LOVE, EILEEN.
He wasn’t sure how he felt about it. It seemed like Eileen was going too fast. But so was he. He’d found himself thinking about her, missing her, then trying to dismiss it. It was, he told himself, a physical attraction that had pretended to more in the thick of impending combat. And even if it did build into a relationship, she was so much younger and would be going to medical school in Florida while his HQ was in Norfolk. And what if she wanted children? Wasn’t he too old for that?
And then he had to laugh at himself for crossing so many bridges before the road was even built.
A knock at the door, a radioman offering Pacino the ship’s secure Writepad. He signed for the messages, which were then automatically transferred to his own Writepad. He punched the surface of the notepad’s display, read through the first four messages, and his heart sank. From the Birmingham in the southwest Oparea, code 3 — I’m under attack. From the Jacksonville, also in the southwest Oparea, code 3. From Charleston and Atlanta, both farther north in the southwest Oparea, code 3. The southern forces, all four boats, had been attacked. And in all probability were down.
Another knock at the door. The radioman again. Again Pacino signed for the messages, transferred the electronic messages to his own Writepad, then waited for the radioman to leave. The three messages were from the northern task force, the Buffalo, Boston and the Albany. All code 3s.
Pacino rubbed his eyes, knowing what he needed to do, at least in the short term.
A half-hour later he and Paully White were in David Kane’s stateroom.
“We need to get the Pearl Harbor ELF facility to call all the Oparea submarines to periscope depth,” Pacino said. “I’ll write the subs a message for their broadcast, ask them to transmit that they’re okay. I’ll need your permission to transmit, Captain.”
Kane nodded. “Absolutely, Admiral. Need any help with the messages?”
“No. It’ll only take a few moments, I’ll take them to radio when I’m ready.”
A half-hour later the Pearl low-frequency radio facility had transmitted each of the seven submarines’ ELF call signs, the powerful but slow radio waves penetrating deep into the Pacific, calling the subs to periscope depth, where Pacino’s message waited for them.
Pacino waited an unbearable hour. He had gotten one message back, from the Piranha, which was almost at the boundary of the northern Oparea. Pacino stared at that, wondering how the hell Bruce Phillips had gotten south that fast. He reread the latitude and longitude, which correlated with the alphanumeric grid coordinate Phillips transmitted. Phillips said he was definitely close to the northern Oparea. But looking gift horses in the mouth was not Pacino’s style.
He showed the results to Paully and Kane, and it was Kane who suggested they call the deep-Pacific boats, still on the way in from Hawaii, to periscope depth and see how they were doing. It took an investment of another ninety minutes, but as midnight neared, Pacino’s electronic chart had plotted the positions of the Pacific submarines, the other twenty-one of them. The early wave would be there in another thirty hours. The later wave, the lagging ten boats, would take an additional twenty-five to thirty. Warner’s time constraints, however justified, had resulted in the loss of the ships Pacino had sent in as a stopgap.
Back in Kane’s stateroom Pacino paced the deck.
“What now?”
“Maybe we should request a videolink with Warner,” Kane said.
The time that Warner had wanted an update was over twenty hours away.
“And ask what? What we should do? Captain Kane, we’ve just sent seven subs into the Oparea. Seven subs sank. Or if they didn’t, all seven of them mysteriously failed to come to periscope depth when called.”
A knock at Kane’s door, the radioman again. Pacino perked up, wondering if at least one of the 688-class ships had come to PD and transmitted that they were okay. Pacino signed for the message and searched his Writepad for it, his heart sinking as he scanned it.
He checked his watch, the time nearing midnight Christmas Day.
“It’s from Wadsworth. He wants us to set up a videolink,” Pacino said, handing the message to Kane.
“When?” Paully asked.
“Now,” Pacino said.
Pacino took a deep breath and let it out. He knew what Wadsworth would say, and he also knew what he would do. He spoke for a few minutes, and Paully took off to the control room and picked up a phone to Pacino in Kane’s stateroom.
Kane and Pacino sat at the conference table as the radioman set up the videolink. There was no seal of the president this time, just Tony Wadsworth’s big face on the screen, his frown deeper than usual.
“Gentlemen,” Wadsworth said, “President Warner asked for a status report. We have heard exactly nothing from you. Admiral Pacino. Should I take that as good news?”
“I wouldn’t assume that. Admiral,” Pacino said, staring hard at Wadsworth, the phone to the conn in his hand under the table.
Forward in the control room, Paully White approached the officer of the deck, Lt. Chris Porter, the sonar officer, who was dancing with the fat lady, spinning the periscope through an endless surface search while the ship stayed at periscope depth to monitor the communications with the other submarines.
“The captain said he wanted you in on the videolink,” White said to Porter.
“I can’t do that,” Porter said. “I’ve got the watch.”
“Skipper asked me to relieve you,” White said. “I’m qualified on the Seawolf class.”
“You haven’t stood any watches since you’ve been aboard,” Porter said.
“That’s because the admiral’s been running me like a plebe.”
“Yeah, that’s true.”
“Anyway, you’d better give me a turnover and get in there.”
“How do I know the skipper wanted this? He didn’t call me.”
“He’s in a videolink with the fuckin’ Chief of Naval Operations. He sent me out here. Okay?”
“All right, all right. Ship’s at all ahead one-third, turns for five, depth eight zero feet, no contacts, low power on the horizon.”
“I relieve you. Now go on.”
“I stand relieved. Helm, Quartermaster,” Porter announced, “Commander White has the deck and the conn.”
“This is Commander White, I have the deck and the conn,” Paully said loudly, taking the periscope, pressing his face toward it. Porter moved through the aft door of control, the front of his uniform dark with sweat from the periscope watch. As he entered Kane’s stateroom Kane waved him to a seat, intent on the video monitor. “We called all seven ships to periscope depth,” Pacino was saying. “None of them replied.”
“And what do you make of that. Admiral Pacino?” Wadsworth’s expression was even colder, more hostile, if that were possible.
“Well, sir, I think it’s bad news.”
“You’re god damned right, it’s bad news!” Wadsworth swallowed, glaring. “Pacino, we sent you there to do a job and you botched it. You were to send in your boats to try to make a difference. All you did was lose your entire force. I’ll be calling Warner now to tell her the news.”
Pacino had been waiting for Wadsworth to take a breath; interrupting on the videolink was nearly impossible because of the lag in reception. Finally he had his chance. “Maybe we should talk to President Warner right now, Admiral Wadsworth. I think she’ll see this for what it is. We knowingly committed a small number of subs to the Oparea when we knew it would be best to mass force against the enemy. We failed to do that, and I mean we as in you and President Warner and me. Are you reading me. Admiral Wadsworth? What’s indicated here is a commitment of the entire submarine force to the task, not sending them in piecemeal.”