One of the sailors who was busy working on a portion of this cable network was a young woman.
Interestingly enough, there were several hundred women on board the tender, making it one of the most integrated ships in the entire fleet.
A section of the Hunley’s railing had been removed and replaced with a covered gangway that led down toward the waterline. Alertly perched at the top of this gangway was a denim-clad sailor with a Browning combat shotgun at his side. The slightly built enlisted man had a bristly brown moustache, and Aldridge readily identified him.
“Good morning, Seaman Avila.”
“Good morning to you, Captain. Welcome home,” returned Petty Officer Second Class Adrian Avila.
The bright-eyed Hispanic enlistee from Piano, Texas had been with the Cheyenne for six months, and was showing himself to be a bright, inquisitive young man, well on his way to qualifying for his silver dolphins.
“Who’s the current OOD?” questioned Aldridge as he began his way down the gangway.
“Lieutenant Laird, Sir,” answered Avila efficiently.
“Shall I let him know that you’re on the way down?”
“You needn’t bother,” said Aldridge with a shake of his head.
“The good lieutenant will know soon enough.”
Aldridge entered the submarine through a deck hatchway positioned just abaft of the sail. As he climbed down the ladder’s iron wrungs, the familiar scent of machine oil met his nostrils. All too soon, the direct light from above was blotted out as he continued climbing further downward into the Cheyenne ‘s artificially lit interior.
He continued on, straight to the officer’s wardroom.
Seated at his customary spot near the head of the table was his XO. Bob Stoddard was totally engrossed in the examination of a detailed bathymetric chart, and Aldridge stood there silently for a moment before announcing his arrival.
The wardroom directly adjoined the portion of the boat that contained the officers’ living quarters. It occupied a rather spacious compartment lined with woodgrain paneling. A single rectangular table was situated in the center of the room. Here the officers ate their meals, talked shop, and held court with other elements of the crew when necessary.
The chair at the head of the table was reserved for the captain. Hung on the bulkhead beside it was a large photograph showing a gently rolling plain, covered with brightly colored wild flowers and clumps of golden scrub. This picture had been taken outside the city of Cheyenne, Wyoming, their warship’s namesake.
Aldridge recognized the piece of music softly emanating from the wardroom’s stereo as being from the soundtrack to the movie, Lawrence of Arabia. Two months ago, while on leave in London, Bob Stoddard got the chance to see a newly edited, 70mm version of this classic movie. Infatuated by its exotic score, he purchased a tape of the recording, which he brought back to the ship and had since listened to religiously. Though Aldridge himself preferred jazz, he had to admit that he had grown quite fond of Maurice Jarre’s Academy Award winning score.
Most of the other officers also enjoyed it, prompting one of them to go out and buy a video tape of the movie for the Cheyenne’s film library.
The sudden entrance of Petty Officer Howard Mallott alerted the others to Aldridge’s presence.
The portly, bespectacled chief of the Cheyenne’s mess burst into the wardroom carrying a tray of food.
“Why hello, Captain,” said the personable master chef as he placed the tray beside the XO.
“Can I get you some lunch?”
With this, the XO looked up from the chart he was studying and cast a surprised glance on the boat’s commanding officer.
“Greetings, Skipper. I didn’t realize that you were aboard.”
“I just got here, XO,” replied Aldridge as he walked up to the table.
“What are your serving, Chief?”
“Turkey burgers, Captain,” answered Mallott proudly.
“It’s something new that I just got the recipe for. Half the cholesterol of beef, and just as tasty.”
Aldridge inspected the plateful of food that included mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli, and a gravy smothered turkey patty that looked much like a chopped beef steak. A slice of apple pie and a mug of black coffee completed this meal.
“Looks awfully good, Chief,” reflected Aldridge.
“Why don’t you go ahead and bring me a tray. But forget the pie. I’m carrying along a couple of extra pounds that I didn’t have when I left here last week, and the only dessert that I’m going to be having on this next patrol is an extra twenty-five sit-ups.”
“I’ll be back in a few minutes, Captain,” said Mallott, smiling. Aldridge was well known for his insistence on physical fitness.
Aldridge helped himself to a mug of coffee and sat down at the head of the table.
“Go ahead and eat while it’s hot, Bob. I’ll just have a look at this chart.”
While the XO cut into his meal, Aldridge commented, “Looks like someone’s planning to take the Cheyenne out to sea shortly.”
“I didn’t get a chance to tell you, Skipper,” managed the XO between bites.
“Our sailing orders came in about a half hour ago. We’re due out on this afternoon’s tide.”
“Then it looks like I got back here just in the nick of time,” added the Captain.
“Any hint as to why the rushed departure?”
The XO spooned down a bite of mashed potatoes before replying.
“The entire packet’s on your desk along with your other mail. It seems that Command needs us to shake up a NATO ASW exercise that’s currently taking place out in the North Sea.”
“That’s all fine and dandy, Bob. But is the Cheyenne ready to go on patrol right now? We were supposed to have until midnight tonight to finish up that Mkll7 modification and get the boat ready for SUBROC.”
“Everything’s been taken care of, Skipper. As we expected, Lieutenant Hartman has been right on top of those engineers. It looks like they’ll be done a couple of hours early, which means we can get those civilians off of here and still catch the late afternoon tide. I made certain that all personnel on leave were called in. In fact, I was just about to have the quartermaster track you down when you showed up here.”
“At least you weren’t going to set sail without me,” returned Aldridge with a wink.
“How’s that turkey?”
“Marvelous, Skipper. I would have never known it wasn’t beef unless Chief Mallott told me otherwise.”
“Did I hear someone mention my name?” interjected the chef as he arrived with another tray of food.
“Bon appetit, Captain.”
“I understand from the XO that you’ve got a winner with this turkey,” commented Aldridge.
“Nobody loves a thick, medium rare chopped beefsteak smothered with onions more than me, Mr. Mallott. So let’s see what this new recipe of yours is all about.”
Howard Mallott looked on as the captain picked up his fork and cut into the patty. The Cheyenne’s commanding officer smelled the piece he had cut off before putting it into his mouth and thoughtfully chewed.
“Well, what do you think, Captain?” expectantly asked the chief.
Without allowing his expression to reveal his verdict, Aldridge nodded.
“I’m impressed, Mr. Mallott.
Would you mind writing down the recipe for me?
My wife is going to love this dish.”
“With pleasure, Sir,” replied the beaming chef, who marched out of the wardroom thrilled by the captain’s compliment.
“Did Susan and Sarah get off on time?” quizzed the XO. He cleaned off his plate and went to work on his pie.
“They should be well on their way to Prestwick by now. Susan’s so well organized that they made the 10:15 ferry with time to spare. That should put them at the airport about ninety minutes before their flight to the States is scheduled to depart. Susan’s folks will be picking them up in Norfolk. But they’ve got a lo
t of territory to cover until then.”
Steven Aldridge chewed in reflective silence, his thoughts unexpectedly returning to the joy-filled week that he had just completed. The XO was content to polish off his pie and quietly sip his coffee.
While in the background, the graceful strains of Lawrence of Arabia filled the wardroom with the magic of the desert.
The spell was broken by the arrival of a short, stocky officer, who held a clipboard in his hand.
Lieutenant Andrew Laird was a relative newcomer to the crew. He was the boat’s navigator, and currently its OOD. It was in regard to this latter responsibility that he was presently functioning.
“Lieutenant Commander Stoddard, I have that personnel update that you requested,” offered the young officer stiffly.
The XO took the clipboard and hastily skimmed it.
“Well, you can scratch the Captain’s name off of the list of those we’re still waiting for, Lieutenant.
That leaves us only three crew members short.”
“Seamen Thomas and Crawford are on their way from Hunter’s Quay even as we speak, Sir,” replied the OOD.
“That just leaves us without Petty Officer Carter.”
“We certainly don’t want to leave for sea without our best man in sonar,” interrupted the captain.
“He should be here within the hour, Sir,” returned the OOD.
“I called the Glasgow telephone number he left us. A woman answered and said that Mr.
Carter left for Gourock on the eleven o’clock train.
That should put him in Dunoon at approximately one, Sir.”
“That’s still cutting it awfully close, Lieutenant,” said Aldridge.
“I want someone down at the ferry terminal with a car, right now. And if Carter’s not on that one p.m. boat, the driver’s to call in immediately.”
“Yes, Sir,” snapped the OOD.
Yet before Laird could leave to carry out this order, he had to field one more inquiry from the XO.
“I see that those four civilian engineers are still with us, Lieutenant. Will they be able to finish up in time, or will we have to take them out to sea with us?”
The OOD answered a bit hesitantly.
“I’m waiting for an update from Lieutenant Hartman, Sir. He promised to give me a definite time, but as of five minutes ago, I still haven’t heard from him.”
“Well then, get on it,” urged the XO.
“Otherwise you’re going to have to be the one to tell those civilians that they’ve been picked to be the exclusive guests of the USS Cheyenne for the next eight weeks.”
“I’ll do so at once, Sir,” said the OOD.
Only then did the XO return his clipboard, indicating that his audience here was over. As Lieutenant Laird disappeared through the forward hatch, the XO grunted.
“We’ll make a proper officer out of that kid yet.”
Steven Aldridge offered his own opinion of Laird’s competency while sipping his coffee.
“I don’t know, Bob. I think he’s coming along just fine. He’s only been with us less than two months, and don’t forget what it was like when you pulled your first patrol on a 688” The XO rolled his eyes back in their sockets.
“Guess I’m just turning into the same type of hard-nosed, insensitive taskmaster that I always despised when I first got into nukes ten years ago.”
“That, my friend, comes with the territory,” quipped Aldridge stoically.
“Now I’d better get back to my cabin and unpack, then I’ll get to work trying to put a dent in that paperwork that’s been piling up on my desk all week. See you topside when the tide turns, Bob.”
“I’ll be there, Skipper,” returned the Cheyenne’s second-in-command as he watched Steven Aldridge push away from the table to get on with his duty.
Two and a half hours later, both senior officers were gathered in the sub’s exposed bridge as promised.
The sun was peeking through the clouds as the USS Cheyenne engaged its engines and headed for the open sea.
With a patrol boat leading the way, the 360foot attack sub remained on the surface as it exited Holy Loch. The town of Dunoon soon passed on the starboard, and Steven Aldridge spotted the ferry that had conveyed his family across the firth earlier in the day just leaving its berth at Gourock on the opposite shore. Ever alert for any nearby surface traffic, the sub hugged the deepwater channel that would take it almost due south.
The large cement stack and trio of huge fuel storage tanks belonging to the Inverkip power station soon passed to their port, while the flashing beacon known as the Gantocks signalled the starboard extent of the channel. Beyond this beacon on the firth’s western shore rose a sloping, tree-filled hillside that culminated at the summit called Bishop’s Seat, 1,651 feet above sea level.
“Believe it or not, you can just make out Ailsa Craig with the glasses, Skipper,” observed the XO.
Putting his own binoculars up to his eyes, Aldridge soon enough spotted this distinctive volcanic-like formation splitting the channel up ahead.
“Well, I’ll be,” he muttered.
“That’s a good forty-seven miles away.”
“That’s certainly a first for me,” revealed the XO.
“Usually from here we’d be lucky enough to spot the
Cumbrae isles, or even Arran.”
Notorious for thick fogs, blinding rains squalls, and heavy winds, the Firth of Clyde was more often than not a navigator’s nightmare. But Steven Aldridge had already learned never to anticipate the weather in Scotland, as he found out during the glorious week just passed.
“I guess we should count our blessings, XO,” reflected the Captain.
“This transit looks to be one of the easiest yet. And it’s a tribute to the crew that we’re right on schedule.”
“They sure worked some miracles, Skipper. Although for a moment there, I didn’t think we’d ever get away on time. Lieutenant Hartman kept those engineers on board to the very last second. Those white shirts were sweating bullets, afraid that they’d have to go along with us. And as they were climbing up the gangplank to the Hunley, who passes them going the other way but Petty Officer Carter.”
“We can be thankful for that,” said Aldridge.
“Did anyone find out what held him up?”
The XO flashed a wide grin.
“Scuttlebutt says that our romeo in the sound shack met a comely little Gourock lass on the train down from Glasgow. Luckily she didn’t keep him in her apartment longer than an hour, or we’d be without his services.”
“I thought he already had a girlfriend back in Glasgow,” countered the Captain.
Again the XO snickered.
“From what I hear, Mr.
Carter attracts women like my wife collects bills.”
“He does have that certain air about him,” added the Captain, who looked up as a Boeing 747 airliner could be seen climbing into the blue heavens above the eastern shores of the firth.
Steven Aldridge knew that this plane originated in nearby Prestwick airport, and could very well be the one carrying his family homeward. And as the plane turned to the west and disappeared into a thick cloud bank, Aldridge found himself forming a silent prayer: that both of their long journeys would be safe ones.
Chapter Five
To the rousing strains of Greig’s Peer Gynt, the Bell 212 landed on the Falcon’s helipad. Jon Huslid had been seated in the copilot’s position, and made certain to compliment the helicopter’s attractive pilot before joining his teammates in the main cabin.
“That was a wonderful landing, Karl. Are you going to stick around the Falcon for awhile?”
The pilot answered while skimming the cockpit’s instrument panel.
“It doesn’t look that way, Jon.
Since the Chief hasn’t said any differently, it looks like I’ll be returning to Stavanger to get on with the job I was on my way to when they diverted me to Lake Tinnsjo.”
“Well, I hope that we
didn’t inconvenience you too much. God knows what Magne’s got in store for us here. Now don’t forget, I still owe you that photo session. Just name the time and place, and I’ll try my best to be there.”
“You’re on, Jon Huslid. I’d like to give my folks a decent portrait of me for the holidays.”
“With a face like yours, it won’t be hard to do,” remarked the grinning photographer. He unbuckled his harness and turned for the main cabin.
Karl Skollevoll was blushing as she watched him exit.
“Good luck, Jon. Don’t let the Chief talk you into doing anything that he wouldn’t do himself.”
NUEX’s co-founder flashed her a thumbs-up as he disappeared into the helicopter’s fuselage. Waiting for him in the main cabin were Jakob Helgesen and Arne Lundstrom. The black-haired Lapp was in the process of reaching for his dive bag, stored in an overhead bin, while his bearded coworker was stretched out on the cabin floor, sound asleep.
“Come on, Arne. Rise and shine,” prompted Jon.
Oblivious to this request, the bearded Telemark native continued his snoring unabated.
“Damn, Jakob. I hope that you didn’t have to put up with this racket all the way from Lake Tinnsjo,” remarked Jon.
The Lapp shook his head and pointed to his ears like he couldn’t hear the photographer’s words. Only then did he reach up and pull out his earplugs.
“You industrious northerners never fail to amaze me,” said Jon, who bent over to shake his sleeping colleague’s shoulder.
“Come on, sleeping beauty.
Snap out of it. We’ve got a job to do.”
This served to do the trick, and Arne groggily stirred and opened his eyes.
“Where the hell are we?” he questioned with a wide yawn.
Jon answered this query by grabbing hold of the cabin door and sliding it backward. A gust of cool, salty air surged inside, while the distant crashing of the North Sea swells against the Falcon’s hull provided an appropriate backdrop.
Jon and Jakob climbed outside onto the helipad, with their groggy coworker slowly bringing up the rear. The rotors of the Bell 212 were still spinning above them, and they instinctively ducked until they were well clear.
The Golden U-Boat Page 10
