Chapter 5: (v.4) Chapter 5

April 19, 2049

Naval Operating Base

San Diego, California

The left turn light illuminated and the Navy driver stepped on the gas, leaving Harbor Drive to join the several cars waiting in line to enter the huge naval base. Ahead was gate house 7 manned by Marines in full battle gear. The vehicle inched forward, then stopped when the guard raised his hand for her to stop.

Eileen Kemper, newly assigned to the MV Wanderer as civilian department head, leaned forward and held her ID pack out to the man. He glanced at it before saying, “Take it out of the sleeve, please.”

When she did, he scanned the back with a machine which sounded a tone. He handed the card back to her and waved the car through the gate with no further word.

Taking in her surroundings, she said to the driver, “I hope you know where we’re going. This place is huge.”

“I’ve been most everywhere on this base, ma’am. Pier 6 is almost dead ahead, behind those tall stacks.”

“Thank you.”

A left turn, followed by a quick right, gave Eileen a perfect view of their destination. Her future home, coated almost entirely in white, but with a broad blue stripe running lengthwise along the hull, was docked left side to the pier. The bow was nestled up and nearly touching the stern of a ship she thought only existed in the thrillers. It had sloping sides, was painted in deceptive gray and charcoal angles, and appeared to have very little superstructure.

When closer, the driver turned to face her and spoke. “Looks like the Babbitt is in this week. She was in Hawaii last I heard. One slick ship.”

“What is she, or can you tell me?”

He laughed. “No problem. She’s a stealth missile platform. See those square-looking things port and starboard?”

“Yes.”

“When she launches, those painted canvas covers get blown open as the warheads launch. I hear it’s quite a display of fireworks.”

She studied the ship more closely, then said, “So port is left and starboard is right? Correct?”

He laughed again. “Yes, ma’am. The bow is the pointy end.”

It was her turn to laugh. “I already knew that, just wasn’t certain of the right-left terminology. Got it.”

They stopped at the small gated entrance to the pier itself. There, the driver unloaded her baggage and beckoned to a seaman passing by. “You headed to the Wanderer?”

“Yup.”

“Could you give us a hand with the lady’s baggage?”

“Um, sure. No problem.”

“Thanks, sailor,” Eileen said, lifting two of her lighter bags. “Lay on, Macduff.”

“Huh?”

“No matter. Carry on.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Upon reaching the top of the gangway, she was stopped again and asked to show her orders and identification. The orders were scrutinized by the Officer of the Deck, who passed them to a messenger standing nearby. “Escort Ms. Kemper to her cabin, Benton, then return.”

He came to attention and said, “Yes, sir.” To Eileen, he added, “Follow me, please.”

She fell in behind him as ordered, hoping the rest of her bags would follow. They traveled nearly across the width of the ship, then descended a steep ladder to the next lower deck. Turning aft, he led her to the second cabin on the right and stopped.

“This is yours, ma’am. Your key is in the lock. I’ll make sure your stuff gets brought down.”

“Thank you.”

He gave a one-finger salute to his forehead, turned, and departed.

With a firm grasp, she twisted the key and popped the door open. The faint odor of fresh paint struck her right away. Spying a porthole, she crossed over to it, undid the locking mechanism, and opened it. Now a new smell, that of diesel oil, salt water, and dead fish, assaulted her nose.

“Yuk,” she exclaimed and closed the port.

A tap on the door and the sound of it opening indicated the rest of her bags had arrived.

Half an hour later, she’d managed to find places for most of her clothing and other articles. The desk which was provided was small, but would have to do. At least the bunk was comfortable, although if she sat up too fast her head would bang against the pipes overhead.

“Well,” she said aloud. “Here I am. Now what?”

An immediate answer was given by a piercing trill from a boatswain’s pipe and an announcement, “All hands. The smoking lamp is out for refueling operations.”

Puzzled by the terminology, she made a mental note to ask what it meant.

She was sitting at her desk, making notes for what was to be her first staff meeting, when there was a knock at the door. “Eileen, you in here?”

It was Captain Phillip Bowder.

“Come on in, Phil. I’m just now settling in.” She indicated the only spare chair in the smallish cabin. “Take a seat. You get your men settled in?”

“We have a small space down in steerage. Should suffice. We’ve had a lot worse on a sub. Nearly all of us had to sleep right over torpedoes. Not the most relaxing spot to be.” He grinned.

“I can imagine. Did you see that stealth thing in front of us? Impressive.”

“It’s deadly. It can put out a huge barrage of cruise missiles. Hard to see on radar because of all the angles of the deck.” He slapped his palms on his knees. “Anyway, you up for your staff meeting? They’re already gathering in the briefing room.”

“Really?” She glanced at her watch. “Oh. Lost track of time. Better get a move on.”

They were disoriented in similar-looking passageways, and it took them five minutes to find their way.

“Well, that’s embarrassing,” she said to Phil as he opened the door to allow her to pass.

Some of her personnel she already knew greeted her accordingly. Others, she shook hands with and made mental notes as to their particular fields of expertise. She’d take a while to remember everything, but this was a good start.

In turn, departmental supervisors stood, gave a brief description about what it was they and their department did for the project, then turned it over to the next speaker. This continued for almost an hour. Eileen was long past remembering all that was being said, but appearances were everything, so she carried on, nodding at important points as if she was on top of it all—which she needed to be in a very short while.

She dismissed the group just as there was another piercing whistle and announcement: “The smoking lamp is lit throughout the ship.”

She turned to Phil and whispered, “What does that mean?”

“Anybody can smoke now if they want.”

“What’s that about a lamp?”

“Just the navy way of saying things.”

“I thought smoking was banned most everywhere now.”

“It is, but there are always diehards. Nobody is allowed to smoke inside the ship, only on the weather decks.”

“Those open to the air, right?”

He nodded. “You got it.”

She shook her head in mock sadness. “I’ll never get the hang of it.”

“Sure you will. No sweat.”

“Says you.”

The MV Wanderer got underway at precisely 1700 hours. Bow and stern thrusters shoved the ship sideways until clear of the stealth missile vessel, then rotated to push directly ahead and out into San Diego Bay. Slowly they navigated to the entrance, then boosted speed to a stately 17 knots, which they’d maintain for slightly less than 5400 nautical miles. It would take them almost two weeks before arriving on station in the problematic patch of the South Pacific, southeast of Guam.

* * *

During a brief twelve hour stay in Hawaii, Eileen allowed her personnel to leave the ship but with the admonishment that anyone not back aboard by sailing time would be dropped from the roster. There were no stragglers.

Briefings with the Captain and Executive Officer (XO) were carried out every two days, in the afternoon.

In her first conversation with Commander Davis Taggart in his day cabin behind the bridge, Eileen felt she and her staff would be in good hands. He had sandy hair, touched with gray at his temples. What was his most striking feature were his piercing blue eyes. They were capable of expressing mirth, but she thought could also be filled with wrath at any failing. He was seated, but was certainly taller than she was.

Next to him, leaning casually against a wall-mounted table, was Lieutenant Commander Matt Winterfield, the Wanderer’s XO. In nearly direct opposition to the captain, he was considerably shorter, with dark hair and brown eyes.

The initial conference went smoothly, and when Eileen departed for her own cabin, she felt her department would function nicely under both of them. A schedule was initiated that had her meeting with either the Captain or XO once a week.

During their sixth such meeting, after preliminary reports were out of the way, Commander Taggart asked, “How is your crew shaping up?”

“Quite well, considering most haven’t worked with each other before. There are some personal conflicts, but nothing I can’t work out.” She grinned. “You know about having to find new quarters for Perry Consodine?”

The XO grinned and lifted a hand in the air. “Guilty. The ship’s office kind of flubbed that one. Apparently, she didn’t like bunking with Albert Hoskins. Fortunately, there was another rack available in another female’s quarters.”

“She was rather colorful. Burned my ear nearly off. Her feathers are smoothed down now.”

“Good,” the Captain said, obviously ready to wrap up the meeting. “Anything else?”

“Is there more on the bathyscaphe we’re supposed to take aboard?”

“There was a message about that in this morning’s traffic. Wait one.” The XO riffled through a clipboard full of yellow pages. “Here it is,” he said, detaching the sheet and handing it to her. “Looks like it will be on time.”

Eileen read rapidly, Most of it was jargon to her, but she’d picked up enough through reading her own messages to gather the XO was right. She handed it back to him. “Thanks.”

“Any more for me or the XO?” the Captain asked, preparing to rise.

“Not a thing right now,” Eileen said, rising along with him. “I’ll get back to my little office and do some more of my inventory paperwork. This ship is certainly well supplied.”

“We aim to please,” the XO said, smiling.

Three days later, Eileen was taking a breather from her daily routine. Deck chairs weren’t aboard, but she’d made do with two life jackets set atop a hose reel. It wasn’t ideal, and she could be growled at by a passing boatswains mate at any time for misappropriation of government equipment, but she enjoyed sitting in the sun. Humidity had increased as they approached the South Pacific until it stood at over eighty percent. She felt as if a bucket of warm water had been dumped over her.

Below, on the main deck, she heard Phil Bowder lead his troop through a rigorous calisthenics session. His men shouted a cadence ditty as they exercised. She wondered how they managed in the heat.

Presently, Phil himself climbed the ladder nearest her, walked over, and sat down on the deck heavily next to her. “Woof. It’s hell down there.”

“I can imagine. Why do you do it?”

“Gotta keep in shape.”

She eyed him, taking in his sweat-soaked tee shirt, Marine green of course, and his general healthiness. “I’d say you were in pretty good shape.”

“Thank you.” He rose to his feet effortlessly, slung his towel around his neck, and tossed off a quick salute. “Time to change for dinner.”

“See ya.”

As he receded down the deck, she recalled their first meeting. She judged they’d come a long way toward mutual respect for their individual professions.

* * *

BONG! BONG! BONG!

“This is a drill. General quarters. General quarters. All hands man your battle stations. Forward and up to starboard, down and aft to port. Set material condition zebra throughout the ship. General quarters to repel boarders. This is a drill.”

Startled, Eileen rose from her bed rapidly, nearly braining herself on the steel cabinet overhead. With a blurry glance at her wind-up clock, she barely made out the time. Three forty-five! Mentally cursing, she quickly shinnied into her work coveralls, slipped on her shoes, and headed for the door, grabbing her life jacket on the way.

Outside in the passageway, others were struggling into their own jackets, grumbling but complying with orders. A man wearing what she now knew as an OBA—Oxygen Breathing Apparatus—rushed past her, knocking her aside. She remained plastered to the wall as two more men followed, each carrying a huge axe. She recognized them as a damage control working party.

Once on the weather deck in the lee of a huge ventilator pipe, she held a muster of her immediate office staff. Finished, she stepped to the man at the rail wearing a headset. “All scientific staff are present or accounted for.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He repeated her words into his microphone, then said, “Roger.”

“Thank you.”

The man nodded but didn’t speak.

Twenty minutes later, the shipwide public address system (1MC) announced the all clear, returning everyone to their duties, which, in most cases, meant they could go back to sleep.

Her assistant, Mitzi Parsons, sidled up to her in the passageway. “Why do we have to do these? We don’t have any duties.”

“They are an important function on this ship. In a real emergency, we know what to do. Even if we only sit in a compartment and worry, they can find us if they have to. Just go back and jump into your dream.”

“I’d like to,” she said wistfully. “Mac Edwards is such a heavenly guy.”

“Yeah, but he’s only that in the movies. Gossip has him not very friendly off screen.”

Mitzi hugged herself and giggled. “Yeah, but who cares? He’s got eyes you can fall right in to.”

“There is that consolation. Good night.”

“Night. Or rather, morning.”

“Yeah.”

* * *

Thirteen days and seven hours after sailing from San Diego, the MV Wanderer arrived at a pre-programmed set of GPS coordinates, slowed, then stopped, maintaining her position using her variable-direction thrusters.

On the bridge, the Captain remarked to the OOD, “Well, we’re here. Runner! Inform Ms Kemper we are now at our rendezvous point and would she please come to the bridge.”

“Yessir.”

The knock on her cabin door roused her from the administrative paperwork on her desk. “Yes?”

“Captain's compliments, ma’am. We have arrived, and would you please come to the bridge?”

She hopped up from her chair, tucked in her shirt, and popped the door open. “Absolutely. Thank you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Topside, she quickly climbed the ladder leading to the port bridge wing. The OOD spotted her and braced the door open against the wind. When she entered, the Captain said, “We’ve received a voice message from the ship carrying the bathyscaphe. They’re heading in our direction, but over the horizon right now.” He pointed to Starboard, just off the bow. “Right about there.”

She crossed to the right side of the bridge and stared intently at the edge where the sky met the sea. “Is this Kirby Peterson with them?”

“Unknown,” the XO said. “He probably is, though. Apparently, he’s the only one who can run the new gear they’ve installed in it.”

“What new gear? I skimmed the equipment list. Didn’t see anything unusual.”

“I, ah, don’t know. I expect he’ll tell you when he gets here.”

“Just great. No doubt another surprise,” Eileen mused.