A crew of sailors in heavy foul-weather gear were busy near the bow, securing lines.

“They’re getting ready to cast off,” I said.

“We need to get to the sail,” Hayes said.

We hurried down the wooden planks of the pier.

The smell of salt water and diesel fuel was strong.

A young watch stander in a black parka stepped into our path at the foot of the gangway.

He carried an M4 rifle across his chest.

“Identify yourselves,” the watch stander said.

“Chief Hayes,” Hayes said, showing his badge. “I have Dr. Mitchell with me. We have an urgent security clearance issue for the Captain.”

“The Captain is in the control room, Chief,” the watch stander said, looking at our wet clothes and my equipment bag. “We’re thirty minutes from underway.”

“This is an emergency order from Base Security,” Hayes said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “Let us down.”

The watch stander hesitated, then stepped aside.

“Go ahead, Chief,” he said.

We walked up the narrow metal gangway.

The submarine rolled slightly under our feet as the river tide nudged against the hull.