise a questioning eyebrow, and Miller looked a little skeptical as well. “Are you sure about that?” Miller asked.

“That’s what it sounds like,” she answered.

“Got it, Chief!” Greenberg almost shouted. “Single shaft, blade count sounds about right. It’s still far off though.”

Convinced, Miller nodded his head in approval. “Good job, Lieutenant.”

With the initial bearing firmed up, the
Seawolf
executed a forty-five degree turn and they were able to get a second bearing with which to calculate a range. Once this was determined, Kristen knew the tracking parties in the control room would begin preparing a firing solution.

The exercise lasted for two hours as the
Seawolf
closed with its practice target, allowing Kristen a chance to work all of the sonar stations in a realistic wartime scenario. Of course, Miller was quick to remind them, the
USS Frank Cable
was hardly a difficult target for the
Seawolf.
“An
Akula
is fifty times quieter, and we won’t get no second chances with one of them,” he warned the sonar crew.

The crew secured from general quarters once they were within five miles of the submarine tender, and Kristen, fatigued after the mentally demanding time in sonar, removed her headphones and stood up to stretch. She was raising her arms over her head and trying to get the blood flowing back into her rear end, when the door opened and Brodie appeared.

Kristen lowered her arms instantly. She wasn’t supposed to be in sonar, and she certainly couldn’t explain why she’d left sickbay early. She braced herself for a painful rebuke as he looked at her with an accusatorial eye. “Good afternoon, Captain,” she greeted him stoically.

“Imagine my surprise,” he replied with a quizzical smile. Brodie stood in the door, his broad shoulders blocking her only path of retreat. “Good job on picking up the tender, Chief,” Brodie said to Miller, who was leaning against a bulkhead.

Miller responded by nodding his head toward her. “Thank the lady, Skipper,” he informed Brodie. “She was on the narrowband and picked it up at near forty-five miles distant.”

Brodie raised a curious eyebrow in her direction. “That’s impossible,” he replied flatly.

“No shit, sir,” Miller responded. “She even identified a damaged propeller shaft on the
Frank Cable.”

Brodie shook his head. “That’s not what I meant, Chief,” he explained. “You see, Lieutenant Whitaker is on light duty and so shouldn’t be in here classifying anything.”
As if being directed, Kristen heard a chorus of sonarmen rise to her defense and offer to take credit for picking up the
Frank Cable
instead of her. It struck her as funny, and she couldn’t help but smile and bit her singed lips to try and hide it.

“All right, all right,” Brodie surrendered, ending the banter. He then motioned for Kristen to follow him. Once out of the sound room, he paused and turned toward her. “I don’t suppose restricting you to quarters is a just reward for saving the boat. What do you think, Lieutenant?” He was teasing her, and she’d learned that he only toyed with crewmen and officers he liked or respected. With those like Martin, he was always pure business.

“I’m sorry, Captain. I was just bored sitting around doing nothing. And if Gibbs brought me one more home remedy for burns, I was going to scream.”

Her reference to Gibbs was rewarded with a knowing smile. “He can be a little protective,” Brodie agreed as he led her into the control center. “But loyalty has always been a quality I admire.”

“Mister Gibbs is certainly that,” Kristen agreed.

“All right,” he said as he turned to face her. Kristen saw that COB and Weps were already dressed in rain jackets, harnesses, and buoyancy compensators in preparation for going on deck. “During the evolution, you can station yourself here on the bridge and help Ryan with navigation.” This sounded good, but really meant doing nothing since the
Seawolf
wouldn’t need the plotting tables while tied up alongside the
Frank Cable.

“Thank you, sir,” she replied, knowing he was giving her a job, but that job would guarantee she couldn’t exert herself. She must not have been able to hide her disappointment sufficiently, because he raised an eyebrow at her again.

“It’s either that or I have the Master-at-Arms escort you to your quarters. You decide.”

“I would be pleased to assist Lieutenant Walcott, sir,” she replied in defeat.

“Good girl,” he said as Gibbs appeared carrying a full inclement weather suit for Brodie.

“I was told it’s raining topside, Skipper,” Gibbs informed him as he offered Brodie the rain trousers. Brodie declined and took just the jacket. Kristen stepped aside as Brodie went to the periscope pedestal, reminding her of Cary Grant in the movie
Destination Tokyo.

“Up periscope,” Brodie ordered.

Graves was beside him as Brodie began a three hundred sixty degree surface search. The image he was seeing was displayed on a television monitor bolted to the bulkhead.

“It looks all clear, Skipper,” Graves reported, watching the screen.

“All clear, Captain,” Ryan Walcott agreed.

Ever since the
USS Greeneville
had surfaced and accidentally rammed the Japanese fishing vessel
Ehime Maru
in 2001, US submarine captains began taking extra precautions before surfacing, even when in the middle of the ocean as the
Seawolf
currently was.

Brodie took his eyes out of the scope, and the periscope slipped back down into its housing. He’d had it above the surface for less than five seconds. He then grabbed a microphone connected to a speaker above his head and pressed the switch. “Sonar, con. Report all contacts.”

“Con, sonar. Our only active contact is the
Frank Cable,” came the reply a moment later from the sound room.

“All right then,” Brodie said calmly and glanced at the clock. It was precisely 1945. “Chief of the Watch, surface the ship.”

“Surface the ship, aye, sir,” the Chief of the Watch echoed his command automatically.

As soon as the bridge above broached the surface, Brodie leapt up onto the ladder leading up through the sail with the grace and athleticism of a dancer. He was immediately followed by his bridge crew. Kristen watched the men go up, wishing she could be going up with them. She’d always wanted to be on a submarine’s bridge on the surface at night. As a child, she’d dreamed about it.

But no sooner had she had this thought, than a small shower of cold seawater came crashing down through the open hatch. She heard a couple of the men following Brodie groan as the cold water struck them, but could have sworn she heard Brodie cackling like a little kid on a playground.

Kristen stood by the two navigation tables and watched the events unfold before her. Graves, who stayed in the control room, kept an eye on everything as Brodie, on the bridge, sent down instructions regarding course and speed. It took less than thirty minutes for the
Seawolf
to tie up along the submarine tender, and as soon as they were secured, things got very busy.

In less than five minutes, the first SEALs came on board, carrying their heavily laden bags of equipment, cases of ammunition and what she assumed were explosives. The SEALs she saw moving forward to the torpedo room were an eclectic assemblage at best. There was no set uniform, and it appeared they each wore a hodgepodge of whatever struck their fancy. Mustaches and beards were prevalent, as was a certain air of confidence.

As she watched them moving back and forth, she spotted one particularly nasty looking one. He was short, at about 5-8, but he had a barrel for a chest and arms as big as her waist covered with tattoos. He was certainly physically intimidating, but his eyes looked almost lifeless, and his deeply tanned face reminded her of leather. As he passed by, he shot her a look that made her feel like he was measuring her for a coffin.

Kristen considered just what these warriors’ mission might be. They were certainly a lethal looking bunch, and she was thankful that whenever they went ashore to cause whatever trouble they were looking to get into, she would be safe and sound on the
Seawolf.

“Jason, this is Brodie,”
Kristen heard the captain’s voice over a squawk box.

“Yes, sir?” Graves answered.

“Is Lieutenant Whitaker still in the con?”

Graves looked her way and then answered that she was.

“Ask her to come up,”
Brodie ordered.

Graves gave her a nod which she clearly understood, and she headed for the ladder leading to the bridge at the top of the sail. Kristen had no idea what Brodie wanted, and the possibility that he might just want to talk to her was a fantasy she didn’t dwell upon. Instead, she thought he might consider a chance to see the heavens after two weeks underwater a bit of a reward. Regardless, she raced up the ladder as quickly as her blistered arm would allow.

She reached the bridge and was immediately struck by the darkness. She’d expected the bright lights of the
Frank Cable
to be bathing the
Seawolf
in a brilliant glow. But instead, it was pitch black with no lights visible.

“Coming up,” she warned the men on the bridge.

“Come up,” she heard the voice of Petty Officer Second Class Eric Reynolds. He was one of the two men Brodie used routinely to handle the radios and other communications while on the bridge.

Kristen could see nothing at first, but she soon felt a pair hands directing her. “Right here, ma’am,” Reynolds offered as he leant her a hand.

Kristen climbed up and found her footing in the inky blackness. The rain had stopped, but thick clouds obscured the stars. “Thank you, gentlemen. I was told the captain needed to see me.”

“Up here, Lieutenant,” she heard Brodie’s voice. He was standing on the sail directly behind the bridge.

Kristen climbed up on the sail, feeling both Collins and Reynolds gingerly trying to help her up.

“Watch out for her injuries, boys,” Brodie warned. Kristen then felt a powerful hand grip her outstretched hand, and she was nearly lifted up the rest of the way.

“Watch your footing, Lieutenant,” Brodie warned. “It’s a little slippery up here.”

Kristen could barely make out Brodie’s shoulders even though he was close enough she could feel his warmth. His hand moved behind her, slowly guiding her away from the edge. As he did so, she became aware of a second man on the sail. He was tall, taller than Brodie, and his shoulders were just as broad. Her first thought was that he was one of the SEALs.

“I was told you needed me, sir,” she reported. Brodie’s hand was still lingering near the small of her back, as if ready to catch her if she should begin to fall. He didn’t touch her, but every time the submarine rocked gently in a wave, she felt his hand there.

Brodie began by introducing their guest, “Lieutenant Whitaker, this is Lieutenant Commander Fitzgerald from the Naval Mine and ASW Command out of Corpus Christi.”

Kristen was shrouded in darkness, and she hoped her expression was not visible as she felt her body tense in revulsion at hearing the man’s name. Almost instantly she tasted bitter bile in the back of her throat. There was a long pause as she recovered sufficiently to form words.