"I guess that's all we can do," I answered. "Frustrating, though."
Batman nodded his agreement. "Who else have you told about this?" he asked, his voice now sounding markedly nonchalant. "Just the two of you?"
Carl and I glanced at each other, uncertain what the admiral was getting at. "My EW knows," I said. "And probably one AW. A couple of DESRON watch-standers, but their lieutenant can keep them quiet."
Batman nodded, a small trace of relief on his face. "That's all, though? Just you four?"
"Yes, Admiral," I answered, now letting my puzzlement show in my voice. "I think so?"
"We can make sure, though," Carl said quickly.
Now, that surprised me. What was Carl doing, trying to suck up a little bit to his admiral? Completely out of character from what I knew of him. But why did this whole thing matter? The entire field of electromagnetic signals, the detection, analysis, and classification of them, was among the most highly classified of anything onboard the carrier.
Only those with a need to know ― a real need to know ― would have been routinely informed about the detections.
"If that's what the admiral wants?" Captain Smith asked. He waited for an answer.
Batman looked annoyed. "This isn't a tough question, gentlemen. I simply want to know how many people know about this submarine detection.
That's all."
An uneasy silence filled the admiral's cabin. I had the sudden conviction that there was something we weren't being told, something that Batman knew and we didn't. Modifications on his rules of engagement? Some intelligence source received back-channel during his Pentagon briefings prior to deployment. I shook my head, not liking being on the other end of a closely held secret. Spooks keep secrets from other people ― it's not supposed to work in the opposite direction. "I don't think anyone else knows, not unless Martin has talked to them," I said. "He came straight to me with the data, not through the watch officer."
"Good. For the time being, let's keep it that way. You two, your two technicians, and me. I'll talk to the DESRON myself. No further dissemination. Got it?"
I nodded, still uncertain what the admiral was getting at. "It may reoccur, Admiral." I waited to see if he had any suggestions. "If it does, more people may know about it."
Batman considered that for a moment, then said, "I have a feeling about this," he continued, clearly making up this story as he went along.
"Russians tend to do things in patterns ― if this is some sort of routine communications, it'll probably occur tomorrow at the same time. Or exactly twelve hours off of this, if that's the sort of schedule they're on. For the time being, make sure your two guys ― Martin and Scruggins was it? ― have the watch for two-hour time periods surrounding this detection time and the time exactly twelve hours off. That ought to minimize the number of people that know about it."
Carl and I glanced at each other again. I could see that he reached the same conclusion that I did, almost at the same instant. Whatever game the admiral was playing, we weren't going to call him on it. He had no duty to explain his reasoning to us, and we had no right to demand it.
What was clear now was that the admiral wanted dissemination of this information limited to the people that already knew about it, and he wanted USW assets in the air conducting what he claimed were safety-of-navigation operations.
Captain Smith stood and I followed his lead. "I understand, Admiral.
That's what we'll do, sir. Should there be any further detections, we'll make sure you're briefed immediately."
Batman stood now, too, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet and his heels. "Good, good. That's what I like about intelligence officers ― you don't have to explain everything to them. They understand… well… that sometimes there are nuances to situations. Other things that have to be considered, that sort of thing. Keep me posted," he concluded abruptly, apparently suddenly aware that he sounded like he was rambling. "That's all."
After we left the admiral's cabin, Carl and I went back down to my office spaces to talk to Martin and Scruggins. We found them seated in front of the high-frequency spectrum analyzer, with Martin pointing out to Scruggins the critical features of the communications burst he detected.
"It looks just like a lofargram," Scruggins said, referring to a low-frequency analyzing recording graph generated by sonar equipment.
"Same general principles," Martin agreed. "Now, you see here-" His voice cut off abruptly as he saw me standing in the doorway.
I strode into the room, followed by Captain Smith. "Martin, and you, too, Scruggins ― I need some help here," I began. That's often a good way to start with sailors, because needing help is something they understand.
Moreover, it was God's honest truth, and I knew they would appreciate that as well. "I don't know why, I don't know any of the details, but the admiral wants this kept real quiet. This communications burst you are detecting," I elaborated.
The puzzlement I saw on Martin's and Scruggins's faces mirrored that of my own, I was certain. "Don't ask me why ― I'd tell you if I knew, but God's honest truth, I don't." I briefly outlined the admiral's plan for keeping the two of them on watch during the period of signal vulnerability, and they nodded appreciatively. Both were clearly intrigued by the unexpected secrecy and sensitivity of their data, and were eager to continue maintaining ownership of the problem. Finally, I asked, "Any suggestions?" including in the question whether or not I'd told them everything they needed to now. I hoped so ― it was all I knew.
"No, sir," Martin said thoughtfully. He glanced back at Captain Smith, then over at Scruggins. "I think we can manage."
"That's good, real good," Captain Smith said. I hoped he was telling the truth this time.
3
The little Commie bastard tripped me on the way to the hangar. Oh, if you asked him I'm sure he'd say that I slipped on a piece of pavement, or didn't notice a recessed pad eye inset in the concrete, but that's not the truth. It was just as Admiral Magruder was looking back at me to make sure I knew that I'd be flying that afternoon ― like that would be a problem for me or something ― and I was trying to let him know that I'd heard him, that I was paying attention, and that no, I wouldn't go swilling down pints and pints of vodka and then climb back in the Tomcat to kick this cocky little bastard's ass, when it happened. One second I was proceeding along, trying to listen to the Russian guy practice his broken English on me, letting Tombstone know I was a-OK, good to go, and ready to take on the world, when my right foot hit something. I didn't fall, caught myself pretty quick ― after all, I am a fighter pilot, aren't I? Excellent reflexes, good sense of balance, top marks in spatial orientation, right?
And I think maybe he didn't exactly realize I saw him, you know? I mean, he waited until he thought I was distracted before he edged over a little and just stuck out his foot in front of me.
But he's got a lot to learn about Americans. Me, in particular. For one thing, unlike the guys he's been used to fighting against, I can do more than one thing at once without some GCI on the ground telling me when to take a leak. For another thing, I have excellent peripheral vision. I mean, truly excellent.