Phoenix Sub Zero

Houser worked for Tom Schramford as main propulsion assistant and assistant engineer, the traditional job of the senior lieutenant, responsible for most of the mechanical components of the propulsion plant and thirty-five nuclear enlisted men. In his own way he was one of the most tactically inspired junior officers Kane had ever known. As MPA he was brilliant, thick with the mechanics who worked for him, talking street engines and hot rods when not troubleshooting some problem with Phoenix’s machinery. As one of Kane’s officers of the deck, Houser was good if rough around the edges, driving the ship like a sports car. Kane could always tell when the aggressive Houser was driving— dishes broke from his angles and snap rolls, cooks cursing from spilled soup pots and table settings dashed to the deck.

Kane would chew him out for his maneuvers, knowing inside that Houser could fight the ship better than many of the department heads.

Houser’s relationship with Senior Chief Sanderson was not smooth. Their mutual disrespect was the stuff of shipboard legends, the two men not so much oil and vinegar as dynamite and matches. Houser had been sonar officer when Sanderson had arrived aboard, the sonar chief expecting a red carpet and immediate obedience to his royal proclamations as captain by proxy, including all officers of the deck and his entire chain of command from the sonar officer to the weapons boss to the XO and even the captain. That attitude went nowhere with Houser, the lieutenant quickly in forming the senior chief that in his opinion, according to Navy Regulations, and by God the last time he checked, officers outranked all enlisted men, no matter how many rib bons and hash marks and stars they wore on their service dress sleeves. After a week butting heads Kane had a choice between transferring off the most able, though admittedly prima donna, sonar chief in the known universe or giving

Houser, his best junior officer, a new job. On the afternoon of Sanderson’s eighth day aboard Houser took over as main propulsion assistant and the ship had sailed smoothly ever since.

Except when Houser was officer of the deck, as he was now. Another reason he was aft as engineering officer of the watch during battle stations and Schramford, the engineer, who normally should have been the EOOW, was instead officer of the deck. Now with Schramford aft cranking up the reactor, Houser mounted the conn and looked down at the displays and the status board and the plots, pulling on a headset as he did.

“Sonar, Conn,” Houser’s acerbic voice rang on the communication circuit, “what’s the status of the incoming torpedo?”

Sanderson’s reply was equally caustic.

“Still incoming.”

“Any idea of range? Or speed?”

“Conn, Sonar, no.”

Schramford’s voice came on the circuit next. “Conn, maneuvering, we’re overpowering the reactor now, limited by main engine bearing temperatures, reactor power steady at one three eight percent.”

“We’re getting …” Kane craned his neck and peered at the speed indicator, noticing the deck’s vibration seemed about the same … “forty-two knots. Is that all she has, Eng?”

“Sir, any more and we’ll melt the mains or grind up the reduction gear. As is we’ll sustain some core damage and higher radiation levels.”

“Eng, you get me away from this torpedo and I’ll buy you a brand-new plant,” Kane said.

“Captain, presets loaded and confirmed,” Follicus broke in.

“Very well, Weps,” Kane replied. “As soon as we’re done.shooting, get the crew working the reload.” “I’ve already told them, sir.”

Kane stepped back from the attack center to the periscope stand, where he could see the entire crew in the stuffy room.

“Firing point procedures, tubes one and two.”

“Ship ready,” Houser drawled.

“Weapons ready,” Follicus said.

“Solution input,” Mcdonne said, obviously unhappy at shooting a torpedo without contact on the Destiny, the artificial range and orbit point a gamble.

“Tube one, shoot on programmed bearing,” Kane said.

“Set,” from the attack-center Pos Two console’s Rodney Olson as he locked in the orbit point for the torpedo in the computer, sending it to the torpedo in the tube in the lower level deck.

“Stand by,” Follicus said, taking the firing trigger on the firing panel to the nine o’clock position, completing the launching circuit in the computer.