as much as Henry enjoyed the company of the officers, he was conscious of being outside their circle. This was a community of men who had pledged their entire careers to military service, as he had done in the name of a different calling. Their fraternity made him all the more eager to return to his own life, to his lab and his colleagues, and most of all to his family, if he still had one.
He knew he was racing against the clock. October was coming, and it would bring another round of Kongoli. Henry understood the disease better now, but he had been working at a terrible disadvantage away from his lab. He didn’t know what Marco and other researchers around the world might have discovered while he was under the sea for six weeks.
The admiral did have a final surprise for Henry. “We only give this to submariners who have earned their stripes,” he said, as he pinned the insignia of the submarine corps on Henry’s overalls: a pair of dolphins. “You’re a true bubblehead now, sir,” the admiral said. Then everyone saluted him.
Afterward, Henry went for a stroll around the base with Captain Dixon. It was a beautiful night, moonlit, warm and swampy but clear. Lightning bugs danced around the path in front of them, leading the way to a dark pond. The only sound was the hum of generators providing energy for the base. Henry had a little trouble walking. It had been so much easier on the sub, with the narrow hallways and handholds everywhere. At times he had to take the captain’s arm.
“It’s hard, sometimes, getting your land legs back,” said Dixon.
“I never really had good legs to start with. Not like you!”
“Yeah, well, I was blessed, blessed, indeed. Watch out for the alligator.”
Henry thought Dixon was joking, but then he noticed an alligator on the edge of the pond. It seemed to be dozing, so the men walked on.
“Looks like my retirement party has been postponed,” Dixon confided. “The officer ranks have been so thinned out that they want me to stick around for another deployment. So I’ll be stuck in Kings Bay while we refit.”
“It’s beautiful here,” Henry said.
“Mmm.”
Something was tugging at the captain, but he was having trouble giving voice to it. Henry waited; Vernon Dixon was not a man who could be prodded. Finally, he said, “I want to show you something.” They walked around the pond to a display of missiles of various sizes. “Standing before you is the history of the submarine ballistic missile program.” The captain pointed to a short missile with stubby wings. “This one is the TLAM—the Tomahawk Land Attack Missile, or cruise missile, which is what we’ve got aboard the Georgia. I know it looks pretty tame, but it’s been decisive in projecting American power in the conflicts we’ve been engaged in since the first Gulf War. Our Tomahawks are conventional, but we have the option of deploying a nuclear-tipped version. These others”—he gestured to the larger missiles behind the Tomahawk—“are all ICBMs carrying thermonuclear devices.” Three white missiles comprised the first generations of the Polaris. “That first one came into service in 1956. Think about that. More than half a century ago, before I was even born.” Then there was the Poseidon, somewhat larger, squat, ringed with copper-colored bands, which Dixon described as the first submarine-launched missile with multiple warheads. “Still before my enlistment, though. I came in with these babies, the Tridents.” The newest and largest was the Trident D5, brick red and more than four stories tall, overshadowing its predecessors. It was amazing to think it could even fit on a submarine. “I served on the Tennessee when we had a full rack of twenty-four Tridents,” Dixon said. “Each of them with eight warheads, a total destructive power equaling more than eleven thousand kilotons. Compare that to Hiroshima, just fifteen kilotons. Multiply that one boat times a fleet of fourteen boomers, and you get more than 150,000 Hiroshimas! Can you imagine? Our boomers are the most powerful war-fighting machine ever created. They don’t even have to sail out of port to hit most any target of interest. But the same is true for our adversaries. This place will be the first to go when the shit starts flying.” Dixon stopped and stared at the sky. When he spoke again it was in a low, uncertain voice. “Thing is, and I can’t be totally candid about this, there may come a time