stationed on the Kolodny had originally joined the Navy looking for adventure, only to discover that what they’d really signed up for was just a job. Countless months of routine maneuvers and tedious maintenance work had managed to reduce even the responsibility of manning a submarine that could wipe out a small country to nothing more than “same old, same old.” Even though all of the crewmen wore dosimeters attached to their uniforms, to warn of any potential radiation leaks, it was really just a standard precaution. The shielding on the reactor and the missiles was strong enough that there was never any problem. The last time an American nuclear submarine had sunk was all the way back in 1968.
The Kolodny was cruising along at a comfortable speed of twenty knots, nine hundred feet below the surface of the ocean, when all of that changed.
Not that the problem was the fault of the captain or crew. For the past year and a half, the Kolodny had been under the command of Captain Robert Tyler. Tyler ran a tight, disciplined ship, with good morale and a model safety record. A beefy man in his late thirties, Tyler easily fit the mold of what, in an earlier time, would have been called a man whose mistress was the sea.
In some ways, actually, the description was almost too apt for his taste. Back in high school, Bob Tyler had been quite the golden boy, the captain of the school’s football team (a captain even then!). And, to no one’s surprise, his heart belonged to the head cheerleader, Chrissy Regan. Their relationship was more than a cliche, though, and it continued long after graduation, when Chrissy went off to college and Tyler joined the service. They continued to write and call each other regularly, and they saw each other as often as their personal commitments allowed.
When Tyler’s tour of duty ended, though, the friction began. Chrissy had assumed that once Tyler’s obligation to the Navy ended, he’d be coming home. He’d get a job, they’d get married, and they would settle down to raise children. However, Tyler had been bitten by the bug. He had his eye on an officer’s track, and couldn’t wait to re-up so that he could get back to sea. He hadn’t imagined that it would interfere with any of their plans for their future. Lots of the guys were married, like Smitty or Dwight or Aryeh, and when they were at sea, their wives lived comfortably and waited for them in the homes that the Navy provided back in port. But Chrissy had other ideas. After so much time apart, she wanted a family that wouldn’t be separated from each other for weeks or months at a time.
They tried to keep things going after that, but the lengthy absences and failure to compromise took their toll. Finally, Crissy gave Tyler an ultimatum: her or the sea.
The sea won.
Captain Tyler wasn’t'the first to man the bridge of the Kolodny, but it was his baby now—with all the pride, worry, and joy that implied. The Captain was in the mess hall, perusing the leftovers from that night’s dinner, when things started to go bad. There was a fair selection of midnight rations (or “mid-rats,” as they were known to the crew) to choose from. After a bit of consideration, Tyler stabbed a slice to meatloaf and added it to a late-night sandwich. As he squirted on some ketchhup as the finishing touch, he talked baseball with the ship’s supply officer.
“... Sorry, Captain. Looks like my Yanks are gonna go all the way again this year.”
“I don’t know, Evans. Don’t all those pennants get monotonous, year after year? The nice thing about us Bostonians is that being Red Sox fans teaches us humility.”
The two shared a laugh at that. But as the Captain looked back down at the table, he suddenly noticed the dampness on the floor. It was probably nothing—a simple spill, or leftover moisture from the last cleaning crew. But still . . .
The Captain called over the seaman who was manning the mess hall. The seaman didn’t know how to
The Kolodny was cruising along at a comfortable speed of twenty knots, nine hundred feet below the surface of the ocean, when all of that changed.
Not that the problem was the fault of the captain or crew. For the past year and a half, the Kolodny had been under the command of Captain Robert Tyler. Tyler ran a tight, disciplined ship, with good morale and a model safety record. A beefy man in his late thirties, Tyler easily fit the mold of what, in an earlier time, would have been called a man whose mistress was the sea.
In some ways, actually, the description was almost too apt for his taste. Back in high school, Bob Tyler had been quite the golden boy, the captain of the school’s football team (a captain even then!). And, to no one’s surprise, his heart belonged to the head cheerleader, Chrissy Regan. Their relationship was more than a cliche, though, and it continued long after graduation, when Chrissy went off to college and Tyler joined the service. They continued to write and call each other regularly, and they saw each other as often as their personal commitments allowed.
When Tyler’s tour of duty ended, though, the friction began. Chrissy had assumed that once Tyler’s obligation to the Navy ended, he’d be coming home. He’d get a job, they’d get married, and they would settle down to raise children. However, Tyler had been bitten by the bug. He had his eye on an officer’s track, and couldn’t wait to re-up so that he could get back to sea. He hadn’t imagined that it would interfere with any of their plans for their future. Lots of the guys were married, like Smitty or Dwight or Aryeh, and when they were at sea, their wives lived comfortably and waited for them in the homes that the Navy provided back in port. But Chrissy had other ideas. After so much time apart, she wanted a family that wouldn’t be separated from each other for weeks or months at a time.
They tried to keep things going after that, but the lengthy absences and failure to compromise took their toll. Finally, Crissy gave Tyler an ultimatum: her or the sea.
The sea won.
Captain Tyler wasn’t'the first to man the bridge of the Kolodny, but it was his baby now—with all the pride, worry, and joy that implied. The Captain was in the mess hall, perusing the leftovers from that night’s dinner, when things started to go bad. There was a fair selection of midnight rations (or “mid-rats,” as they were known to the crew) to choose from. After a bit of consideration, Tyler stabbed a slice to meatloaf and added it to a late-night sandwich. As he squirted on some ketchhup as the finishing touch, he talked baseball with the ship’s supply officer.
“... Sorry, Captain. Looks like my Yanks are gonna go all the way again this year.”
“I don’t know, Evans. Don’t all those pennants get monotonous, year after year? The nice thing about us Bostonians is that being Red Sox fans teaches us humility.”
The two shared a laugh at that. But as the Captain looked back down at the table, he suddenly noticed the dampness on the floor. It was probably nothing—a simple spill, or leftover moisture from the last cleaning crew. But still . . .
The Captain called over the seaman who was manning the mess hall. The seaman didn’t know how to
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