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Jabo walked to his stateroom, grateful for several things. He was grateful that his beautiful wife was pregnant with their child. He was grateful that, as hard as it was, he’d told Captain Shields of his plans to leave the Navy. And, as he walked up the ladder to the control room to take the watch, he was grateful that he’d been able to have that talk with the understanding Captain Shields, and not his predecessor, Captain Mario Soldato. That guy was an asshole.

• • •

“What’s up?” said the captain.

The XO remained standing, running his hand across his smooth bald scalp. “It’s the navigator. He’s gone and done something weird.”

Captain Shields leaned back and laced his fingers across his stomach, his face grim, awaiting details.

“Lieutenant Maple said that yesterday in control he stabbed himself in his leg with his dividers. Repeatedly. Got blood everywhere. Apparently Maple took a day to think this over before telling me.”

The Captain raised an eyebrow. “What did you say?”

“I told him to shut the fuck up about it.”

“Have you talked to the nav?”

“No sir, not yet. I wanted to talk to you first, because I know we don’t have much time.”

The captain paused. “Time for what?”

“To get him off the boat! Let’s get him off with the fucking mail.”

The captain waited before responding. He knew the XO had never liked the navigator. In fact, the navigator was a tough man to like. But part of it was that each man was, in his way, a perfect representation of the two different tribes of submarine officers. One was a torpedo-hurling warrior who trusted his instincts. The other, a highly-schooled, bookish, technical expert. The tension between them was as old as the Nautilus, the Navy’s first nuclear submarine, and the captain realized that he was probably closer to the nav’s end of the spectrum than the XO’s. “Mike, do you think they have a spare navigator waiting for us on that tug?”

“Fuck sir, I don’t know. I’ll do it, I’ll be the goddamn navigator. Or let’s give Jabo a battlefield promotion. I trust him more than I trust that crazy fucking Mark Taylor.”

“That’s enough,” said the captain sternly.

“Yes sir.”

They both paused long enough to let some of the pressure out of the room.

“You really think it’s that bad?” said the captain. “Bad enough to kick the guy off the boat? Scuttle his career?”

“I really don’t know, captain. Maybe this whole thing just confirms a feeling I’ve always had about the Nav — I don’t know.”

“I think if you’ll really ask yourself — this isn’t the craziest thing either one of us has ever seen a man do at sea. Not even close.”

“Very true, Captain. But this is our navigator. And with so much at stake this patrol…”

“Exactly. And it’s already too late for us to turn around, to ask for a new navigator. He’s done a stellar job for five previous patrols, and I’m confident he will this time too, before he goes on a well-earned shore tour.”

The XO sensed that the decision had been made. “Aye, aye, captain.” He turned to leave.

“XO?”

“Yes sir?”

“Pay a visit to Maple. Tell him there’s no point in spreading this around. We don’t need stories like this getting around with the crew, undermining their confidence in their leadership.”

“Aye, aye sir,” said the XO. But he knew the story had probably already circled the boat twice. They both knew.

• • •

Seaman Hallorann was nineteen years old, just two weeks out of boot camp. He learned quickly that his most urgent priority onboard Alabama was to “qualify,” to complete all the requirements of a yellow booklet that took him through every compartment of the ship, after which he would receive the coveted silver dolphins to wear upon his uniform. With that goal in mind, as the ship pitched and rolled its way to sea, he found his way to Maneuvering, a tiny box of a room in the upper level of the engineroom. A line in his yellow book read: identify and observe Maneuvering watchstanders. Sounded easy enough.

“Request permission to enter?” he asked, mimicking a chief he’d observed entering and leaving maneuvering before him.

An officer looked up at him from a thick black book, slightly surprised, slightly amused. His name tag said Hein. Hallorann knew he was the Engineering Officer of the Watch, or EOOW, pronounced to rhyme like the sound that a cat makes. He sat behind a small raised desk, looking at the backs of three enlisted watchstanders.

“Reason?”

Hallorann held up his yellow book. “Qualifications, sir?”

“Name?”

“Seaman Hallorann, sir.”

Hein turned to his watch team. “Should we let him in?”

“Sure,” said the one closest to him, without turning around. “This watch is in danger of becoming boring.”

“Enter maneuvering, Hallorann.”