By Sebastian Junger
When I was young my father worked for the U.S. Government as a scientific consultant. He was one of the foremost authorities on how sound propagates underwater, and that made him very interesting to the U.S. Navy, which was trying to keep their submarines and torpedoes quieter than Russian submarines and torpedoes. The Cold War was in full swing, and the ocean basins were host to an unending game of hide-and-seek between nuclear-armed submarines. One of the main giveaways of a sub’s location is the bursting of tiny air bubbles created by a screw turning at high speed. That is called cavitation. My father helped design propellors that minimized cavitation, which made American subs almost completely silent as they prowled the oceans looking for their Russian counterparts.
Every weeknight my father would come home from work at seven or 7:30 and put his leather briefcase down by the front door. The briefcase was leather and had a brass hasp lock on the side, and I was fascinated by it because I knew it was filled with folders marked Secret or Confidential or Department of the Navy. Once I asked him what would happen if I looked inside and, deadly serious, he said, “I would have to call the FBI.”