with an armful of beers, set them down on the table and expounded his own theory on where they might be headed two days hence.
“Shit, it’s obvious to anyone except for a bunch of morons,” he confided. “
“China? Fuck that,” said Tony. “Crazy bastards will probably try to sink us. Fuck that.”
“You ever been there?” asked Andy.
“Sure. My uncle used to run a laundry in Shanghai…went broke…guy by the name of Kash Mai Chek.”
Seaman Fontana’s endless store of magnificently awful one-liners was so vast that no one could ever quite remember whether they had heard them before or not. But they always got a major laugh, mainly because they were always funny, but also because everyone liked Tony.
“Jesus, this is unbelievable,” said Andy. “Like trying to have a conversation in a nuthouse. Anyway, when we leave here I happen to know that our course is two-seven-zero, due west, and in case any of you guys are having trouble with that, it’s a direct course to Taiwan…and I guess y’all know what that means.”
“I’m not sure you’re right, Andy,” said the group’s second petty officer third class, Jason Colson. “I’m not revealing any secrets, but I can say I’ve never once heard the word ‘Taiwan’ mentioned recently.”
Jason, like Andy, was 24. But whereas Andy was actively involved in the pure movement of the submarine, watching the planes and the pressurized water systems, Jason was the captain’s writer, which essentially made him a clerk. But he was privy to a lot of information, and at a major level of secrecy, as he formally recorded and logged the actions and plans of the commanding officer of
If anyone at this table had the remotest idea where this next mission was going, it would most certainly have been Petty Officer Jason Colson, and he most certainly did not know.
“Well,” said Andy, “I did hear we were headed due west, not southwest. And if we hold that course we’ll run straight up one of the eastern beaches of Taiwan.”
“Christ, that’s nearly four thousand miles away.”
“Yeah, but we can knock off seven hundred miles in a day at two-thirds speed,” said Fontana. “Pushed, we can make nearly a thousand miles. Jesus, we could be on the beach a week from now, surrounded by Taiwanese pussy…slit-eyed beauties fighting to get at me. Give me that beer, Andy. I’m trying to hold myself back.”
Everyone laughed again. But then Chase Utley said quite seriously, “Do you guys really think we might be going to China? Because if we are, that really gives me the creeps. That place is damn scary. I mean, what was all that shit about in the papers last week?”
Brad Stockton, the Senior Petty Officer, the absolute focus for all interdepartmental discipline on board
“It was just the Chinese Fleet moving too close to the shores of Taiwan and firing missiles right across the landmass of the island. Just too close.”
“Yeah, but didn’t the
“Well, it showed up. But it didn’t actually drive them off. They left of their own accord. They usually do, steaming away up the Strait, northwest away from Taiwan toward their own coastline.”
“You mean the carrier did not actually warn them off?”
“No. Not precisely. But the sight of that ship would give anyone pause for thought. Apparently the Chinese just backed right off before we got within two miles of them.”
“I thought we used to be good friends with China, back in the late nineties.”
“Well, I guess we were. But they’re hard to be friends with. They just have a totally different mindset from us. Like the Japanese, they will take, take, take. Until you stop ’em.”
“You think we might ever have to fight a war with ’em? I mean, a real shooting war?”
“I doubt it. They are damned self-interested, and they like money better than war. And they always back off if we even look like growling at ’em. But these days, you never know. They’ve been building up their goddamned Navy for a lot of years now. Three hundred thousand personnel, new ships, Russian submarines, a new carrier and Christ knows what else.”
“I’ll tell you what,” said Jason. “I was looking at a copy of the
“It sure would be if they really could throw a ballistic missile right across the Pacific.”
“And can they?”
“Who knows,” said Stockton. “Who the hell knows.”
“I bet our XO knows,” said Andy. “That’s one mysterious guy. But he spends half his life in the CIA, and I’m told he’s officially involved with Navy Intelligence.”
“If you ask me, he ought to stay there,” said Jason indiscreetly. “I mean, did you guys tune into that shit that broke out last October?”
“You mean when he ordered the ship to the surface against the CO’s wishes when we had the leak in the torpedo room?”
“Yeah. That was one scared dude.”
“Yeah, he was scared,” said Chief Stockton. “But so was I.”
“So was everyone.”
“The CO wasn’t.”
“I bet he was. He just wasn’t letting on.”
“Well, if everyone was just as scared as everyone else, how come the CO pulled everyone together, took command, and refused to panic?”
“Because he’s the goddamned CO, that’s why. That’s what he’s trained for,” said Brad. “In case you haven’t noticed, they don’t make many people commanding officers of nuclear submarines, not out of all the thousands of guys who want to join the Navy.”
“They don’t make many XOs, either. And ours was one scared dude.”
“Right. But it was his first major incident on a deep submergence trial. You know, the guy had no idea what to expect. And he thought he might die in the next five minutes. And that tends to concentrate your head. People react differently. He’ll learn…I think.”
“Yeah, well, he might. But I sure know who I’d rather have in command.”
Vice Admiral Arnold Morgan was irritated, which was not a totally unusual situation. He sat behind his huge desk, glowering. On the wall opposite were three magnificently framed oil paintings, one of General Douglas MacArthur, one of General George Patton, one of Admiral Chester Nimitz.
The admiral, however, remained irritated, despite being gazed down upon, not disapprovingly, he thought, by three of the twentieth-century titans of the U.S. military.
“KATHY!” he yelled, bypassing the excellent state-of-the-art White House communications system. “COFFEE FOR ONE…NONE FOR THAT LATE BASTARD FROM THE PENTAGON…ANYWAY, WHERE THE HELL IS HE?”
The slim-line pastel green telephone on his desk tinkled discreetly like a little silver bell, which also irritated him—“
“MORGAN!” he rasped. “SPEAK.”
“Oh, such a relief to find you in such rare good humor, Admiral,” came the voice of his very private secretary and even more private girlfriend, Kathy O’Brien, the best-looking lady in the White House and possibly the best- looking redhead in Washington. “I do hope you don’t object to my using the phone, rather than standing up in the hall out here and trying to bellow through a five-inch-thick oak door like a rutting moose…LIKE YOU.”
The admiral dissolved into laughter, as he usually did at the sassy turn of phrase of the lady he loved. Recovering his natural poise, he continued, “WELL…where the hell is he?”
“You mean Admiral Mulligan, sir?”
“Who the hell do you think I mean? John the Baptist?”
