A call came up from middle level, requesting to secure the motor generator for maintenance.
“Secure the port motor generator,” said Jabo, giving the order.
“Secure the port motor generator, aye sir,” said the electrical operator, efficiently securing the machine from his panel while ensuring all electrical busses remained energized. The watchstander in the spaces acknowledged. Jabo made a note if it in the logs. A few minutes later the electrician showed up in maneuvering with red safety tags to sign, which he would hang before commencing the work. After Jabo signed them, he hung two of them on the breaker switches for the machine in maneuvering, and then headed back down to the machine to perform his work.
“So then what happened?” asked Brady after the electrician departed.
“We had a collision, which caused flooding, which caused an electrical ground, which caused a fire.”
“And Commander Michaels was there too?”
“Right there with me — fighting the flooding in the torpedo room. Then the fire in Machinery One.”
“What happened to the Nav?”
“Dead. Killed himself right before we ran aground. Hung himself by the diesel. We had to run the fire hoses by his body.”
“And you lost a finger?”
“Part of a finger,” he said, holding it up.
“Lost a finger and gained a Navy Cross,” said V-12.
The men shifted in their seats now, impressed, quiet, a little awed. Even James, he could see. It wasn’t how Jabo liked his nukes, all their smart-ass tendencies neutralized.
“James,” he said, to the throttleman, ready to change the subject.
“Sir?”
“How’s that troubleshooting of the copier going?”
He shrugged. “Pretty good.”
“He’ll do it,” said V-12. “Smart guy.”
“Tell me your plan,” said Jabo. “I’m curious.”
James shrugged again, and then reached into a cubby near his feet. He pulled out a bar of soap with the broken gear pressed into it.
“Here it is. I tore it down, and I think this is the only thing broken.”
“Let me see that,” said Jabo. James handed it over. The gear had been pressed flat into the soap, until the edge of it was just flush. Jabo could see that the side of the soap itself had been carefully planed flat, making a perfectly horizontal surface.
“Half the teeth are stripped.”
“That’s right. I’m going to carve the missing teeth into the soap with an X-acto knife.”
“Then?”
“I’m going to pour epoxy into the mold, let it dry and cure.”
“That’s it?”
“I’m sure I’ll have to file down the new teeth to make everything mesh together. Might have to balance the thing, depending on how fast that gear turns, I’m really not sure.”
“But you think that will do it?”
“Yes sir, I do.”
Jabo handed it back with a smile. “I do too.”
The watch ended and Jabo made his way forward to the control room. In the berthing areas, the men were stirring quietly, hitting the showers, heading for breakfast, the ship’s day beginning even as his watch had just ended. As predicted by his comrades-in-arms at midrats, the half sandwich had not satisfied him and the smell of breakfast cooking was making him hungry.
In control, the tracking party had already been stationed, making the crowded space that much more crowded, with two additional watchstanders, both of them hovering over a chart: an ET plotting the ship’s position, and a Junior Officer of the Deck, or JOOD, supervising. While normally the Officer of the Deck would have both the “deck and the conn,” in these situations the conn was delegated to the JOOD.
It was a significant division of duties. The “conn” meant the JOOD could give orders to the ship’s control party, altering the ship’s course, speed, and depth. The “deck” however, meant the senior watchstander, the OOD, was responsible for the ship as whole, and was the captain’s proxy in the control room. That was a sacred responsibility, and could never be delegated.
The OOD that morning was Bannick. He tensed up when Jabo entered. He opened the night orders and made a show of reviewing them.
“Any sign of her?” asked Jabo.
“Not at all,” Bannick said with a nervous half laugh. Jabo could tell he absolutely did not believe they would acquire their target, nor did he want to. It pissed him off. He headed to the chart.
They had moved into the new red box he had labeled, as required, ready to search a new sector. And, in fact, it looked like a lot of empty ocean, at least on paper. The JOOD was Lieutenant (junior grade) Francis but Jabo had heard everyone in the wardroom call him Van. He had a little less experience than V-12, and while qualified EOOW he did not yet wear gold dolphins.
“Van, right?”
“Yes sir, that’s what they call me.”
“It’s not your name?”
The ET hunched over the chart laughed a little.
“No sir, they call me that because when I reported aboard here, for the first six months I lived in my van while I found a place to live.”
“No shit?”
“No shit. But I’ve got an apartment now.”
“You okay with the nickname?”
