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rocket fuel, batteries—with a few people fit in around them. Unlike a pipe, where age and corrosion could be inspected and repaired, not much that was a fire hazard on a sub was visible before it failed.
    The phone on the wall to his left buzzed. Bishop reached over to answer it.
    â€œCaptain, sonar. New contact, sound signature USS Seawolf .”
    â€œVery well.”
    He headed up to the command-and-control center. They were four days out from Bangor. The tempo of this day and the next three was destined to get progressively faster, even without the drills.
    The officer of the deck gave him a summary of the current situation on the boat, and the chief engineer added details to the nuclear-plant update. Bishop paused by the navigation table to check the chart overview. “The captain has the deck,” he announced.
    â€œThe captain has the deck,” the weapons chief confirmed, passing back authority.
    â€œSonar, control. Where’s the Seawolf ?”
    â€œControl, sonar. Seawolf is bearing 076 degrees, range 41 miles, depth 520 feet.”
    â€œSonar, report all other contacts.”
    â€œEight surface ships, all distant. A tanker and four cargo ships to the north, three fishing vessels to the west.”
    Bishop wanted to pass near the Seawolf —under the command of his friend Jeff Gray—coming in on her port side and below her. But he didn’t want to sail directly toward her. They would both be trailing towed sonar arrays that water currents would be pushing around, and if the Russian or some other sub was out there, they would need maneuvering room.
    â€œConn, come to heading 095 degrees, make your depth 825 feet.”
    â€œCome to heading 095 degrees, depth 825 feet, aye, Captain,” the conn officer confirmed. He then handed the same order on to the helmsman and planesman.
    â€œPassing 280 to the right, sir,” the helmsman called out, marking the turn. “Passing 045 . . . steady on course 095, sir.”
    The planesman called out the increasing depths, “650 feet . . . 750 feet . . . leveling out at 825 feet, sir.”
    Bishop looked over at his executive officer. “XO, give me all-quiet on the boat. I’d like the Seawolf to appreciate just how difficult we are to hear coming.”
    Kingman smiled his appreciation. “All-quiet, aye, Captain.” He reached for the intercom and set it to 1MC to broadcast throughout the boat. “ Nevada , this is the XO. Rig for all-quiet. We’re going to snuggle with the Seawolf . Let’s remind them who’s the better boat.”
    Discretionary sources of noise like the trash compactor would be shut off, routine maintenance which might cause a pipe to be struck or a tool to be dropped would be postponed, men not needed on station would slip into their bunks to minimize movement, and all casual conversations would cease. The already quiet boat would turn into a silent ghost in the water.
    Bishop walked forward to the sonar room.
    Sonar Chief Larry Penn said quietly, “Our noise profile is dropping, Captain.”
    The boat’s sonar was powerful enough to pick up the sound of snapping shrimp when they were in Dabob Bay, and in the ocean they used that same power to listen for changes aboard their own boat. It wasn’t uncommon for sonar to report a valve problem in the torpedo room moments before Weps called forward to report the same issue. Noise was a diagnostic tool in a sub designed for quiet.
    With the Seawolf and the Nevada coming together on similar tracks, the distance between them closed quickly. When the two vessels had come to within 15 nautical miles, Bishop said quietly, “Let them know we are here.”
    Penn typed in a command at the right console and turned on cross-sonar.
    On the Seawolf a sonar technician likely hit his knee on the terminal rack and said a few words he would be glad his mother could not hear. He was, however, quick to