announced.
Davis seemed to have trouble getting the mask off, but her hands weren’t pulling at the right spot. Reynolds reached out and neatly slipped it off, leaving her gasping, her face streaked with tears. She fumbled to put her glasses back on.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t see anything. There was no air coming in.” She was shaking, leaning forward to support herself with her hands as well as her knees.
Puzzled, Lopez checked the faceplate. It was clear. Reynolds helped her to her feet.
“I’m sure the mask is all right,” Lopez said reassuringly. “I watched you make the connections and you did just fine.” He paused for a moment, then added, “And what about the others who used it? It worked fine for them.”
“Maybe it was just funky,” joked Jobin. “Everybody knows Lee’s breath reeks.”
“Don’t joke about it,” Davis gasped. “I really couldn’t breathe!” She looked menacingly at Jobin, who did his best to shrink behind the others.
“All right,” said Lopez, “we’ll do it differently. I’ll hook it up first, see?” He plugged the mask into the manifold, pressed it to his face, and breathed deeply. Emily heard the regulator release air into the mask. Pulling the mask away, Lopez handed it to her. “Just hold the mask up to your face and make sure you can breathe first. Then you can adjust the straps.”
She took the mask as if it was coated with acid and placed it over face. She took a breath and felt her lungs fill with the dry air. After careful consideration, she looked at everyone surrounding her, sighed, took off her glasses, and then pulled the mask on.
The compartment was absolutely silent, and Reynolds said, “Step back, guys. Give her a little room.”
As they stepped back, Jerry watched Emily. Her body had that same posture of tight control he’d just seen in Foster. She stood perfectly still, took three deep breaths, then said, “All right! It works this time.” She quickly ripped the mask off the next instant and handed it to Lopez.
The lieutenant handed the mask to Foster and said, “The Torpedo Division is done. I’ve got the rest of the crew to check, so I’m outta here,” he said resignedly.
Lopez left, followed by most of the torpedomen and FTs. Reynolds, Patterson, and Jerry remained, along with Emily. Foster was there as well, but did not stand as close. More composed now, she said, “I’m sorry. The mask was working fine the first time. I couldn’t stand to have anything over my face.”
She turned to Reynolds. “Thank you, Master Chief.” She hugged him, and then left.
That afternoon Hardy hit them with a battle drill that combined an approach on an escorted boomer with an engineering casualty that almost caused a low-water alarm in one of the steam generators. The crew handled it, although not perfectly.
True to his word, Washburn’s cooks served battle rations for dinner: ham sandwiches, boiled eggs, and apples. It was still early enough in the voyage that the apples were fresh. Compared to normal submarine fare, this was a real step down, but Hardy didn’t say a word.
After dinner, he simulated an electrical fire in the sonar room. As the auxiliarymen isolated the circuit at the switchboard forward, the entire sonar system dropped off line, leaving
Hardy was livid until the ship’s sonar officer, Lieutenant (j.g.) Tom Weyer, was able to prove that the auxiliarymen had not caused the failure. The fault lay in the switchboard, which would have been overhauled if they had not been scheduled for decommissioning.
They repaired the malfunction quickly and then continued with the drill. As they watched the crew simulate isolating and correcting the fault, Bair quietly pressed his case with Hardy. “If we keep on at this pace, we’re going to have real casualties, self-inflicted ones. The crew is not getting the time it needs to take proper care of the gear. And they all need sleep. If we don’t slow down, they’re going to start making more mistakes due to fatigue and the training won’t be worth a damn.”
“I’m not convinced they can handle themselves. I can’t trust them to deal with every possibility yet. If there’s a casualty and they drop the ball, it’s a black mark against me, not them.”
“From who? Patterson?” Bair was dismissive. “She doesn’t care. She doesn’t even understand. We have to drill them to our standards, not hers. And sir, with all due respect, it seems like you’ve raised your standards a little.”
Hardy sighed. “What’s your recommendation?”
“Give them the night off. No drills until after breakfast tomorrow.”
The Captain thought about it for almost a minute, but finally said, “All right, pass the word.”
11. Blue Noses
Millunzi’s engineering laboratory technicians, or ELTs, quickly isolated the area and began their search for the offending valve. Not only did they have to find and fix the problem, but simulate decontaminating the sample sink area and the affected crewmen. Bair had sneakily written LVS or “leaky valve seat” in small print on the back of one of the harder to reach valves and he expected it would take the ELTs some time to find it. Clad in their yellow anti- contamination suits, or anti-C’s, the ELTs worked methodically and found the valve in short order. And once located, they simulated torquing the valve down and then cleaning the space, all within the allotted time. The Red Baron was pleased.
Hardy didn’t praise their performance, but made only a few desultory criticisms. Jerry noticed the crew smiling, almost as if he had complimented them.
There were no further drills that morning, and Jerry spent the time trying to catch up on several days of paperwork and qualifications. He kept waiting for the general alarm to sound, but after an hour or two had passed, he started to believe that Hardy might be easing up.
Because he had the twelve to six Diving Officer watch in control, Jerry ate lunch at the first sitting. The atmosphere was more relaxed than it had been for days, and he even thought the food tasted better. The talk at the table was still muted, but things had definitely improved.
Lieutenant Commander O’Connell, the Navigator, broke the relaxed quiet. “XO, sir, I’ve refined my figures, and it appears we’ll be crossing sixty-six degrees thirty-two minutes North latitude around 1600 tomorrow.”
The sixty-six degrees thirty-two minutes North latitude marked the Arctic Circle, a milestone on the way to their destination, but O’Connell said it with a formality that implied something more.
Then Jerry remembered — the Bluenose ceremony. He immediately looked at the two ladies, both seated to the left of the Captain. The XO was studying them as well, and after a few moments of silence, said, “Ladies, as Mr. O’Connell indicated, we will be crossing the Arctic Circle tomorrow afternoon. I’m sure you’ve heard of the ritual that occurs when you cross the Equator.”
He waited for moment and both of them nodded. He continued, “There is a similar ceremony when a vessel crosses the Arctic Circle. We ask permission of Boreas Rex, Ruler of the North Wind and Sovereign of All the Frozen Reaches, to enter his realm, and if we are judged worthy. ”
“Sounds like a silly initiation, like some seagoing fraternity.” Patterson’s critical tone was even harsher than her words.
“Calling us a ‘seagoing fraternity’ is not an insult, if that was your intention,” Captain Hardy replied tersely. “These traditions have a long history, and we respect them, even if you do not.” He looked over to the XO,
