Sea Hunt

U.S. Navy Diving & Salvage Center, Panama City, Florida-2

“That’s my Dad, sir. Did you serve with him?”

“That I did, Lieutenant—briefly—aboard the USS Independence in the Palaus a couple of years ago. I seem to remember you cross-decked from a research vessel and joined us for the fun on Peleliu.”

“Yes, sir…sorry I don’t remember…”

The XO waved a hand in the air. “No reason you should. I was just a junior division officer at the time. You and your Dad—and a team of SEALs as I recall—had other things on your mind. He’s a remarkable man, your father. How’s he doing these days?”

Some of the tension in my shoulders melts. “My Dad’s fine, sir. He’s just moved down to a little town in Texas, south of Austin.”

The XO just nods and smiles like he’s revisiting some private memory that tickles him. No way I’m gonna ask what that might be. I’ve got enough worries. No doubt I am now on the skyline and lit by this guy’s memories of Gunner Shake Davis. All of which will make it hard to hide any of the screw-ups I’m bound to commit. Terrific start; anchors aweigh.

After the interview, we stop for a breather at a little shaded area near the marina. The chipped wooden bench under a plastic awning gives us a great view of the water and the dive boats moored to the piers. Minus the sailors scrambling around in issue swim trunks and parts of wetsuits, it could be a civilian yacht landing at any Atlantic or Pacific port along the American seacoast. The smell of ocean water slightly tinged with diesel fuel is comforting. The familiar scents bring back memories of good dives and research work I’d done at various places around the world, either studying or working for one Woods Hole project or another. Carla Simms sits quietly beside me fussing with her bootlaces. She has very small feet, and I wonder if she has trouble finding comfortable boots. Mine are new, stiff and threatening to raise a blister on my right heel.

“So, what’s the daily routine in the OS office?” I’m watching a dive boat maneuvering toward a mooring slot. A sailor wearing no shirt and dive shorts is kicking out fenders on the inboard side. When he’s finished, he moves to the bow and picks up a mooring line. He just stands there, bronzed and muscular like some sort of figurehead on a Viking longship. It’s Diver Second Class Tyler Stanz, the guy from the Dolphin Bar & Grill. If the Navy needed a recruiting poster with special appeal to young women, here it is. I’m having trouble concentrating on what Simms is saying about work.

“It’s mostly about gathering data from the Coast Guard and Naval Air weather guessers. They provide info on currents, water temps, winds, and storms—stuff like that. We have a direct repeater line from NOAA that gives us a lot of data. We compile all that into daily reports.”

“Doesn’t sound too challenging.” I’m still focused on Tyler Stanz who has leaped like a cat onto the dock, and is hauling away on a mooring line. The way he moves, the way his muscles bunch and relax so smoothly, reminds me of the way dolphins swim.

“Sometimes—especially when we get shark sightings and like that—we get to go out on the boats. We identify the species and check around for other threats to diving operations. That’s fun. Are you SCUBA qualified?”

“Yep, PADI and NAUI both. It’s kind of a requirement at Woods Hole if you want to do real research. I’d like to get a shot at a Navy course one of these days.” I jab at the SCUBA pin over the left pocket of her uniform. “It’d be cool to get one of those.” Tyler Stanz has shrugged into a t-shirt and is walking up the pier toward a dive support shack where other sailors are recharging tanks and fiddling with regulators. Impulsively, I wave at him and smile. He nods and tosses me an offhand salute. No smile.

Carla Simms catches it all but says nothing. “You ready to meet the others and get a look at your work station?”

“Sure. Let’s do it.”

The Ocean Systems office is in a small building located on the other side of the marina but very close to the water, which I call a benefit even before we enter. Carla—I’m insisting on calling her by first name even if she can’t bring herself to use mine just yet—points at the roof which is all spiky with antenna arrays. “We can get satellite feeds when we need them—most of the time we don’t—but it’s cool to check out storms and worldwide weather patterns.”

Carla has that overawed tone that usually marks a techno-geek. I’ve seen and heard enough of it at Woods Hole to recognize the breed. “Did you major in IT at Annapolis?”

“No, ma’am…” She glances at the ring on her finger as she reaches for the door to the building. Probably been wondering if I’d noticed or not. “My degree is in Oceanography. The T/O here calls for an oceanographer and a marine biologist. Lieutenant Cantwell is the marine biologist.”

“That explains a couple of things,” I say as I follow her down a tiled passageway toward a door marked Ocean Systems. “I’m a little of both.”

She’s got her hand on the door to our domain when I pull her aside for a private word. I’m about to meet my staff and it will be handy to know what they expect from me before I find out what I should expect from them. “What kind of guy was Lieutenant Cantwell?”

“Nice enough,” she hedges. “He’s married and they’ve got one son. I don’t know much more…”

“No, I mean what kind of officer was he? Did he run what you’d call a tight ship, or was he more loosey-goosey with Navy regs…stuff like that?”

Carla chews on a lower lip for a while, probably trying to recall leadership lessons about loyalty to the chain of command. She’s hard to read beneath all the Naval Academy polish. “Well, ma’am…the truth is we usually didn’t see a lot of Lieutenant Cantwell during the working day. He came by in the mornings to sign the OS report, and then he spent most of his time down at the marina or out on one of the boats. Like I said, he’s a marine biologist—other stuff we do didn’t seem to interest him so much.”

“Listen, Carla, help me out here. I’m about to meet a bunch of sailors who probably know a lot more than I ever will about how to do this job. What are they gonna be expecting? Is it all spit-and-polish, Navy regs all the way or what? Do we hold formations and inspections? What’s the deal?”

“We—that is, Mister Cantwell and I—we generally rely on the sailors to do the day-to-day, routine stuff. They’re good at it. We don’t get overly-friendly…no first names or anything like that…but there’s not much starch in the mix either. I’d have to say it’s pretty relaxed. We all get along pretty well and the job gets done…”

“C’mon; spill it. What else?”

Ensign Simms goes back to lip-chewing and takes a deep breath before she finally leans back on the wall—excuse me, the bulkhead—and some of her crust melts. “OK, here’s the gouge. There are only five enlisted on the staff. Senior is Petty Officer Stawski. He’s a first class Sonar Tech bucking for chief. You know, an old Navy hand, fairly rough on the edges and pretty much formal with everybody.” She looks up and down the corridor as if she’s about to reveal some top-secret information. “He never says anything outright, but the others tell me he’s pretty chauvinistic. You know, thinks women have no place in his Navy.”

“Oh, crap…” Just what I need right now. “And he’s the senior guy?”

“Yes, ma’am. I only found out because a couple of the others told me about it. They pulled liberty with him one night, and he went on a tear. Petty Officer Denning, she’s one of the Aerographer’s Mates, told me he’s always giving her a harder time than he gives the men. If he keeps at it, she’s probably gonna turn him in to the command.”

“Have you had a talk with him?”

“Not formally, ma’am. Like I said, he never does or says anything around me that would get him in a bind. He’s sneaky that way. I keep a pretty close eye on him, but that’s about all I can do.”

“Really? I mean what about all these equal opportunity and s****l harassment classes? Even us reserves have to go to those.”

“Everybody does—no option—orders from the top. Mostly it’s a check-the-box kind of thing. Some people get it. Some people never will.”

I decide right there to keep an even closer eye on Petty Officer Stawski. It won’t be the first time I’ve had to deal with similar situations. Woods Hole used to have a bunch of crusty sea dogs on staff that I had to confront over bad attitudes about females. This time I’ve got enough rank to blow the guy out of the water if necessary.

“Got it. So what about the rest of them?”

“Good troops,” she says and the smile returns. “Two Aerographer’s Mates: Faith Denning and Milt Burrows, both third-class petty officers. Then we’ve got Electronics Tech Second Class Larry Miles, he’s the office nerd. And then there’s one other female…she’s a second class Information Systems Tech by the name of Agnes Burke.”

“Agnes? Does anybody name their kid that anymore?”

“She’s a little sensitive about it. Always calls herself Aggie. But she’s a ball of fire with computer stuff. She helped me get my gear set up when I checked in, and it works like a charm. Good sailor all the way.”

“Right.” Not overly optimistic regarding the troops, but not bad. I give her elbow a grateful squeeze and point at the office door. “Time for me to meet these people in person.”

---

They’ve been expecting me. Everyone is standing when we enter. Some are smiling and some are simply staring with blank expressions. I try my warmest smile, hoping to show them how happy I am to be here—which they all likely know is a sham. My limited experience with sailors has been that they all have finely tuned BS filters. No sense acting like someone or something I’m not. All I can hope for is an even break. In a croak that reveals my shaky nerves, I tell them all to carry on with what they were doing.

They are all dressed in the same blueberry working uniform that I’m wearing—except for one guy who is staring at me intently and wearing the khaki shirt and blue trousers of the Navy’s enlisted service uniform. There’s a small stack of ribbons over his left shirt pocket topped with a Surface Warfare qualification badge. The silver rank insignia on his collar tells me this must be Petty Officer Stawski. Why he’s in a different uniform is beyond me, but I’m thinking he’s trying to stand out, make an impression on the new boss. He steps forward and stiffens up into the position of attention.

“Stawski, Lieutenant…Sonar Tech First…I’m the senior Petty Officer around here.”

No welcome aboard, and no hint of a smile. It sounds like a challenge, but I’m willing to give the guy the benefit of doubt. No sense in letting him know what I know right now. I offer a hand to shake and he stares at it for a moment before he takes it. Stawski is one of those guys that shake hands like he’s trying to juice a grapefruit. He disengages and jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of an empty desk located in a dark corner. “Your desk is right over there, Lieutenant. I’ve stowed Mister Cantwell’s gear. And there’s a stack of custody forms you’ll need to sign…”