Homecoming

It was a truly beautiful day. The warm days of May had not yet given way to the heat of June, and the sun shone brightly in the cloudless blue sky overhead. The Air Force couldn't have asked for better weather, and the families of the first crew aboard the USS Stingray (SS-161) for the first time in 21 years could not have asked for a better day for their sons, uncles, big brothers and husbands to come home.

The USS Stingray was a Balao-class submarine, a diesel-electric built in 1941 and launched in 1942, from there on to a long-ranged career that took her across the Pacific Ocean and back again. She sunk more than half-a-dozen enemy ships in World War II and escaped destruction by a narrow margin more than a few times. In Korea, she patrolled off North Korea's coast, observing what she could and playing cat-and-mouse games with the Soviet submarines in the area. The Stingray had seen a major repair-and-refit in 1958; by then she was well over ten years old. Then came Vietnam, and by the end of that conflict in 1975 the Stingray was growing truly ancient, part of a submarine class that dated back to 1941, 34 years ago. Reluctantly sailed to Naval Station Norfolk by her last crew, men who had at one moment in 1972 been privileged to meet then-Major Francis X. Hummel, the Stingray was struck from the Navy roster of active vessels; by the end of 1975 not one submarine of the Balao class was left in service.

The Stingray's final commander had retired the same day as his boat was decommissioned; more than one crewman of the Stingray- including the CO himself- had refused to believe this was mere coincidence. Regardless of whether it was or not, though, most of the Stingray's final crew had taken a discharge or retired in 1975, and by 1985 the last of them had done the same. As reluctant as they were to leave their renegade diesel sub, a boat that had defied both hell and high water as well as the scrap yard's cold steel hands to remain in service for a full three decades and beyond, the sailors and officers had been given no choice. The Stingray was out of the Navy's active fleet, placed in a mothball fleet gathered in Norfolk. With her fuel tanks dry and her torpedo bunkers empty, the Stingray had sat tied up between a pair of aging destroyers, her hull slowly rusting away as her interior air grew mustier and dustier for twenty-one years.

Then one day everything had changed. The long arm of the US Navy reached down through miles of paperwork and into the Norfolk Naval Station storage fleet, commanding that a single Balao-class submarine- a boat so rusted and obsolete it was a joke bad enough to make you cry- be pulled from the rows of old ships and decommissioned, put back into service. The sailors at Norfolk who carried out the order did so with raised eyebrows and a shrug, joking to each other that the Navy Reserve was about to be given a place in the submarine service.

It was the work of a single three-star admiral that brought the Stingray back to life. Vice Admiral Dean Winslow (USNA Class of 1966) had sensed a rare and unique opportunity to salvage the otherwise-stalled career of Lieutenant Commander Thomas Dodge, a "mustang"- an officer who had been an enlisted man beforehand, and you could tell still thought like it- who was equally one of the most unconventional and talented officers Winslow had yet seen wear the "golden dolphins", the shiny gold badge that represented a qualified Submarine Officer.

Dodge was considered a total pain in the ass by some, a certified ass-kicker by others. It depended on what day of the week it was, who was asking for what to get done, and last but not least whether Dodge was sober that day as well as the previous one. That was just the problem with Dodge; he could be the best XO you saw on a boat, or turn a perfect about-face and be the absolute worst. It stunned and infuriated his superior, USS Orlando CO Commander Carl Knox, and was the cause of many bizarre discussions among the board of admirals who convened when a rising officer was to be considered for command of a submarine.

Vice Admiral Winslow believed Dodge to be an officer who, though flawed, was too damn good for the Navy to lose. Admiral Price might see it somewhat, but his vision of Dodge was clouded- as was that of many others on the board- by Rear Admiral Yancy Graham, who had played a key role in voting down the idea of giving Dodge his own boat more than once now. Graham was a bit of an uptight kind of officer, but he knew what he was talking about- the fact that he was a jackass in Winslow's mind didn't take away the fact that he had a chest-ful of medals almost as impressive as Winslow's.

So, stymied at the third and final meeting over whether to promote Dodge and give him his own submarine or show him the hatch at last, Vice Admiral Winslow had made Admiral Price an offer. Ostensibly talking to all the admirals present but really just speaking to Price, Winslow had proposed a compromise: don't make the final decision just yet, but give Dodge a boat nonetheless.

The USS Stingray, Winslow mentioned, had been quietly rusting away in the mothball fleet in Norfolk for years, one of a handful of relics from World War II still sitting in Navy storage yards. She was due to be scrapped by 1997, and Winslow had been trying for years to find an excuse to save her from the salvage yard. While he didn't mention that, Winslow did point out that the Navy could use a boat like this for just the challenge Winslow had in mind for Dodge. Why not give Dodge a chance to prove himself- hand him a command, however inglorious, and see what he did with it? The discussion began to turn to what Dodge was supposed to do with the old vessel- make it into a museum? But Winslow had a plan for that too. He calmly ignored Graham's jokes and talked directly to anyone else on the board. What was called for here was a challenge- a way for the Navy to evaluate the performance of both a diesel submarine against the US nuclear Navy of the modern age, and the competence and fitness of Lieutenant Commander Dodge for command. Winslow proposed the Stingray be made part of an experimental wargame, just like the ones Rear Admiral Graham had never lost.

The board had slowly begun to warm to the idea; finally, over Graham's objections, Admiral Price accepted the idea. Lieutenant Commander Thomas Dodge would be given one last chance. He would be handed command of the USS Stingray, recommissioned to be the oldest submarine in the Navy. The mission would be explained to him, and the handpicked crew chosen by Rear Admiral Graham would be the only one he would get.

Vice Admiral Winslow would supervise the war games, informing the commanders of a handful of other ships and Navy aircraft squadrons of their participation and what form it was to take. It would be a cat-and-mouse game between the Los Angeles-class nuclear submarine USS Orlando (SSN-852) and the Balao-class diesel USS Stingray, a showdown between Commander Knox and his own renegade executive officer. Both Knox and Dodge were recognized as fair men and capable leaders, but the question of which one might triumph over the other was hard to answer. Well, at least it was for Winslow.

The rest of the Vice Admiral's colleagues thought the idea of a diesel boat infiltrating not one but two U.S. East Coast harbors ridiculous, and the notion of a wild-card officer like Dodge doing it with one hopelessly obsolete Balao-class boat was just laughable. Rear Admiral Graham certainly thought it so- he was chuckling all the way down the hall out of the meeting room, later telling an aide it was the funniest thing he'd heard in weeks. The stern face of Vice Admiral Winslow reminded Graham the event was not universally considered a joke, however. Close as he knew he was to a third star of his own, Graham was still outranked by Winslow. He was going to have to go pick that crew.

Then a brilliant idea had occurred to Graham, one that made him grin and laugh to himself even as he started pulling up the dossiers and crew lists. Admiral Price had firmly stated that the crew Dodge got, he would keep- at least for the duration of these exercises. But Price hadn't stated whether the crew had to be any good.

And a day into his picking the new crew of the USS Stingray, Graham had gotten another brilliant idea. He didn't personally care either way whether the Navy ever got around to letting women on submarines or anywhere else they weren't currently able to serve. But proposing a trial program and at least appearing committed to trying the idea out would not only make Graham look good, but also screw Dodge quite righteously if the women-on-subs idea turned out to be a really bad one.

And so the USS Stingray (SS-161) had been recommissioned, her new commander chosen and her first crew in 21 years formed. Vice Admiral Winslow had set Dodge to the task with one final set of instructions: "I'll give you two live torpedoes. Set a dummy ship in Norfolk harbor- if I see that baby go up, then we'll talk about your boat."

Today a crowd of civilians and a handful of senior Navy officers- as well as some truly astounded Norfolk Naval Station personnel- were watching the Stingray return to port. She was iron-gray again, her paint gleaming in the sun as she cruised slowly in to dock, her powerful diesels growling and churning the water astern of the boat. A circular image was painted on the port and starboard side of her bow: a black stingray, grimacing fiercely around a big, smoking cigar.

Not far away, the USS Orlando, defeated by a hairline margin during the final run on Norfolk, was coming in to dock as well; those sailors, too, were being greeted by their families, and aside from the top officers on board could really have cared less who won. They had done what the Navy asked them to do, sailors against fellow sailors, and now some well-earned leave time was theirs. What else did they need to concern themselves with?

Rear Admiral Yancy Graham, for one, had plenty to complain about and be concerned with. He fumed silently all through the Stingray's return to port, hanging up abruptly after his verbal duel on the hydrophone with a defiant Commander Dodge when the dummy ship was hit by the Stingray's two live torpedoes, ending the war game in Dodge's favour. He had abruptly taken command of the USS Orlando as she chased down the Stingray, using an admiral's rarely-exercised privilege of taking command of the ship or boat he was on. It hadn't changed anything, though, and Graham was only dimly aware it had made him look like an ass in front of the Orlando's crew. The act was an unwarranted insult to the Orlando's captain, and Graham sensed a bit of frostiness in the attitude of the boat's crew as he debarked. None of that mattered much to Graham, though; as soon as he was ashore he just about sprinted away from the dock, searching for a white Mercury Grand Marquis with three stars mounted on its front license plate. In a minute or so, he found it; the car had stopped and an aide was letting Vice Admiral Dean Winslow out, resplendent in his full dress whites and chest-full of medals.

Graham hurried up to Winslow, so furious at his embarrassment today that he forgot so much as to salute. Winslow let this pass; whatever he was about to hear, it was probably only going to make that grave mistake worse.

"Sir, this entire exercise is invalid," Rear Admiral Graham declared. "Dodge left the containment area-"

"After you had sized it down without proper authorization," Vice Admiral Winslow finished.

Graham stared, incensed beyond words. How did he even know-? "He ignored a direct order!" the two-star admiral barked, and now Winslow really did look pissed.

"Stow it, Yancy," he growled. "He had higher orders. And you can forget about that third star."

Suddenly in a great mood again, Winslow smiled and walked away, heading to his right and towards the dock, where the crew of the Stingray was beginning to disembark.

They were in full dress whites for the occasion, from Lieutenant Commander Dodge himself to Chief Petty Officer Howard. Marching up the gangplank and in moments marching in formation, the first crew of the USS Stingray since 1975 halted at eight paces from the waiting Vice Admiral. Dodge marched forward for the remaining two, sharply saluting Vice Admiral Winslow.

Returning the salute, Winslow nodded gruffly. "Welcome back, Captain. You certainly pushed my order to the breaking point."

"Thank you, sir," Dodge said, then added, "I mean, if that's a compliment."

"However," Winslow went on, "under the circumstances, I will not be able to give you your own Los Angeles class nuclear submarine."

Dodge couldn't even try to conceal his disappointment. All the joy and triumph he'd felt just moments ago faded away in an instant. He was still in front of his crew, though- and was grateful they couldn't see the regret on his face. "Yes, sir," Dodge said, the only way he could properly acknowledge it.

But the three-star admiral just grinned; he hadn't finished just yet. "You will instead be given a new Seawolf-class nuclear submarine, and will attend its launching on Friday! And this time, you'll be given a proper crew; one commensurate with your tactical and leadership abilities."

The commander of the Stingray was surprised, pleased beyond words- but the last part of the admiral's news sobered him. "Thank you, sir," Dodge said, "but I'd have to decline."

Vice Admiral Winslow looked at Dodge sternly. "Decline?"

Speaking plainly, Dodge said, "I would not be in line for such a promotion without the help of my present crew. I could not in good conscience accept another command without them."

Winslow just chuckled, amused in spite of himself. "Still setting terms, huh, Dodge?"

"Just respectfully requesting, sir."

"Well," Winslow said, looking over at a sailor in the front row of the formation behind Dodge, "at least you got my son to face forward."

Engineman First Class Brad Stepanak- was that who Winslow was talking about? Dodge recalled a conversation with Stepanak, back when he'd first taken command of the Stingray. The rebel enlisted man had been sitting on the deck, sunbathing while the rest of the crew worked to repair, repaint, and refit the boat. When asked why he didn't just quit the all-volunteer submarine service, Stepanak had said, "My old man won't let me. He's an admiral! Thinks sub duty will shake me up! Ha!"

Maybe it had. Stepanak was certainly much closer to being a model sailor than he'd been when first assigned to the Stingray. But did that mean his father was…

"Your son?" Dodge said, turning for a moment to glance at Stepanak. "Stepanak, sir?"

"Yes," Winslow said. "It's his mother's name." Frowning at his son, the three-star admiral said, "His salute still leaves something to be desired."

Elsewhere in the front row, Chief Petty Officer Howard seemed to be having trouble keeping a straight face.

Resolutely not letting the senior NCO's sense of humor get to him as well, Dodge nodded. "We'll work on that, sir."

Vice Admiral Winslow nodded, pleased. "You do that, Commander."

The two officers exchanged salutes, and as Winslow started to turn away, Brad Stepanak raised his right arm and saluted him, a salute so perfect it did credit to a cadet from Annapolis. Winslow had a feeling that a rebel like Dodge would be just the right commander to place over his son; it meant the world to him that he'd turned out to be right. Dodge would get his promotion to full Commander- that and probably plenty more. Winslow grinned and returned his son's salute, then turned and strode back to his car; he'd see Brad soon enough when he got home on leave tonight, but for now he had to get back to his office. A certain Lieutenant Commander needed a promotion order signed on his behalf.

Executing an about-face, Dodge struggled to keep a grin off his face as he addressed his crew. Raising his voice, he called, "Dismissed!"

As one, the crew of the USS Stingray raised a cheer, one of such strength and force it belied their small numbers. The enlisted men, not restricted by the more formal expectations for officers, broke from the formation and raced off to meet their families, seeking them out among the crowd waiting further back on the dock. The officers of the Stingray walked after them, looking for their own families as their shore leave began.

"Live it up, guys," Dodge said, watching them go. "You earned it."

"Thank you, sir!" Sonarman 2nd Class E.T. "Sonar" Lovacelli called back from the end of the dock, where his uncle CPO Howard and his parents were waiting for him. "I'll try not to overdo it!"

Lieutenant Lake appeared behind Dodge then and started to ask him a question, but a man in a plain gray civilian's suit approached before she could say anything. He was a perfectly average five-foot-eleven-inches, and had short-cut black hair slowly turning to iron gray. He had sharp gray eyes, and stood erect and alert. Civilian life might have worn him away at the edges, but his military bearing was recognizable; Dodge knew right away this man had been an officer.

"Pleased t'meetcha, Commander," the man said, smiling a little and holding out a hand. Dodge shook it, a little uncertainly, but expecting this man probably had some reason for being here. You never could be sure who you were talking to sometimes. "Pleased to meet you," Dodge replied politely. "Lieutenant Commander Thomas Dodge, USS Stingray."

"Commander Charles Hunter, formerly USS Stingray." The older man grinned; he had to be in his sixties, but right now his youth was shining through like it hadn't done in years. Back by their car, the man's wife waited patiently, shaking her head in good-natured reproof. These men and their boats. They were all the same.

Just then Dodge noticed something; the afternoon sun hit a flash of gold on the left side of Hunter's suit, just above the breast pocket. It was a Submarine Officer's badge. Instinctively upon realizing he was speaking to a man of superior rank- albeit retired- Dodge began to salute, but Hunter just laughed and waved him back down. "I'm a retiree, Commander," he said, chuckling. "Been out for twenty-one years. Only guys I care about saluting me are the gate guards." Suddenly he scowled, and Dodge could tell he was talking to one officer who had most certainly earned his rank. "I make sure they know their stuff," Hunter said.

Turning his attention back to Dodge- or rather the boat he commanded for the next couple of days- Hunter smiled again. "So they finally got the old girl out to sea again, huh?"

"They certainly did, sir," Dodge said, turning with Hunter to look at the boat. She looked magnificent now, a true credit to the Navy in her fresh coat of iron-gray paint.

Suddenly Hunter peered over past Dodge, frowning as he looked at the officer- Lieutenant Emily Lake- on Dodge's right.

"A woman, on submarines?" Hunter said, looking displeased. Or speculative. It was hard to tell.

"Yes, sir," Dodge said simply. "The Navy's looking into it."

"A trial program's been started," Lake added, "I'm the first one they picked. Sir."

Hunter nodded solemnly. "About time they got around to it. I've been telling Dean he needed to hurry his ass up and stop just talkin' about it. If women are unfit for duty on subs they at least ought to give 'em a chance to screw the pooch good and prove it."

Dodge thought about that for a moment; Hunter's words were something to think about. The Navy was taking a chance with this trial program. Ironically started as a joke of sorts by Rear Admiral Graham, the idea had picked up speed and now had some- even if only some- support among the higher-ups of the Navy. The brass, overall, were not thrilled at the idea, but were willing to give it a try. And this business about giving someone who showed potential a chance, even if most thought they were destined to fail anyway- how was that anything other than a sum-up of what had happened when Dodge was given command of the Stingray, a final chance to salvage his career?

For her part, Emily Lake had switched from concealing one emotion to another, very different one in an extremely short amount of time. One moment, it seemed, she was sure she was being confronted with yet another grumpy old Navy officer, a man who simply because of her gender was absolutely convinced Emily Lake had no place in his world. Instead Hunter had shown his true colours and surprised her, forcing Lake to conceal anger and surprise almost in the same moment.

"I'd agree with that, sir," Dodge said, and Hunter nodded amiably. "Figures you would, Commander. Dean's told me you were quite a… buckaroo."

"Dean- Vice Admiral Winslow?" Dodge asked, startled. That was the second time he'd heard the three-star admiral's first name mentioned.

"Yep," Hunter said, smirking at Dodge's plain look of surprise. "That's Dean, all right." He laughed, shaking his head ruefully. "Dean Winslow was the worst diving officer I ever had. I told him if he ever made Admiral I'd buy him a Cadillac." Then he regained some spirit, remembering Winslow still was a three-star. "But he's got one more to go, Dodge." Hunter laughed. "Me and him have a wager to settle, and I'm hoping I don't have to shell out all that cash."

The two men laughed, Dodge still trying to recover from hearing Vice Admiral Winslow called "the worst" at being a diving officer or anything else. The retired Commander had looked like he was enjoying an old joke, though, one he hadn't gotten to tell in years. So there was probably a good chance he wasn't serious.

"So," Lake said carefully, "the Stingray. You served on her?"

Hunter nodded solemnly. "I was her commander when they retired her in '75, and back then it looked like I'd be the last captain she ever had." He looked out from the pier, walking to stand near the railing and gazing in amazement at the boat that had- twenty-one years ago- been his. "Look at you, girl," he said quietly, in a voice gripped with emotion. "You beautiful old buccaneer."

"Commander Hunter?" Dodge asked, careful not to intrude too rudely on the older officer's moment of remembrance. The older man didn't turn his head, his eyes busy scanning up and down the hull of the Stingray. But he nodded to show he was listening.

"The Stingray was my first command," Dodge said solemnly. "She saved my ass from a desk job. If there's anything I can do, one captain to another, just let me know, sir."

Hunter laughed just then, a rather odd sound for the moment- but then Dodge noticed he had just spotted the new insignia the latest crew had designed for the boat. "I see your crew are a creative bunch," Hunter said, nodding in amusement. "Mine was too."

"Yes, sir," Dodge said, smiling a little. This was very true; the crew he'd been given was nothing if not creative. What Dodge could have never imagined is how boundlessly useful that creativity and innovation could be. The day he'd first begun his new job as commander of the Stingray, Dodge had been sure he'd received the worst crew in the Navy to go with a ship barely a step above the USS Monitor. He thought quite the opposite of them now.

"Actually," Hunter said after a few moments, "I do have something to ask, Commander."

"Anything for a former captain, sir," Dodge said.

Then Charles Hunter turned and faced the Lieutenant Commander, straightening his posture so he stood at attention. Rendering a parade-ground salute that revealed his gold Carolina Military Institute Class of 1952 ring, Hunter spoke in a voice that was nothing but solemn.

"Permission to come aboard, sir."

Returning the salute, Dodge was surprised, a little confused- but after a moment he understood. It was easy to see why an old captain would want to see his ship again- especially if word reached him she was back in the service again. That wasn't news you heard every day.

"Permission granted," Dodge said, feeling like an idiot for even saying it. The older man had asked, so it was custom to give an answer- but to Dodge, who hardly was a man to stand on ceremony with such things, if an old captain wanted to board his submarine once more, well, that was his right. He asked permission from no one.

Hunter nodded his thanks, then headed down the pier to the gangplank, pausing just before stepping off and onto the boat's deck. He hadn't stood aboard this submarine for twenty-one years. By now he'd expected to hear some dark day that the Navy had finally scrapped her, or that a hurricane had put her at the bottom of Norfolk harbor. When he'd heard that the Stingray was at sea again… Hunter had grinned and yelled for joy like he was five years old.

His wife had thought the ruckus quite unnecessary, but when Hunter had explained what it was about, she understood. Laura had married a newly-graduated CMI man, stayed with him for twenty-three years in the submarines and gratefully welcomed him ashore as he became a teacher. Laura might not have liked her husband's eccentricities sometimes, might not have always been crazy about his lifelong affection for the boats he'd served on like they were girls he'd been married to. But she understood. Like any good Navy wife, Laura Hunter understood.

Dodge and Lake watched as the former commander of the USS Stingray stepped aboard, looking around him as if he couldn't quite believe he was really here. He quickly shook this off, though, and straightened up again, stiffly walking the length of the boat, bow to stern, pausing here and there as if shaking her down for inspection. The Stingray must have passed, for Hunter didn't pause long, and only nodded in approval before moving on. Finally, he returned forward to stand in the shade of the conning tower, gazing up at the white letters and number declaring her identity: SS-161. The USS Stingray.

Finally, Hunter made himself walk forward and back up the gangplank, doing so very slowly. His face was tense, drawn tight with emotion; he'd never expected he'd get to see her again. And especially not like this- repainted and refitted, like it was 1942 and some more Japanese destroyers needed sinking. He could still feel the steel hull shake around him, the momentary shudder as she launched a torpedo and sank a Chinese destroyer off the coast of North Vietnam- a combat action that had officially never existed.

Returning to the two waiting Navy officers, Hunter smiled, a little embarrassed. They had to be able to see how this was affecting him- getting to see his boat again, let alone walk aboard it. Old captains weren't supposed to get this emotional, but somehow they always did.

"You don't need to wait on me, Commander," Hunter said finally. "I think you should enjoy your leave."

Thinking that was a sound plan- and remembering Lake had been about to say something to him- Dodge nodded in agreement, reaching out to shake hands with Commander Charles Hunter, United States Navy, Retired once more. "Stay as long as you like, sir," he said. "It's been a privilege to talk with you."

"She's your boat now, Commander," Hunter said. "I'm just a guest. The privilege was all mine."

The two men paused, each lost briefly in his own emotions and thoughts as they gazed over at the last diesel submarine still in US Navy service. What her fate was to be after this no one could say. Perhaps she was to be again struck from the roster and turned into a floating, primly-maintained museum ship. Maybe the Navy would keep her on the roster like they did the Constitution, honouring yet another ship that had gone far above and beyond the call of duty in rendering so many years of service. Whatever the future held for the USS Stingray, no one could doubt that she had been saved from the scrapyard. The Navy was nothing if not practical as a service, and scrapping the Stingray after spending thousands of dollars returning her to sea duty would make no sense at all. The USS Stingray was safe now- saved from the scrapper's hands forever. Too many boats just like her- far too many- had not been so lucky.

Then Hunter looked back at Dodge, a curious look on his face.

"Did they ever fix Emergency Vent 2-Bravo?" the older man asked, instantly recalling that chronically-malfunctioning part's name. "It was always jamming on us, even fooling the sensors into thinking it was open during a test dive." He chuckled, recalling the memory. "Never heard of it jamming during a real dive, though. Like she could tell when it mattered and wasn't gonna quit with that vent until it did."

Dodge remembered that vent's name right away, too. It had stayed shut during the USS Stingray's test dive out of Norfolk, the first one she'd carried out in more than twenty years.

"That vent gave us some trouble, sir," Dodge nodded with a smile. "I remember it."

"Strange," Hunter said, looking out over the deck of his old submarine. "Still that portside vent. I guess they were never able to fix that."