Barracuda: Final Bearing

In fact, Porter slept so much that Omeada had taken to calling him Bunky. Porter hadn’t reacted, had never threatened Omeada in spite of his elevated rank. He took Omeada’s taunts as if he himself were just another of Omeada’s seamen striking for sonar technician. Porter’s acceptance of Omeada’s criticism and the way he responded to it by learning rather than resenting had gained Omeada’s unconditional respect. This was something that had never happened to him, respecting an officer. The other chiefs in the goat locker gave him tremendous grief about it. After all, Omeada had spent years putting down officers and their lack of knowledge coupled with the fact that they got all the credit, all the glory, all the medals and all the money. Omeada, in his defense, kept saying that Chrissy Porter was different, that he was “heavy,” submariner’s respectful term for knowledgeable. The other chiefs had just laughed and made noises about Omeada and Porter having some kind of weird thing going on. Now that it was Omeada’s turn to take the heat, he learned a lesson from Porter and accepted it, and soon the sarcastic taunts of his fellow chiefs died down.

Omeada was still amazed, after twenty years of frustration with officers, how much he did admire Porter. So much so that he felt dutybound to disguise that feeling in front of the men, doubling his cuts at the twenty-six-year-old lieutenant. As for Porter, an odd thing had happened to him during the course of their association— he became bitingly sarcastic, to the point that the other officers accused him of being Omeada with lieutenant’s bars, which he met with Omeada-style wit.

In addition to the growth of their professional relationship, Omeada could now closely predict Porter’s rhythms. Of course, it helped that Porter was a soul who loved routine, always coming on watch at midnight, going off watch at zero six hundred hours, sleeping until he could no longer sleep, then coming into sonar to check the status of the equipment prior to taking his watch. Porter would be coming into sonar now to get his prewatch brief in about ten seconds. Five seconds.

Two. One. Zero.

“Hello, Chief,” Porter said. Porter, of medium height, paunchy with pasty skin, a five o’clock shadow, a double chin and a receding hairline, looked fifteen years older than his age. “Any contacts?”

“A thousand of them, Bunky. All over the map. All high-value Destinys. I just forgot to tell control about them.”

Porter leaned over a console and punched some softtouch function keys, flipping the display through several channels, spending only a moment looking at each.

“You us in’ the right search plan?”

“Oh, my God! I knew we forgot something. The search plan. Williams, get the damned plan entered in.”

“Come on. Chief.”

Omeada pointed to the computer running in the corner of the room. Porter nipped through the windows, seemed satisfied with the plan.

“What’s the status of the BSY?”

“Broke-dick, sir. Down hard. I just neglected to tell control.”

“Chief.”

“Nominal, okay? Jeez, you’re worse than my motherin-law. Although, come to think of it, you do kind of look like her. She’s got a gut just like you.”

“We can’t all be skinny and beautiful like you. Chief.”

“Don’t forget young-looking. With silky skin.”

“And great legs.”

“I try.”

A serious look crossed Porter’s face. “I’ve got a feeling about this watch.”

“I don’t want to hear about your feelings, sir. This isn’t an encounter group.”

“Oh? You wouldn’t know it from all the moaning and groaning in here. Let me know what you get. Today’s the day.”

“Have a good watch, sir,” Omeada said. Porter stared at him for a moment, realizing it was the first statement made in a month by him without sarcasm. It seemed to confirm Porter’s feelings. Today was the day, this was the watch.

Porter took a detour from his usual prewatch tour and went below one deck to the torpedo room, went forward past the shining green-painted Mark 50 torpedoes stacked neatly on the hydraulically controlled racks. He stopped at one of the torpedoes and touched its flark, its surface cool and smooth. Stenciled on the side were the words “mk 50 mod alpha warshot.” Porter walked again to the forward bulkhead to examine the tubes.

All eight had large white phenolic tags with red letters proclaiming “warshot loaded.” Porter stood there for a moment, then walked back up the ladder to the upper level, arrived back in control and nodded to Lt. David Voorheese, the man Porter would relieve as officer of the deck. Porter scanned the status boards, the navigation plot, took a final look at the sonar display and told Voorheese he was ready to take the watch.

“Nothing going on. The Oparea’s empty. Captain’s racking, XO’s got the command duty officer, the place is dead. Midwatch as usual.”

“Captain’s night orders?”

“Same as last night’s. Find the Destiny. Don’t wait to shoot at him while you’re manning battlestations.”

“Hell, maybe I’ll just shoot his ass and let you guys keep sleeping.”

“Fine. You got it? I’m tired.”