"Shit. So what do I do? Send him home?" I asked. "That will go over real well, won't it? Here the guy is, trying his damnedest to finish the deployment, and I pull the rug out from under him. Either way, his career is dead when he gets home."
"I think there are more problems, as well," the chief of staff continued, not answering my question but not exactly evading it either.
"You know about SUBSAFE procedures, right?"
I nodded. "As much as I need to, I guess. Which parts do you have in mind?"
The SUBSAFE Program was a conglomeration of safety procedures that really began with the loss of the USS Thresher on the east coast. Since that time, procedures had been revamped to require a number of inspections on the repair of any critical component, submarine certification for repair of most components, and dramatic changes in emergency procedures in keeping the men on a submarine alive. Preserving the capacity to surface, or at least come shallow enough to let the men escape through the escape trunks, was a primary goal in any disaster onboard a submarine.
"I think he's probably running on the margin of acceptability for SUBSAFE," the chief of staff continued. "Look at paragraph three ― he's talking about intending to maintain a constant depth, asking us not to order depth changes unless it's absolutely necessary to mission accomplishment. And we know, one of the casualties was to a high-pressure air compressor. You add it up ― like I said, reading between the lines ― and he might be just a teensy, weensy bit worried about his ability to do an emergency blow and get back on the roof if he has to."
I exploded. "He can't surface? What the hell is he doing-"
The chief of staff invoked one of his other rare privileges and interrupted me. "No, I imagine he can surface. He would have told us if he couldn't. And do some depth changes. Remember, those are all mission-essential capabilities. But what I'm saying is he hasn't got the reserve that he'd like. If he has to hit the roof, then he may not have the reserve capacity to submerge and come up again. And, sitting where we are, this far from home, that's a real problem."
I shut up to think. If what the chief of staff was saying was true, then our submarine escort was one hurting puppy. Space onboard a fast attack boat is limited, so they don't carry extensive repair facilities and spare parts.
The carrier, on the other hand, did. "Any chance we can give him some help with anything?"
A slight grin tugged at the corner of the chief of staff's mouth. "I think there might be. But remember, it's going to cause him to have to come up to the surface to take onboard some gear. In these waters, with the weather this bad, that's a problem. Not to mention the political problems when our Russian friends fly over and see the submarine that we swear we don't have surface alongside us. However, there might be a way."
Now it was my turn to interrupt. "You sly old bastard, you never present me with one of these insoluble problems unless you've got something on your mind. Spit it out before I have to beat it out of you."
"Well, I checked with the meteorologists. They say this storm should blow over today, and tomorrow we might have some unusually calm conditions.
Still a little wave action, but not much at all. It's all blowing inland.
So, say we were to be operating at night. Say we put the carrier between us and anybody who might be flying over or watching from land, and brought the sub up to the surface on our seaward side. You get him in close enough, he's under the overhang of the flight deck and won't be any easy target for overhead observers. Plus, you do it at night. I'm willing to bet the odds are better than even that we could pull it off."
"That close to the carrier." I shook my head. "That skipper isn't going to be loving life, you know that."
"I know it. But if he pulls it off, one attaboy makes up for a lot of oh shits, particularly if he pulls his boat together and can continue on station until we finish this mess off. Judging from his messages and the times I've met him, I think he'll go for it. What do you think?" I thought about it for a few moments before replying. If you look up the word risk in the dictionary, you'll see the insignia of the U.S. Navy printed as a definition. We don't get the job done by being timid, and that man in command eight hundred feet below my keel had earned the right to take this chance. "Set it up. You write the message. Tell him we understand what he's saying without pulling the sheets down too far. We'll let him maintain the illusion that everything is OK for now."
"There's just one other thing," the chief of staff said. "Those Russian boats following her ― she'll know for sure that our boat is surfacing. And she may have an opinion about that."
"If we can't protect our own submarine while she's tied up damn near on our flight deck, then we're the ones who're in trouble."
The chief of staff left, and I dug through my dirty clothes for the pair of running shorts I'd used the day before. I had a hell of a lot more stress to work off than I'd had just ten minutes earlier.
Then again, if it didn't work, I'd have a hell of a lot more time on my hands to work out, when the Navy got rid of me.
I had just finished three miles on the treadmill when Lab Rat tracked me down. The chief of staff moves fast when he wants to. Sometimes I see the intermediate steps, sometimes I don't know what he's been up to until I see the final results. Whatever the case, my senior intelligence officer looked pretty damned unhappy. 1, on the other hand, was floating along with that sense of well-being that you get when the endorphins start kicking in, when all you've had to worry about for the last thirty minutes was your pulse rate and whether the belt under your feet was still moving.
Lab Rat settled into a waiting posture, that determined look on his face that I recognized. Lab Rat's got a finely honed sense of priorities, and I could tell from the way he was standing that he thought his news was (1) important enough to come find me, and (2) could wait until I finished running. But not until I'd finished the entire workout, and certainly not until I'd showered, shaved, changed back into my uniform, and been once again swept away by the massive amounts of paper in my in-box. No, this was definitely a "get him after he finishes running but before he showers"
sort of emergency.
I nodded in acknowledgment in his direction, then waved him off. Lab Rat got the message ― he could wait till I finished five miles.
Twenty minutes later, he was still standing in the same spot, looking neither bored nor annoyed. Just that same look of keen intelligence, showing that ability he's got to integrate all sorts of facts into one single comprehensive picture that's of use to an admiral in command of a carrier battle group.
He walked up while I was doing another mile as part of my cool-down routine, moving closer and in front of the treadmill.
"Talk," I said. With Lab Rat, you don't really have to worry about hurting his feelings, the guy's focused on his job, and all he wants to know is when to begin.
"It's not a good idea to have the submarine surface," he began, stepping closer, with his voice pitched low so that it would reach my ears only. "The chief of staff told me to come talk to you about it, because we don't entirely agree on the conclusions." "What's up?" I asked, keeping my questions short as my breathing returned to normal.
"One of the biggest advantages of an attack submarine is her ability to remain undetected and hidden. We bring her to the surface and she's at risk for more than getting spotted by an aircraft. That Russian boat, the Victor ― there's every chance she carries a team of Spetznaz onboard her.
If they get close enough, with our submarine all opened up for taking on repair equipment, they could try to board her while the Akula does some serious damage to her if they can't."
"Pirate her? Come on, Lab Rat, surely you can't be serious?"
Floating along on my post-run high, I chuckled lightly. Lab Rat nodded.
"That's exactly what I mean. Admiral, it's at least a possibility, however remote it might seem. Look at the facts. Russia is desperate for hard currency, and one of her major exports is diesel submarines. Nuclear submarines she has
n't been as successful with, first because hers are dangerous to own and operate, and only second because of world treaties against nuclear proliferation. But suppose Russia was manufacturing a small nuclear submarine for export, one that had U.S. technology for sound quieting and weapons control onboard it. Not to mention reactor safety standards. What do you think that would do for the Russians?"
The treadmill spun down to a slow amble, and I started thinking out loud. "The Russians would surely love to get their hands on one of our Los Angeles-class fast-attack boats," I said, just doing stream of consciousness without trying to bring any analytical capabilities to bear on it at this point. "It would make a world of difference in their own programs and, you're right, the export programs as well. But right alongside us?" I shook my head. "Commander, that would be the height of foolishness. We'd have to kick their asses over that, no way around it.
Besides, the submarine has some defenses itself, doesn't she?"
"Only some small-caliber handguns and shotguns," Lab Rat said. "I'm not claiming it's probable ― just a possibility we haven't really allowed for yet. And I'm not suggesting that we don't do this, Admiral. The chief of staff explained his reasoning quite cogently. However, we ought to make some preliminary preparations just in case."
"Like what."
"Destroy all old classified material onboard the submarine, sir.
Crypto codes, that sort of thing. Personally, I'd like the entire crew standing by for self-defense and emergency destruct, but I don't think that will be possible."
I sat down on the edge of the treadmill, started stretching to keep my muscles from tightening up. If there is anything I hate, it's going to the trouble of trying to fight off the fat and then feeling stiff the next day.
"Taken in conjunction with the other danger signs, Admiral, we have to prepare for this," Lab Rat said. His tone of voice came as close to insisting as I'd ever heard it.
Sure, we'd had the MiGs making their runs on us, but so far we weren't at war, although I had to admit that I'd come damned close to starting one.
I examined my intelligence officer closely, wondering what other secrets he was keeping.
Like I should talk, after keeping the deployment of our own submarine secret from him and my staff.
The look on his face told me there was more to the story than he was letting on. "Commander, come on. Out with it."
Lab Rat took a deep breath. "Before Admiral Magruder left, he made certain… arrangements… with me. Arrangements for a code in his daily intentions message, in his status reports. He asked me not to tell you, but gave me the discretion to do so if I felt it was necessary in my judgment to fulfill our mission. His last message used the code word to indicate he was in danger. I suggest that whatever it is might extend to the battle group as well."
Now that was a stunner. I was supposed to keep secrets from him, not the other way around. Another flash of anger. This was my intelligence officer, damn it, Tombstone. Not yours ― not anymore. And what the hell business did he have making plans about anything operational behind my back? There were going to be some serious words exchanged when he got back, not between a one star and a three star, but between lead and the man who used to fly wingman on him.
"And?" I loaded the one word with as much of a threat as I could.
"The admiral's in trouble. He had time to get off one message to me before he left Ukraine, but not much at that. The Russians are kicking them out of the country."
"Kicking them out?"
Lab Rat nodded. "It's not being put that way, of course. And I don't understand all the ramifications. Admiral Magruder barely had time to get the message off to me, and it was obvious he was in a hurry. But yes, there are problems ashore. And why would this surface now, with U. S.-Russia relationships breaking new ground in free trade? Why all these mistakes in the war games scenarios? Why the MiGs? To me, Admiral, it all adds up to something going on. Just what, I don't know, but it's why I'm worried about the submarine." Lab Rat was speaking rapidly now, as though if he could get the words out fast enough it would make up for not telling me before. Both he and I knew it wouldn't.
"So what are you suggesting?" I said finally, leaving behind the question of what I would say to Tombstone and how I would deal with Lab Rat later. The mission had priority over my own annoyance at this point.
Lab Rat, like the chief of staff, is a nasty, devious man. He started explaining, and I forgot to keep stretching. By the time he was finished, my muscles were as stiff as wood.
13
Tuesday, 22 December
1500 Local (+3 GMT)
Kursk, Ukraine
Vice Admiral Tombstone Magruder
We weren't under arrest, but neither were we ever left alone. During the entire transit back to our war gaming base in Russia, there were always two, usually more, armed guards within an arm's reach of me. They had a hard, lean look, and I decided immediately that they must be Spetznaz, elite Russian special forces. They were men on a par with our SEALS, and given the right equipment, they probably could have done just as good a job.
We left Kursk almost immediately, and I was just given enough time to shuffle my belongings into a duffel bag before I was hustled to a transport aircraft. The engines were already warmed up and turning as we boarded, and we were given immediate clearance for takeoff. We climbed, banked, then turned north.
It's my custom on long flights to take the opportunity to catch some sleep. It's a skill you learn early as a Navy pilot because time to sleep and meals are all too rare some days.
I fidgeted until I found a relatively comfortable position, then shut my eyes and tried to doze.
Of course, there was little way I could under the circumstances. The conditions of our departure, as well as the welfare and well-being of my people back in Russia, was of serious concern to me. I silently damned the impulse that had led me down south, the one that involved paying homage to a man I had never known but who was my blood. Where do our loyalties lie, in a situation such as this? To the dead, or almost dead? Or to the living, the men and women who depend on us to keep them alive? Who had trusted me, who had followed me to this godforsaken frozen land. Had I let them down at the expense of a ghost?
And to what end? I was no further along in getting hard proof of my father's death in Russia than I ever was, although admittedly I was convinced myself on a personal level. He had died here, and I had touched and seen the grave that held his body, although I would never be able to fully describe it to another person. Even my mother… I let that thought hang for a moment, trying to decide what and how I would tell her about these events.
And what of Russia herself? The war games that had begun as covert intelligence-finding opportunities on both sides had quickly turned into something more ugly. There was no way a few years of outwardly friendly cooperation on international matters would ever really erase the decades of Cold War scars that existed between our two nations. To have thought they could was the ultimate in political navete.
And had Commander Busby intercepted my message? No doubt he had ― Lab Rat was good about things like that. Still, would he understand the phrases I cobbled together so hastily, and be prepared to take appropriate action? I hoped so, not so much for my own sake as for that of my men.
Finally, despite the turmoil filling my mind, I did drift off. I awoke when we began a long, slow bank that brought us in on an approach profile to the field. The terrain below me was familiar, recognizable from our departure just days before.
I was not surprised to see Gator, Skeeter, and Sheila, and the rest of the remaining flight crew standing along the side of the runway waiting for my return. There was every evidence that our aircraft had already been serviced and were ready for immediate takeoff. As I watched, the COD taxied over to them and they started loading out. I checked the wings of the Tomcats. Good, they'd loaded the remaining live fire weapons onto the wings. Safer than carrying them back in the COD.
I walked up to the gr
oup and exchanged a hasty salute.
"Admiral, I can explain," Skeeter began. I saw Gator elbow him sharply in the ribs. Skeeter grunted, shot the RIO an angry look, then turned back to me. "I mean, it was all my-" Again the jab to the ribs.
Gator has always commanded my respect in a way that few non-pilots do.
He knows when people should be talking and when they shouldn't. Right now, surrounded by Russian security guards, Skeeter needed to keep his mouth shut. I nodded a quiet acknowledgment to Gator.
"Let's get our checklist started, shall we?" I asked. It wasn't really a request, and they understood that. Sheila jerked Skeeter aside and herded him over toward their aircraft. I could see the hand gestures, the heads bent close together, and knew a hasty explanation and admonishment was taking place.
Gator fell in behind me. "Good move," I said.
"Thanks. Skeeter's OK, he's just-"
"A lot like Bird Dog," I finished for him.
Gator fished a message out of his pocket and passed it over to me.
"You need to see this one. Came in a couple of hours ago from the carrier.
There's some odd stuff in it ― figured it might mean something to you."
I scanned the text, not surprised to find a coded message from Lab Rat. But what he was proposing ― well, it wasn't something I would have tried to pull off. It was a good thing he let me know, though. The MiG forays at the carrier, the problems the submarine was having ― all could quickly go critical.
The checklist went quickly, and before I knew it we were up the boarding ladder and settling into our aircraft. I plugged my ZIP drive into its slot. Since our own support personnel had gone ahead, Russian technicians performed the duties of checking our restraining ejection harnesses, pulling the pins from the ejection seats, and getting us settled in. They spoke passable English, albeit with a rough accent.
Brink of War c-13 Page 21
