Polaris (2 page)

“You need to see this,” she said. “We converted the forward escape trunk into a makeshift brig. There's actually a procedure for that, believe it or not.”

Hamlin stepped beneath the trunk.

“Be careful,” she said. “He's dangerous.”

Hamlin looked up and saw that a heavy steel grid had been affixed to the bottom of the trunk, fastened by heavy bolts on the outside. He could also see the soles of two shoes on the grid above his head, a pair of standard-issue Navy oxfords.

Suddenly the prisoner looked down, between his legs, and saw Hamlin. He immediately threw himself to his hands and knees.

“Pete!” he said. “Thank god you're here!”

His face was dirty and his eyes were frantic, but Pete thought he recognized something just as he had in Ramirez: a friend.

“Finn,” he said, surprising himself with the memory of a name.

“You've got to get me out of here!”

Suddenly Moody stepped to Pete's side, into the view of the prisoner.

McCallister's face darkened. “Moody? Pete, why are you with her?”

“That's right, McCallister, he's with me. And you're in there, trapped like the animal you are.”

“Pete!”
The intensity of his shouting made Hamlin wince. “You've got to get away from her!”

“Shut up, McCallister,” she said.

“She's going to destroy us all!”

Moody suddenly pushed Pete aside and pulled something from her pocket. She pointed it up at the steel grid and fired it.

An electric blue arc jumped from her hands to the steel grid that McCallister knelt upon. Sparks shot across the chamber. McCallister howled and tried to jump away from the pain, but there was nowhere to hide inside the metal cell. He screamed and bounced off the sides of it in agony as Moody held her finger down on the trigger, a grim smile on her face.

When she finally relented, McCallister collapsed to the grid, his face pressed against it, breathless, almost unconscious. A thin stream of drool escaped his mouth and fell between Moody and Hamlin.

“I guess you're done talking now,” she said, reholstering the Taser.

McCallister muttered in pain. “Pete…” he said. “Help me.…”

“Ignore him,” said Moody. “He's a traitor.”

 

WELCOME ABOARD THE USS
POLARIS

A Legacy of Freedom

BIOGRAPHY OF OUR COMMANDING OFFICER: CAPTAIN FINNEGAN “FINN” MCCALLISTER

Captain McCallister is a native of Dennison, Ohio, and is the son of Mr. and Mrs. Finnegan McCallister, Sr. He received his commission in June 2009 upon graduation from the United States Naval Academy. Following graduation, he received Nuclear Power and Submarine Training.

Captain McCallister reported to the USS
Alabama
(SSBN 731) in December 2010. He served in division officer assignments prior to transfer in June 2013 to Naval Ballistic Missile School. Subsequently he was assigned to the USS
Seawolf
(SSN 21) from October 2013 to October 2015. Captain McCallister attended the Submarine Officer Advanced Course (SOAC) from October 2015 to March 2016 before reporting to the USS
Newport News
(SSN 750) as engineer for a three-year tour.

Starting in March 2019, Captain McCallister took a series of roles within Naval Sea Systems Command to design and build the new class of
Polaris
submarines. Working at the right hand of Admiral Wesley Stewart, the father of the
Polaris
program, he was an integral part of the team that designed the weapons suite as well as the long-life nuclear fueling program designed to increase the duration of submarines.

Captain McCallister assumed command of the USS
Polaris
in May 2027. He remained in command as the
Polaris
was assigned to support the Alliance in 2029.

Captain McCallister's personal decorations include the Legion of Merit with a Gold Star, the Alliance Bronze Star, Meritorious Service Medal with a Gold Star, Navy Commendation Medal with three Gold Stars, and the Navy Achievement Medal with two Gold Stars.

 

CHAPTER THREE

Hana Moody and Pete Hamlin climbed a short ladder into the control room. Standing on the conn was a muscular lieutenant who was studying a green sonar console. He jumped to his feet when they entered.

“Commander Moody!” he said, clearly ecstatic to see her. His biceps bulged in his uniform sleeves and he practically leapt toward them. He was attracted to Moody, it was obvious. But as he started talking, it was evident to Hamlin that he craved her approval as much as he craved her body.

“Were you worried, Holmes? Think I can't handle a few mutineers? And look what I found,” she said, waving her hand at Pete.

“Glad you could help out,” said Holmes with a sneer. “Now that the fighting's done.”

“He did his share,” she said. “He killed Ramirez.”

“What?” said Frank, shocked.

“I saw the body myself,” she said. “Got him in the head, killed him with one shot.” Moody reached up and for the second time touched Pete's wounded head. “So it looks like he was in the fight at least as much as you were.”

Stung by the words, Holmes glared at Pete. “Looks like he was kicking your ass before you got to his gun.”

Pete shook his head, waiting for the memory to come back to him. “Maybe so,” he said.

Frank sneered at Pete's lack of a comeback.

Moody guided Pete over to the computer screen where Holmes had been staring.

“Still there?” she said.

“Still,” said Holmes. “Always one to two miles behind us. Never maneuvering too close, never completely drifting away. I'm sure it was easy for them to track us during the fight, god knows there was plenty of noise.”

Hana turned toward Pete. “We still don't know if she's friend or foe, no way to tell. If she's a Typhon boat, they're still not making their move.”

Typhon
. The word jolted Hamlin. He knew that Typhon was their enemy, one of the few distinct memories to return to him. But was the word an acronym of a foreign slogan? Part of a phrase made pronounceable for English speakers? A slur against all those who would kill them? Pete strained to remember but wasn't sure he'd ever known.

“But if it's Typhon, they made no move to attack us during the mutiny,” she continued.

“We should attack them first!” said Holmes.

Moody sighed impatiently. “What if that's an Alliance boat? And they somehow got word about the mutiny? They may just be trying to determine if the mutiny succeeded or not, ready to blow us out of the water if they think we're in the hands of the enemy.”

“Not if we get her first.”

“And then we've got every submarine out here after us: Alliance and Typhon. Stick to driving, Frank, and leave the thinking to us.”

Holmes turned red at the insult. “Hey, hotshot,” he said to Pete. “Why don't you take the conn for a while? I've been up here for hours.”

Moody looked at them both, and nodded in approval.

“Sure,” said Hamlin, unsure what to do next. He stepped toward Frank, hoping that some knowledge of the task at hand would materialize. At least the mechanics of how to take the watch. But nothing came to him.

“Would you like to know our course and speed?” said Holmes after a moment, mocking him.

“Of course,” said Hamlin.

“Ship is on course two-four-zero, twelve knots, depth seven hundred feet,” he said. “Rigged for general emergency. The port nonvital bus is deenergized because of the fire in the motor generators. I'm guessing about half our lights are out. Sierra One, our shadow, is still behind us, about one mile abaft.”

“OK,” Hamlin responded.

Holmes looked at him in disbelief. “Did you just say ‘OK'?!” He looked to Moody for affirmation, and then back at Hamlin. “How about, ‘I am ready to relieve you'? That's the customary phrase at this point.”

“I am ready to relieve you,” he said.

“No, you're not,” said Moody, stepping forward suddenly. She looked him up and down impatiently. “You're hurt worse than you look, aren't you?”

“Maybe,” said Hamlin.

Holmes sighed loudly in disgust.

Suddenly Moody turned and slapped Holmes across the face, stunning them all. “I'll relieve you, Frank, how's that? Go belowdecks and eat, or read a comic book, or whatever it is you do in your free time, you weak son of a bitch.”

Holmes trembled in rage and shame.

“Go!” she said. “Now! I relieve you! I have the deck and the conn.”

Holmes stormed out of the control room, leaving the two of them standing there.

She stared at Pete with concern. “You always were tough,” she said. “Don't risk the ship on it.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

She looked around to verify that no one else was in the control room, and leaned in. “I love it when you call me that,” she whispered in his ear.

She then stepped back. “Now get yourself to sick bay, Hamlin, and pull yourself together.”

He waited a moment before responding. “Yes, ma'am.”

*   *   *

Moody exhaled deeply as Hamlin walked out of the control room. Could she trust him? She'd seen the gun in his hand, seen Ramirez dead at his feet. Still, he seemed off, perhaps hurt worse than it appeared. She would ask the doctor after he'd had a chance to look him over; maybe he'd medicate him with something. If the drugs were good enough, maybe they could all use a dose. For now, she knew only the next step in the patrol order, the one thing the captain had shared with her, and he'd done that only when he had to. But it was a doozy: they were going to drive through the old Pacific degaussing range. Ever since she found that out, she'd been trying to figure out what it meant for the rest of their mission.

And she could only guess, because no one would tell her.

But now Hamlin wouldn't have any choice. He would have to show her the complete patrol order so they could fulfill the mission. And Hamlin should trust her, shouldn't he? She'd thwarted those two traitors, one of whom Pete himself had killed.

From the beginning, she hadn't known what to make of him. Maybe it was a natural by-product of him being on the ship the least amount of time—a few weeks, when Frank, the next-newest crew member, had been onboard for two solid years, never stepping outside the hull that entire time. They all knew each other like one big dysfunctional family, living in a house with no windows that they could never leave.

But it was more than that: Pete was opaque. He wasn't quite Alliance, and he wasn't quite Navy. But the simple fact was now she had to trust him.

And surely he could see that she had only one goal: the mission. And beyond that, the Alliance. It was all a big joke to McCallister and Ramirez, always had been, a punch line. The Alliance officers like her and Frank, with their coloring-book training and their in-depth knowledge of Alliance dogma. Moody could debate them into the ground about international politics. Unfortunately, on a submarine that had been on patrol for far too long, that was much less important than being able to keep a main feed pump working, or the generators going. At least in Captain McCallister's eyes.

But that's why she was here; that's why the Alliance had put her onboard, made her second-in-command. Because she believed in the mission with the same kind of purity Ramirez had tried to get out of his roaring evaporators. From the cold murk of the ocean that surrounded them, he could produce water a thousand times cleaner than anything available on land, a requirement for his nuclear power plant. That's what was required with ideology, too; it had to be even purer at sea than anywhere else, to hold up under the relentless pressure that constantly tested them all. Ramirez had never believed that, and neither had the captain. But now: she was in charge.

She looked down at the display and checked again for the two undeniable realities in their ocean at the present time: the next step of their mission, represented by the two bright, straight lines of the degaussing range fifty miles ahead. The lines were superimposed electronically on the screen, essentially drawn on by the computer. It was a motionless, silent structure that was invisible to their sonar, or anyone else's. The bright lines on the screen conveyed certainty, but they were just the coordinates they'd inputted, a visual representation of where the range was supposed to be.

The upside-down V behind them on the screen represented less certainty, but was at least the result of real acoustic information, the thin but steady stream of noise that came to them from their shadow, the other submarine that had dogged them for days. Despite what she told Frank, she was certain she was a Typhon boat, based not only on her menacing posture but also on that noise: she was too loud to be an Alliance boat. A modern Alliance craft in their baffles like that would be silent and invisible. She sat down on the small foldout seat in front of the console, fiddled with the range, and realized for the first time how exhausted she was.

*   *   *

It was hard to believe that just three years earlier she'd been a high school teacher. Business and Econ, her only responsibility a roomful of disinterested eleventh graders in Oak Lawn, Illinois. It was a working-class area, the kind of area that the military had always fed on: patriotic kids without a lot of options. So when the war heated up, Oak Lawn sent its share to all three services, and Ms. Moody was one of the teachers who encouraged them, making her a friend to the recruiters that periodically swept through the halls giving away
ARMY OF ONE
T-shirts and promises of upward mobility, college tuition, and adventure.

At first, like most of the teachers, she was conflicted about sending the kids away. Even though she believed deeply that it was the right thing, she knew many of them would end up in harm's way, and some of them would end up hurt, or even dead. Many of the teachers quietly discouraged kids from joining for just that reason, although they soon learned to keep their mouths shut about any doubts they had. Teachers were public employees, and public employees who were labeled as unpatriotic soon found their careers limited. Especially as the enemy had one success after another in the Pacific, and the war seemed to close in on them all.