before my memory fades,” he explained. Which he didn’t need to do, of course.
Jerry reported,
Rudel nodded silently, acknowledging the report and considering. “It’s pretty rough on the watchstanders up there.”
Was Rudel playing devil’s advocate? “Norris seemed okay when he came down, sir. We can always shorten the interval, especially since they should finish the repairs in a few hours.”
“I’m concerned about additional injuries.”
“They’ve been minor so far, sir, and the crew is learning how to deal with the rolls,” Shimko observed.
Rudel sighed. “This crew has been through so much. I think I’m just reluctant to put them through anything they don’t absolutely need to.”
Jerry’s mind raced. Rudel could ask this crew to swim through acid and they’d do it. He should know that. Finally, Jerry answered, “Whatever direction we sail, Captain, we’re stuck on the surface. I believe it’s best to push ahead.”
The captain stood. “You’re right.” He looked at both of them. “Thank you both. We’ll continue on course.”
Shimko and Jerry left, with Jerry working his way toward control, habit driving him to check the chart. His mind was still circling around the captain’s state of mind. Rudel had always been close to his troops, but he’d crossed a line somewhere, feeling their pain, and nobody can bear the suffering of a hundred men, especially if you’re responsible for it. A captain needs to be detached, removed emotionally because of the orders he might, almost certainly will, have to give.
Jerry tried to, or pretended to study the chart. It was the captain’s problem, but if the captain had a problem then they all had a problem. It was also Rudel’s problem to solve, just as Jerry faced his own demons. In the meantime, Jerry was more than willing to back up the skipper and keep
He finally focused on their course. They were closing on the collision site, and once they submerged they’d be able to increase speed. He ran a calculation to see how much time they had until they could begin the search.
Then Jerry headed forward, to boot Palmer out of his rack. They would need a search plan soon.
Once submerged and still dry, he took the boat deeper and deeper, in steady increments. No matter how excited the report, Rudel smiled and took it all aboard as the seals stayed dry down to four hundred feet. “There’s no need to go deeper than that, not in the Barents.” Rudel’s tone was so casual he could have been talking about the menu for dinner. He settled on a depth of two hundred feet and a speed of ten knots.
He passed the news over the 1MC, and included Brann and the rest of Todd Williams’s gang in his public praise. “They’ve worked their tails off and given us all a dry boat. Now that our stomachs are recovering, the cooks have started on a feast in their honor.” Rudel paused to glance at the clock. “After that, we’ll begin our search.”
15. RUSH JOB
The car picked her up just before dawn, with Lowell’s advice still filling her ears. Joanna Patterson’s husband had insisted on getting up with her and making breakfast while she finished packing. She appreciated the meal, but Lowell insisted on briefing her on Navy protocol — again.
“You know the ranks and organization aboard a ship, dear, but I can’t emphasize enough, make sure all your requests go through either the captain or XO. Don’t go bossing the crew.” Lowell, six foot two in his bare feet and flannel pajamas, still thought like a Navy captain. His congressional staff joked about the clock in his office that chimed “eight bells” rather than striking twelve.
“Lowell, I’ve dealt with Navy captains before.” She smiled smugly. “Quite recently, as a matter of fact.”
“And you’re very good at it,” he replied, kissing her warmly, “but that better not be how you plan on dealing with
“Whatever works,” she teased, but then she continued, “I made my choice. One port, one sailor.” She patted his temple. “Even with your thinning hair.”
The phone rang and Lowell jumped to answer it. “Hardy.” He listened for a moment, then turned to his wife. “The car’s outside. Did you pack your charger?”
“Yes. And my spare computer glasses. And don’t you forget about that meeting with Representative Acheson.”
“The man’s made of clay,” he complained.
“You need him, and he’s a lot smarter than he looks,” she cautioned. “Wish me luck.”
She hugged Lowell one last time and pecked him on the cheek as the doorbell rang. The government driver identified himself, then gathered her bags and took them to the car.
The chill lasted only until she was inside, where she allowed herself ten minutes with the newspapers before she pulled out her BlackBerry. There were emails to answer.
Traffic was light, and they made good time to the Old Executive Building, where they picked up Jane Matsui. Like Patterson, she looked like she’d overpacked, but Matsui explained that one suitcase contained nothing but warm clothing. Another bag, which she kept with her, was filled with work from Patterson’s office.
The instant they started moving, Matsui was ready to work. There were a lot of people who still thought Patterson would be in her office this morning, and the two women worked through the twenty-minute car ride to Andrews.
They were heading east, out of the city, so they made good time, and since it was a government car, they were waved through the front gate at Andrews Air Force Base with a minimum of delay.
An airman in dress blues met the car as it pulled up in front of the VIP waiting area. The nondescript door led into one of the buildings that made up the operations center. The Eighty-ninth Airlift Wing was tasked with ferrying all manner of government officials of any rank, in any numbers, wherever they needed to go, often at a moment’s notice.
“Welcome to Andrews Air Force Base, Dr. Patterson, Miss Matsui.” The young airman didn’t salute, but treated the ladies with deference appropriate for a general. While the driver dealt with the bags, he walked the two ladies inside. “Another member of your party is inside already. We’re waiting for two more.” He checked the clipboard. “You’ll be leaving at 0800 aboard a C-20B. It’s one of our smaller aircraft, but it has intercontinental range.”
The VIP waiting area looked like any airport terminal, except for the Air Force decor. The airman led them over to a Navy commander, the only other person in the room. He rose, almost coming to attention.
“I’m Commander John Silas, ma’am, your Navy liaison.” Silas was short, in his early forties, and already fighting a paunch. He was dressed in neatly pressed khakis.
After introductions, Patterson asked, “Where are you stationed? When you’re not TDY, that is.”
“I’m on Admiral Sloan’s staff, at SUBGRU Two. With your permission, I’ll file regular reports with him, so he’s kept up to date.”
The door opened again and the airman ushered Dr. Russo into the waiting area. He shook Patterson’s hand warmly. “Thank you for asking for me, Dr. Patterson. Frankly, I don’t get out a lot, and I miss it.”
“You’re welcome, Doctor, I think your expertise will be a great help.” There were more introductions, and Patterson discovered that Silas and Russo knew each other.
“Al Russo has come up to see us several times, and we send information to his office as well.” Since Russo was a CIA technical analyst, she presumed that Silas was talking about intelligence data gathered by SUBGRU Two
