Charles Taylor - Boomer

The radiomen and technicians aboard that submarine — USS Pasadena — had no reason to suspect the extent their communications system had been compromised. They maintained absolute, even blind, confidence that they remained in direct contact with their own secure system via satellite transceiver. In a way, that sense of security amazed the Russians. Even though these same men had arranged the alterations to Pasadena’s equipment, they remained astounded at the ease with which they sent the American submarine off on a third mission, following Alaska and Nevada. Boomer really was working exactly as it had been planned — after all these years of waiting!

Wally Snyder was Pasadena’ s communications officer. When he appeared in the control room and glanced quickly at the faces on watch, he found himself almost pleased that the haggard expression gradually overspreading his own features was matched by those who happened to notice him. Wally was normally jovial, an easygoing individual, comfortable in any situation. But the pinched skin around his eyes mirrored the increasing tension of the entire crew. They were exhausted.

There was a war taking place on the surface, and they had no idea which direction the scales were tipping, no clue whether or not loved ones were still alive. It might already have escalated into a nuclear exchange. Certainty, every single one of them had considered that.

But wasn’t that why they had been sent on this mission — to take out Soviet ballistic-missile submarines that could wipe out every major city in the western United States, perhaps their own homes? It was entirely possible Pasadena was changing the face of the war. Perhaps they were actually saving their loved ones by the successful completion of each mission.

But why was there no news? Was America still untouched by the enemy — or was Pasadena now receiving orders from some underground command post that had been planted deep enough to survive annihilation?

So many questions remained unanswered. So many more surfaced as each hour passed. Ignorance became anything but bliss.

Snyder’s eyes traveled from man to man in the control room until they fell on the executive officer. “Should I disturb the captain now, XO, or do you want to take care of this?” He waved his message board to show what he had.

“What’ve you got this time, Wally?”

“Another one of those commanding officer’s eyes only, sir.”

“One of those?” Makin didn’t really mind that he wasn’t the first one to see the message. A few words with Wally Snyder could always elicit the gist of whatever it was. The comm officer enjoyed the probing.

“They do seem to have a consistency to their approach, don’t they?”

“Go ahead, Wally. He’s been in the rack for a couple of hours. He’ll get punchy if he ever catches up on his sleep.” Makin, too, was tired — no, exhausted was more like it. But so was everyone else. If there were ever an unwritten rule for executive officers, it was that a captain was vital to the survival of the ship and the XO was responsible for seeing that he was as ready as possible to take his vessel into combat — in other words, sacrifice. Makin would grab some rack time once Newell was rested.

The captain’s stateroom was just forward of the control room. Lieutenant Junior Grade Snyder was convinced the man was telepathic as he hesitated outside to marshal his thoughts, “Come on in, Wally,” Newell called out in a firm voice at the first touch of the young officer’s knuckles on the outer bulkhead.

The bunk light snapped on as Snyder stepped into the room. Wayne Newell was stretched out fully clothed. Though his eyes blinked briefly against the sudden brightness, he appeared fully awake. He stuck his hand out for the message board as he rose into a sitting position.

After a moment’s hesitation, while his captain studied the message thoughtfully, the communications officer decided to express his concern. “Captain, doesn’t it seem odd to you that they’re sending us off after all these boomers? After all, you’d think some of the others could do what we’re doing.”

Newell studied him curiously. “What makes you think we’re the only ones sinking enemy subs? Wouldn’t you think Pearl was sending the closest boat to the nearest target?” He knew intuitively that Snyder was his sharpest junior officer, bright enough to question any unusual set of circumstances — such as sinking submarines that sounded like your own. Submarine captains, unlike many of their counterparts on the larger surface ships, had to know each member of their crew individually. There was no aloofness, no ivory tower to separate the men from their leader. Each man on a submarine depended on the next — and that meant the captain as well as the most junior man aboard.

Snyder considered for a moment before answering, “I don’t know where this one is, sir, but we had to go like hell for three days to nail the one that sounded like Nevada. It just sort of made … made a lot of us curious.…” There, it’s out on the carpet. He’d said what so many had been wondering, what his own men hoped he might gain an answer to. Sonarmen claimed they could detect the subtle differences in each submarine’s sound signature even though the experts disclaimed that talent, it was eerie, so….

“Chalk it up to the best attack boat in the fleet, then,” Newell said gruffly before forcing a just-between-us grin and a wink. “That’s what they must think we are. If you don’t bother about what goes on in your superiors’ minds, then you won’t have anything to worry about. There’s a reason for everything in the Navy,” he concluded, handing the board back. “Take this into the XO and tell him I want this plotted on the chart. I’ll join him after I wash up.”

That’s it, Snyder thought as he turned back into the passageway, another sector designated, another submarine to be sunk. Sooner or later, one of them’s going to hear us coming … has to hear us! An involuntary shiver coursed down his back, tightening in his crotch. He squeezed his thighs together. His entire body seemed to tingle.

There was an unusual taste in Wayne Newell’s mouth as he leaned his hands on the tiny metal sink and stared into the mirror. It wasn’t an especially bad taste, just one that hadn’t been there before his communications officer delivered the message. He decided to brush his teeth while he was washing up, though he knew that wouldn’t chase away that slightly metallic flavor that rose from deep inside.

While he toweled off after splashing some cold water on his face, he couldn’t help noticing a flash of light out of the corner of his eye when he held his head at a certain angle. He stopped long enough to experiment, moving his head from side to side until he had the source. The bunk light was reflecting off the photograph of his family. Myra, his wife, stared back at him with a posed half smile. Too put on, sweetheart … too cold. On one side of her stood his son, Charlie, a sixteen-year-old. He was taller than his mother, just an inch or so shorter than his father. Fourteen-year-old Kathy stood on the other side and grinned back at him like a Cheshire cat. A handsome golden retriever, its tongue lolling out one side of its mouth, looked as if it was about to break Charlie’s grip on his collar and charge right out of the photo. Good old Jack Tar… not a complaint on his furry face. They were all posed in front of a spread of palms with the warm Hawaiian waters barely visible behind them.

It was an all-American picture, Newell acknowledged. That’s the way a picture in a naval officer’s stateroom should look — all-American. One wife, two kids (one of each flavor), and the family dog, Jack Tar in this case. Right out of Norman Rockwell. He’d seen those paintings during his training at the “Charm School,” even on covers of old Saturday Evening Posts. That’s the way I was designed, he mused, all-American, old-fashioned, apple pie….