After passing mid-deployment trials to test our REDACTED capacity, my submarine shot up the coast of REDACTED to observe a REDACTED featuring top-of-the-line technology that even the U.S. wasn't caught up on. As such, we operated in REDACTED water less than 100 feet deep for over a month before returning to neutral waters, a feat that isn't often replicated in the modern history of naval warfare. For reference, a fast-attack submarine is about thirty to forty feet tall, depending on the configuration of the conning tower. You might be surprised to learn that sneaking a submarine into enemy territory is buttery simple. The ocean is ludicrously large and deeply dark; pinging a submarine in the ocean is harder than finding an eyelash in an Olympic swimming pool ten times over. But sometimes—especially if a boat's periscope is raised to observe adversarial war exercises—a ship might get spotted. 

            Allegedly.

            We were very much not supposed to be in the middle of REDACTED—like, an International Incident amount of points not supposed to be there. Like, a World War Three qualifying incident sort of situation. I was in the front of the lower level of the engine room, sitting against the metal decks trying not to fall asleep before my rounds for watch. An order came over the loudspeaker and I jumped out of my bones.

            Main Seawater Pumps in REDACTED speed, shift to REDACTED speed.

            Before I continue, it's necessary to endeavor a quick description of a submarine engine room. First, everything is painted seafoam green, and it takes a lot of bonkers machinery to support a nuclear-powered engine. Most engine rooms are split into two to four levels with a centerline deck on each for personnel to operate machinery and navigate the space. Many of these supporting machines are common enough, but are gargantuan, submarine-sized systems. These components include: condensers, pumps, DC and AC motor generators, water purification devices, steam piping and mechanicals, and a host of lube-oil systems to cool and lubricate the multitude of moving parts on the boat. A nuclear technician whose watch is in the engine room may sometimes have to book it from the center of the ship to the aft end of the propellor in seconds, dodging piping, low-hanging hatchways, and the crew. Seconds was the knife-edge between life and death down there.

            I felt us diving as I sprinted uphill through the industrial hellscape of Engine Room Lower Level. Around the J-curve of the freshwater area where the crew worked out, through the alley of the condensers with their dozens of diodes, and through to the back of the boat where the seawater pumps stood on each side, shiny chromed steel the size of VW bugs. I ran to their actuators—big rectangular panels on the port and starboard sides—and pressed the buttons deeply, their industrial actuators nearly breaking my fingertips.

            "Maneuvering, Engine Room Lower Level. Main Seawater pumps in REDACTED speed," I said into the comm by my aft station.

            "Engine Room Lower Level, Maneuvering. Main Seawater pumps in REDACTED speed, aye."

            And that's how I saved the United States of America. I pressed two buttons. What I did was important to cool the reactor, which was in-turn necessary because the boat needed a greater capacity of power by which to flee with. But then I went on my rounds through the dungeon of the lower level as usual, checking the bilge—dry—and appreciating the quiet. Because of this mission near the coast of REDACTED, no one was allowed back in the engine room. I had no idea what the increase in pump speed was about, but eventually I received the order to slow them back down, and that's when I ran into Petty Officer Jolli, the roving electrician, on his rounds. I had seen his member more than my own the first half of deployment—even hit with it once coming down a ladder—and he met me aft near the smoke deck beyond the pumps. This was where we often took our coffee together, and the aft section was painted black and red instead of the typical seafoam. Despite his phallic flaws, he was a senior sailor and had a sort of skeevy charisma about him.

            "They said we were almost spotted in maneuvering," he said. "We were watching REDACTED conduct some sort of REDACTED, and we were spotted! The Navigator said that multiple ships converged on our location, but they think we got away without an ID."

            "I'm surprised he told y'all anything," I said, "we're never in the loop. Just Redshirts back here. But damn, are we going to abort?"

            "On my last boat, they told us everything. And no, we had that whole week-long inspection—this mission is too important, I think. Also, young padawan, you just have to...convince them to tell you things," Jolli said, gyrating his hips laterally with a maniacal smile. 

            In the coveralls we lovingly called "poopy suits," he was both a child and creepy uncle threatening to flash his business at a moment's notice. Jolli the exhibitionist once told me that submariners were just Lost Boys who misplaced all their marbles—that was the only explanation as to why we were crazy enough to live underwater for up to ninety days at a time, share beds, and parse the extraordinary in mundanity like taking hourly logs and deconstructing and reconstructing lube-oil purifiers. All under the threat of implosion and the crushing weight of the hungry ocean. Sometimes, I guess that's what duty is: commitment to scientific mundanity, order in the face of uncertainty. Or maybe this is just an old memory of operating off the coast of REDACTED to help the ship flee from detection to later observe an important REDACTED in service of national duty. A mission truly of defense—of learning and protecting—though I'm sure many critics and skeptics would disagree. Too bad the details are CLASSIFIED, so I can't prove it. I'm all out of marbles, but please take my word for it.

            When Jolli flopped his comically large manhood from his poopy suit, I didn't feel pride or a glow of honor accompanied by a wailing eagle. There was no John Mellencamp or the rippling stars and stripes. I felt nothing special at all, laughed, yawned, then started another round of logs.