Phoenix Sub Zero

As dawn broke over the western basin. Phoenix continued her barrier search, turning to the south in the box pattern, the ship rigged for ultraquiet, the section tracking team manned and waiting in the control room, two torpedo tube doors open, two torpedoes powered up and ready.

Somewhere ahead of them the Destiny submarine hid, its weapons responsible for the death of over 120 men, their graves at the sea bottom fresh.

In the control room the watch had just been relieved, the ship smelling of eggs and bacon and coffee being served on the deck below. At the starboard chart table aft of the periscope stand Commander David Kane leaned over the chart, his submarine coveralls pressed, the American flag patches brand new, the embroidered gold thread of his submarine dolphins shining in the bright lights of the space. Kane walked a set of dividers across the chart and did a mental calculation. He looked as fresh as if he’d had twelve hours of sleep, but he had been awake over thirty hours, the only sign of his fatigue in his eyes — he blinked frequently when he was tired, and at the moment he was blinking rapidly.

Kane, forty, looked a vigorous thirty-five, tall and dark, his face tanned, his chin and cheekbones sculpted, his eyes penetrating and deep blue. He was lean and muscled from hours of working out at the pier gym in port, from running in place between the main engines at sea. Kane was an officer predestined for success, marked from his first year as a midshipman at the Academy. He was a three-striper, the company commander, the first semester of his senior year.

The second semester he had worn six stripes as brigade commander, the highest midshipman rank at Annapolis. Every formation he had stood before the tourist crowds, his gleaming sword drawn, his modelworthy looks giving the formations a surreal recruiting-poster quality.

His midshipman room for three years had had a large sign nailed to the wall, the sign stolen by his classmates from a mall boutique and presented with mock fanfare. It read not just another pretty face. But deep inside Kane sometimes had his doubts, wondering if he had made his achievements honestly. He had never taken his success for granted, had always gone the extra mile for the Navy, always pushing himself.

When he was thirty-seven he had been the youngest submarine captain on the Squadron Seven pier and on the entire east coast. To earn that job he’d given up shore duty between his navigator tour and his XO job, a decision that had nearly cost him his marriage. He had gone to great lengths to placate his wife, Rebecca, because he genuinely loved her but also because she was a large factor in his success. Becky was blonde and beautiful, had even posed for Playboy when Kane was a firstclass midshipman. At a late-night bull session, the copy of the magazine dogeared from the examination of the midshipmen, Kane was found staring at the photo spread. One of his classmates suggested he write the woman, and he had, enclosing not only photographs of himself as the six-striper, the brigade commander, but the beery and excessive testimonials of his friends. Amazingly she had written back, telling him she was a student at Hood College north of D.C. A year later they were married in the Academy chapel; a year after that they had their first child, the second on the way two years later. Through it all Becky had remained gorgeous, able to charm the most hardened admiral at the Navy functions. Kane thought about her often, missing her when he went to sea. And whenever the stress at sea rose to a high level, Kane reacted by thinking more and more about Becky; the act of thinking about her had become his own barometer of tension. The more he saw her face, the deeper the shit he was in. And he was thinking about her now almost nonstop.

Kane’s reflection was interrupted by the appearance of his executive officer, Commander Carl B. “CB” Mcdonne.

Mcdonne was a huge man, his blue coveralls stretching over a huge stomach; the crew joked behind his back that every single body part of Mcdonne was fat. His bulk was impressive; his head balding, his features rough and mismatched, his voice loud and caustic. Mcdonne noted with perverse pride that he was the “absolute ugliest officer in the Silent Service.” He filled every room he walked into with his nearly spherical body and his razor-sharp intelligence. CB Mcdonne was acknowledged by the crew to be “heavy,” the respectful submarine term for knowledgeable, but he could be arrogant too, with a sarcastic style. He might have been hated throughout the ship if not for his saving grace: his sense of humor was explosive and hilarious and irreverent.

When he felt the mood he could convulse a roomful of officers.

There were times when Kane was certain that the admiral in charge at navperscom who had sent him Mcdonne was a comedian — Kane could have searched the fleet for ten years and not found a worse match for his XO than CB Mcdonne.