She pointed again at the devastation. “I think the United States solved the issue once and for all.” She was surprised to feel a sense of satisfaction at the statement. God, what had happened? Was she turning into a raving patriot just like Tombstone? No, her responsibility was to more than just one nation it was to the world, to report accurately and precisely just what was occurring around the globe.
“It would be, if that’s where the missiles were.” He shook his head slightly, all at once looking more relaxed. “But they weren’t.”
“What do you mean? I saw ” He interrupted her. “You saw a stack of shipping crates and some construction equipment wired together to look like something else. In other words, you saw what we wanted you to see. And what you wanted to see, if you will admit it. Isn’t that so?”
Her mind reeled, trying to take it all in. The dangerous journey across the sea, the mistreatment in confinement, capped off by the very real missile attack she’d just witnessed for what? As she looked up at him, his meaning became clear, sank into her mind with a dreadful clarity.
“I was part of the deception,” she whispered. “You used me.
He sighed. “No more than you used us. Miss Drake. No more than you used us.”
The ship finally finished the last section of its quartered search pattern. The special crew was starting to get tired, having started the evolution more than seven hours ago, frantically hunting for survivors of the collision between Jefferson and the small boat, their enthusiasm and hopes dimming over the ensuing hours. The crowds of off-duty sailors who had lined the weather decks, adding their eyes to the designated search teams’, had started to drift away four hours into the search as the cruiser methodically quartered the ocean farther and farther away from the original collision. By now, they all knew, there was virtually no chance of finding any survivors.
“That’s it. Captain. We’re on the last leg of the pattern.”
The officer glanced down at the hastily scribbled sequence of course and speed used to bring the cruiser within visual range of any people in the water. “I wish we could have found one. At least one.”
“Many times you don’t.” Captain Heather paused, deciding whether to launch into a discussion of some of the other rescue operations he’d been involved in, to place the whole event in perspective for his crew.
No, he decided, better not to. They would learn in their own time and way the inevitability of death, how often the water that made up 90 percent of the earth’s surface won in the battle between flesh and sea.
“Get us headed back toward the carrier. We’ll take up our former station on her starboard quarter.”
As the call went out to relieve the special team and set the normal underway watch. Captain Heather walked over to his brown leatherette chair on the starboard side of the bridge. Now that the sailors were being relieved wearied men and women with feet aching from almost eight hours of standing along the lifeline he felt he could at last sit down.
It was one of the peculiarities his crew worshipped about him his unwillingness to have them do anything he was not capable of doing himself.
He put one foot on the footrest and eased himself up into the chair, letting the hard-cushioned back support the small muscles in his back that were knotted and tense. He took a deep breath, watching the OOD guide the ship through the maneuvers to bring her back around toward the carrier, noting with one part of his mind that the young lieutenant was showing ever-increasing proficiency in his ship handling. Six months ago, there had been a certain tentativeness in his voice, a slowness in making critical decisions. During workups in the latest deployment, that had vanished, and what Captain Heather saw now was a more competent man, one surely and certainly on the track to commanding his own vessel someday.
Was he already seeing that? Did the young OOD look over at his captain now and wonder how it would feel to sit in his chair, feel the fear and eagerness that every captain felt in the pipeline? Heather hid a smile, remembering his own fantasies as a junior lieutenant officer of the deck, wondering how in the hell the Old Man managed to look like he knew what he was doing at every second, knew what was going on in parts of the ship he hadn’t visited in hours.
Those were other tricks of the trade that his OOD would pick up along the way, the captain showing him the ropes as he took more and more responsibility for the operation of the ship.
“All special teams secured and normal underway watch set,” the OOD reported. “Captain, I’ve extended the chow hours below to allow the outgoing crew to get a hot meal before they turn in. Most of them will be back on watch at midnight.”
“Very well.” He acknowledged the OOD’s decision neutrally, hiding the small thrill of satisfaction it brought him.
The man showed concern for his troops, another sign of good leadership to take note of.
The submarine chugged along, operating at snorkel depth, sucking in air through its masts to power the diesel engines below. The captain was uneasy, and his mood was reflected in that of his crew. It had been too long since they’d put to sea, despite his insistence over the past years about maintaining some minimum level of proficiency in submarine operations.
The crewmen on board were rusty; more than rusty almost dangerous.
Still, the mission was not terribly complicated. With any luck, they’d be back in port late that night.
“Captain, I have it.” The sonar man spoke loudly, then immediately clapped one hand over his mouth to warn himself to be more quiet.
“She’s only a few miles away,” he said in a lower voice.
“Bearing?”
“Three-two-zero true.”
The captain wheeled to the conning officer. “Three-two zero true, then.
And warn the weapons crew to stand by.”
“Si, Capitdn.” The OOD gave the new orders slowly, haltingly, desperately trying to refresh his memory for the mission that had been planned only the day before.
“Stand down from battle stations,” the captain ordered, “and make sure the crew gets fed. It’s been a long day.”
The announcement sounded throughout the ship minutes later, securing the vessel from General Quarters. He could hear the tread of feet down the corridors as the minimally manned vessel stood down. Crewmen would be crowding into the galley, gulping down coffee, and chattering excitedly over the day’s events.
“We’re setting the normal underway watch now,” the OOD reported. “Any special instructions?”
The captain shook his head. “Just the standard. And watch out for small boats that’s about all they could throw at us.”
The captain retreated into his wardroom and sat down for dinner with the small group of officers manning the Arsenal ship. At least it was over, the first operational test of this awesome platform. Now they would wait.
“Launch the first one,” the captain ordered. He waited, growing increasingly impatient as the crew moved sluggishly to obey. Finally, he felt the pressure change within the boat, followed by a shudder as the first mine was shot out of the torpedo tubes.
Mines. Not the torpedoes that any self-respecting submarine would have been armed with. Parts had been too hard to obtain, and the fuel and warheads on the ones they’d received from the Soviet Union had gradually deteriorated into rusting piles of metal and toxic liquid.
But mines-ah, now there was a weapon. Stable for decades with minimal maintenance, and capable of wreaking immediate destruction on anything they hit. Even the oldest Soviet models were still potent weapons.
Forty minutes later, they were done. A double line of mines ten miles long stretched out in the path of the Arsenal.
