Charles Taylor - Boomer

There wasn’t the slightest reason to get out of his bunk for a course change. The OOD had completed the same maneuver a thousand times, and this one would be no different. The point Nelson was making to himself at the same time he felt for his pulse was that commanding officers who reacted to every single evolution aboard their vessels probably weren’t going to continue in that position for long.

Yes, his pulse rate was faster than it should have been. It couldn’t have been that “all ships” message that implied in as few words as possible that an increased alert had been set — no reason why. Relax. That’s it… relax. He’d seen those messages too often. Like all captains, he was certain they were sent by shore-based officers who had nothing better to do. The one he’d worry about would be the launch message. The soul of the engineer took over, relaying the messages to the body, explaining that tension was a state of mind. Only type-A personalities, highly nervous individuals, allowed the tension to rise like that. That was why they weren’t fit to command a boomer. But Buck Nelson is.

If the pressures that were integral to commanding a war machine as lethal as Florida got to any of the C.O.’s for more than a couple of patrols, it would turn up in their physicals. It didn’t matter whether it was found out by one of the meticulous physicians responsible for the health of the men who commanded the boomers, or one of the shrinks who would ask something stupid just before delivering an incisive, demanding question out of left field that dug into your very soul. They had their ways — they learned pretty quick if that tremendous responsibility was getting to the man.

He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly. Then another. And another. That’s it. Nelson, relax. You have earned this fantastic ship and you don’t want to screw things up with something as dumb as tension … nerves.

This was the ultimate job in the Navy, as far as he was concerned. He was willing to argue that with anyone who claimed it was carriers. When you were promoted out of a boomer, there were big things ahead … as far as status was concerned. Your first star was most likely on the horizon. That was making it. But that star was nothing like command at sea; nothing was quite like command of a Trident ballistic-missile submarine, command of the most powerful weapon yet devised by man.

If an SSBN functioned as it was designed, it would never launch a missile in anger. It would deter. It would simply run around a box in a designated sector and its awesome capabilities would deter the other guy from challenging the effect of more D-5 ballistic missiles than would ever be necessary to wipe mankind from the face of the earth.

That was why it was the ultimate job — because as a single individual you served your country as well as any man ever had if you remained hidden from the other guy and the threat of your missiles kept him in line … just as his kept your nation’s leaders in line. You were accomplishing more than all those people on Capitol Hill simply by the fact that you and your crew and your submarine existed and deterred the other guy. And if you were able to perform that job of deterrence, you were eventually promoted up and out of the best job in the Navy!

Nelson felt for his pulse again. Good. It was slowing down. Relax. That goddamn buzzer could give a man gray hair.

It would be nice to receive a star. Nelson admitted, even nicer to have some Pentagon job where he could get home for dinner with Cindy most nights.

But if that weren’t going to happen, what would he do? The Navy didn’t keep passed-over captains around forever, He’d always wanted to teach, and to get the type of position he’d dreamed of was only worthwhile if you had a doctorate. That’s what Nelson had really been after years earlier — that one final year to complete his doctorate. It didn’t hurt his career either. With that, along with command of an SSBN, there was a certainty of career movement in the right direction. He could be teaching now. But the Navy needed commanding officers, and Buck Nelson had received superior grades on his fitness reports in each command he’d had. So he’d wait.

Cindy did love that academic atmosphere. Oh, how she’d loved MIT and the Boston area. Because they were both older than the average graduate students when the Navy sent him off to Cambridge, it was almost like being part of the faculty. And he did teach some undergraduate classes. As a matter of fact, the two of them used to laugh together after those faculty parties when they were treated like a member of the department — even though Buck was technically a candidate for his doctorate. Yet he was making more money as a student than his professors!

He’d even thought once about resigning in order to teach. But a few weeks in an academic community changed his mind at his age. He learned how they treated each other at department meetings, when tenure was being considered, when applications for graduate admission were being considered. That had settled it. He was Navy. There was no comparison. The men you worked with in submarines were his kind of people, even if a lot of them were no longer interested in advanced degrees. On the other hand, a lot of the professors he met were okay … but sure as hell not out of the same mold. Don’t give up the idea, old boy. a voice murmured from the recesses of his mind. If Bill Crowe could make Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, there’s room for one more egghead at the top.

He stretched his toes toward the bulkhead and pointed his fingers at them. Then he relaxed his whole body. Point … relax … point … relax. That was it. He felt for his pulse once more. Good. Much better. Relax.

Nelson could feel himself drifting off. It was a good feeling. He imagined the family back home … Cindy … his two daughters, Jenny and Beth … their new house.

That house! That was the best thing that had happened to the Nelson family. When they moved to the state of Washington, it was the first house they could really call their own. In the past they’d gone to the older bases — New London, Charleston, San Diego, Pearl Harbor — and the places they’d lived were either apartments or rented houses, and they were always moving into something that someone had just vacated.

Bangor, Washington, was a base especially for the boomers, and Buck Nelson presented his family with a brand-new house that had been built on a freshly cleared lot in a lovely grove of Douglas fir. The scent of fir bark and needles was a constant, always fresh, but there was nothing like a clear day after a heavy rain when that heady aroma permeated the air.

It had been a little late for swing sets — the girls were already teenagers — but Buck Nelson’s next major purchase had been one of those aboveground swimming pools, large enough to float in on one of those blow-up air mattresses. Pool days were rare in the northwest, and the giant firs blocked out enough sunlight to keep the air cool, but the Nelsons made the most of their “first real house.”

His photo of Cindy and the girls was partially hidden behind a jumble of papers, and he sat up in his bunk to reach across the open desk and clear a path to that picture. He smiled at it for a moment, then sorted the papers on the other side and dusted off the glass with his handkerchief. You’re a lucky man. Nelson. Cindy was a lovely woman. Triple lucky, he decided after looking at the girls. It was hard to imagine how a man with his looks — thin hair, skinny, kind of nondescript — could be surrounded by females like that.

Jenny and Beth were growing up too fast. Just before Florida had gotten under way — the night before, to be exact — they’d given him a picture of themselves by the pool. The sun had been directly overhead and they were in their bathing suits … and Beth, the fourteen-year-old, looked just like her older sister. Knockouts. That’s what you’ve produced, Nelson — knockouts! Too many of the younger men — both officer and enlisted — were in his stateroom every day, and he’d stuck the girls’ picture in his drawer. It had seemed embarrassing at the time for the C.O. of a boomer to have to explain that those two luscious females were none other than his daughters.