Straits of Power

the VIP’s identity not disclosed yet for security reasons.

The reality, as only Jeffrey knew, was that his ship would put to sea tonight, and whatever wasn’t finished would stay unfinished for some time. The inspectors from Naval Reactors had already been by while he was in Washington the day before. Challenger had passed, which was never guaranteed, and reflected credit on Jeffrey’s crew. The nuclear-reactor safety inspectors always worked at arm’s length, caring nothing for the careers — or operational schedules — of whom and what they examined.

Jeffrey spent hours going over the status of things on his ship, to make sure that all vital systems would be available when needed. Jeffrey’s crew had been rotating through the various ultrarealistic team-training simulators available at the Norfolk base, to keep up their submariner skills. Otherwise they would have grown stale from weeks immobilized in dry dock, doing nothing but nonstop maintenance and repairs. On a laptop, alone in his stateroom, Jeffrey read through summaries of these simulator drills — everything from fighting fires to solving firing solutions and launching weapons — to double-check that there were no deficiencies since his last look.

Satisfied, Jeffrey made a final quick pass through his control room, now a pandemonium of focused activity. Toolboxes lay open on the deck, and tools were wielded everywhere by practiced hands. People — standing, kneeling, crawling under things — talked back and forth incessantly. The compartment was a mess of dismantled equipment, half-assembled display consoles, and dangling fiber-optic cables and wires; other cables in all different colors crisscrossed along the deck. Red DO NOT OPERATE and DO NOT ROTATE tags hung by the dozens. Jeffrey had to practically climb over folks to get through the narrow aisles. The crewmen and the yard employees, toiling side by side as usual during dockyard stays, scrunched to give him space to move.

Everyone seemed pleased by Jeffrey’s attention and encouraging words, then quickly and intently went back to work. There was an underlying sense of collective urgency, that this effort was a contest in deadly earnest, not merely against a schedule but against a hated enemy. Relations with the contractors had been unusually smooth, and their labors during Challenger’s stay were virtually flawless on the first try. Almost nothing had to be redone, and complaints from the crew — whose lives depended on quality product — continued to be surprisingly rare. This was a pleasant change from what Jeffrey had gotten used to in peacetime, when periods spent in a shipyard could be rife with tension and arguments between dockworkers and ship’s force.

As Jeffrey got set to leave to catch a helo back to Norfolk, he told his executive officer to have the propulsion plant in operation by nightfall; this was part of impressing the unnamed VIP. But Jeffrey’s exec — XO — Lieutenant Commander Jackson Jefferson Bell, had been with him in every battle Challenger had fought. Bell sensed something was up, way beyond a VIP visit, but knew better than to ask unwelcome questions. He was two years younger than Jeffrey, and two inches taller, but had a less muscular build. He was married, and his wife had given birth to their first child, a boy, at the very start of the year. Bell was Jeffrey’s interface with the rest of the crew on morale and discipline, on training and readiness — and what Jeffrey had seen this morning confirmed how increasingly effective Bell was becoming. He constantly exuded positive vibes.

“Expect a capacity load of ship’s stores to start arriving any minute,” Jeffrey told him. “Food, spare parts, everything…. At some point you’ll have to stop all hot work. We’ll be loading our torpedoes, missiles, mines, the works, right here. We’ve been given special clearance.” Hot work meant welding and cutting — much too dangerous when explosive ordnance was being handled. “Juggle how you think best, XO, but every last item has to be properly stowed by the end of nautical twilight.”

“Tight timing, Captain, on top of everything else that needs getting done.” This wasn’t a complaint. Bell was probing to learn the real deal.

“It’s a full-scale preparedness exercise. We’re supposed to get a SEAL team too. At least they can help on moving heavy objects around. The consequences if any aspect of the exercise fails will be… well… you don’t even want to know.”

Bell stood up straighter. “Understood, sir. I’ll have the weapons-loading ramp rigged out, soon as we get the pathway clear of work obstructions. That’s a top priority.” The hydraulically retractable ramp ran from a forward hatch, through removable interior deck plates, down into the torpedo room. Food and parts were stowed through other hatches, farther aft, to avoid conflicting traffic paths both outside and inside the ship. “Challenger will be ready for anything by the time the stars come out. Depend on it, sir.” Bell emphasized the word “anything,” and stifled a knowing grin.

Jeffrey firmly gripped Bell’s upper arm. An approaching enlisted man saw this, and promptly turned around and used a ladder to the deck below. “The crew and every witness has to think it’s an exercise. If there’s a security leak, that’s the story we want leaking…. And the less time the Axis have to react, to get a U-boat close and try to hit us with cruise missiles while we’re coming down the river….”

The muscles in Bell’s face tightened. “Understood, Captain.” Supplies could be sneaked in through tunnels and covered truck ways from nearby underground dumps.

But the moment the enemy notices too much odd activity, the clock starts ticking on Challenger’s life.

Jeffrey shook Bell’s hand. “See you late afternoon.”

On the short helo hop back to Norfolk — above bridges snarled with Interstate traffic and rail yards bustling with rolling stock — one thing caught Jeffrey’s eye. On the jutting Virginia Peninsula that shielded the shipyard from the sea, a large group of heavy earth-moving vehicles, painted olive drab, were lined up in rows as if at a depot. He didn’t remember them being there this morning.

Chapter 6

Lieutenant Felix Estabo walked out of the hospital with a feeling of immense relief. The sun, nearing noon, glared hot, and the air along the Elizabeth River was humid — just the way Felix liked things. He’d grown up in Miami, the firstborn son of Brazilian immigrants, and Miami summers were baking and steamy. Pausing on the sidewalk twenty yards from the busy entrance, Felix took a few deep breaths to clear his lungs. The odor of wounds and antiseptic inside the tall, white building had been strong.

It still hurt, in his sides and around the left side of his collarbone, when he inhaled all the way. But Felix was very accustomed to intense and prolonged physical pain; it came with the exertions of his job as a U.S. Navy SEAL.

Telling lies was something he was much less used to. He’d been a good enough liar to convince the doctors that he had recovered from his broken ribs and bayonet wound and was fit for unrestricted duty. Felix patted the pocket of his crisply starched uniform shirt where he’d put the paperwork. His guilt at lying — about anything, to anyone — was more than offset by his excitement at being ready for action again.

Clearing his mind of the hospital visit was more difficult than clearing his lungs, because while here Felix had visited those of his men who were still confined to inpatient care. Virginia’s Naval Medical Center Portsmouth was a gruesome place to walk through, heavy with the sights and sounds of the human cost of war. Lost limbs in the orthopedic ward, serious head and spine injuries in the neurology department, the constant agony of treatments for third-degree burns, or of bone-marrow transplants for radiation sickness. Felix had forced a smile for each of his men, and offered encouraging words, but was totally drained in the process.

What do you say to a kid who was a Navy SEAL a month ago, and lost both legs at the knees? What do you tell another kid, still undergoing skin grafts, who’ll never want to be seen in public in short sleeves and shorts, let alone at the beach wearing nothing but swim trunks? And what do you do for a guy on life support, with grenade fragments through his skull and into his brain? How do you make it up to that guy’s parents, keeping a vigil for him to wake from a coma that’ll probably never end?

Felix turned and morosely looked back up at the building.

They’re in there because they took orders from me.

Felix tried not to notice the steady flow of civilian visitors into and out of the hospital. Those entering would try to be brave, the fathers especially. Family groups would leave, huddled together, dabbing their eyes, walking toward the covered short-term parking garage in a daze. Felix understood their torment, their helplessness, their rage.

Two months ago Felix had been a master chief in the SEALs, and was satisfied to remain so forever. U.S. Navy master chiefs, as a group, were the best social club in the world. They’d risen as far as an enlisted man could