Zero Hour: The Watch Below

0400 Hours — Groton, Connecticut

Naval Submarine Base New London

Pier 6, Berth Bravo

The wind off the black ocean bit through fleece and leather and cotton alike. It was that kind of cold that sunk through to your bones—not just physical, but emotional, psychological. It made you reflect. It made you quiet.

Six men stood on the pier, their boots clacking softly against the wet concrete, duffel bags slung over their shoulders or dropped at their feet. Not much talking, just a few quiet words here and there. Most of what needed saying had already been said. What hadn’t been said was understood.

Just fifty yards away, the USS Corregidor sat in the inky water like a black shark, invisible in the predawn shadows except for the faint glint of running lights on the hull and the occasional wink of a red flashlight from the watch on deck. She was nuclear-powered, 560 feet long, a Los Angeles-class fast attack submarine—a city-killer, a ghost of the deep. She was their ride. Their home. Their warhorse.

And in thirty minutes, she would dive.

Arthur Stoner stood with his gloved hands in his pockets and a cigarette burning low between his lips. He didn’t often smoke anymore, but something about these last few minutes on land brought it out in him. He was tall, lean, and bearded, with steel-gray eyes and a reputation for being the most unflappable man in the Navy. Quiet, steady. The kind of man you wanted on sonar when it got loud down there.

He watched the horizon, though there was nothing to see. Just the darkness of the eastern sky, with only the faintest suggestion of change. The moon was gone. Stars blinked overhead. It wouldn’t be dawn for another hour or so, and they’d be long gone by then.

“Feels like a funeral,” Wayne Knightly muttered. He was built like a middle linebacker and wore a patch on his flight jacket that said Knightmare. Most people thought it was bravado. But those who knew Wayne knew it was accurate. In combat simulations, he was terrifyingly good at what he did—fire control, targeting solutions, weapons deployment. You didn’t want to be in his crosshairs.

“Every departure’s a little like one,” said Trystan Lyons, brushing windblown curls out of his eyes. The youngest of the group, Trystan was a golden boy—soft-spoken, book-smart, but possessed of a quiet grit that surprised people. He was the boat’s navigation officer. He could guide you to hell and back, and never need to raise his voice.

Gabriel White, the War Angel himself, was kneeling beside his duffel bag, retying the laces on his boots. Everyone called him War Angel because he wore a tattoo of St. Michael the Archangel on his back, wings spread and sword drawn. That, and he had a habit of praying out loud before drills. Some found it off-putting. Most found it comforting. When things got hairy, they listened for his voice. Gabriel worked in the reactor room. He was a nuclear machinist’s mate, the kind of guy you wanted watching the core if it ever hit the fan.

KC Keyes—short for Kyle Christopher—was pacing slowly behind them all. He looked twitchy, but he wasn’t. He just had too much energy for a guy who’d been awake for twenty-two hours. “Nervous energy,” he called it. Some guys jogged. KC ran diagnostics. He was the ship’s electronics tech, comms wizard, and general bringer of all things digital. If it beeped, pinged, or glitched, KC could fix it.

Finally, there was Lance Shields, the COB—Chief of the Boat—and the oldest among them. He had the square jaw, the weathered face, the stiff back of a man who’d seen it all and didn’t need to talk about it. The other sailors called him “The Wall,” because nothing got past him. Not attitude. Not sloppiness. Not mistakes. You stepped wrong under Shields’ watch, you were gonna know it. But he took care of his people. Like a wall, he took the hits so others wouldn’t have to.

They stood in a loose circle now, watching the last of the shore leave lights go out behind them.

“Fifteen minutes,” Shields said, checking his watch.

“Copy,” Stoner murmured.

KC exhaled. “Still time to call in sick.”

Knightly snorted. “You go ahead, bro. I’ll write your eulogy. ‘Died of cowardice, buried in shame.’”

Gabriel cracked a grin and crossed himself. “Come on, KC. You know what they say: The righteous are bold as lions.”

“I’m righteous enough,” KC muttered. “Just don’t like being sealed in a metal tube for three months.”

“Better than a coffin,” Trystan said softly. “Which, statistically speaking, is what most people drive to work in.”

That got a few quiet chuckles.

The Corregidor loomed larger now as they approached. The watch on deck called down softly and gave a salute as Shields led them up the gangway, duffel bags slung over their shoulders. It wasn’t ceremony anymore. It was muscle memory. These men had made this walk before. Dozens of times. Hundreds, in Shields’ case.

They stepped onto the hull and then down into the conning tower, entering the long belly of the beast.

0415 Hours

USS Corregidor — Crew Mess

The ship buzzed with low energy—crewmembers finishing last-minute checks, sipping hot coffee, stowing gear, writing final emails that would be delayed until the next satellite sync. The sea was calling. The crew could feel it.

The six men found an empty table, slumped onto benches. The air smelled like metal and cleaning solvent. Someone had left a copy of Moby-Dick on the table, the corners of the pages dog-eared and coffee-stained.

“I never understood why anyone brings a book about a doomed voyage onto a submarine,” KC muttered.

“Maybe it’s a reminder,” Trystan offered, “to not let obsession cloud your judgment.”

“Maybe,” Knightly replied, “it’s because someone’s got a sick sense of humor.”

Gabriel rested his elbows on the table and bowed his head. “Lord, bless this crew. Give us calm seas, steady hearts, and clear minds. Keep us safe beneath the waves.”

They nodded, some making the sign of the cross. Even the ones who didn’t believe much still appreciated it.

The loudspeaker crackled.

“Attention all hands: Dive at zero-four-thirty. Final systems check in ten minutes. Command staff to control. That is all.”

0429 Hours

Control Room — USS Corregidor

Red lights bathed the room in eerie glow. Screens flickered, dials moved, systems hummed. Officers moved with precise choreography. This was the heartbeat of the ship.

Stoner took his post at sonar, donning his headset like a knight putting on his helmet.

Trystan nodded to the captain as he stepped to navigation.

Knightly cracked his knuckles and stood by the weapons console, cool and focused.

KC plugged in at comms, tapping furiously, checking pings.

Gabriel was already in engineering, monitoring the reactor’s vital signs like a medic watching over a patient.

Shields stood behind it all, arms crossed, eyes sharp. Watching. Listening.

“All systems green,” someone said.

The captain stood at the center of it all. Commander Reilly was in his forties, all steel and salt, eyes like deep water. He looked once at his crew—his brothers in the deep—and gave a small nod.

“Let’s take her down.”

0430 Hours

USS Corregidor — Dive

The klaxon sounded. A deep, warbling note. Then silence.

“Diving, diving,” came the announcement.

The hull groaned gently as the planes angled. Water rushed over the sail. Bubbles trailed behind them like breath. They descended into the ink.

Depth gauges ticked downward. The ship tilted ever so slightly, then evened out.

Stoner called sonar contacts—fishing boats, freighters, nothing of consequence. Trystan adjusted course by a fraction of a degree. KC confirmed satcoms were now dark. Knightly locked down weapons. Gabriel monitored the reactor output, a steady hum in his ears.

“Depth 400 feet,” came the call.

The boat leveled.

They were underwater. Gone from the world above. Just a long shadow in the sea now, running silent.

0500 Hours

In the quiet that followed, the six submariners met once more in the passage outside the control room. The hum of machinery was constant now. The only light was red.

“No turning back,” KC whispered.

“There never was,” said Shields.

“You feel it?” Gabriel asked. “The shift. That moment between worlds.”

“Every time,” Knightly said. “That’s when I know we’re really sailors.”

Trystan looked around. “This is our watch now.”

Arthur Stoner finally spoke, his voice calm and low. “Then let’s stand it well.”

No one replied, but everyone nodded.

And beneath the waves, under a sky just beginning to lighten far, far above, the USS Corregidor slid through the depths like a shadow with purpose—its men ready, its mission silent, its heart steady as steel.

END.