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he’d attended. That included the submarine officers basic course (SOBC); submarine officers advanced course (SOAC); prospective executive officers course (PXO); and the top-gun school for submariners: the grueling six-month prospective command officers course (PCO).
    He’d served as an engineering officer in the Sturgeon class Flying Fish ; chief weapons officer in the LA class Springfield ; exec aboard the Key West , which was another LA class nuclear attack submarine, and finally CO of the Seawolf .
    At just under six feet, he had sandy hair, a thick mustache, a handsome face, and a lean, well-muscled body of a man who worked out a lot.
    He also had an ego. Like just about every other submarine commander. There were less than one hundred nuclear submarines in the U.S. fleet. It was a very elite club. Every CO knew every other CO, and each of them knew that he was the best. Everybody on Dillon’s boat knew it too. They were the dream team: the Miami Heat, Oakland Raiders, Green Bay Packers, and the New York Yankees all rolled into one.
    The boat’s motto was: Hunt it, find it, kill it! There wasn’t a man aboard who doubted that they would be capable of handling whatever was thrown at them, by whoever and wherever.
    Directly after Annapolis, when Dillon applied for submarine school, his first hurdle was the interview with the director of naval reactors (DNR), a four-star admiral who answered only to the joint chiefs and to God. Eighteen years ago the DNR was Adm. Mark Morgan, who after the interview told an aide that what most impressed him about young Ensign Dillon was the man’s no-nonsense attitude and obvious sincerity.
    â€œLook into that officer’s eyes and you’ll follow him wherever he leads, because you know that he’s telling the rock-bottom truth.”
    Admiral Morgan, now retired in Madison, Wisconsin, was Dillon’s mentor and sometime Dutch uncle.
    â€œNow,” Ensign Tony “Teflon” Alvarez said at his shoulder. Alvarez was the Seawolf ’s navigation officer. He was the only other man in the bridge with the captain and an enlisted lookout, CPO3 Bill Proctor, who was scanning the horizon with binoculars.
    Dillon picked up the growler phone. “Conn, this is the captain. Have we crossed the one thousand fathom line?”
    â€œJust now, skipper,” his executive officer, Lt. Cmdr. Charles Bateman, responded.
    Dillon took a five-dollar bill out of his pocket and handed it to his nav officer, who was grinning ear-to-ear. Alvarez had figured their position by feel. “Not bad, Tony.”
    â€œThank you, sir.”
    Dillon made one last three-sixty and then picked up the growler phone again. “Sonar, bridge. How’s it look?”
    â€œNo current subsurface targets, sir. We’re clear.”
    â€œVery well. Conn, bridge. Prepare to dive.”
    â€œAye, aye, sir,” Bateman responded.
    â€œClear the bridge,” Dillon ordered. He started his stopwatch.
    The lookout was the first through the hatch down three stories to the control room level, followed by Alvarez.
    Dillon remained on the bridge for a few moments. This was the start of a ninety-day patrol. They’d had their leave, now it was time to earn their pay. It would be a long time before they would see the light of day or taste the fresh salt air. He was a submariner to the depth of his soul, but he was leaving behind his twin teenaged daughters and his wife, Jill, whose uterine cancer was in remission, but she had to face it alone.
    A snatch of something by Yeats came to mind. Something about getting smarter, but sadder with age. The man knew what he was talking about. He too had been there, done that. Jill had taught him that, along with a lot of other things.
    Dillon dropped through the hatch and closed and dogged it, then slid the rest of the way down through the sail. At the bottom he stepped aft into the brightly lit, almost airy control room.
    â€œMy