sir?”
The Lieutenant Commander had immediately liked Shawn Pearson because he was sharp, amusing and never lacked respect for more senior officers. Whatever his part had been in the
“Good idea, Lieutenant,” he said. “Keep me awake for the next four hours.”
“Right now I have us five degrees north of the equator, on line of longitude six-five-zero-zero. As a matter of fact, we’re running fast beneath about a zillion square miles of absolutely nothing. Maybe five hundred miles west of the Maldives, still way short of the most southerly latitude of the Indian Continent…but we’re gettin’ there, sir.”
“Any ships around?”
“No, sir. Just our immediate escort, the frigate
“How about
“She’s way off the carrier’s starboard bow, maybe four miles east of us. Same depth.”
Dan Headley sipped his coffee. “Mind if I take this with me?” he asked companionably.
“Not at all, sir. It’ll keep you sharp, while I’m sleeping gently.”
“Well, remember you’ve still got fifteen to go. So long, Lieutenant…don’t get us lost now.”
“Nossir. I am right on top of this.”
And as he wandered toward the control room, Dan Headley thought again of the reality of the situation — this huge jet-black steel tube, forging north through the Indian Ocean, hundreds of feet below the surface, in complete secret, a lethal weapon of war, terminally deadly to any opponent. The
U.S. Navy submarines do that. They fling people together, causing them to see only the best points in one another.
Dan Headley was proud to serve on this old ship, and so far he had been impressed with every one of his crew. He especially liked the Chief of the Boat, a big blond former center fielder from the University of Georgia, Drew Fisher. The Master Chief Petty Officer had dropped out of college to try his luck at professional baseball, but failed to make it through a chronic ankle injury.
He had ended up with no university degree, no money, and no career, in or out of sports. “Sir, I didn’t even have a bat,” he had told Dan Headley. “So I just joined the Navy, and kept right on going.”
Drew had risen steadily up through the ranks, and in Lt. Commander Headley’s opinion was not finished yet. It was widely rumored that the former Georgia Bulldogs left-hander was on the verge of accepting a commission, and that a full command might not be that far away.
Drew was only 36 years old, and in addition to his onerous duties on board, he had pushed himself through course after course, gaining qualifications in navigation, weapons, hydrology, electronics, marine engineering. Right now he was working on combat systems and spent a lot of time with Lt. Commander Jack Cressend from New Orleans,
In fact the two men were together outside the control room directly up ahead of Dan, and both men greeted him cheerfully. The Master Chief, like Dan, was early for his watch and had already ascertained that
Four hours ago Dan Headley had been noncommittal on the big field, four of which in his opinion held live chances. This was not good enough for Drew, who wanted heavy inside information in fine detail, so he asked the
“Come on, sir. Give me your real, true selection.”
“Well, Drew. My daddy raised one of the runners from a foal, big gray colt named White Rajah, trained in New York for Mr. Phipps.”
“Can he run?”
“Course he can run. Otherwise he wouldn’t be entered for the Derby, would he?”
“What did he win?”
“Three races as a two-year-old. Got beat by a nose in the Hopeful at Saratoga. But he improved over the winter. They sent him down to South Carolina for a spell, then he came out and damned nearly won the Florida Derby off a bad draw.”
“That his last race?”
“Hell, no. He came back to New York, won the Wood Memorial over nine furlongs. That’s the best Derby trial in my view: been won by some of the greats, Count Fleet, Assault, Native Dancer, Nashua, Bold Ruler, Damascus, Seattle Slew. The real big guns of the horse game. Christ, Secretariat got beat in it before his Triple Crown.”
“Jeez, sir. You really know that horse stuff, right?”
“Guess so. It’s in my blood. My family been raisin’ racers out in the bluegrass for about five generations.”
“Ah, but you still ain’t told me one bit of real sensitive information about White Rajah.”
“Oh, that’s easy,” replied Lt. Commander Headley. “His granddaddy damned near bit my right arm off when I was a kid. Vicious sonofabitch.”
“Seriously? Jeez, I didn’t know thoroughbred horses were savage.”
“This particular bloodline is very difficult. Got a lot of temperament in there.”
“Then why do people breed to it?”
“Because the suckers can run, that’s why. And a lot of ’em can
“Well that settles it. I’m bettin’ him.”
“You think they got an OTB in the Arabian Sea?”
“Hell, I forgot about that…Do you think I could borrow the satellite link to San Diego?”
“Oh, sure. We’re heading for the front line, in the middle of a world oil crisis, and our overhead link is somehow out of action because the Chief of the Boat is trying to back White Rajah in the Kentucky Derby.”
“Shit, it’s a cruel world, sir.”
“Crueler if he wins, Chief…and you’re not on.”
All three men laughed. There was no doubt. Lieutenant Commander Headley was already extremely well liked, and now he strolled into the control room, wished the commanding officer “Good morning,” and added, “Ready to take over whenever you say, sir.”
Commander Reid looked at his watch. “Seven more minutes, XO. I like to serve a full four hours.”
“Fine, sir. I’ll be right here. No change in the satellite contact, sir? Zero six hundred as scheduled?”
“As scheduled, XO. That’s the way I like it.”
Dan Headley continued to familiarize himself with the control room, which was smaller than he was used to. His last tour had been, fortuitously, on the USS
Thus far Dan had found Commander Reid to be reserved, polite, a little rigid in his thoughts for a submarine commander. And punctilious in the extreme. But he could work with that. So long as they did not come under serious pressure.
At 0400 precisely, Commander Reid handed over the control room. “You have the ship, XO,” he said formally.
“Aye, sir. I have the ship.”
Lt. Commander Headley checked
