Seawolf Mask of Command (4 page)

“Do you know him?” Martin asked as he led her to the captain’s cabin, taking a circuitous route to avoid some work gangs. They passed through the control center which was, like the rest of the submarine, filled with personnel—civilian and military—working feverishly to get the boat ready for sea.

“Only by reputation,” Kristen replied. After receiving her orders, she’d taken time to learn all she could about her new captain. There was hardly a submariner alive who hadn’t heard of the enigmatic skipper of the
USS Seawolf.
He was considered, hands down, the finest fast-attack boat skipper currently in the service. While serving on Admiral Beagler’s staff in Hawaii, Kristen had access to reports on all the submarines operating in the Pacific, and she’d noticed that the hairiest assignments had always gone to the
Seawolf,
mainly because of Brodie. “They say he’s the best,” she added, trying not to gawk too much as she moved through the control room.

Her flesh was still tingling with excitement as she moved aft into “officer country.” Kristen had studied the schematics of every submarine currently in service, and she knew the captain’s quarters were the closest to the command center, allowing him direct access to the “bridge.” A brass plaque on the door leading to his cabin verified her assumption, and Martin paused a discreet distance from the door while Kristen turned, placing her back against the bulkhead. She was still looking forward at the command center, trying to hide her schoolgirl excitement at finally being on board. She’d been conscious of multiple pairs of eyes following her with—at best—curious expressions as she’d moved through the submarine. She felt as welcome as the plague, despite what Martin had said on greeting her.

She’d expected nothing less. The squadron commander hadn’t even tried to hide his discontent at her being assigned to his command. He hadn’t bothered to welcome her and had made it clear he expected her to be begging for a transfer within a month.

Martin was still talking, something he hadn’t stopped doing since she’d met him, and she found herself tuning him out as she absorbed the flurry of sights and sounds around her. But she refocused her wayward attention on Martin as he explained why everything looked so hectic. “The
Seawolf
just returned from a patrol and was scheduled for a refit and complete systems upgrade,” he explained. “But we received word a week ago that COMSUBPAC wants us back at sea right after the first of the year.”

That was less than a month away, hardly enough time to complete a full refit, not to mention enough time to allow the crew the expected rest between deployments. Kristen was fully aware of the
Seawolf
being rescheduled to return to sea as soon as possible. She’d been in the headquarters at Pearl Harbor when Admiral Beagler had ordered it. Not that she had access to their orders.

“I mean, it hardly seems fair, right?” Martin asked in a barely audible whisper. “There’re other submarines in the fleet that haven’t just come off deployment.”

She studied Martin, wondering what he knew about the situation. As a “special projects” officer assigned to COMSUBPAC responsible for studying the latest Chinese submarine technology and sonar capabilities, she’d enjoyed nearly universal access to intelligence reports, and she felt she understood exactly why the
Seawolf
was needed back at sea.

The
Seawolf
wasn’t just any submarine. With the
Jimmy Carter
damaged and the
Connecticut
laid up in dry dock, the
Seawolf
was the best the US Navy currently had to offer. She hadn’t been privy to the
Jimmy Carter’s
mission; only Admiral Beagler and his operations officer had known the details.

“I’m just glad I made it before you fellas left without me,” she replied honestly. The possibility that she’d been assigned to the
Seawolf
with full knowledge that if she’d taken her full leave period, she would have missed the boat’s sailing occurred to her, and she wondered if this was just another ploy by the Navy to keep her off an operational boat.

“Yeah,” Martin replied unconvincingly. “I mean, when I heard I was coming to the
Seawolf
I was overjoyed.” By the expression on his haggard face, whatever joy he’d felt had faded.

Kristen noticed him glance toward the captain’s doorway, and she thought she saw a glimmer of anxiety flutter over his face.

“A word of advice: try not to piss him off,” he warned as he looked back at her nervously.

Kristen had no intention of doing so, but then again she’d never intended to infuriate virtually every submarine officer in the Navy. But within months of her decision to challenge the Navy’s policy regarding women on subs, nearly every friend she knew had forsaken her and she’d become a pariah among her fellow officers. She couldn’t remember another commanding officer besides Admiral Beagler who had treated her with at least civility, and she didn’t expect any from the skipper of the
Seawolf.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” she replied to Martin’s warning. “What’s he like anyway?” she asked as she did her best to straighten out her soaked uniform. She again cursed herself for not having brought an umbrella. The captain would—more than any other officer in her chain of command—have the greatest impact on her career, such as it was. So a first impression was important. Kristen caught a hint of her reflection in a stainless steel panel and thought she looked like a half-drowned cat.

So much for first impressions.

Martin was about to answer her question when the door opened. Martin came to attention reflexively. He was nervous, and Kristen felt her own sense of foreboding. She briefly wondered if the captain might treat her fairly but dismissed the thought a moment later as ridiculous. He would hate her. She expected it and steeled herself for the encounter.

“Get the fuck out, shitbird!” she heard a cold, merciless, gravelly voice order from inside the cabin.

A seaman appeared a moment later. He nearly tripped over the bottom of the doorway in his haste to exit the cabin. Whatever rank he’d been before entering the cabin Kristen couldn’t tell. Where his rank had been sewn on the sleeve of his uniform coat, there was now a patch of new-looking fabric under where the insignia had been cut off. In addition to this, the seaman—who was about six-two and of average build—had clearly been weeping. His eyes were bloodshot and there were still tearstains on his ash-white cheeks. Kristen came to attention herself while the seaman rushed away, as if fleeing the scene of some calamity.

“Oh, boy,” she whispered under her breath and prepared herself for what she assumed would be another less-than-inviting welcome.

A moment later another man appeared in the doorway. He was dressed in grease-stained overalls, but his rank insignia left no doubt who he was. He was a master chief petty officer. He was short and stocky, his sleeves were rolled up to show powerful arms covered in tattoos, and he had a bit of a gut on him. But the look on his face reminded her of a junkyard dog, and the name stitched on his uniform was Lawhorn. Kristen knew immediately that this man was the Chief of the Boat, or COB for short.

The salty chief watched the disbarred seaman before turning and seeing Martin. Kristen thought she saw a hint of disapproval in the man’s dark eyes as he looked at the young ensign before turning his attention to her. Kristen felt the man’s hard eyes upon her, but she didn’t shrink from it or wilt. She’d been through much worse than a disgruntled chief.

“Well, what have we here?” he asked with a gravelly voice. She’d never been good at reading people—something she considered just one of many flaws she fought hard to conceal from the world—but she thought his tone turned from harsh to—dare she believe—polite?

“This is Lieutenant Whitaker, COB,” Martin answered for her.

COB shot Martin a look as if to say, “No shit.”

The Chief stepped clear of the doorway as another man appeared. He was tall, very tall. Kristen guessed he was about six-six. He was slender and dressed in khakis displaying his ribbons in addition to the coveted gold dolphin insignia signifying him as a qualified submarine officer. An odd addition to his uniform, however, was a second gold insignia, a special warfare qualification badge, signifying him as having at some time in his career been a SEAL. His skin was ink black, and his facial features were sharp, with angled cheekbones and clear eyes. His close-cut hair had some grey in it, and she noticed a Naval Academy ring on his right ring finger and a wedding band on the left. The nametag on his uniform read Graves, and he was a commander.

“What is it, COB?” Graves asked as he placed a hand on the Chief’s shoulder, but then saw her. A look of surprise crossed his face, but she wasn’t certain if there was malice or amusement in the expression. He considered her appearance, and she recognized a clear look of displeasure as he took in her dripping uniform.

“Humph,” Graves replied to his own question and ducked his head back into the captain’s cabin. “Skipper, she’s here.”

Kristen could pick up no hint of emotion from Graves regarding her. His tone was noncommittal. COB, however, had stepped across from her and paused for a brief moment to study her face. He looked tough enough to chew nails, and she guessed by the hint of disdain he showed Martin that he probably didn’t like junior officers.

He thoughtfully nodded his head, but said nothing as he studied her like he knew her. She briefly thought of her father, knowing she’d inherited his eyes. The grizzled chief might have known him. The submarine service was small, and everyone tended to know one another. He was certainly old enough to have served with her father years earlier. But COB said nothing, keeping his thoughts to himself.

Kristen didn’t hear anything from inside the cabin, but the tall, lanky commander stepped clear of the doorway and motioned her inside. As he did, Kristen noticed a slight gimp. There was something wrong with the commander’s right leg, causing him to move a little awkwardly.

“Report to the commanding officer, Lieutenant,” he ordered sharply.

Kristen was still a bit puzzled by the look COB had given her. It certainly wasn’t a look of welcome, but hadn’t been one of disdain like he’d shot at Martin. Instead, he’d looked… curious. COBs throughout the submarine service weren’t known to like officers, especially junior officers whom they considered worse than useless. Kristen ushered the idle speculation from her mind, took a deep, steadying breath and stepped forward.

“Aye-aye, sir,” she replied to the tall black man she assumed was her executive officer.

As she crossed through the threshold, she couldn’t help thinking about the way the seaman who’d just fled this cabin had looked. He’d been in captain’s mast for some disciplinary reason, and he’d left the stateroom nearly crying. Martin’s warning about not “pissing off the Blade” was resonating in her ears.

Captain’s Cabin, USS Seawolf

K
risten stepped past Commander Graves and through the doorway into the tiny cabin that served as both sleeping quarters and office for the commander of the
Seawolf.
Surface vessels normally had lavish accommodations for their captains with port cabins, at sea cabins, and separate office spaces as well as a private dining room. But like everything else on the submarine, a captain’s cabin was meant to provide the bare essentials and nothing more.

But even the austerity expected within a submarine paled when compared to the starkness of the cabin Kristen found herself in. She’d been in dozens of offices in her career and—without exception—they’d been decorated to taste with pictures and memorabilia decorating the walls. But this cabin had nothing that hadn’t been issued by the Navy. No pictures. No plaques. The walls were devoid of anything except the finish placed there by the Electric Boat Company in Groton, Connecticut.

She resisted the urge to look around and instead came to attention in the middle of the tiny cabin, facing the officer seated in a booth-style seat along the rear bulkhead. He finished shuffling some papers to the side, and she noticed a stack of classified briefing binders on the desk. She stood at rigid attention, painfully aware of the squeaking noise her loafers had made on the polished tile floor as she entered.

Kristen heard the XO step in behind her and close the door. Above her, she heard the hiss of an air conditioning vent. On one bulkhead, in the corner, there was a small communications suite and computer display. The air was fresh, chill, and oddly devoid of any odor she recognized. She could hear the gentle hum of the computer, but otherwise, the only sound she heard was the steady dripping of water as it struck the deck beneath her.

An umbrella. You had to forget an umbrella.

Her captain was seated on the bench at an angle so he could face her, his right elbow on the table and his chin resting thoughtfully on his right hand. He was a commander, like the XO, but as the commanding officer his title was Captain. Other than a simple wristwatch, he wore no jewelry she could see. He was dressed in khakis like the XO, except he wore no ribbons on his chest. This was a breach of regulations, but she wasn’t about to point it out. His dress was, like the cabin, the bare minimum and nothing more. Another oddity she would have to consider.