Final Bearing

by George Wallace

  "Jon, good to see you. You and Ellen have been away from Pearl too long. Now what's this trouble you're in?"

  He put a hand on Ward’s shoulder and guided him through the door.

  "Admiral, good to see you again, too. It’s like my daddy used to say, ‘If it was raining soup, I’d be the only son of a bitch with a fork.’”

  Donnegan grinned broadly.

  “You know how I felt about your father, Jon. And even some of those corny expressions of his.”

  “Well, I'm afraid that Mike Hunsucker and I had a little disagreement during my TRE."

  The two of them walked side by side as they started to climb the metal stairs from the workshops on the first deck to the offices that were housed on the second.

  Donnegan stopped halfway up and turned to Ward. He looked the Commander directly in the eye.

  "Not quite the way I heard it, Captain. Word I got was that you stopped the TRE prematurely, then wouldn't let Hunsucker back in Control.” The Admiral glanced around him, making sure no one else was within earshot. “I never have liked that twerp. He’s been walking around like a damned war hero just because he lobbed a couple of missiles into Serbia and somebody gave him a medal for it." He looked directly at Ward once again and went on. "Now, let me give you a little advice and you listen closely, Commander. When we get in there, you tell your story, tell it right, then shut up your cake hole. Try to keep that famous temper of yours under control. That’s another thing you inherited from your old man. Let me handle this. Understand?"

  Ward nodded, then kept quiet the rest of the way as the two walked on up the stairs to Commodore Desseaux's headquarters.

  The office was richly appointed with a large walnut desk, overstuffed leather chairs and sofa, and hardwood paneling. Desseaux had worked hard to make the office appear to be the large stateroom he would have enjoyed if he still had a sub tender for a flagship. Even the brass lamps and wall brackets had been salvaged to enhance the atmosphere. Ward half expected the deck to rock gently beneath his feet any time he had an audience with the Commodore, as if they might be afloat.

  Both Desseaux and Hunsucker rose from their seats at the long conference table and walked over to greet Admiral Donnegan. Both men’s eyes widened when they saw Ward step through the door behind the Admiral and it was clear the two men had come in together. The air in the room seemed heavy, as if a thunderstorm lurked just over the horizon. Ward could only imagine what the two men had been discussing prior to their arrival.

  Donnegan waved aside the formalities and dropped into the chair at the head of the table.

  "All right, gentlemen, please tell me I didn't fly all the way here just to referee a spat between two little boys. I don't have the time or the patience for that kind of nonsense."

  Desseaux took a deep breath and began.

  "Admiral, it appears…”

  “Appears?” Donnegan interrupted. “I would have assumed you would have sorted out whatever we have going on here to the extent that you would know for sure if we have an issue or not.”

  The Commodore swallowed hard and started over.

  “Admiral, we most certainly have a disagreement that has arisen concerning the conduct of a TRE onboard Spadefish. It raises concerns about the capabilities of the Commander and the fitness of his crew. Captain Hunsucker was running a series of operational drills that had been approved by me as well as by your staff. He briefed the drills with Commander Ward prior to running them. It is my understanding that Commander Ward did not object to the proposed drills at that time. He only objected after his crew was not able to adequately respond to the TRE. From what I have learned, and from all appearances, it seems to me that Commander Ward has not trained his crew properly, and that he terminated a test when that fact was obvious to Captain Hunsucker and his TRE team. Clearly, this is a serious matter. We would not have involved you had it been anything less."

  Jon Ward could not suppress a disgusted snort. Donnegan held up a warning hand in his direction.

  "Just a minute, Commander. You will have your chance. Captain Hunsucker, what do you have to add?"

  Hunsucker wiggled uncomfortably in his seat.

  "Not much, Admiral. As the Commodore said, I briefed Commander Ward completely, received his consent, then ran the drills. His boat was not performing well at all. I'm afraid that if we continued, they would have been ‘Unsat.’ He did not allow us that opportunity. He terminated the drill and refused to allow me in Control in one of the most blatant examples of insubordination I’ve witnessed in my twenty-four years in this man’s Navy."

  Donnegan showed no emotion, no indication he had heard a word Hunsucker had said. He turned to Ward.

  "OK, Commander, what do you have to say about this matter?"

  Jon Ward’s mouth felt as if he had been chewing steel wool. A strange calm came over him, the same steady hand on his shoulder that always mysteriously showed up when things got dicey. That dependable composure had gotten him through far more dismal situations than this. Besides, he had right on his side here. All he had to do was tell the truth. His voice was strong and sure when he spoke.

  "Admiral, I'm sorry you had to be called here to straighten this out. Captain Hunsucker is correct on most points. The TRE was not going well, but it had nothing to do with my crew or their readiness. He had intentionally set the test up in a way that we couldn't possibly succeed. I could even live with that fact, but most certainly not when the safety of my ship and men was threatened. I had no choice but to act and that’s exactly what I did."

  Hunsucker was turning purple. The cords in his neck stood out like knotted rope.

  “Go on, Commander,” Donnegan said. “Explain yourself.”

  "As he stated, Captain Hunsucker briefed me, but it was on a relatively routine torpedo evasion and flooding drill. The precautions he briefed were appropriate for that drill. No mention was made about tripping the turbine generators or about another boat being in the area. My XO was present and can verify the scope of the briefing. There was no way I would have allowed a drill that dangerous to be run. That's why I stopped the drill and the TRE."

  Hunsucker jumped up and shouted, "He's covering for his people's incompetence! It was a perfectly realistic situation!"

  Ward looked hard at Hunsucker but went ahead and answered the interruption, unable to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

  "Once again, the Captain is correct on his final point. I agree that it was a perfectly realistic situation. It was so realistic that people almost got killed, just as they would have if it had been warshot torpedoes. This was supposed to be an exercise and we don't usually kill people in exercises, at least not on purpose."

  Ward sat back down, hoping the anger he felt didn’t show in his face.

  Commodore Desseaux broke in.

  "Admiral, Spadefish is an old boat. She’s scheduled for decomm in six months. This was to be her last TRE anyway. Since Commander Ward doesn't think his boat is up to a TRE, I suggest we just accelerate the decommissioning schedule. Problem neatly solved."

  Ward jumped to his feet.

  "Now just a second! I never said…"

  Donnegan interrupted.

  "Jon, sit down please. I know precisely what you said." The Admiral re-crossed his long legs and took a leisurely sip of his coffee. The room was so quiet the ticking of the old-fashioned brass ship’s clock on the wall behind Desseaux’s desk sounded like a time bomb. "Commodore, you've made no secret of your desire to get rid of the old boats that are eating up your limited resources. I can appreciate that. But with all the downsizing already, we're at a grand total of eighteen boats in the entire Pacific. They're even decommissioning the ‘688’ boats now, for Pete's sake. Right this minute, I need every submarine I've got that’ll float." Then he looked directly at Hunsucker. "Captain, I don't know just where you fit into this, but I have my suspicions. I think you and I will spend a little time with the Chief of Staff discussing what took place out there once you get back to Pearl." />
  If it was possible, Hunsucker’s face grew even purpler. A private discussion with the Admiral and his Chief of Staff would be neither pleasant nor an enhancement to his career. He glowered at Ward.

  Donnegan seemed to take no notice and went on.

  "Now, I think we need something to keep Spadefish occupied and to justify her existence for a while longer. And I think I have just the thing to keep her out of your hair, Commodore. JDIA needs a surveillance platform down off Colombia. Say a month to refit and do some work-up exercises, then a nice leisurely transit down there. Jon, talk to Ops out in Pearl and make it happen." Admiral Donnegan abruptly pushed back his chair and rose to leave. "Now, if you gentlemen will excuse me, I have a plane to catch back to Pearl."

  He walked out and closed the door.

  Without a word, Mike Hunsucker stood, paused to give the Admiral a reasonable head start, then angrily stalked out of the room.

  “Good day, Commodore,” Jon said as he stood and started for the door himself.

  "Just a second, Jon. Looks like you won that round. I know you and Mike don't get along. You should know that I have nothing personal against you. The Admiral was right about resources. I barely have enough of what it takes to keep the seven ‘688s’ that I have operational. Get with my Materials Officer and let him know what you need. Please keep it to the essentials. We'll do all we can. You have my assurance of that." He held out his hand. "No hard feelings?"

  Ward took no measure of satisfaction in seeing Desseaux backpedal, and with so little grace. Still, he shook the offered hand. Desseaux's grip was loose and clammy.

  "I appreciate your help, sir. No hard feelings," Ward said, and flashed the Commodore a brilliant smile.

  Unbelievable! He had come in to this meeting, fully expecting to lose his ship, maybe even have her funeral moved up six months. Now, he was leaving with an actual mission, fuzzy as it was.

  Streetlights were snapping on around the base as he stepped outside, the sun having already dropped below the high ridge of Point Loma. He was surprised to see the black Chevrolet still parked in the shadows of the building, almost lost in the gathering dusk. As he walked past, the rear door swung open.

  "Get in Jon. I'll give you a ride home," Admiral Donnegan ordered.

  He joined Donnegan in the back seat and the car rolled away down Rosecrans. The driver unexpectedly turned up the McClelland Road instead of driving straight on down Rosecrans.

  "Jon, we need to make a stop up here first. Something that I want you to see, and it relates to what you're getting into. My real reason for flying over here."

  The car passed through the Cabrillo Gate and turned left, heading out Cabrillo Drive toward the sea. The two rode in silence except for the jazz radio station playing from the speakers behind them. The car turned in to the bunker where Ward had already been once that day, the one Bill Beaman had pointed out earlier as the headquarters of the Joint Drug Interdiction Agency. The metal gate obediently slid back to allow the Admiral’s car into the cramped parking compound.

  Donnegan led Ward to the giant blast-proof metal door. It had been designed to withstand bombardment from the sixteen-inch guns of World War II battleships with their armor-piercing shells the size of Volkswagens. The door eased open silently when Donnegan swiped a small card across the optical scanner. They descended the metal stairs into the brightly lit interior of the bunker.

  "Evening, Admiral." The man who greeted them was nondescript in every way, middle age, medium height, medium build, medium brown hair, someone who would never stand out in a crowd. His eyes betrayed him. They burned brightly, revealing an inner intensity that was impossible to hide. "So this must be your submariner."

  "Evening, John," Donnegan answered. "Allow me to introduce Commander Jonathan Ward, CO of Spadefish. Jon, meet John Bethea, head of the Joint Drug Interdiction Agency, and the worst nightmare of the bastards who would pollute our people with their poison."

  Bethea showed the slightest of smiles in reaction to Donnegan’s compliment. He shook Ward’s hand. His gaze was direct, powerful, almost hypnotic.

  "I’ve heard good things about you, Commander. Please follow me. We're ready to start the briefing in the secure briefing room."

  Briefing?

  He showed them the way down still more steps, past another optical scanner checkpoint, and further into the bowels of the hillside.

  Ward looked around curiously as they wound their way downward.

  "Interesting place you have here, Mr. Bethea."

  "Yes, as a matter of fact, it is. This bunker was originally modified back in the sixties, during the Cold War…in your dad’s time…to give the Pacific Command a secret emergency command post that could withstand a direct hit by a nuclear weapon.” Ward glanced over at Bethea. If he knew about his father, what else did he know about him? Bethea didn’t seem to notice the quizzical look on the Commander’s face. “It was modified again in the seventies when things got considerably more scientific. The NSA needed a place that couldn't be monitored by any kind of remote sensor that we knew of then. We were finding out how good technology could be for gathering information. Our satellites were having a field day with the Soviets. We needed a place here that was protected from that very kind of technology. We knew they would have it soon, too. Hell, this place probably shows up as a black hole!"

  They had finally reached the bottom of the stairs. In front of them stood a metal door with a plaque that proclaimed the room on the other side to be the "JDIA Secure Briefing Room". Bethea led them inside.

  "NSA used this place mostly to analyze all the information Halibut and Parche brought back from their cable taps."

  Ward well remembered all the fallout after the disclosure of those highly secret missions. The subs penetrated deeply into the Sea of Okhotsk, in the icy waters between the Kamchatka Peninsula and Siberia, and were able to tap previously secure underwater cables that ran between Soviet command centers. That intelligence haul had been awesome. That is, until a spy tipped off the Soviets and the source was lost for good.

  "Anyway, we inherited it last year when we and our allies formed the Agency. Perfect for us. Very few people even know it's here. Even the communications are funneled through you submariners down at Ballast Point. We can stay as anonymous as is possible these days. And believe me, that’s crucial with the enemy we’re up against. It’s amazing what degree of technology all that drug money can afford to buy."

  The room they entered was small and brightly lit. It was dominated by a large, colorful map of South America that filled most of the far wall. Several chairs were arranged around a small conference table in the center of the room. Otherwise, the room was empty, undecorated, utilitarian.

  Bethea walked across to the map.

  "Captain, I'm going to keep this brief. I know you haven't been home since you came in port, so I won't keep you away from your wife any longer than necessary. We’ll have a full set of briefing papers delivered by courier to Spadefish in the morning." He pointed to an area of blue, the Pacific Ocean just outside Colombian territorial waters. "We want you to patrol in this area here. For all intents and purposes, you are there to eavesdrop on any rebel radio communications. That will be the classified cover story." The man looked directly at Ward as he talked, his eyes even more intense. "The real mission is classified ‘Top Secret, Special Category.’ The code word is ‘Inca Trail.’ ‘Inca’ for ‘Interdiction Columbia.’ We’ll have a team in there, making use of some of the trails the Incas first cut. That whole area was the northernmost part of the Inca Empire at one time. As you may know, we have been helping the Colombian government with military aid for some time to fight the drug trade down there, with admittedly mixed results.

  “What you don't know is that we have been conducting covert operations against Juan de Santiago, the rebel leader who just happens to be the region’s biggest drug kingpin. He’s convinced a reasonable number of his people that the only way for them to win the revolution is by growing, pro
cessing, and exporting a staggering amount of cocaine and heroin. He’s been very good at it, and we suspect he has quite a bit of assistance from some very shadowy folks who have even less ideological stake in this thing than de Santiago does. As I say, we’ve had some limited success so far. Trouble is, they have some very sophisticated intelligence. When we find a base, by the time the Colombians can mount a strike, the base or a factory has usually disappeared without a trace. We need a way to secretly hit him, hard and quickly, before he can get wind of the operation and disappear into the jungle. That's where you and your boat fit in. You will be loaded out with Tomahawk missiles. When we locate the bases, you will be the fangs of the snake that will strike de Santiago. Think you can handle it?"

  Ward nodded forcefully, then turned to Admiral Tom Donnegan. He couldn’t suppress the smile. No more TREs. No more keeping his boat afloat for little more than the amusement of the tourists when they pulled into port. As of ten seconds ago, Spadefish had a valid reason to continue her proud existence.

  "Sir, you got yourself a boat."

  10

  Juan de Santiago stared in wonder at the incongruous sight before him. He was ten thousand feet up in the Andes, two hundred miles from the Pacific Ocean, yet the shape before him was unmistakably that of a submarine. At over thirty meters long, it filled the warehouse with its brooding, black form.

  "You have done well, Phillipe," he said to the dapper businessman standing beside him. "When will it be ready?"

  Phillipe Zurko cleared his throat. He was one of de Santiago's closest friends and had marched with him from the beginning of the revolution. Like everyone else, he was cautious when in the presence of the great man. He knew that de Santiago did not take bad news well and had become sensitive since the latest attempted assassination. The matter of El Falcone had driven a massive wedge between de Santiago and his lieutenants. He also knew the leader was distressed about the problems back at the laboratory. He knew the best way to deal with the man was to plunge ahead, giving him good news first, then the bad.