out over the ocean, setting a course south-southwest, which would take them well east of Long Island, New York, Philadelphia, the great estuary of the Delaware River, and ultimately the long tidal waters of Chesapeake Bay.
Each mile seemed to take him farther away from all that he loved. He tried not to think of Jo and the girls, and the tranquil waters of Cape Cod. He tried instead to concentrate on the task that lay ahead of him, the deep dark waters, and the two Russian submarines he would destroy. They would both be operational, and armed, he had no doubt. They would also be under heavy escort. He knew he would be single-handedly taking on a small Russian convoy, and that no ship in that convoy would hesitate to sink
He and his team were faster, cleverer, and inestimably more lethal. No destroyer, or frigate, or cruiser was a match for a well-handled American SSN. Now was the time to prove that. But his thoughts stubbornly returned to the big white house on Cotuit Bay, and he wrestled with the unspoken anguish of all submariners: what if I should not return? What will happen to Jo without me? And then, inevitably, not “Have I loved her enough?” but “Have I told her often enough.” He closed his eyes and pictured again the long-legged redhead from New Hampshire who did, he knew, adore him. But her loneliness made him too sad, and he wished he could sing to her their favorite Willie Nelson track, the wistful, regretful, “You Were Always on My Mind.”
Boomer understood he needed to shake himself out of his melancholy. He would soon face the heavies in SUBLANT, Admirals Morgan, Dixon, and probably Mulligan, the CNO himself. Down below he could see the headland of Cape Charles. They were dropping down to one thousand feet, and the sprawling Norfolk dockyards lay dead ahead. Boomer watched the pilot slide the chopper into the wind, hover twenty feet above the pad, and then touch down lightly. He unclipped, patted the driver on the back, and climbed through the door. The rotor was still beating as he stepped into the waiting staff car, which drove him to SUBLANT HQ.
Inside the Black Ops Cell, Admiral Dixon and Arnold Morgan were both waiting. They rose and greeted him warmly. The President’s National Security Adviser poured coffee for them all, black and strong. He then fired “buckshot” into all three china cups without asking and handed them around. Then, as if remembering his manners, or lack thereof, he chuckled, “Black op, black coffee…right?” He never gave a thought to the plateful of cookies parked by the coffeepot, presumably with the CNO in mind. Arnold Morgan considered that real men didn’t eat cookies.
But there was something so positive about this despot of Naval Intelligence it was impossible to feel irked by him, even if you would have preferred a half gallon of cream in your cup, and six cookies, as indeed Boomer did.
“CNO’s arriving soon,” said Admiral Dixon, taking a cup. “And I thought we’d give you a thorough briefing before he arrives, bring you right up-to-date on K-9 and K-10.”
“Yessir. I’d appreciate that.”
“As you know, the Russians got ’em in the water in April. Took ’em a while…guess they had some trouble with those hydraulic lifts they use up in Severodvinsk. Big Bird kept circling, sending us a picture a day, and nothing moved for nearly a week. Looked like the whole process was jammed up. But they got ’em freed up and floating, and from then on we saw quite a large workforce on those Kilos, moored alongside. Another source informed us there were a lot of Chinese, too.
“Early in May they moved…that was when we had a mild panic because it looked like they might be going straight home to Shanghai. But they were just leaving the White Sea and heading around to Pol’arnyj, just like K-4 and K-5…your two old friends, right?”
“Enemies, sir,” said Boomer.
“Precisely so,” confirmed Admiral Dixon. “Anyway, since then we’ve been watching them carefully. Our best estimate was that they’d need three weeks in Pol’arnyj for their safety trials, and then at least another three-month operational workup in the Barents Sea to bring them right up to scratch as front-line operational fleet units.
“I am sure it has not escaped you, Commander, we did not face that problem with K-4 and K-5, which were…shall we say…ignorant of our intentions. The game has since changed drastically.”
“Yessir.”
“Now as far as we are concerned, the clock started on the day they began sea trials off Murmansk, in May. We’ve watched them ever since, going out every Monday morning and returning every Friday night. As far as we can tell, their safety trials concluded without a major hitch. Those subs ain’t going to sink without us.
“We watched them complete their torpedo trials. They fired quite enough to make sure their guys knew their stuff, much as we expected. They were very thorough.”
Admiral Dixon’s voice softened, and he said, quietly, “Boomer, they must know we’re coming for them. There is no way Admiral Rankov has not blown a very loud whistle. The whole Russian Navy has got to be on full alert… there are more guards around those two Kilos than we’ve ever seen before.”
Arnold Morgan, who had been sitting thoughtfully, suddenly added, “The loss of K-9 and K-10 would represent a financial catastrophe for Moscow. Never forget that. The Chinese would demand
“Thank you, sir,” said Boomer.
“You’re most welcome, Commander,” added the NSA, grinning. “You want me to come with you…make sure it gets done right?”
Boomer shuddered at the thought but sensibly kept quiet, and all three men laughed. It was Admiral Dixon who spoke next. “Boomer, I’d like to send another boat with you, but all of my instincts are saying no, except as a backup, perhaps. You get two of your own in the same patch, where the quickest on the draw wins, you’re liable to end up killing your friends.”
And a sudden silence enveloped the room as each of these vastly experienced US Navy Commanders contemplated the truth — Boomer Dunning would shoulder his huge burden all alone. Except that in a sense, Admiral Dixon and Admiral Morgan, linked by the miracle of the satellites, would go with him.
“When do you estimate they will leave Pol’arnyj?” asked Boomer.
“We’ve got it as the third week in August.”
“So my August seventh departure stands?”
“Correct. You’ll head straight up to the Faeroes, as before, and wait on station there until we see the Kilos move.”
“What if they don’t?”
“You’ll hang around for six weeks and then we’ll send another submarine up to relieve you in early October. I won’t start briefing another boat until the last possible moment, because we want this kept as tight as possible. For obvious reasons. Right now you can count the people who know about it on the fingers of two hands, which is one too many, right?”
“Right,” said Boomer. “Presumably the procedures up in the GIUK Gap will be as before?”
“Absolutely. If there’s no escort. You’ll be briefed every step of the way, and I expect you to pick the two submarines up when they snorkel, as before,
“What happens if there is an escort?”
“We’ll have to leave that to you,” said Admiral Morgan. “But don’t, for Christ’s sake, risk hitting a surface ship…not even in self-defense. And if you can’t get in close, just keep tracking them until the escort starts to peel off, or until some other opportunity presents itself. There should be one sometime, somewhere…maybe far down the Atlantic, maybe even in the southern Indian Ocean — that’s when you’ll strike, in deep water. Remember the rules of this ball game — hit ’em low, and hit ’em hard. No mistakes. Like always. You have our complete confidence.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that.”
Just then the door opened and the rangy figure of Admiral Joe Mulligan was escorted into the room by two Navy guards. Boomer stood to pour him some coffee.
“No, no, Boomer. I’ll get it…you’re our guest of honor today,” he said, smiling. Which was precisely the moment when the submarine commander from Cape Cod knew exactly how thunderously dangerous this next mission was going to be.
The Admiral sat down and helped himself to the cookies, which had been placed strategically to his right. And he looked very preoccupied as he munched. “I expect you have been pretty well briefed already,” he told Boomer.
