The admiral drained his glass in one gulp, and I followed suit. Then he stood, a clear dismissal. We trooped back out front to find the transport vehicle and a driver waiting for us.
We didn't talk on the way back to our quarters. The driver dropped Sheila off at the women's quarters, then Gator and me at our building.
Once we were inside, I turned to Gator, wanting to get his take on it.
Gator held up one hand. "Not here. Not inside. Go to bed, Skeeter.
You've got a couple of long, quiet days ahead of YOU."
I could see his point. I mean, everything we'd ever heard about Russia indicated that they probably had the whole building wired for sound.
Maybe the admiral's quarters, too, although come to think of it, we hadn't discussed anything too damned sensitive in there, either. Just those vague allusions about it having to do with him alone maybe. And maybe he had some toys from Lab Rat, something that would tell him if his quarters were bugged or something.
Whatever. The one thing that worried me wasn't something that any RIO could give me much help with. I mean, whatever good they are in the air, in the end they're just passengers.
So far, I was two-for-two for screwed-up missions. I was the pilot, I was the one responsible for getting us where we needed to be to execute the mission. And after a hosed-up altimeter and bombing run, all I could think of was ― what next? The next time, would it be something in the jet engines themselves? Maybe a little FOD planted somewhere that could get sucked into a turbofan and blow it ― and us ― to bits? Or something in the hydraulics, a pinhole leak that wouldn't show up until we'd been airborne for a while.
Well, whatever it was, I'd have to be ready for it alone.
I finally got to sleep, cold shower and all. The weather woke me up at 0300, wind battering against the glass, billowing the thin curtains hung on either side of it. The rain came next, hard and pelting. Rain ― hail and sleet more likely, as cold as it had been today.
I pulled the blankets back up over me, snuggled down and tried to get warm. Still too cold to sleep. I finally got up and pulled out the rest of my clothes from the flight pack and carefully arranged them on the bed as an additional layer. A few minutes later, the weather still battering my quarters, I drifted off again.
6
Someone was banging on my stateroom door. I groaned, rolled over, and pulled the alarm clock around so I could see it. Zero four hundred ― what the hell? I was due at least another two hours of rack time. Six whole hours I'd planned on; worked hard all day so I could get to bed around midnight. I felt old.
The hours, the sheer length of the day when you're on an aircraft carrier, is something few civilians will ever understand. When you're twenty-one, it's no big deal. Sure, it's a shock when you first join the Navy, but everyone around you is keeping the same insane hours, sleeping racked out on the floor between flight cycles, and after a while you start thinking it's normal. But the years creep up on you and it gets harder and harder to keep up.
Another assault on my door. No way to ignore it, pretend that I was still asleep. I stumbled to the door, barely coherent and damning the day that I ever decided to join the Navy, barking my shin on the desk. I yanked it open. "What?"
It was Wilson, my leading petty officer. He had a concerned look on his face and a sheet of messages in his hand. He pulled the top one off and held it out to me.
"You couldn't call?" I asked. A stupid question ― almost everything in CVIC is so highly classified that even thinking about it outside of the intelligence spaces will earn you a lengthy prison term.
"I knew you'd want to see this right away." There was a carefully neutral expression on Wilson's face. He was accustomed to waking me up and knew I'd be apologizing in a few minutes. It didn't bother him.
I took the message, already ashamed of my own peevishness. It wasn't Wilson's fault ― in all probability, I would've been very annoyed in a few hours if he hadn't woken me up. "When did this come in?"
"Four minutes ago," he answered. "Like I said ― I thought you would want to see it immediately."
I nodded, almost completely awake now. It's a skill you learn onboard a ship, the ability to go from dead asleep to awake. "You did exactly the right thing."
Thirty seconds later, I was dressed and trotting down the passageway to CVIC.
The message had been clear ― the USS John Paul Jones was holding contact on a U.S. nuclear submarine. Against all odds ― and all intelligence ― we had one in the area. The more I thought about it, the more it started to piss me off. Captain Smith, Batman ― hell, even Tombstone ― didn't any of them realize that the only people we were supposed to keep secrets from were the bad guys?
Somebody knew that we had U.S. submarines in the area. Knew, and didn't bother telling us about it. No matter that I've got gear classified to the highest levels in the nation, that I've got safes, security, steel doors, and a background investigation that's like getting an enema on your entire life ― no, someone hadn't wanted to trust me with this information.
SUBLANT knew, of course. Who else? USACOMM? Probably.
How about the subliaison on the Jefferson? Maybe. Not likely. Once he was attached to the carrier and not to an underwater brotherhood command, he'd be out of the loop. Tainted, I guess.
Captain Smith? Batman? Both of them? Now, that was a real probability. Even SUBLANT wasn't stupid enough to have subs prowling around an aircraft carrier without telling someone in the area.
And why wasn't that someone yours truly?
When I finally got to CVIC, the spaces were already filled with intelligence specialists, the regular watch section augmented by an additional team of acoustic specialists.
"Where is she now?" I asked as I burst into the room.
The lieutenant watch officer was right on top of things, as well he should be. He was seated at the consoles. He looked up as I came in, then returned to his task.
"What's happening?" I asked, sliding into the chair next to his. He finished two keystrokes, then turned to me.
"Good morning, Commander. Six minutes ago, one of the S-3B torpedo bombers, Hunter 701, gained active sonobuoy contact on an unknown submarine. Given the location, they initially called it a Russian boat. A few minutes later, they gained passive contact as well, and reclassified the contact as a U.S. submarine. The J.P. Jones is holding contact also."
I studied the display of slanting lines and swirls in front of him, not trying to pretend that I understood every bit of data. I didn't ― not really. Translating the details of a lofargram was an arcane science that my enlisted technicians spent years learning to do.
"How close is she?" I asked.
"Not far," Wilson supplied. He pointed at a narrow white space between two contact positions. "I make it less than five miles. And closing."
"And it's not a Russian ― it is one of ours." The watch officer looked away.
"We don't…" I stopped, suddenly realizing what the uneasy evasion I'd gotten from the admiral meant. We did have submarines in the area.
And only he knew about it.
For a moment, my temper flared. What was the use of having an intelligence officer if the intelligence officer didn't even know the locations of our own ships? Sure, I understood security ― there might have been very good reasons to tell Batman about our submarine and not me.
Intellectually, I could understand that. Nevertheless, it pissed me off.
"Shit," Wilson said softly. He had an ear cocked in the direction of the loudspeakers mounted on the forward bulkhead. "And that's not all."