Seawolf Mask of Command Read Online Free Page A

floating on air—and a little nauseated—as she walked toward the submarine. So many times over the last few years she’d gotten her hopes up that she might realize her lifelong ambition only to have those hopes dashed on the rocks of convention. But not now. Not this time. She had made it. The years of ramming her head against a brick wall were behind her. Nothing would stop her now.
    The Seawolf pointed toward the sea, her rudder sticking out of the water. A portable work shed was positioned over the forward hatchway, and although she could hear the staccato sound of a hammer drills from inside the shed, she couldn’t see what the workers were doing. Numerous lines draped over the hull provided water, electricity, phone service, and other shore-based services to the submarine. On the sail she noticed more men working. They paused their labor briefly to watch as she descended the gangplank. She assumed they knew just who she was. Her posting to a fleet submarine had made the cover of Navy Times and had even been mentioned in the national news.
    She looked at the hull as she stepped down onto the hard rubber surface. The historic nature of this step was as significant to her as that made by Neil Armstrong when he’d taken a “great leap for mankind.” She knew few others could possibly understand how important this moment was to her. Kristen wasn’t an emotional person; in fact, the term “cold fish” had been used on more than one occasion to describe her, but she could feel true emotion welling up within her as she took a few steps across the hull toward the weapons-loading hatchway. It was normally used for loading torpedoes and missiles, but was currently being used as a personnel entrance while the forward hatch was undergoing some sort of maintenance.
    A removable canopy was positioned over the hatch to prevent rain pouring in. Kristen stepped under the shelter and without further delay climbed down into the submarine itself. Anticipating the difficulties of negotiating stainless steel ladders as she moved through the submarine, she’d forgone her dress skirt and pumps and was wearing slacks and loafers.
    She climbed through the weapons hatch and down into the forward section of the submarine. Two crewmen dressed in blue coveralls called “poopie suits” were servicing a control panel as she appeared between them. Both stopped and stared as she appeared. By the looks on their faces, she might have been an alien. But before they could utter a word of greeting or disbelief, Kristen saw an ensign, also dressed in coveralls, appear.
    Kristen faced him, immediately aware of the incredibly claustrophobic conditions surrounding her. There was nowhere she could look that wasn’t chocked full of equipment. Pipes, electrical conduit, junction boxes, emergency equipment, and machinery took up every possible space. Kristen was an engineer and loved machinery, but it struck her that the Seawolf designers hadn’t planned it with comfort in mind for its crew. In fact, as far as the submarine’s design, the human component had been an afterthought.
    According to his coveralls, the ensign’s last name was Martin. Her analytical mind immediately surmised that he’d only been aboard a short while. It took an officer fifteen months just to complete the various schools necessary to reach a submarine, and the time for promotion from ensign to lieutenant junior grade was only twenty-four months.
    “There you are, Lieutenant,” he greeted her with a smile. “Welcome to the Seawolf.”
    He was shorter than Kristen at about five-seven, and slightly built. He had light brown hair, dark eyes, and glasses. Her own glasses had fogged up in the rain, and she removed them as he welcomed her.
    “Thank you, Ensign Martin,” she responded stiffly. His smile and words of welcome were meaningless to her. The cliché, “Talk is cheap,” was something she’d seen proven time and time again over the past few years.
    He scratched his