“How do they define non-responsive? What if the pilots are just busy? Or distracted?”
“Or asleep? All those things are possible, and, in fact, have happened. More often than you would think. Most recently just two weeks ago, when a Northwest Airlines 737 overflew the Minneapolis airport by 150 miles, and was nonresponsive for about an hour.”
“What happened?”
“The pilot finally answered the call. Said he and his copilot were distracted and lost ‘situational awareness’ as they were arguing about some company policy.”
“And they were really ready to shoot her down?”
Carr slid a file folder over the table toward the admiral. “Two F-16s from the Minnesota Air National Guard were on the runway, ready to intercept. The protocols call for a series of escalating actions, starting with a fly by, waving wings, even dropping flares. We modeled our special procedure on this, with the shooting water slugs and the underwater telephone. The idea is to confirm beyond a shadow of a doubt that the plane can’t or won’t respond.”
“And then they shoot her down.”
“If they have to. We’re not going to let big jets fly into buildings anymore.”
“And a nuclear submarine can do a lot more damage than an airplane,” said the admiral. “A lot more. But we don’t even know if everybody is dead onboard
“If there’s anyone onboard, they’ll answer the call from
“But the
Danny woke up early the next day and grabbed a granola bar in the wardroom. The delicious smell of bacon was wafting from the galley, but he fought the temptation. Angi managed to stay in great shape and he didn’t want to come back from sea with a belly, an occupational hazard on submarines, which had the best food in the navy. He crunched on the bar as he walked the short distance to control. It tasted like honey mixed with sawdust.
Lieutenant Bannick was the OOD, and he looked disappointed to see Jabo on the steps. Bannick was on his last deployment, his resignation letter already turned in and his separation orders in hand. Rumor had it that he had a job offer from Kraft Foods, near his hometown in Naperville, Illinois. Certainly he was growing his hair out in preparation for civilian life. Jabo had no problem with that; he had himself written his resignation letter once, and had had every intention of getting out. He had no problem with people leaving the service after fulfilling their obligation. But he did have a problem with people who phoned it in, no matter how short they were. Perhaps because of his last patrol on
“Aren’t you happy to see me?” said Jabo.
“I was hoping you were my relief,” said Bannick. “I’ve got to piss like a race horse.”
“I’d take the watch if I could.”
“Yeah what the fuck is up with that?” Bannick responded with a chuckle. “You’re qualified to chart our course, but the XO won’t let you take the watch?”
Jabo saw a few enlisted heads turn at that in control, and he chose not to respond. Everyone on the boat had a god-given right to bitch, he knew, including officers. But an officer like Bannick, even one nearing the end of his time in uniform, shouldn’t be airing his doubts about the command where the crew could hear him. For that same reason, Jabo would talk to him about it later: in private. He continued over to the chart.
They were getting close to the area that he’d boxed in with a red pencil line — his best estimate of where the
“Nothing out here, right? Nothing but deep water?”
“Supposed to be,” said Jabo. “But sometimes these sea mounts can sneak up on you. And trust me, you don’t want to hit one at this speed.”
“We’re about to slow down to go to PD,” said Bannick: periscope depth. “We’ll get a fix while we’re up there.”
Jabo spent another fifteen minutes reviewing the chart, where they were and where they were going, satisfying himself that they were safe. He made an entry on the deck log, noting the time: 0625.
“Ahead one third,” ordered Bannick.
“Ahead one third, aye sir,” responded the helm as he rang it up. The engine order telegraph dinged as the engine room answered the bell.
