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wildlife that a fish and game warden worked on the property full time.
    Gina was growing accustomed to seeing submarines at the piers and often gliding through the water. The USS Ohio had reported back to port two days ago. The boat’s black hull now gleamed off Delta Pier A, its massive length dwarfed by the sheer size of the triangle docking port that could accommodate four submarines with ease—five in a pinch—and fully dry-dock one needing propulsion repairs. The USS Jimmy Carter was departing tomorrow, with the USS Nevada due back in this week. Something was always happening. It was a beautiful place to be stationed, peaceful, even though it was a very active military base.
    She thought about driving across to the Toandos Peninsula to watch the action in Dabob Bay but talked herself out of it. When Jeff got back he’d likely offer her front-row seats for sub watching if she was interested, take her down to the piers, show her around. Occasionally VIPs were given a ride on a sub through the Admiralty Inlet and Hood Canal, and it had been offered to her in the past. She’d always declined. The Trident Training Facility was as close to being inside a sub as she cared to be.
    It would be claustrophobic to be in such a tight space with so many people. Closing the hatch and going several hundred feet below the water’s surface didn’t strike her as a smart thing to do. It was safe; it just wasn’t smart. Jeff would laugh at her conclusion, though he would not try to change her mind. He’d agreed with her observation that it wasn’t smart being hundreds of feet below the surface of the ocean—it was simply an adventure, and he was wired to seek out the best adventure he could find.
    Gina did find sonar to be an interesting science. She had spent a decade studying the largest data sets she could find, and sonar data was a unique kind of very large, very complex audio data. A high percentage of the noise a submarine heard with sonar was the ocean itself: rockslides, small earthquakes, underwater volcano eruptions, waves crashing on the shore. Or living things such as snapping shrimp, schools of fish, seals, whales and dolphins vocalizing to one another. Some of those sounds traveled halfway across the ocean. And all those sounds, for purposes of a submarine’s mission, were a form of white-noise static that had to be weeded out in order to find useful audio information about another submerged submarine or a vessel on the surface.
    Gina had arrived in Bangor with a couple of new sonar ideas that might make it easier to locate another submerged submarine in all that ocean noise. Her ideas might not go anywhere, but it was interesting work just to find out.
    Vernon Toombs was the lieutenant commander who ran the Naval Undersea Warfare Center’s new acoustical research lab. He had arranged for her to borrow his office from eight p.m. until six a.m. each day and have sole access to audio lab three from eleven p.m. to five a.m. She could spool up any audio file she wished to study. It was a comfortable place to work with SCIF security throughout the building. No electronic monitoring could be done of a conversation or computer data runs from outside the building. The night hours she’d requested were ideal for the large-scale data studies she needed to run, as she could absorb all the computing power to crunch on one specific problem.
    Vernon had already told her if she wanted to stay around and work on sonar for the long term, the door was wide open. The office she was borrowing could be her own. The pay was good, there would be freedom to follow her interests wherever they led, and the lab resources were some of the best in the world. It was a persuasive pitch. She might consider it, depending on how the next few weeks worked out.
    There were drawbacks. She had her own security team that now kept tabs on her 24/7. The military assumed the base was an espionage target, and what