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But that kind of fuck up seemed unlikely in the nav’s ruthlessly ordered, organized world. Jabo had heard that at the academy, visitors weren’t allowed to see a midshipman’s dormitory room. Instead, they had a “model” room complete with neatly made racks and ownerless uniforms hung in the wardrobe. That’s what the nav’s stateroom seemed like, right down to his polished oxfords awaiting the return to port sticking out from his bed, right next to a pair of unblemished Nike running shoes that looked right out of the box.

A slight buzz went through Jabo’s mind. He checked his watch; he still had eight minutes before he was supposed to meet with the navigator and the captain. He left the stateroom, clipboard still in his hand, and began walking aft.

• • •

The navigator stormed out of his stateroom, disappointed that he couldn’t actually drag Jabo before the captain. Jabo was long overdue for a humbling, and the nav was more than willing to deliver it. He knew the captain and the XO loved the guy, but there’s no way even they would abide him digging through his stateroom, looking at his personal belongings. Jabo should be disciplined; he could have insisted upon it. It was flagrant disrespect, insubordination. But there was no time.

As he rounded the corner from the staterooms, he saw a flash of khaki going down into Machinery One. It was something that got your attention at this point in patrol; everyone, officer, chief, and enlisted, were all wearing identical blue poopies. It didn’t surprise him; he was overdue for a briefing with the dark commander. He glanced around to see if anyone else had seen him. The only other person around was a young sailor reading the plan of the day, trying to avoid eye contact. The nav hurried down the ladder.

• • •

The commander was waiting for him in machinery one, sitting on a stool at the foot of the diesel engine. He had his legs crossed in a strange way; the nav thought maybe his posture was the result of an injury, some earlier encounter with the enemy. He was smoking an odd, wrinkled looking cigarette, one the nav thought was perhaps hand-rolled, or a product of wartime austerity.

“Is your plan in motion?” he asked.

“Yes sir,” said the navigator. “It’s too late to do anything now.”

“You seem upset by that. Are you having second thoughts?”

“No,” said the nav. “This has to be done.”

“That’s right. Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do. Things other people may condemn. But they still have to be done.”

“Yes sir.”

“So, your plan is adequate this time? No more half-ass measures?”

“No sir. It’s adequate. The ship won’t survive.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positive,” said the navigator. “It will all be over soon. In minutes.”

The commander nodded and smiled at that. He shut his eyes and took a deep drag from his cheap-looking cigarette, the tip glowing bright red. “No one knows?” he asked without opening his eyes.

“It’s too late to do anything about it anyway,” said the Nav.

The commander eyes flew open and he looked at him sharply. “Does anyone know?”

“No one knows.”

“I think you’re mistaken.”

“No one knows!”

“One person knows. And we know from past experience that he is weak. You need to get rid of him before that weakness betrays us, and ruins the plan.”

The navigator was at first confused. But then he realized that the commander was

talking about him.

• • •

Hallorann sat on the edge of his rack and looked through his qualification book for the millionth time. Like most new men, when a page was full, with every signature block signed, he laminated it with a sheet of plastic, a necessity for a book that was carried next to your body for hour after sweaty hour. It was also a measure of progress, and Hallorann’s book only had two un-laminated pages remaining. He had everything about the book memorized, every signature, every question he’d answered to get the signature. He knew which signatures he’d really earned, the areas and systems on the boat that he really understood: sonar and the main ballast system were his best. And he knew which ones were harder for him to understand: the reactor, which still seemed like some kind of black magic to him, a perpetual motion machine that really worked.

But most of all, he knew which signatures he had left to get. He’d made amazing, rapid progress, and it had been noticed. But that also meant that his questioners were less apt to give him a pass on anything. He was supposed to be hot shit, and they all wanted to see it for themselves. And one of the biggest blocks that was left was the diesel.

His confidence was high as he approached the ladder that would take him down into the torpedo room and Machinery One, home of both the diesel and the battery. As he rounded the corner, however, the navigator was hustling toward the same ladder, a grim look on his face. Hallorann hesitated and let the navigator pass, turning to pretend to read the posted Plan of the Day.