Baptism of Fire

By: The Muse

Day to day activity aboard a nuclear submarine is often routine, but it is certainly never considered boring. Constant vigilance is needed to maintain that subtle balance which is often all that spells the difference between survival and the crushing weight of earth's oceans—a milieu as ephemeral and as eternal as life itself.

Although each man aboard the great submarine Seaview carried his own share of the responsibilities, the most vital functions were all directed from the ‘brain' of the great sub: the control room. It was always abuzz with activity; the helm- and planesmen, for example, were in constant communication, working in tandem to maintain course and trim. Reports to the control room crew were numerous, and kept them informed of every major circumstance aboard. At the plotting table near the periscope platform, one of these ‘major circumstances’ now occupied the attention of two members of Seaview’s command crew, her executive officer, Lt. Commander Charles ‘Chip’ Morton, and her captain of two weeks, Lee Crane.

"...and if we run at dead slow for the next hour or so, engineering will be able to correct that overheating problem in turbine number two." A tall man whose muscular physique still reflected his college quarterback past, Morton leaned on the table and pushed a sheet of blue foolscap across, his perfectly creased khaki sleeve resting on the latest course calculations. “Here—see for yourself."

More slender but with good shoulders, Lee Crane supported himself on one arm, amber colored eyes narrowing as he studied the sheet. It was covered top to bottom with wiring diagrams and mathematical equations all in a neat, compact script. “And Engineering thinks they can have the problem with the thermal exchange unit corrected in an hour?"

“Maybe less.” Blonde head tipped to the side, Morton followed the scan down, finally tapping the bottommost schematic with his forefinger. “It’s a minor problem, but it's costing us several knots per hour at flank speed. This is the new configuration I want to do.”

Another few seconds passed before Crane nodded. *”Very well, Chip. Tell the engine room to reduce speed to dead slow and go ahead. I want to be notified when the repairs are completed."

"Aye, aye." Morton straightened and reached for the mike, pausing as Senior Rating Walter Kowalski materialized silently on leather soles; at six feet tall, he was only a fraction shorter than either of his superiors. “Yes, Ski?”

The seaman shifted from foot to foot. Though only in his early 30’s, his pleasantly homely features were weathered, the deep frown around his mouth making him appear older. Kowalski’s sharp brown glance swung back and forth, finally settling on his impatiently waiting captain. "Excuse me, Sir. I have the computer-generated simulations you wanted."

Crane set the engineer's report aside and accepted the printout from the tech. He read it twice, then picked up an old-fashioned slide rule and checked several computations. After a moment, he replaced the slide rule and raised his head. "There's an error in these figures. Put them back into the computer for a recheck."

Kowalski reluctantly accepted the sheet, holding it as one might some particularly loathsome insect. ”Excuse me, Sir, but these figures have already been fed in twice. They've come up with the same results both times."

The slight emphasis on the word 'sir’ went not unnoticed by the other man. Long lashes dropped then rose once; very smooth skin gaining a faint flush across sharp cheekbones. "Put them through again,” Seaview’s new captain returned in a very quiet and very cold baritone. “They are incorrect."

Again that maddening hesitation. Kowalski glanced for confirmation at the blond Executive Officer as though for confirmation; Morton scowled. “What are you waiting for?” he growled in a more powerful voice. “The Skipper said to put them through again.”

Kowalski muttered a carefully neutral, "Aye, aye." There was a faint swish of denim on denim as he returned to his station. Crane stared after him for a long moment, eyes more gold than amber now. His gaze bored into the oblivious technician's back, his every muscle taut.

Beside him, the blonde held his breath. He'd seen Lee Crane angry before—the man had a dangerous, controlled temper that boded no good for anyone unfortunate enough to incur it. He waited for the explosion, but the anger faded, the slightest touch of sadness burnishing the gold. Crane sighed, almost imperceptibly, then turned away. That was when Chip Morton remembered to breathe again.

Seaview’s executive officer stared after his old friend thoughtfully. He'd known from the beginning that the transition period following the death of Captain Phillips would be a difficult one, but he'd expected the situation to have begun to improve before now. Instead, things were growing worse.

The crew's animosity toward the new skipper, born from first meeting, had Increased sharply following discovery that Phillips had not died in an accident as they had originally been told—but had, in fact, been murdered by a foreign agency. It had been a useless, ignoble death for a man who had proven himself a hero a dozen times over. John Phillips had been a good man, a good captain—and a good friend. Every member of the crew had been able to count Phillips as more than a commanding officer, and his loss was an aching void in each heart, including Chip Morton’s.

Somewhere along the line, the grief had transmuted into a deep resentment toward his replacement, Lee Crane. True, Lee had come aboard under less than the most diplomatic of circumstances. While his little 'test' had pointed out a serious—and potentially fatal—flaw In Seaview’s security procedures, it had also made the crew look bad in front of the Admiral himself—not an event designed to endear the new captain to a group of proud, highly trained professionals.

Looking back on Crane's background, however, Chip couldn't see where one might expect anything different from the man. The strict discipline of Annapolis followed by years in the navy—much of it with Naval Intelligence where one mistake might cost a man his life—had imbued the young officer with a wary caution, one which Chip himself well understood. But Lee had begun to relax since that first mission, easing gradually into the comfortable familiarity of the sub. Although basically a shy man, he'd even made the first overtures of friendship and affability, only to have them unceremoniously thrown back into his face. The ghost of Captain Phillips was a dark specter at his shoulder, and Lee Crane would need to wage a hard battle should he ever hope to exorcise that spirit from the corridors of Seaview.

The hours passed quickly. Chip Morton personally supervised the engineering repairs then made a final tour of the ship following Beta watch, ending his circuit back in the section known as Officers Country. He paused before a plain, unmarked door, hesitating only a moment before rapping. "Lee?" He waited for permission before stepping into the neat, almost sterile environs of the cabin. “The first thing I'm going to do after we dock," he commented, long nose wrinkling, "is buy you some pictures or something. This place is depressing.”

Seated behind a desk stacked with reports, Crane affected a one-shoulder shrug. "Sorry,” he retorted dryly. "I didn't have time to pack. Most of what I own is in a BOQ in Norfolk."

"I guess they did give you the bum’s rush to get here." The tall blonde deposited himself into a chair at cattycorner to the desk, slumping into it until he was nearly seated on his spine. "I wasn't sure you'd be awake this time of the evening. Much paperwork?" The question was as innocent as his expression, though thin lips twitched as he ostentatiously examined the stack in front of his friend. “Geez, Lee, what are you doing, writing a book?”

 Rather than react to the humor, Crane ran a hand through short black curls then down the back of his neck. “Status report for the Admiral,” he returned wearily. “I didn't have the revised maneuvering logs until an hour ago. Give me a moment to finish, will you?"

Morton crossed his legs comfortably and tipped his head forward onto his chest. Save for a flash of arctic blue under his lashes, he might have been asleep. In reality, he was using the opportunity to study his old friend more closely. He and Lee Crane had first met at the Naval Academy, remaining in close contact while Chip Morton’s analytical and administrative skills took him steadily upward, from the sea to the marble passages of the Pentagon. Lee’s career—like the man himself—was less traditional, drawing him from the cloaked recesses of the intelligence community to his first submarine command—the youngest in the Navy to be so appointed—and often back into the shadows. Wonder how long it’s going to be before ONI calls its favorite agent in for another ‘impossible’ mission?

Paper rustled as one sheet joined the large stack on Crane’s right; he bit his lip as he scanned the second, pen at the ready. He hasn't aged much, Morton decided; not a line marred the perfectly smooth skin, no silver in those very black curls. ‘Course, he’s a bit young for gray hair; looks like he’s losing weight, though. Chip still carried the powerful musculature that had served him well during his college football years only enhanced as he’d reached the maturity of a man entering his 30’s. By contrast, Lee had always been slender but with the good shoulders of the amateur boxer he’d once been; they were slumped now, showing the signs of a two-week-old weariness that had begun the minute he’d stepped aboard Seaview.

Unaware of the scrutiny, Lee scribbled his signature on the bottom of the report, then looked up, surprising the blond in a thoughtful frown. "Something wrong, Chip?" he asked softly.

Yes, Morton said to himself. He opened his eyes and raised his head, letting his lips lift in a lopsided little smile. "I was just remembering the last time I saw you—you were in Washington for a briefing...what was it? Three, four years ago? I was still at the Pentagon."

"Something like that." Crane put the pen down and leaned back, smiling reminiscently. "That was some binge. I don't think I've been in DC since." He frowned. "I wonder if the police have forgotten us yet."

"Just be glad they didn’t catch us.” Been a long day. Fingers stiff from wielding the tiny electrical instruments for the past two hours, Morton cracked the knuckles of his left hand, not quite oblivious to the pained look on the other’s face at the action. "You'd rented that black ‘Vette for the weekend."

"I had planned to take a drive up the coast," Crane reminded him. "Instead, we made the mistake of running into Senator Gorman and got roped into attending his reception." He rubbed the back of his neck then rose and crossed to an insulated blue urn standing on a sideboard. "Coffee?"

"No thanks." Morton waved aside the offer with a flip of long fingers, remembering with amusement the elderly politician with the beauty queen wife. "Good old Senator Gorman. He was forever inviting junior officers to his parties. Made him look very 'democratic' in the newspapers. Or so he thought."

"I could have lived without that party," Crane grumbled, pouring himself a mug of the tepid brew. He took a sip.

"It's not as If we stayed long." He twisted his pinky producing a satisfyingly loud snap; Lee winced visibly. "You got out of there pretty fast after Mrs. Gorman introduced herself." He snickered. "Or did you think I didn't notice her grabbing you while you were talking to her husband?"

Coffee went down the wrong way; Crane coughed, scarlet again tinting his cheekbones as he hurriedly dabbed his lips on a tissue. "She was a little tipsy that night, that's all," he croaked when he could speak again.

"Tipsy?" A loud snort adequately expressed dismissed that opinion. "She has a reputation for getting 'a little tipsy' over all the new young officers her husband invites."

"All of them?" Crane tossed away the tissue and returned to his seat. "What about you?" A glimmer lightened the amber in his eyes as he regarded Chip over the rim of the cup. "She ever get you in a dark corner?"

Leather creaked as Morton arranged himself more comfortably. “No, but it wasn't for lack of trying!" He chuckled. "I had a buddy at the Pentagon—Lieutenant by the name of Winters. Ever meet him?"

"Terry Winters?” Crane shook his head. "No. I've heard you speak of him, though." He winced as Morton began to work on the knuckles of his right hand. "Do you have to do that?" he gritted irritably.

"Sorry." At least no one else on board can tell me to stop, the blonde Exec groused silently, clasping his hands tightly together. "Anyway, Terry joined Admiral Carrington's staff about six months before I did. I heard about Mrs. Gorman from him and went prepared."

"Prepared?"

"I took a girl along." Chip wiggled his eyebrows suggestively. "Little brunette named Kathy. Ah, Kathy," he sighed, a smug little smile lifting the corners of his mouth as he recalled the pretty brunette with the substantial curves. "Poor Mrs. Gorman never had a chance.”

“I was going to leave without you. Didn’t know you could move so fast.”

The quip snapped Morton out of a promisingly lecherous reverie. “Without Kathy, I sure wasn't going to get left behind when you decided to jump ship." He frowned. “Come to think of It, I might have been safer had I stayed, Mrs. Gorman and all."

Crane took another sip of his coffee, his own gaze going vague with memory. "It was the last day of my leave—what there was of it," he finished bitterly, “It was one mission after another for six months, then I got slammed right back into sub duty.” He sighed. "I went from the People’s Republic to Narwhal-2 without even a breather.”

"Oh?" Morton straightened almost imperceptibly and fixed his friend with a sharp look, curiosity prickling him. “I knew you were leaving on a mission the next day. It was to the People’s Republic?” Crane nodded. “You were so...” He groped for the word; the rest of that night had been disturbing, to say the least. “…so reckless. Not like you usually are before a mission.” He regarded the other narrowly, reading all he needed to in those expressive eyes but saying anyway, “I got the distinct Impression you didn't expect to come back.”

Silence fell for a long moment. Long lashes fell, veiling his eyes. ”A lot of people didn't," he admitted at last. He made a dismissive gesture, sealing the past away. "Old history, Chip."

“l suppose so.” The blond allowed the subject to drop, deliberately adopting a lighter tone. “Like Mrs. Gorman. When I think back on what we had to put up with over the years...” He smiled in reflection, “Who would ever have believed we'd both end up serving as the command crew aboard a ship like Seaview?”

“It’s a far cry from a Los Angeles class, I’ll grant you that.”

Chip asked the question he d wondered about the whole two weeks. “Are you sorry you gave up the Portland to command Seaview?”

“This is easily the best sub in the world."

The words were carefully neutral and spoken without looking up. “That’s no answer,” Chip retorted flatly.

Silence fell again, and for a bad moment Chip was certain he was going to say ‘Yes.’ Chip had never served aboard a sub with his friend before, but from watching him these last few weeks, he had come to the conclusion that Lee Crane was a competent...no, an excellent captain, and the exec felt a little glow of pride for him. Lee deserved command of Seaview—and a lot more respect than he was receiving from her crew.

“No,” Lee said at long last, soft voice interrupting Chip's musings. “I'm not sorry. I'll admit, it’s a challenge, perhaps the biggest challenge I've ever faced, but you remember what old man Janowiscz used to say?”

“Something about facing challenges making you stronger?”

“Something like that.” Crane picked up a small, previously unnoticed object from the desk and began turning it over and over in his hands. “This one's either going to make me better or….”

He didn't finish—he didn't have to. Morton understood his stubborn friend well. enough to know that Crane would never give up on a challenge—consider it though he may—until it literally killed him. “Didn’t think you‘d give up,” he said approvingly. If anyone could overcome the inherent problems of Seaview’s command, it was Commander Lee Crane—with, perhaps, just a little help from his friends. Suddenly feeling better, he loosened his tie, whipping it off with a flourish. “l am so glad to get out of that tie.”

“You may have to convince your captain to change the dress rules,” Lee teased, pointing to a strip of black material lying on his neatly made bed.

“Habit, I guess. Everyone wears a tie at the Pentagon—uniform of the day.” Chip folded the offending garb, laying it neatly across one knee, returning to the former subject. “Try not to worry too much about the crew. They're going to need some time to adjust—Jack's death hit them pretty hard.”

That caught the dark-haired man’s attention. Lee gave up a study of his nearly full cup to fix him with a questioning look. “l never met Captain Phillips,” he confessed. “What kind of a man was he?”

Morton frowned. How do you sum up in a few words the warmth and courage Phillips had managed to inject into a career spanning over thirty years? “He was a good man, Lee,” he said at last. “He honestly cared about the sub and the crew. The Admiral thought the world of him.”

“They’d been together a long time?” Lee asked.

“Off and on for years before Seaview was commissioned. A good number of the men aboard have served with the Admiral at some time or another.”

Crane stared at the far wall, knuckles white around the little object in his hand. “l wish—”

“You wish what?” Chip prodded after a minute.

“Nothing.” Crane shook himself, returning to the present, “It really is good to see you again, Chip. We made a pretty good team back at the Academy.”

“We'll make an even better one here," Morton promised. Light sparkled from between Crane’s fingers, drawing his attention downward. “What Is that?"

“This?” Slim fingers opened. “Remember Felix?"

“You still have that thing?" Chip held out his hand and Crane passed it over—a little silver cat with gemstone eyes. “Don't tell me you've carried this all these years?" Lee nodded sheepishly, and Chip grunted. "Didn't think Mr. Practicality here even believed in luck."

The other shrugged. "Chanel gave me that the day I graduated.”

“0h, yes,” Chip nodded wisely. "Chanel." Visions of tanned legs and long blonde hair elevated his hormone levels whenever he thought of the little French girl who'd been Crane’s girlfriend during their last year at the Academy. "You broke up with her right before shipping out on your first assignment. See her much any more?"

Lee lowered his head, studying Felix intently. "She was killed about a year later—car accident." Not giving the other a chance to offer any condolence, he raised his head again, carefully veiling his eyes. "Old history.” He retrieved Felix, stowing it carefully into a bottom drawer of the desk. “Who knows? Perhaps he'll bring me a little luck with the crew. The way things are going, I can use it.”

“Give them time, Lee.” Morton repeated his earlier admonition, emphasizing it with a little thump on the nearest stack of papers. "I know you're used to better, but try to look at it from their point of view.”

"Which is?"

The tone was nonchalant; the gold appearing in Lee’s eyes was not. All or nothing, Chip thought, taking the plunge. “The crew doesn’t know you, but their captain—their friend—is murdered and there's nothing in the world they can do about it. Then, to top it off, he's replaced. By who? By some kid who was still in grammar school when Jack was fighting his first war."

If he’d been going for the shock effect, he’d succeeded admirably. The coffee cup hit the desk with a loud thump. Lee stared at him, aghast, “Is that what they're saying?” Shock faded and he slumped in his chair, the very picture of dejection. "Wonderful,” he muttered. "Competing with a hero is one thing, but a dead hero—“

"Lee….”

Relatively perceptive himself, Crane noticed the flicker of pain and was instantly apologetic. "I’m sorry, Chip," he offered contritely. “I forgot you were close to Captain Phillips. I suppose I’m just feeling sorry for myself.”

"Forget it.” Morton sat back, studying the other man critically. “Maybe if you looked older," he suggested, only half joking. “Ever try growing a mustache?"

“Once." Crane unconsciously fingered his upper lip. “I looked like an Arab.” He sighed deeply and squared his shoulders. ”I’m not going to grow a moustache, and I’m not going to coddle the crew, either. They'll either accept me as the new commanding officer, or—“

“Or?”

“If I can't do the job, I don't deserve Seaview.”

“You mean you'd quit?" Chip started, dropping his tie; he retrieved it hastily. "That doesn't sound like you." Their eyes let, gold and blue, a current carrying that peculiar understanding which had existed between them since their first meeting. Chip had always—always—been able to read Lee's eyes—a talent which had driven the other man crazy back at the Academy, especially during their weekly poker games. It had allowed Chip to win consistently back then and he was pleased to see it hadn't faded over the years. He felt himself relaxing, sure in the knowledge that his earlier estimation had been correct, and that Crane didn't really intend to give up at all.

Lee, sensing this, smiled warmly. "I only said if.”

“That's a pretty big word, Lee. I hope you’ll give the men a chance. They're a good crew. They'll come around eventually.”

“I hope so.”

“I know so.” Morton uncrossed his legs, stood, and stretched hugely. "Time to hit the rack. Sun rises early on this boat.” He rested his hand briefly on his friend’s shoulder, squeezing once before moving away. “Good night, Skipper." He headed for the door, pausing when he heard his name called softly. ”Yes, Lee?”

They regarded each other a long moment, the affection of old friendship visibly brightening the cabin. Lee smiled, the shy, gentle smile that made him look like a boy all over again. “Thanks.”

“Anytime," Chip answered, closing the door quietly behind him.

                                                                        *****

Tedium reigned unbroken for nearly a week as Seaview patrolled a large swathe of the eastern Pacific, using the opportunity to map several square miles of the unfamiliar bottom just shy of the rift areas. It was a long, boring process, requiring painstaking notes to be made, then checked and double-checked against records dating back nearly a century, while Seaview’s creator, Admiral Harriman Nelson, remained ensconced in his laboratories, happily analyzing water samples from each location.

For his part, Commander Lee Crane fell into the routine easily, spending his days alternating duty shifts with Morton and Second Officer Frank Bishop, and his evenings listening enraptured as Harriman Nelson discussed his findings in such clear and glowing terms that Lee found himself hungering for more knowledge in the field. Surprisingly, he discovered the two-time Nobel Prize winning scientist to be an excellent instructor and amusing raconteur, who showed such a friendly interest in his new captain that Lee felt quite at ease in his presence. He didn’t deceive himself that they would become friends—it was inconceivable that a three-star Admiral would permit more than a professional rapport with a mere Commander and a very young one at that. But the amiability was an unexpected bonus, and Lee enjoyed it immensely.

The mapping, though…. Crane rubbed his smarting eyes, suppressing a sigh. He’d spent the last ten minutes trying to interpret Yeoman Crowley’s notes on an outdated naval chart, receiving little more than a fledgling headache for his efforts. I’m going to have to talk to Crowley about his handwriting, he thought irritably. Although that’s Chip’s job…. He stopped. Crowley was a plank owner—had been aboard the sub since her commissioning nearly two years earlier. If he hadn’t been corrected by Phillips or even Chip before, then maybe it wasn’t Crowley who was at fault.

An unaccustomed spike of uncertainty surprised him then, and he abandoned the old chart to examine it. The Seaview herself—the fastest, most powerful submarine in the world—was sheer joy to command. Crane spent many hours examining her from forward observation nose to aft missile room, studying her specifications and unembarrassed to ask questions of each specialist about his post. On the whole, the crew was respectful if remote, an uncomfortable undercurrent perceptible if banked below the limits of naval discipline. Lee found himself wondering why over and over; surely his security test upon first boarding was not enough to engender this level of resentment. Chip had hinted his age might have something to do with it; according to the duty rosters, the ages of the crew ranged from 26 to nearly 60, with an average of 38 years. That put Seaview’s captain in the category of younger members. But the crew had no problem with Executive Officer Chip Morton, and he and Lee were nearly the same age.

That left the legacy of Captain John Phillips, a dead hero whose shoes Lee was obviously not expected to fill. But I am a good officer, he told himself firmly. Maybe I don’t have Phillips’ experience but I’ve proved myself over and over, both in the field and on a submarine. I earned my position aboard this boat. He tightened his lips, banishing the uncertainty. You know your job, Crane. Just do it and everything will work out. And his job now, he recalled with another sigh, was reviewing the search patterns based on Yeoman Crowley’s notes.

He absently granted the radio operator permission to deliver a coded message to Admiral Nelson, then bent back his task with a vengeance. To his relief, Crowley’s unusual backward slant became quite comprehensible after a bit of study. He was moving on to the course corrections when he was interrupted by a hail from the starboard sonar station. “What is it, Patterson?"

The skinny rating clapped the headset closer to his ear, tilting his head as he studied the image on his screen. "Picking something up on sonar, Captain. It’s....” He paused.

“Not a sea monster, I hope,” Crane filled in after a minute.

Patterson shook his head. “No sir. Not profiling like one.”

Crane’s fledgling smile faltered as he studied the rating’s permanently melancholy face. He couldn’t tell whether the other man was joking or not. If not…what kind of adventures had Seaview had over the past two years? He determined to read some of Phillips’ logbooks when he had the chance just to be sure.

Patterson twisted a dial, his blue chambray shirt momentarily obscuring the screen. “Profiling like a sub, Sir.”

“A sub?” Crane rounded the small plotting table to the station, bending to peer over the other man’s shoulder, “Are you sure?"

"Yes, Sir." Doug Patterson boosted the gain to full, bringing an indistinct blur near the bottom of the screen into sharp definition. "There it is. Shan class. Range, five thousand yards. Bearing, one-six-oh relative. Closing fast."

"Sparks," Crane hailed the returned radioman, a very tall, young Lieutenant with brows so thick that they nearly met in the middle of his forehead. "Are you receiving an identification signal from a sub closing on us?"

“Negative, Sir."

"Hail them. Request identification and intent "

Crane bent back over the sonar, studying the screen intently. From the other submarine’s actions, he half-expected Sparks’ reply to be negative; he wasn't disappointed. "No answer, Sir. They're receiving, but refusing to respond."

“Hydrophones picking up something, Captain," Carrot-haired seaman Ryan O’Connell broke in from the other side of the chamber. “New contact."

"Put it on the speakers," Crane ordered, studying the sonar screen again. There was a click from overhead, then the control room was filled with the chub-chub of powerful propellers. Crane listened a moment, eyes wide. "That's a Mark 8 subkiller!” he gasped.

"Contact confirmed." Patterson pointed to a new pattern at the top of his screen. "Sonar reads a destroyer on an intersecting course. Range twelve thousand yards, bearing oh-two-oh, relative."

"I don't like this," Crane muttered softly. He turned to find his executive officer at his right shoulder. “Chip—sound general quarters."

"Aye, aye." Morton pressed the alarm, allowing the harsh klaxon to sound twice before he silenced it and picked up the nearest microphone. ”Battle stations—all hands—battle stations!"

Crane plucked the mike from his fingers and clicked it twice. "Engineering."

"Engineering—Whitten," came the immediate response.

“All ahead flank speed," Crane ordered.

"All ahead flank, aye," the engineering officer answered promptly.

"Rig for silent running." Crane didn't wait for the acknowledgement before speaking again. "Maneuvering, come to course two-nine-oh true then commence evasive action."

"Two-nine-oh, aye."

"What’s going on, Lee?" came a quiet voice from the forward part of the control room.

Crane raised his head at the Admiral's question, but deferred answering until the older man had joined him by the sonar station. “Two vessels—a sub and a destroyer—both on a heading straight for us."

"And you don't think it's a coincidence."

It was not a question but Crane shook his head, anyway. "I don't believe in coincidences. Besides, it feels like a trap."

"Captain!" Patterson called out though he was sitting less than a foot away. "Torpedo launched and running. Range three thousand yards, bearing three-two-two relative."

Crane leaped to the mike. "Swenson!"

"Swenson, aye."

"Degauss the hull,” Crane ordered, adding to the Admiral as an aside, “If they’re on a Shan class sub, they’re probably metal seeking torpedoes.” He passed the mike to Morton, who hung it up, then stated quietly, "Helm—hard right rudder. Flood forward ballast."

Chip bellowed the orders forward, and each man tensed, relaxing only when Patterson announced, "Torpedoes passing to port. Clean miss—” He broke off. “New contact. Surface vessel, bearing oh-two-five true, on an intersecting course."

"Another one? But why?" Crane slammed his open palm against the plotting table, then ran a hand through his thick hair, thinking furiously. "We're on a mapping expedition! There's no reason to…." His voice trailed away as he caught sight of Nelson's grim expression. "Do you know anything about this, Admiral?"

Craggy features drawn tight, the older man rested both fists on his hips, sapphire gaze fixed on the sonar screen. "There have been rumors—unofficially, of course—that the Chinese are building a new submarine base somewhere in this general vicinity."

Crane felt his jaw drop, blurting before he could stop it, "A submarine base? Here? And you didn't tell me?"

Nelson raised a hand, cutting him off without apology. "I just found out myself. Scrambled message from ONI.”

Crane's fists tightened, anger flaring up. Could their innocent little mapping assignment been simply a camouflage? And did it even matter now? Anger faded suddenly, ice water and adrenalin sending alternate cold and hot tendrils through each vein. He could actually feel each instinct sharpening, his thoughts flowing like quicksilver. “Mr. Morton."

The blond responded immediately. "Yes, Sir?"

"Crash dive," Lee instructed without turning around. "Flank speed."

"Aye, aye, Skipper." Chip picked up the abandoned mike. "Flood all ballast. Downward inclination on all planes. All ahead flank."

A chorus of acknowledgements greeted these commands. Lee ignored them all, his attention riveted again on the sonar screen. “We're losing the sub," he murmured.

"First destroyer falling behind," Patterson announced without a thread of excitement in his monotonal voice. He added without inflection, "Second destroyer coming into range. Bearing 090 relative.”

“Blast!” Crane clenched his fist again, feeling his nails bite into the skin. The maneuver was textbook and immediately recognizable. "They're trying to herd us into a pincer.”

The crew drew a collective breath, held it. They didn't have long to wait—the first hammering blows of the depth charges reached them exactly twenty seconds later, tossing the great sub like a child's toy. Crane missed a snatch for Patterson’s bolted chair and would have smashed into the helmsman’s board save for Chip Morton’s arm around his chest. Morton released him at once and Crane spun for the mike again. ”Damage control—report!"

“Damage control. Stand by....” There was some hurried mumbling off-mike as each section reported. ”Damage control, Kowalski here. Some weakening in frames twenty-five and thirty-one. We're shoring them up now.”

“Casualties?” Crane asked.

Kowalski consulted someone in the background. “No casualties, Sir.”

“Second ship coming around to give chase,” Patterson sang out.

“Chip—what’s our depth?” Crane asked, dropping the mike.

Morton checked the depth gauge. “Two thousand feet.”

Another round of depth charges exploded, farther away this time. Crane ignored them but not sonar’s next announcement. “Multiple contacts. Several vessels this time. Bearing two-seven-seven relative.”

“They've called out the fleet,” Nelson said softly, “We can outrun them one at a time, but there are too many now.”

“And we can't fight them all.” Lee froze, his mind racing. He replayed the mapping information on the screen of his mind…topography… water samples and graphs…and all the additional notes added in Crowley’s cramped little script. He analyzed none of it consciously; the information flashed quicksilver fast, intuition drawing conclusions he would only afterward be able to explain. But Crane didn’t have to explain it—he already knew his course to be the correct one. Without hesitation, he again clicked the mike. “Damage control.”

“Damage control.”

“How are you coming on those structural reinforcements?”

“Completed now, Sir.”

He flicked his eyes toward the tall blonde hovering at his side. “Chip, take us down—crash dive to forty-seven hundred feet.”

“Forty-seven hundred feet?!” Morton stared, both arctic blue eyes and mouth describing perfect ‘O’s’ of astonishment. “Lee, that's below our crush depth!”

“I’m aware of that, Mr. Morton,” Crane returned calmly. “Do it.”

“Aye, Sir,” The acknowledgment was dubious, but the order snapped smartly enough. “Helm, take us down—forty-seven hundred feet. Flood all ballast to the mark. Hold trim.”

"What do you have in mind, Lee?” Nelson asked quietly.

Crane leaned negligently against the periscope island, only the white-knuckled grip he maintained on the railing betraying the tremendous tension in his lean body. “We can't run and we can't fight them all. Our only chance is to hide. There’s a halocline at 4,700 feet. We can use the temperature and salinity to shield ourselves from their sonar. Once under it, we change direction and get out of here.”

Nelson grunted, ruddy face thoughtful, “it’s worth a chance. Estimated crush depth is forty-five hundred, but I never estimated how many depth charge blasts titanium will stand up for.”

“It’s our only chance,” Crane returned, automatically wincing as another round of depth charges tossed the ship. A support creaked ominously overhead, bringing every head up. “l only hope the hull will take the pressure in those damaged frames.”

The minutes stretched out, wearing on nerves already drawn fine with apprehension. A deep banging as though from a giant's hammer sounded from without—the buckling of the hull plates under the deadly pressure. It caused an almost physical jolt when Chip called out, “Forty-five hundred feet.”

“Crush depth,” the helmsman whispered uneasily.

The sub shuddered again, the thunderous banging increasing with each reported foot. “Forty-five fifty...” Chip intoned. “Forty-six hundred...forty-seven hundred feet.”

“Very well.” At least his voice was calm, Crane thought with a touch of dark humor. “Maintain depth and trim. Helm—all ahead one-third. O’Connell—what are you getting?”

“Propeller contact fading, Sir.”

“Confirmed.” Patterson cocked his head, studying the board. "All ships definitely falling behind.”

“Very well. Let me know when we're out of range.” Crane felt a light touch and turned into the approving gaze of his superior.

“Good maneuvering, Lee,” Nelson said, slapping his arm.

Though the older man’s tone was off-hand, Crane felt a warm glow in the pit of his stomach. Praise from this man—this legend—was worth a lot to him. “Thanks,” he returned, a faint smile easing his own taut solemn features. “I only hope those structural supports hold until we surface again.”

“We're out of sonar range, Captain,” Patterson reported.

“Very well. Chip, take us up to two-hundred feet. I want divers out to check the hull before we risk another attack.” Chip gave the order and Seaview obeyed—a great silver mermaid streaking toward the light. Crane sighed deeply, wiping a bead of perspiration from his forehead. “That was too close,” he said to no one in particular,

"It was that," Nelson agreed wholeheartedly. “I'm going to my cabin. I want a copy of the damage report when it comes in.”

"Will do, Admiral. Any new contacts on sonar?" Crane asked, turning back to the screen.

“Negative, Sir. Screen is clear."

"Radar?" This to a short, dark man named Ron.

“Same here, Sir. Clear above us,” replied the crewman.

From somewhere amidships, Seaview shuddered—a deep, painful quiver that set off alarms in Crane's head. He snatched up a mike. “Kowalski, what was that?"

“We’re checking now, Sir," was the prompt reply.

Crane paced the length of the control room once, eyeing the tell-tales at all stations.

"Looks like you did it, Lee," Morton said at his shoulder. "We're well out of range of those destroyers."

"Why didn't ONI tell us sooner?" Crane met his friend's eyes briefly, a wealth of emotion brimming over into his voice. "If they had, we could have avoided this area altogether."

"Maybe that was the idea." Chip looked disgusted, his words echoing Crane’s own opinion. "Who'd expect a civilian research vessel of foul play if we just happened to wander into a restricted area? Looks like we're out of danger now, at any rate."

As if on cue, the sub shuddered again, more strongly this time. Metal decking bucked, nearly tossing those standing off their feet again. ”Captain!” Kowalski’s frantic voice called loudly over the speakers. “Captain Crane!”

Lee picked up the mike. “Crane here."

“Damage control, Captain. We've sprung some plates in frame twenty-five. We’re shipping water fast.”

"On my way.” Crane replaced the mike and headed for the aft hatch. "Blow all ballast tanks,” he called over his shoulder. "Get us to the surface fast!“ And Crane was gone, long legs eating up the distance at a run. If the watertight doors didn't hold—if they were shipping too much water—they'd never be able to surface. Could it be that, for all his vaunted cleverness, he’d simply exchanged one kind of death for another?

                                                                        *****

Lt. Commander Chip Morton paused only long enough to see that the necessary orders were carried out and to turn over the con to Sparks, then he too was off, arriving in the damaged section only minutes after Crane. Men crowded the narrow passage, all eager to assist. Chip shouldered his way through the living wall with a barked, “Clear this passage! Come on, give us room.” Command tones cut through the babble and a space cleared, allowing him an unrestricted view of the trouble area.

Crane was stretched prone on the deck, half in, half out of a hatch in the decking, one Chip recognized as leading to a large storage hold in the belly of the sub. The sound of rushing water could clearly be heard over the muted voices behind him. The compartment was filling up fast; large and deep as it was, the compartment would hold tons of water. If any of the watertight doors leading to the hold gave way, Seaview would take on too much weight for her ever to make it to the surface.

“Come on, MacDonnell…reach!” Crane encouraged someone just out of sight.

Morton leaned over the hatch for a better look as Rod MacDonnell flailed wildly upward. Blood streaming from a cut on his head dripped over his face and jaw to be washed away by the salt spray misting the air. From what Chip could see, part of the ladder had torn from its mooring, and MacDonnell was hard-put to climb the last several feet to safety. “I can't reach you, MacDonnell,” Lee panted. “Stretch!” MacDonnell stretched, then rose several extra Inches, boosted from below.

“I got you!” Crane shouted triumphantly. His hands closed over a chambray-clad arm and he heaved; MacDonnell popped up through the hatch, where two crewmen snagged his arm and hauled him away. “Take him to Sickbay,” Chip ordered, squatting beside his captain. “Kowalski! Anyone else down there?”

"Negative. I'm coming up." Kowalski’s voice was barely audible over the roar of the inrushing sea. Morton could see the man now, awash to his chest, making his way up the half-unsecured ladder. It was hard going—a steady stream poured across the rungs, adding force to the swirling tide. For every upward step, Kowalski was forced back and down; another few seconds and he'd be underwater altogether.

“Come on, Kowalski—higher!” Crane stretched downward, just grazing the extended fingertips. Kowalski gained another rung….

Seaview lurched violently to starboard, spilling the man off the ladder and into the angry waters below. He went with a yell, the experienced swimmer emerging seconds later, sputtering for air. “...can't reach….”

“Kowalski! Hang on!" Like a streak, Crane reversed his position and slid into the hold. Ignoring the rungs, he used the ladder as a fireman's pole, sliding into the water with a splash. He gave an involuntary gasp as the cold water closed over his chest, choking off breath. It took two tries for him to call, "Kowalski!”

“Over here!” The cry was faint, drowned out by the thunderous roar of inrushing water. Morton could see Crane’s dark head swivel from left to right, frantically attempting to locate the source. At the same time both he and Chip spied the rating clinging to a support beam. The water was already past his chin, and rising with each passing second.

“Grab hold!” Keeping one hand anchored to the wobbly ladder, Crane extended himself to the full, reaching to within inches of the other man. “Come on, Ski!”

Kowalski measured the distance in a flash, timed the next seche, then launched himself forward, releasing his hold on the support beam. A swell gave just the impetus he needed to reach the salvation so near. His fingers closed over Crane's wrist, and the Captain shifted, locking Kowalski’s hand firmly, the added weight nearly tearing him from his anchor. Shoulder muscles rippling visibly with strain, he held firm, drawing on all the strength desperation had to offer.

It was enough. With a splash, Kowalski reached the ladder. Crane propelled him up several rungs toward the waiting hands above. This time it was Morton's turn to play catcher. He reached down, hooking a hand around Kowalski’s forearm, bracing himself to pull. Seaview chose that moment to lurch again, a sickening roll that left her listing. Tons of water shifted in the hold, throwing heavy crates about like a child's building blocks. One, stamped MACHINE PARTS, tumbled end over end—directly toward the two helpless men on the ladder. Chip yelled a warning, but it was Crane who reacted first. He gave Kowalski a violent shove from below, forcibly ejecting him from the hold to be dragged to safety.

As Kowalski rolled free of the hatchway, Chip bent down again, peering into the quickly filling compartment. He saw that Lee had scrambled upward a few more rungs—he was almost in reach...

The crate struck hard, slamming into Crane's back with sickening force. Chip could hear the impact, loud even against the bedlam of the flood. Lee hung, pinned against the ladder by the weight of the crate; then the crate dropped free and he started to collapse. The half-moored ladder creaked ominously then gave way.

Chip Morton didn't waste a second on thought. He dove through the hatch, frantically scrabbling to reach Lee before he tumbled back into the liquid death. Something—someone—snagged his belt and another his legs as he went through, anchoring him firmly in place. This left his arms free to grasp Crane around the chest, gathering up the unconscious man before he was swept away,

For long seconds they hung, suspended over the water. Lee’s breath was warm against his neck; Chip held him tighter, relieved to find any sign of life. Then there was a pull on his belt and legs, bringing him up. He held firm, dragging Lee up with him, his arms and shoulders protesting the strain.

Suddenly it was over. The deck was a comforting stability against his back; the clank of the hatch blocked out the sounds of death below.

They lay there several seconds, Lee sprawled limply atop him, still clasped in his friend’s protective embrace. Close, Chip thought with a shudder. Thought we’d had it that time for sure. Lee stirred weakly against his chest and Chip reluctantly released his hold, allowing two crewmen to roll the Captain off him. Nelson—when did he get here? Chip wondered—handed him a blanket before tucking a second one around Crane's shivering torso. Chip came to his knees. "Lee?"

Black lashes fluttered and a very worried Admiral and executive officer bent closer, a dozen seamen crowding in around them. Chip smiled encouragingly. “We told you before about that hero complex of yours,” he teased. "How are you feeling?"

"Every…" Crane coughed, wincing and weakly wrapping an arm across his midsection. “Every…one…safe?”

He made to rise, but fell back at Nelson's restraining touch. "Take it easy, son," Nelson admonished gently. "Everyone's safe and Seaview’s going upstairs—slowly, but we're making it."

Crane parted blue lips but managed only a gasp when Morton’s questing fingers backed up to a spot on his chest. ”Looks like you've got a couple of ribs loose," Chip commented, next peering deep into his eyes; the amber was dulled—Shock, he decided. Aloud, he said, "Lie still until Doc gets here."

He should have known Lee would ignore the admonition. "Chip...want a damage report...five minutes..."

Nelson grunted impatiently. "I'll take care of damage control. You just relax."

Crane murmured something, whether acknowledgement or protest or both, Chip couldn’t tell. He raised his head, matching Nelson’s twinkling blue eyes with a raised brow. “Offhand," the Admiral remarked cryptically, “I’d say we’ve got ourselves a new captain. Wouldn't you agree, Mr. Morton?”

Chip glanced around at the worried faces ringing them, and noted the very different aura of the crew. He nodded slowly. “I’d say you were right, Admiral.” He smiled wider, content for the first time in weeks. “Offhand, I’d say you were very right indeed.”

                                                                        *****

“O’Connell, do you have the radar maintenance report, yet?”

“Right here, Skipper.” Seaman O’Connell presented a printout full of figures, then waited respectfully, hands behind his back, for their approval.

“These look fine, O’Connell.“ Crane scanned them for a moment then reached for a pen. He aborted the motion with a visible hitch, teeth clamping together when he moved his damaged chest. O’Connell hurriedly scooped up the pen and handed it across, then reclasped his hands until Crane wrote his signature at the bottom. “Get started on a cross check of the auxiliary system, will you?”

“Aye, aye, Sir." O’Connell nodded his bright red head amiably and returned to his station, giving Walter Kowalski a thumbs up in passing.

The hydrophones operator smiled back then beckoned Crane over. “S’cuse me, Skipper,“ he said, “but I’m picking up a faint clicking sound. Extreme range.”

Crane circled the plotting table, earlier bruising manifesting themselves in slow steps and careful movement. With a sigh, he took a stand by the man’s left shoulder. “I.D. it yet?” he asked, running an eye across the settings.

“Negative, Sir. Too far away for the computers.” Ski winked lasciviously. “Could be nothing but a friendly whale.”

Crane clapped him on the back. “lf he gets too friendly, I want to know about it.”

“Will do, Sir” Grinning widely, Kowalski returned to his vigil.

From his position at the plotting table, Chip followed the exchange carefully, noting with satisfaction the casual familiarity adopted by each. Gone was the resentful tension which had marked every order Crane had given. The muted anger, brimming in the crew and reflected in Crane's expressive eyes, had transmuted into acceptance and respect—even genuine liking. Brilliant maneuvering had saved the sub from certain destruction; yet, that much the crew had expected from their commanding officer. No, it was Lee's selfless endangerment of his own life—and being injured himself in the bargain—that had changed him from ‘usurper' to ‘one of us.’ He was a member of the crew now—and a bit of a hero himself, to boot!

Lee must have felt the exec's eyes upon him, for he raised his head, making an effort to straighten despite his tightly taped ribs. The movement obviously hurt, for he aborted the attempt immediately. Chip repressed a smile, and waited for his captain to join him before speaking. "Things seem to be going a lot better with the crew."

"They are." Crane cast an eye around the structured order of the control room, watching with approval the smooth shift changeover. "I can't figure it out."

Chip raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Telling Lee he was considered a hero—for this week, anyway—would only make him uncomfortable. He was so relaxed—at ease with the crew for the first time since he'd come aboard. Chip had no desire to risk that new rapport with anything so trivial as an explanation. "Told you they'd come around," he offered finally.

"Looks like you were right." Crane picked up another clipboard, idly scanning the neat list of entries. "You've finished the status report already? Good—I need to discuss this with the admiral."

"He just went forward to the observation nose."

"Very well. Take over, Chip."

With a satisfied smile, Chip watched his friend leave the control room, stepping lightly over the raised threshold of the hatch. Despite his injuries, the weary slump his shoulders had borne these past few weeks had sloughed away, leaving behind the young, eager commander Chip remembered so well.

“Told you so,” he muttered, bending back over his charts.

Finish

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