The scene at the Philadelphia Navy Yard was it's own usual brand of highly-organized chaos. On the dock next to SSN 2161-X, a tall, balding, somewhat sardonic man in the khaki uniform and dolphins of a US Navy sub commander stood next to a shorter man in pristine Navy dress whites and the insignia of an admiral. The crew of the sub was busily engaged in re-painting the hull; strangely, a large logo was being roughed out on both sides of the boat's sail above her hull number and the rest of the hull was being painted bright silver, instead of low-visibility grey. Civilian representatives of the Electric Boat Company and Grumman Aerospace were also visible, installing some kind of equipment in clusters around the bow and stern of the large Seawolf-class nuclear attack boat. Odd protrustions spotted the hull here and there, and what looked like fairings for huge jet engines were mounted low on the hull. There was also a mini-sub similar to the NR-1 nuclear rescue vehicle docked over her aft escape hatch.
They both watched the bustle of activity in companionable silence. The taller man finally spoke to the admiral. "So we're still go for launch on Sunday, sir?"
"Yes. The Navy still hasn't changed its mind, and I don't think they're going to at this late date. We need a presence out there too badly to turn back at this point. The modifications are done, we've culled the right crewmen from all over the sub service. I think we're ready, what's your assessment?"
The tall man looked pensive. The faint strains of some kind of music were briefly heard over a lull in the usual background noise, and the boat seemed to quiver momentarily. "I've been reading my XO's reports almost hourly, sir. I think we'll make launch without problems. I'm more afraid of interference from the rest of the brass when they get wind of this. We may be a black project, but we're not *that* black, if you catch my drift. We could still get out asses kicked."
The admiral snorted. "Let 'em try. Personally, I'm going to fight for this project tooth and nail; it's my last chance to poke a sharp stick in Admiral Graham's eye before I retire. Besides, if we're ever going to get a handle on the situation in the Solar System, we've got to get out there where we can *do* something."
A willowy blonde woman walked down the gangplank and up to the two men, saluted and then held out a clipboard. "Supplies are all loaded, sir," she said to her captain.
"Admiral, I don't know if you've ever met my exec, Lieutenant Emily Lake?"
"A pleasure, Lieutenant." He turned back to the commander. "I've got to fly out to New York tonight, but I'll try to be back for the launch. Good luck and Godspeed to you and the Stingray, Commander Dodge."
He turned and saluted the Admiral; as he did, the ship's patch on his shoulder came into view; a stingray, in a sailor's hat and chomping a cigar, with a skull-and-crossbones flying from its erect tail. "Thank you, Admiral Winslow."
The noise cleared enough to finally recognize the background music being played over large loudspeakers: the Village People's "In the Navy"...
They both watched the bustle of activity in companionable silence. The taller man finally spoke to the admiral. "So we're still go for launch on Sunday, sir?"
"Yes. The Navy still hasn't changed its mind, and I don't think they're going to at this late date. We need a presence out there too badly to turn back at this point. The modifications are done, we've culled the right crewmen from all over the sub service. I think we're ready, what's your assessment?"
The tall man looked pensive. The faint strains of some kind of music were briefly heard over a lull in the usual background noise, and the boat seemed to quiver momentarily. "I've been reading my XO's reports almost hourly, sir. I think we'll make launch without problems. I'm more afraid of interference from the rest of the brass when they get wind of this. We may be a black project, but we're not *that* black, if you catch my drift. We could still get out asses kicked."
The admiral snorted. "Let 'em try. Personally, I'm going to fight for this project tooth and nail; it's my last chance to poke a sharp stick in Admiral Graham's eye before I retire. Besides, if we're ever going to get a handle on the situation in the Solar System, we've got to get out there where we can *do* something."
A willowy blonde woman walked down the gangplank and up to the two men, saluted and then held out a clipboard. "Supplies are all loaded, sir," she said to her captain.
"Admiral, I don't know if you've ever met my exec, Lieutenant Emily Lake?"
"A pleasure, Lieutenant." He turned back to the commander. "I've got to fly out to New York tonight, but I'll try to be back for the launch. Good luck and Godspeed to you and the Stingray, Commander Dodge."
He turned and saluted the Admiral; as he did, the ship's patch on his shoulder came into view; a stingray, in a sailor's hat and chomping a cigar, with a skull-and-crossbones flying from its erect tail. "Thank you, Admiral Winslow."
The noise cleared enough to finally recognize the background music being played over large loudspeakers: the Village People's "In the Navy"...