Crush Depth

in New York. If that meant missing more of the course he was taking, so be it — he’d realized at long last that his family was more important.

When the train pulled in at New London, he dismounted in the dark and started for the pier to wait for the tug back to the sub base. Someone behind him, on the platform, shouted a name. Jeffrey felt so distracted inside, it took several shouts for him to realize it was the false name on his travel papers. He turned, and was approached by a junior enlisted man.

“Sir, I’m supposed to meet you. I have a car, sir.”

“Thanks. The tug’ll be much faster, son. Look at that traffic on the bridge.”

This is the first time in my life I called someone else in the military “son.” It made Jeffrey feel very old.

“No, sir. My orders are to take you by car.”

Jeffrey shrugged to himself, and handed the enlisted man his luggage. They walked around the side of the picturesque old red-brick station building, to the parking lot. By standard naval courtesy, the younger man held open the rear right passenger door. Jeffrey got in the unmarked late-model subcompact. They drove off.

Three minutes later he said to the kid, “You missed the turn for the bridge.”

“No, sir. I’m to take you up to the pens.”

“The pens?”

“Yes, sir.”

They took a local road straight upriver. The driver dropped Jeffrey off. After a camouflaged checkpoint with heavy security, Jeffrey used the blast-door interlock. He went underground — down toward the hardened submarine pens, hurriedly cut into the rock of the bluffs after the start of the war. Just inside, he showed his real ID.

“Come with me, sir, please,” a senior chief told him. The chief took Jeffrey’s bags.

They went deeper, down a ramp to the crowded office and administration area. The chief led Jeffrey into one cubicle.

“Sir, Commander Fuller is here.” Lieutenant commanders were called commander in public.

The man at the desk looked up. It was Jeffrey’s old boss, Commander Wilson, a full commander, captain of USS Challenger.

“Sit down, Commander,” Wilson said rather dryly.

Jeffrey obeyed. He thought Wilson looked very tired. But Wilson’s chocolate-brown complexion wasn’t as ashen as back on New Year’s Eve. That was the last time Jeffrey had seen him, when Wilson was still getting over a serious concussion.

But there were other changes in the man. He wore reading glasses — that was new. And he hadn’t shaved in a week — which was startling. Captain Wilson always presented a crisp appearance. Even sitting down, even now, his posture was erect, his shoulders squared. If anything, despite the stubble on his chin, the man exuded more authority, more power, than ever.

The beard was coming in gray, though Wilson was barely forty.

Wilson took off the glasses. “I still get bad headaches. These help. The doctors said I ought to wear bifocals all the time, but I suppose I’m vain.”

Wilson hadn’t even said hello. This was typical of the man, getting right to the point, always. At least he was opening the meeting with some small talk.

Wilson saw Jeffrey staring at his almost-beard. “I went into the hospital a couple of weeks ago, for a brain scan. The medical corps types said the headaches should’ve stopped by now, and they wanted to check. Not a damn thing wrong with me, but I picked up some kind of skin infection while I was there. There’s a big word for that, iatrogenic.” Wilson pronounced it slowly and sarcastically. “Means something new you catch in the hospital, while they’re supposed to be curing you. Probably a fungus, from the Central African front… They gave me a cream, and said that cured it, but I’m not supposed to shave yet.”

“You wanted to see me, sir?”

“Yes. I want you to hear this from me first. I’m leaving Challenger, and you’ve been reassigned to the ship.”

Jeffrey was delighted and dismayed at the same time. He would be back in the naval front lines after all, and the thought gave him an immediate surge of adrenaline. But Wilson, as hard to please as he was, had been Jeffrey’s teacher and mentor in combat when Jeffrey was Wilson’s executive officer.

“I’ll miss working for you, sir… Where are you going?”

“They gave me DevRon Twelve.” That was Challenger’s parent squadron, Submarine Development Squadron 12.

“Sir, congratulations.” This was a huge promotion… too huge. “With respect, sir, that’s a senior four-striper’s billet.”

“I got my fourth stripe this afternoon. Been too damn busy to change my insignia.” He pointed to his collar tabs, which still showed him as a commander.

“Congratulations again, Captain… May I ask, who’s your relief?” Relief in this context meant Wilson’s replacement, the new CO of Challenger. Jeffrey could think of several good men who’d qualify.

“You don’t get it, do you?”

“Sir?”

“You still work for me.”

“Sir?”

“You are my relief.”

Jeffrey was stunned, then excited, then confused.

“But I’m a lieutenant commander.”

“You’ve been promoted, retroactive to the day before Christmas. Consider it a battlefield promotion.”

“Sir, I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t say it. This is for you.” Wilson handed Jeffrey a small velvet case.

Jeffrey opened it. The case held a Navy Cross, the highest decoration the navy could give, second only to the Medal of Honor, which had to be approved by Congress. There was a gold star with the medal. The gold star, Jeffrey knew, was in lieu of a second award — he’d gotten two Navy Crosses.

“Sir, I don’t know what to say.”

“You earned them. One for each mission in December. We’ll do the whole change-of-command thing, and the awards ceremony, in the morning. Right now there are more important matters to discuss.”

“Captain?”

“No. You’re a captain. I’m a commodore.”

Jeffrey nodded. “Right.” This was a lot to absorb, especially after everything else going on. Part of Jeffrey wanted to jump up and down and grin like a little boy — he was never one to be arrogant or smug or grandiose. His promotion, like Wilson’s, was early. It was the strongest possible sign of recognition from their superiors.

“You know Voortrekker hit Diego Garcia?”

“Yes, sir.” That put a stop to any grin. Jeffrey remembered what his father had said at the Pentagon, about personnel shakeups for better results. Jeffrey suspected there’d just been another shakeup, and Jeffrey and Wilson were caught at the epicenter now.

“Look at this map.” Wilson put on his reading glasses, and gestured for Jeffrey to come around to his side of the desk.

The map on Wilson’s laptop showed the huge expanse of the Indian Ocean. Africa bordered the left, the Middle East and southern Asia lay at the top, Australia and New Zealand were way on the right, and Antarctica edged the bottom. In the middle of the ocean itself was a tiny dot, Diego Garcia. What’s left of it.

The map also showed the sea-floor topography in detail.

Wilson looked Jeffrey squarely in the eyes. “Search forces have found no sign of Voortrekker since the attack, and believe me, they’re trying.”

“She’s hiding in the undersea ridge terrain. That’s what I’d do.”

“Concur. What’s good for the Boers is that the Mid-Indian Ocean Ridge is Y-shaped. See? It’s because of the layout of the tectonic plates.”