Polaris (5 page)

While the machine was turned off, a monitoring panel remained lit—a small diagram of the ship with a digital indicator for each of the three main compartments: forward compartment, missile compartment, and engine room. A selector knob allowed him to choose different attributes to measure: oxygen, carbon monoxide, and carbon dioxide. The oxygen level of the engine room and missile compartment was 20 percent—the number was in green, leading Pete to believe that was in the acceptable range. The forward compartment reading was lower and in bright red: 14 percent. Perhaps a result of the fire? The panel showed an open valve between the oxygen banks and each compartment, and Pete pictured an outlet somewhere dispensing the invisible, odorless air that they all needed to survive. But the oxygen banks, he saw, were severely depleted. One was completely empty, and the second was at less than one-quarter capacity. Could anyone onboard make that machine run and create new oxygen? Anyone who wasn't locked in an escape trunk? He continued aft.

Pete surprised himself by arriving at medical. It seemed like a lot of his memories were like that, trapped right below the surface. If someone had asked him how to find medical, he never could have described it. But wandering through the ship, thinking about everything else, he had found his way there.

The door was unlocked. He found a light switch but it did nothing when he flipped it. In the darkness, he could see locked glass cabinets containing gauze and bandages. He tried the doors, hoping he might procure some industrial-grade painkillers, but they were all locked, and despite the chaos that seemed to have descended upon the
Polaris,
he was reluctant to break into them and violate the thin glass and tiny locks that guarded them.

He walked farther into the room and began opening drawers until he found a thick roll of gauze and a pair of scissors. He started to fumble with the gauze but dropped it, and it rolled across the floor.

As he bent over to pick it up, he heard movement from the corner, and he flinched just enough to avoid a massive blow. It hit him on the shoulder rather than on his head, where it likely would have cracked his skull.

He rolled onto his back and quickly kicked the implement out of his attacker's hands—it was a small fire extinguisher. His attacker looked briefly like he wanted to say something, but Pete gave him no time. He sprang to his feet, punched his assailant quickly—twice in the kidneys—then threw him to the ground and put him in a merciless choke hold.

He felt the man tapping his arm, trying to speak. He let the pressure off his throat just enough.

“Pete…” he gasped. “It's me … Doc Haggerty.”

The name was familiar enough that Pete let him go, but he threw him to the ground and stood up, still unsure if he was friend or foe. He felt the gun in his pocket and resolved to use it if necessary.

“Jesus,” he said, rubbing his throat. “You nearly killed me.” He started to get up, but thought better of it, and sat on the deck while Pete looked him over.

“Who are you?” he said.

The man chuckled at first, but then saw he was serious. “Jesus, Peter. I'm John Haggerty. Ship's doctor. Your friend!”

Vague memories went through Pete's mind as he looked him over: the dark beard, the intelligent eyes, the professorial glasses. He seemed familiar enough that he reached down to help the doctor to his feet. The doctor warily took his hand.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“No,
I'm
sorry,” said Haggerty. “I didn't know what else to do when the mutiny started, so I came back here to guard my little domain.”

Pete nodded. “Trying to fix this,” he said, pointing to the gash on his head.

The doctor looked at him quizzically, and then went to work, skillfully binding up his wound. He looked Pete closely in the eye as he worked. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Pete decided that the time had come to trust someone. And this was the ship's doctor apparently—maybe he could help. He took a deep breath.

“I don't remember anything,” he said. “I woke up in a stateroom with this cut on my head, and a gun in my hand.”

“A gun?”

Pete nodded, and hesitated. “I think I shot Ramirez.”

The doctor took a moment to take this in, watching Pete carefully as he did.

“You really don't remember anything?”

Pete nodded.

“You could easily have some short-term amnesia—brought on by that blow to the head. Or, maybe, the trauma of killing your friend. Your memories will probably come back with time. And with rest.”

“How much of either of those am I likely to get?”

He nodded. “Good point.” He looked Pete over hard as he finished, snipping the tape that held the gauze in place. “So you don't remember our orders? Your mission?”

“Nothing,” said Hamlin.

The doctor sighed and leaned heavily against the wall. “Where do I start? You came here a month ago, sealed orders in hand. When you showed the captain, he brought me in—thought I might be able to help, given the nature of the mission.”

“Which is?”

“You really don't remember, do you?”

“I wouldn't be asking you if I did.”

“You carry the fate of the Alliance—and maybe the whole world—on your shoulders.”

“And now I don't remember a thing. Great.”

The doctor nodded grimly, and seemed ready to speak, when loud footsteps came down the passageway. Frank Holmes appeared at the door.

“You're needed forward,” he said to Pete. He ignored the doctor. “Captain Moody wants us both in the wardroom, now.”

“What about me?” said the doctor.

Frank smirked. “She didn't say anything about you. You can stay here.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and walked away.

Hamlin turned to Haggerty. “I guess I should go.”

He nodded in agreement. Just as Pete walked out, he stopped him. “Pete…”

“Yes?”

“Don't tell anybody what you've told me. Trust
no
one.”

Pete nodded at that, and followed the sound of Frank's footsteps ahead of him. As he did, a thought crossed his mind.
Why would the captain assign a doctor to help me?

 

WELCOME ABOARD THE USS
POLARIS

A Legacy of Freedom

COMMAND HISTORY

The USS
Polaris
is the first
Polaris
-class submarine, and the first ship to bear that name. She was named for the
Polaris
missile, the first submarine-launched nuclear missile, in honor of the contribution that weapon made to world peace during the Cold War.

The keel was laid on October 14, 2020, and the crew was formed in July 2023. On May 19, 2024, Irene Gilchrist, wife of the Honorable James Gilchrist, United States Representative from New York, christened the
Polaris
during launching ceremonies held in Groton, Connecticut.

Builders' sea trials were conducted between February and April 2025. Each sea trial set a record for efficiency, and the ship was delivered sixty-eight days early.

On May 25, 2025, USS
Polaris
was commissioned at Naval Underwater Systems Center, New London, Connecticut.

The ship then commenced shakedown operations and underwent shipwide inspections. The crew completed a Demonstration and Shakedown Operation (DASO), and launched the ship's first C-6 missile. In April 2026, the ship conducted its first strategic deterrent patrol.

In fall of 2028, the USS
Polaris
spearheaded a program to assist the community near its homeport in educating local schoolchildren on water-quality issues. “Water for Life,” as this program was christened, has become a landmark project involving local, county, and state agencies in a major cleanup of the area watershed.

On May 29, 2029, operational control of the USS
Polaris
was given to the Alliance, to aid in their mission of supporting democracy around the world.

 

CHAPTER SIX

Hamlin walked into the wardroom just behind Holmes. On the table was a pitcher of slightly gray-looking reconstituted milk and a dozen tiny boxes of cereal in a metal mixing bowl. Moody was waiting at the head of the table: the captain's chair.

“Gentlemen,” she said. “We've got some time before we get to the degaussing range. Wanted to get a quick status update. Frank?”

“You're looking at the entire crew. Not counting the doctor or the one locked in the escape trunk.”

“That's it then? Three officers. And a doctor somewhere.” She inhaled deeply. “Well, it'll be tough. The three of us can stay on the conn as much as possible. Use the automated systems when we can. We don't have much choice. Autopilot is driving us now, seems like that's working at least.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said Frank.

“And how are our systems?”

“Everything vital is running, with the exception of radio. Propulsion is good, all combat systems are good.”

“Oxygen is low,” interrupted Pete. They both looked at him.

“How low?” said Moody.

“Fourteen percent in the forward compartment.”

“Christ, no wonder I was falling asleep up there. Can we increase the bleed?”

“One bank is empty,” said Pete. “The other is less than twenty-five percent.”

“And none of us can operate that oxygen generator,” said Moody. “We'll just have to ventilate when we can.”

“Yes, ma'am,” said both Frank and Pete.

“One more thing,” said Moody, looking at Frank. “After the degaussing range, take Ramirez to the torpedo room—let's shoot his body overboard as soon as possible. Before long he'll start to … smell. Bad for morale. And we've already made an unholy racket—one body shot overboard won't matter much at this point. Do you need help?”

Pete froze, filled with dread that he might have to help move the body of his dead friend, the friend he killed.

“No,” said Frank as he smirked and involuntarily flexed his arms. “I can get him down there.”

“That's not what I meant,” said Moody, rolling her eyes. “Can you operate the torpedo tubes? Shoot him overboard?”

Frank bristled. “Of course,” he said. “I've operated those tubes a dozen times.”

“OK,” said Moody, doubt in her voice. “Just checking. Get help if you need it, just get it done. The sooner the better.”

“Do we want to do the whole burial-at-sea ceremony?” he asked.

“Absolutely not,” said Moody. “We won't ring any bells for a traitor.”

Frank stood and snapped to. “Aye aye, Captain. I'll do it right after we finish at the range.” He started to turn.

“Wait,” she said. “Grab a bowl.” She tossed a small box of cereal at him. “Let's eat dinner first.”

*   *   *

After a silent, quick dinner of slightly stale cereal and thin artificial milk, the three of them headed to the control room together.

Pete stepped up to the command console and took it in.

Their own ship was represented right in the middle of the screen by a small green silhouette of a submarine. Behind them, about two miles aft, an upside-down V represented their mysterious shadow submarine. And directly ahead of them were two bold, parallel lines. From the scale on the screen, Pete could see they were about five miles away.

“The degaussing range,” said Moody. “I was privy to this part of your orders. I'm assuming for the drones…”

“Yes,” said Hamlin. “To reduce our magnetic signature.”

It came back to him with a powerful clarity. Not only the mechanics of the degaussing run, but the entire control room as well. It came, he realized, from a different layer of memory than the one that had been somehow erased. It came from a thousand hours of practice in this very room, etched on his brain like acid on glass. For the first time since he'd awoken on his stateroom floor, he knew what was going on, what he was doing. The feeling was intoxicating.

He stood on a small raised platform in the middle of the control room: the conn. On each side of him were the polished steel cylinders of the two periscopes, both lowered into a forty-foot well beneath his feet. In front of him, Frank climbed into a large pilot's chair. At Frank's knees was a control yoke that would actually drive the ship. To the left of the yoke was an old-fashioned brass engine order telegraph he would use to control the ship's speed. Despite the gesture toward nostalgia with the brass control, Pete knew that it was an entirely automated system, channeling his orders for ship's speed directly to the engine room. And while Pete would give the rudder and depth orders from the position of command on the conn, Frank would actually be driving the ship from his seat, his hands on the controls.

Directly in front of Pete was a console with several selectable displays. Currently it showed the sonar display: the two bright parallel lines that marked the walls of the degaussing range, and the shadow submarine behind them. He could turn a switch, and the same screen could display the status of the drone cloud, sensed via a floating wire that trailed behind and above them, registering each drone as it passed. If he turned the switch yet again, he could read reports on all the ship's vital systems.

Where Frank could see them from the dive chair were the controls and indicators for the ship's non-tactical systems: the hundreds of pipes and valves that kept the ship and crew alive. The panel was speckled with yellow warning lights and a few red alarms. Pete couldn't read them from his perch on the conn, but he knew most of the alarms represented damage done by the mutiny. Of all the valves and controls, the most imposing were the two large yellow levers directly over Frank's head: the “chicken switches” that activated the ship's emergency blow system. They controlled a direct mechanical linkage that would fill the main ballast tanks with air and shoot them to the surface in the event of a severe emergency. It was the last-ditch safety measure they possessed, something they could use only once and only when nothing else would do, the submarine's equivalent of a fighter pilot's ejection seat. Both were designed to get vessel operators safely to the surface of the earth, albeit from different directions.