Jerry Perez, the navigator, occupied Brian Edwards’s customary chair to Glass’s right. Short, with a dark complexion and jet-black hair, Perez was showing the signs of a developing paunch. He talked and moved the same way he mauled his hamburger and fries: slowly, deliberately. He worked hard to develop the image of a cool and collected Southern California surfer, but it was also obvious to anyone who watched him work that he had a razor-sharp and insightful mind.

Doug O’Malley, the boat’s engineer, sat to Glass’s left, across the table from Perez. O’Malley was the exact opposite of Perez. He was tall and red-haired, his body athletic and chiseled. Hailing from the upper Midwest, O’Malley spoke directly and with machine-gun speed.

Despite their physical differences, O’Malley and Perez were close friends.

“Skipper, how you think we’re doing?” O’Malley asked as he gulped down the last quarter of his sandwich in one quick bite. “Turbulent is damn good and that Spearfish torpedo is one smart bitch.”

Glass grunted as he bit into his own hamburger and held his answer a few seconds while he chewed. The burgers were dubbed “sliders” because they were so greasy they slid right down the gullet. This one still tasted delicious to a ravenous Joe Glass. “We got a ways to go. Your plotting team needs to work on the information flow. Too many details are getting lost in the shuffle.”

Perez glanced over at O’Malley and shook his head. He pointed a French fry at his friend as he spoke. “Trouble is, Eng, you spend too much time aft, speaking ‘nuke.’ You gotta learn to talk ‘submarine’ like the rest of us.”

He gobbled up the fry. “Hell, Jerry, you know I can—”

Joe Glass held up both hands. “I’ve been your skipper long enough to have grown weary of you two bickering like an old married couple,” he said, but with a smile. It was a sign that the rest of the crew was now comfortable enough with him and his command that they could banter like this in front of him. It had not been that way his first few weeks on board when everyone seemed to be walking on eggshells.

A buzzer interrupted their meal. Glass reached underneath the table, grabbed the JA phone handset, and pushed the TALK button. “Captain.”

“Captain, XO. We just received underwater comms from Turbulent. She says we need to come up for an urgent message.”

The other officers at the table could not help noticing the sudden frown that erased the smile on their skipper’s face.

“All right, XO. Ask Turbulent to come to safety course north and to stay at periscope depth. Put us on course north and come up to one-five-zero feet. I’ll be right up.”

With both subs on the same course, the “safety course,” they wouldn’t collide with each other while they were at the same depth.