Charles Taylor - Boomer

The aircraft was mortally wounded at that stage but still capable of ditching. The frantic pilot put his violently bucking plane into a turn toward the Alaskan islands at the same time his copilot instinctively shouted a Mayday over the radio. But neither the maneuver nor the emergency call were ever completed.

SSV-516’s final two missiles exploded in the cockpit, ripping the nose from the aircraft and hurling both men into the stormy Pacific.

Through the course of naval history — triremes, papyrus reed boats, war canoes, sailing men-of-war, ironclads, PT boats, nuclear submarines — a few great captains have appeared whose names survived through the ages. Somehow, by the time a man is considered for command, there are few incompetents who have slipped through the cracks in the system. There have been some bad ones, many capable ones, and a vast majority who were a credit to their ship. What history has taught us is that it takes a truly unique individual to achieve absolute mastery of his ship — one who possesses that rare understanding of the complex process that blends a man and his ship into a single identity.

Buck Nelson’s unique gift of mentally positioning himself in the geometric heart of Florida was a source of relaxation for him. It was a mental exercise hinting of almost mystic experience. The ability to accomplish this feat was a talent he never dared mention to another soul. At times it could be disturbing, for he found himself projecting even when he hadn’t willed himself to do so.

If he found himself alone in a space close to the epicenter of the submarine, the simple act of closing his eyes coupled with intense concentration allowed him to project his mind throughout the moving cylinder that was Florida. He seemed to be floating in a weightless state much like an astronaut. Yet here there were no compartments or bulkheads or miles of piping, not even a reactor, just an immense empty cylinder slicing silently through the depths. It could happen in the missile control center, the computer room, sometimes even the engineering spaces, and once even in the wardroom when he was fortunate enough to be alone.

Nelson had often read about mind control. Eventually he decided his unusual talents were akin to yoga, that age-old method of relieving tension and stretching one’s mental capacity. He said nothing about it to anyone because he knew Navy doctors, especially those who constantly evaluated the captains of boomers, might determine he was unstable.

He found time to read only when he was at sea. It was a method of confronting that final stage of physical exhaustion that prevents one from sleeping. It was also an opportunity to absorb the fantasies of an author’s mind while relaxing his own. The concept of man’s limitless mental capacity especially appealed to him. It drew him back to memories of his childhood, to those special times after he was tucked into bed and the lights were turned out. There were moments when he was consciously aware of that netherworld between wakefulness and sleep, when his mind was somnolent — yet alert. He could withdraw to an imaginary world where he was sure he was capable of far greater understanding of the universe around him. It was a game for a child with a brilliant mind like Buck Nelson’s, one to be cherished and kept to himself.

As he grew older and immersed himself in the things that most normal boys do, this unique talent gradually receded into his subconscious. It was a lost ability until he found himself on those long, lonely patrols at sea. At first he experimented with once again projecting his mind, and teamed that he couldn’t force himself to achieve the same experience. But eventually, once he decided it was a matter of self-discipline, it returned to him. It was mind expanding and harmless and Buck Nelson found that he was gaining an improved understanding of himself in relation to the submarines he loved so much.

When he took command of Florida, the responsibility was mind boggling. The ship was so huge — at 560 feet, longer than the Washington Monument, four decks deep, close to nineteen thousand tons submerged — that he at first had trouble conceiving of himself as an integral, operating unit of that vessel along with one hundred sixty other men — yet totally in command. It became necessary to withdraw mentally in order to enlarge his understanding of his ship.

As he lay in his bunk one night, too tired to sleep, he remembered standing under the giant hoop constructed outside the Submarine Force Museum in Groton. Its purpose was to provide a graphic display of the circumference of the Ohio-class Trident submarine, yet it was also a symbol to Buck Nelson of the creative power of man’s mind in relation to his physical size.

With that impression in his mind one exhausted night, Buck Nelson closed his eyes and projected himself into the epicenter of Florida. He was floating — or rather, his mind was — through his submarine. Now he was able to comprehend what it had taken so many hundreds of marine designers so many years to build. He saw how each of her thousands of complex components became a whole, a vast ship capable of providing a deterrent that likely was saving man from himself. Florida became an integral part of Buck Nelson.

While the Navy provided highly skilled individuals to operate this technical marvel, Buck Nelson understood Florida completely in a period of time he could not measure. If his brain had been capable of controlling the vital machines and electronic suites that made the submarine what she was, there would have been no further need for the other one hundred fifty-nine men. His mind was in each of the spaces throughout the ship at the same time. He could have handled her as easily as a pilot wheeling a jet fighter toward an enemy at supersonic speeds.

It was seemingly an out-of-body experience when he considered his enhanced understanding of Florida. He desperately wished he could somehow convey these powers, even transfer them to other commanding officers, for he was sure it might someday save their lives. But Buck Nelson was also a rational man, and he could imagine the field day the Navy shrinks would have if he so much as uttered a word about his oneness with his complex and powerful submarine.

He was stretched out on his bunk, the lights out in his stateroom, once again attempting to project himself within Florida, when the phone buzzed on the bulkhead. “Captain here.”

“Captain, this is Mr. Sones.” The OOD’s voice was soft and calm in his ear. “No problems in control. Sonar has an intermittent contact they thought you should know about. Appears to be manmade, probably not a surface contact.”

“Have they contacted Mr. Mundy yet?” The sonar officer loved these games.

“Yes, sir. He’s on his way.”

“Do we have a convergence zone that would allow us to hear something from another submarine op area?”

“The chief says anything’s possible, Captain. But he doubts there’s anything that could be one of ours unless it’s time to rewrite the laws of physics.”

That would be Chief Delaney’s response. He could be expected to qualify every answer with a word game. “Very well. I’ll be there in a few moments. Please inform the XO, too.”

Nelson flipped on the light switch over his head and blinked at the sudden brightness. Then he made a fist and rubbed his eyes. There was still sleep in them, and he could sense his muscles lagging behind the messages the brain was sending as he swung his feet out of the bunk and stood up. Cold water was the answer. He ran a sinkful, tested it with a finger and found what he already knew — the water produced by a submarine was never ice cold — but it would still wake him up.