"Good. You'll be briefed about spaces that are off-limits, certain ship routines called rigs, and most importantly, how to flush the commode."

Mitchell and his Ghosts chuckled.

But Sands wasn't kidding. "While that's happening, a working party will finish unloading your gear and move it below. It'll be waiting for you in the torpedo room."

Turning to Mitchell, Sands added, "Captain Gummerson would like to see you in his stateroom at your convenience."

"I'm at the captain's disposal," replied Mitchell. "Lead the way. But I guess I'll grab one of those Geiger counters first."

After yelling, "Down ladder," as instructed, marksman Alicia Diaz studied the twenty-five-inch-wide black hole, grasped the hatch knife edge, and lowered herself down, rung by rung, right behind Master Chief Suallo.

She, along with Smith, Hume, and Suallo, gathered outside the hatch at the bottom, waiting for the others.

"What's that smell?" asked Hume.

"It's Smith," said Diaz with a laugh. "He tries to cover up that body odor with cologne, but he smells even worse."

Smith drew his brows together in mock seriousness. "You kidding? That's my natural musky odor, and it drives women wild. You must have a cold, Alicia."

COB rolled his eyes and recited an explanation he had obviously provided before. "What you're smelling is a mixture of high-voltage ozone, diesel and lube oil, and a derivative of ammonia called amines from our atmospheric system. You'll get used to it."

"What's that ringing in my ears?" asked Smith.

The chief grinned. "That's the 400-hertz electronic buzz that turns us into wonder sub. All our computer systems are processed using 400-cycle power instead of 60-cycle. That higher frequency means everything is smaller, lighter, more accurate, and runs a whole lot cooler. Don't worry. The buzz will go away, too." He glanced to one of the mess tables. "Why don't you folks grab a seat while we wait for the others."

Diaz complied, and Hume, who dropped beside her, leaned over and said, "You're the only woman on this entire sub. You know that, right?"

"So what?"

"It's just . . . we'll keep an eye out for you."

"Gee, thanks, Johnny." She showed him her ugliest face.

"I'm just saying--"

"Too much," she finished.

Mitchell entered the captain's stateroom, which was much smaller than he had imagined. In one corner stood a tiny fold-down desk, but the bulkheads were barren, along with the rest of the quarters.

Captain Gummerson came forward, beaming, his graying hair as mottled as granite, his voice deep and resonant. "Evening, Captain. Ken Gummerson, welcome aboard."

"Thank you, sir. Please call me Scott." Mitchell offered a firm handshake.

"Forgive the empty room. I'm all packed up. We were on our way to Japan to pick up my replacement when we got the call. This may be my last operation on Montana ."

"Well, I'm hoping you don't go out with a bang, sir."

"Me, too."