A light rain was falling as Captain Murray Wilson descended the concrete steps into the drydock at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, a green foul-weather jacket protecting him from the Pacific Northwest’s inclement weather. Waiting at the bottom of the drydock was Bill Sullivan, the shipyard supervisor assigned to the submarine’s repair effort. Michigan had arrived at the shipyard three months ago, after a torpedo had blown a hole in its Missile Compartment.
While in the Black Sea, Michigan had been engaged by three Russian submarines and sank two, but a Russian torpedo had returned the favor, sending Michigan to the bottom. Fortunately, Michigan sank in shallow water and none of the intact compartments had imploded. Additionally, the service and emergency air banks had been fully charged, and Wilson’s crew had pressurized the flooded compartment, blowing enough water back out of the hole for Michigan to rise from the bottom and engage the remaining Russian submarine.
The shipyard had just completed welding a hull patch, replacing the damaged section, which had been cut out, and few things made submariners queasier than having to take a submarine with a patched-up pressure hull down to Test Depth for the first time.
Sullivan escorted Wilson along the drydock, stopping amidships for a clear view of the hull patch. The coverings protecting the repair site from the elements had been kept in place, as had the scaffolding, providing the radiographers access to the welds. The hull patch hadn’t been painted yet—it was just plain metal—and would remain so until the welds had been certified.
“How’s the rest of the boat coming along?” Wilson asked.
Wilson spoke in submarine vernacular out of habit, referring to his submarine as a boat. He had learned early in his career that an easy way to insult Surface Warfare officers was to refer to their ships as boats. He’d heard the response often—It’s not a boat, it’s a ship. The only boat we have is the Captain’s gig. However, submariners used the term affectionately. Although their submarine was technically a Navy ship, to them it was just the boat.
The inside of the boat—the Missile Compartment specifically—was still in pieces. In the Black Sea, they had blown most of the water from the compartment, and the electrical cables and essential components, which were designed to withstand full submergence pressure, had worked in the critical hours while engaging the last Russian submarine. However, there had still been six feet of water in the bilges, well above the lower level deck plates, and by the time Michigan pulled into the shipyard for repair, electrical shorts had begun plaguing the submarine. The corrosive effect of the seawater had begun taking its toll.
After evaluating the damage, the Navy decided to replace all of the wetted electrical cabling and equipment utilizing spare components, much of which had been in deep stow for twenty-five years, manufactured as the Ohio class construction program wound down in the 1990s. After three months in the shipyard, the rip-out was complete and they had begun installing and testing the replacement components, which would take a few more months.
Wilson spotted the submarine’s duty officer hustling down the drydock steps with a classified message, which he handed to Wilson after catching up to the two men. Wilson was surprised at the message—he was being temporarily assigned to COMSUBFOR, directed to report no later than 8 a.m. tomorrow.
“Where are you going?”
Claire leaned against the doorframe, surprised to find her husband home from work early.
Wilson looked up from packing his suitcase. “Norfolk. I’ve been temporarily assigned to COMSUBFOR.”
“What for?”
“My orders don’t say. Temporary duty is all I know right now, although I suspect something is brewing. A SUBMISS message went out for Pittsburgh and rescue assets scrambled from San Diego a few days ago.”
Claire folded her arms across her chest, examining her husband through smoky-gray eyes, her face framed with short blond hair that curled inward just above her shoulders. Even though she didn’t say anything, after almost forty years of marriage, Wilson knew what she was thinking. They were supposed to leave in a few days to spend a week with their son, Tom, and the grandkids.
Wilson was older than most Navy captains because he was a mustang: a prior-enlisted reactor control technician rising to chief before receiving his commission.
After commanding USS Buffalo and training the Submarine Force’s new commanding and executive officers, Wilson had made a difficult decision. He’d been selected for rear admiral, lower half. But riding a desk into the twilight of his career hadn’t been appealing. After much discussion with his wife, he had turned down the star in favor of a final command at sea. Another sea tour meant more time away from his wife, but by then the kids were grown and on their own and Claire was well acclimated to Navy life. Nonetheless, he had asked for her blessing, and she had readily given it.
There were only a few available commands. Most of the Navy’s submarines were skippered by commanders, with only four guided missile submarines being assigned to officers who had completed a successful command of a fast attack or ballistic missile submarine. The Commanding Officer of USS Michigan (BLUE crew) was due for relief and Wilson made the call. A few weeks later, he reported aboard, planning to enjoy a few years in command of one of the Navy’s most formidable ships.
For the next few days, or however long his assignment to COMSUBFOR lasted, he’d leave his crew and submarine in the capable hands of his Executive Officer and his grandchildren in his wife’s loving care.
Wilson finished packing and approached Claire, leaning in for a kiss. “Give my love to Tom and the kids.”