Free The Trident Deception by Rick Campbell

light became visible, the moon’s blue-white reflection wavering on the surface of the water, slowly growing larger as the Kentucky rose from the ocean depths.
    “One hundred feet.”
    Tom twisted the left periscope handle, adjusting the optics downward so he’d be looking at the horizon when the submarine reached periscope depth.
    “Eight-zero feet.”
    “The fire is contained.”
    As the periscope broke the surface of the water, Tom began rotating the periscope, completing a revolution every eight seconds, scanning the dark horizon and sky above for ships or aircraft.
    “No close contacts!”
    Conversation resumed in Control, now that the submarine was safely at periscope depth, and Tom slowed his rotation, periodically shifting the scope to high power for long-range scans.
    “The fire is out. Hose Team One is stationed as the reflash watch.”
    That was the report Tom had been waiting for, as they needed to ventilate the submarine to clear the heavy black smoke, but they couldn’t afford to bring in fresh air and oxygen that would feed the fire while it burned.
    “Dive, prepare to emergency ventilate the Engine Room with the diesel. Prepare to Snorkel.”
    The Diving Officer acknowledged, passing the order to the Chief of the Watch beside him, and the order reverberated throughout the ship over the 1-MC a second later. Reports flowed into Control as the crew prepared to purge the heavy smoke from the submarine and bring in fresh air. A few minutes later, the Diving Officer announced, “Sir, the ship is ready to ventilate with the exception of raising the Snorkel Mast.”
    Malone clicked the stopwatch in his hand.
    As he examined how long it had taken to put out the simulated fire and prepare to ventilate the submarine, his displeasure was evident on his face.
    “Not fast enough,” he said. “Take her back down to five hundred feet and run the drill again.”
    Tom acknowledged the Captain’s order, then swung the periscope around until it was facing forward. He folded up the handles, reached up, and rotated the locking ring counterclockwise. As the periscope descended into its well, he called out to the microphone in the overhead, “All stations, Conn. Going deep.”
    Before issuing orders to the Diving Officer and the Helm, he glanced at Malone, seated in the Captain’s chair on the Conn. He still wore the frown on his face.
    It was going to be one of those days.
    *   *   *
    Four hours later, Tom sat next to the Weps at the table in the Officers’ Wardroom. The day’s drills were over, and all but three of the submarine’s fifteen officers gathered for dinner. Two officers were on watch, one forward as the ship’s Officer of the Deck, the second aft as the Engineering Officer of the Watch, supervising the reactor plant and the propulsion spaces. The two officers on watch would arrive for dinner only after being relieved by the two oncoming officers currently seated at the table. There were only twelve chairs, and with two officers on watch, that left the fifteenth officer, Ensign Lopez, as the odd man out. As the most junior officer aboard, he would have to wait and eat dinner at the second sitting with the two offgoing watchstanders.
    At the head of the table, the Captain was joined by the senior officers on his end with the junior officers at the other. Seated by seniority, the XO sat on the Captain’s right and the Engineer on his left, with the Weps and the Nav next in line. The junior officers at the far end of the table engaged in their own conversation, occasionally breaking into laughter, while the Captain discussed the performance of Tom’s watch section with the ship’s senior officers.
    They’d run the fire drill three more times until the crew was exhausted, the hose teams drenched in sweat after hauling the heavy pressurized hoses while wearing their thick flame- and heat-resistant fire suits. They had managed to shave two minutes off their original pace, still not enough to please