Collapse Depth

“There are three groups of submarines to consider,” he explained. “The first and largest group is those still using the old refrigerant, R-114. They are obviously fine, and just need to cancel any plans they had for switching to R-118.” He allowed his audience to view a large list of submarines on the screen, then clicked his mouse and called up the next slide.

“The second group consists of those boats currently at sea that have already switched to R-118. There are only two, both out of Bangor.”

“Coincidence?” asked the Admiral. It was the first word he’d spoken.

“No sir. We decided to achieve the modification one squadron at a time, and Trident submarines, with their large refrigeration capacity, were made the top priority. The two boats are the Alabama and the Florida. I recommend we recall them both immediately.”

“The Alabama will not be recalled,” said the admiral. Everyone waited for him to elaborate, but he did not. As an engineering duty officer, Knight was once again intrigued by the secretive missions of the boats that he devoted his life to, even though they stubbornly refused to allow him, as an engineering duty officer, to know their mysteries.

“Well sir, there’s probably very little R-118 left onboard the Alabama anyway.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he snapped. “She’s staying at sea. The Florida we can discuss.” With that the most spirited debate of the morning began. Some argued that that while the incident on Alabama had been a disaster, it was probably a fluke, and that Florida could safely complete her patrol and switch out refrigerants in a normal refit. Others argued that now that disaster had struck, they had no choice but to correct the situation immediately: the position Knight advocated. Florida had only been at sea three days, was not yet alert, and with a long patrol ahead of them why take that chance? After ten minutes of arguments and counter-arguments, all heads turned to the admiral.

“Bring her in,” he said. There was no uncertainty in his voice, and Knight watched the officers who had advocated leaving Florida at sea squirm a little in their seats.

It was an unusual step, recalling a boat like that, and would require logistical mountains to be moved, but suddenly everyone agreed with the admiral that it was necessary and the calls were made to squadron and the machinery began to move to get Florida back to Bangor and get its new refrigerant replaced with the old. It was settled. “There is one other boat to consider,” said Knight.

“Enlighten us, lieutenant.”

“Alaska, sir. Also in Bangor. Just completed the modification to R-118 in refit, but she’s sitting at the Delta Pier.” Knight himself had been on the phone with Alaska’s engineer just days before discussing the change and how smoothly the operation had gone.

“Well that’s easy,” said the admiral. “Tell them to switch back.”

A message was composed and hurriedly sent to Squadron 17.

Lieutenant Dean Hysong was preparing for his last patrol on Alaska. He had decided to stay in the Navy, and had orders to the ROTC unit at Creighton, where he hoped to get an MBA on the navy’s tab during his two-year shore tour. As the most experienced junior officer in the wardroom, he was the DCA, or Damage Control Assistant, in charge of A-Gang. The refit was in its final days, and he was eager to get home, eager to be with his wife as much as he could. Of course, every man longed to be with his wife in those final days, but Dee Dee was unusually hot, unusually energetic, and unusually demanding in bed. It had been six days since he’d touched her, which was torture. But even worse, he knew soon he’d be gone for one hundred days or more, and every minute he spent on the boat pierside, while his wife waited for him at home, passing the time with crunches and leg lifts, seemed a crime against nature.

But Dean was happy because that night it seemed he might actually get off the boat in time to shower at home, screw his wife, and eat dinner. In that order.

He checked in a final time with the engineer, not quite saying he was getting ready to leave, but verifying that there was nothing preventing him from going home, no urgent problems demanding his attention. He skulked by the XO’s stateroom, to control, and actually had one hand on the ladder to freedom when the radioman spotted him. “Lieutenant Hysong?”

“I’m going home.”

“You might want to see this,” he said, arm extended with a clipboard.

“No. I really don’t.”

The radioman nodded sympathetically, and Hysong took it from him. He read it with increasing disbelief.

“They can’t fucking be serious.”

“Priority one, it says. Supposed to start tomorrow. The Freon truck is already on the pier.”