“You could eat like us if you had just jumped out of a perfectly good airplane into the cold dark Indian Ocean, with every expectation of swimming all the way home,” the SEAL lieutenant retorted.
“Lieutenant, water temperature is eighty-four, so don’t give me that “cold dark ocean” crap,” Master Chief Hancock joshed good-naturedly.
All of the figures quickly slid down the ladder and the hatch swung shut. The sub slid beneath the surface, leaving no sign that anything had just happened in this lonely part of the ocean.
On the mess decks, the SEALs sat before heaping plates of hot food, eating with the gusto of exceedingly fit men requiring constant caloric intake. They had exchanged their black wet suits for camouflage uniforms, contrasting sharply with the submariners' blue poopie suits.
Chief Boatswains Mate Sergiavich, the platoon’s second in command, asked, “Lieutenant, are you ever going to tell the Skipper that you were All American in single sculls back at Brown?”
“No, Boats, I won’t,” commented the lieutenant. “Besides, to a man like the Skipper, it wouldn’t make any difference. Just like when he beat me on the last Super Frog Triathlon. Didn’t make any difference that he is almost forty.”
“He beat you because he is a sub-three-hour marathoner and you run like a duck. As I remember that race, you had a ten minute lead coming off the swim," Boats said, relating the annual SEAL Half Ironman Triathlon. "You were about even after the bike race. He caught you at mile six on the run and then ran away from you. Besides, he's forty-four,” Boats continued, forking another helping of mash potatoes into his mouth. “I can see this competition ending with you two having a swim race to Zamboango and back.”
“That might be an even race. How far is that?” questioned the massive lieutenant.
“About a thousand miles North of here,” Boats answered and returned his attention to the plate before him.
17 Jun 2000, 0530LT (16 Jun, 2330Z)
“Injured Man in engine-room lower level! Corpsman lay to engine-room lower level! Captain is down!”
The 1MC announcement caused the crew to spring into action. Doc Pugh jumped from his bunk in the goat locker, grabbed his bag of emergency medical supplies and sprinted aft. He passed the stretcher team picking up a stretcher and additional supplies. They would follow him aft.
ENS Green and Petty Officer Swain had already stopped breakfast preparation and were well into transforming the wardroom into an emergency operating room.
Doc Pugh ducked through the low hatch into the condensate bay in lower level engine-room.
Hunter was sitting on the deck shaking his head and yelling at Sam Stuart. “Damn it Eng, why did you have to go and call away an injured man? Now we’ve got the whole boat in an uproar!”
“But Skipper, you passed out. One minute you are inspecting the hot well level controller and the next you are laid out on the deck,” Stuart retorted, a hurt and offended note in his voice.
“Captain, sit back and let me take your pulse and blood pressure,” Doc interjected. “Eng, please call control and tell them to stand down from ‘Injured Man’. I won’t be needing the stretcher or any other help for now.”
He wrapped the black rubber sleeve around Hunter's upper arm, inflated it and listened to his pulse as the sleeve slowly deflated.
Removing the blood pressure cuff from Hunter’s right arm, Doc reported, “Well, your pulse is slightly elevated. I expect that after the excitement. Your blood pressure is low, normal for you. I warned you about this. Want to tell me what happened?”
“Not much to tell, Doc. I had just finished my normal morning routine on the exercise equipment. The Engineer wanted me to see the level control for the port hot well. It had been controlling erratically and we were discussing the need to repair it. I squatted down to watch it operate and then started to stand up. Vision went black. The next thing I know, the Eng is shaking me and everyone is rushing about,” Hunter replied.
The Corpsman said, “Well, I think that it is only the combination of your low blood pressure and the stress of the long hours you keep. Add that to your “normal morning routine” of two hard hours on the exercise gear and I can see why you went down. If I had an EKG machine out here, I would hook you up, but I don’t have one. We will definitely have to schedule you for testing when we get back. In the meantime, try to take it a little easier, and don’t jump on the Engineer. He did exactly what he should have.”
“OK Doc, thanks and I guess I owe the Eng an apology,” Hunter concluded, slowly rising to walk out of the compartment.
17 Jun 2000, 1440LT (0840Z)
Bill Fagan was seated at his desk working down the endless stack of paperwork, the bane of an XO’s existence. More redundant reports required by desk jockeys who probably had not set foot on a ship in years. Most likely they were not even read, just filed in some musty closet.
Suddenly the stateroom went dark. He flipped the light switch. Again the switch didn’t work. Nothing but darkness.
He stepped out into the passageway and walked to control. The AE again came to troubleshoot the problem. Again the switch worked perfectly for him.
The XO was mystified. He certainly understood the simple lighting circuit. An Electrical Engineering degree from the Academy and the Nuclear Power Training pipeline insured that. This should not be happening. There had to be a logical explanation to this. But, what was it?
18
18 Jun 2000, 0045LT (17 Jun, 1845Z)
The sinister black shape slid silently through the warm tropical night. The only sound
