"Sorry, sir. I know what you're trying to do," I said. "But I think there's plenty to worry about right now. Those air games ― pretty suspicious how everything has gone wrong during them. Wouldn't you say so?" I'd have been suspicious even without Tombstone's message the night before. I wondered if Captain Smith had noticed those bland phrases, the ones that seemed to contribute nothing to the message's content. Seen them, and thought of our earlier conversation on the secrets of admirals.
The captain said nothing, his eyes boring holes in me.
"And those two attack submarines," I pressed, "the Russian ones.
Awful odd that the first major engineering casualty we have onboard our battle group submarine, they show up, don't you think? If I could figure out a way to blame them for it, I'd begin to suspect that they'd even caused the main coolant pump failures. But that would be stretching it a bit far, wouldn't it?"
Captain Smith nodded, still saying nothing.
"So I guess what I'm recommending is a heightened state of readiness," I finished. "There's no reason to suspect we're going to war with the Russians ― not under the circumstances. After all, there's a reasonable explanation for everything that's happened."
Captain Smith finally stirred. "If you say so. I would say so, of course ― in public." He shot me a sardonic, half-amused, half-worried look.
"But in private?" I asked.
He shook his head. "This is the way it always starts," he said softly. "You go at it too long, you start thinking about it as a game.
But it's not, it never really was. Even this airdale stuff ashore ― just another way to show the flag a bit, for both sides. If the Russians win, you think they're going to let us forget it? Remember, just as much as we're trying to scope out their capabilities, they're looking at us."
I stood up and carefully brushed at the front of my trousers, wishing there were some way to do something about the wrinkles. Not that it mattered, really ― after as long as we'd been at sea, the cotton fabric seems to take on a life of its own. Still, it's always good to try to look one's best when going to see the admiral.
"You going somewhere?" Captain Smith asked.
I nodded. "You didn't come down here just to shoot the shit with the spooks. Call it a little intelligence at work, but I think Admiral Wayne sent you down here to get me. And, since there was no particular hurry or time frame expressed in the admiral's orders, you decided to take the opportunity to go on a little fishing mission of your own. Kind of see how the spooks feel about things, get a lay of the land before you drag me back down the corridor with my head up my ass." I saw by the expression on the captain's face that I wasn't far off the mark. "And maybe, if I'm way off base, set me straight before I go in to see the admiral. That about it?"
There was a grudging look of respect in the captain's eyes. "You figure things out pretty good for an intelligence officer."
I shoved open the heavy security door that led to my private office.
"There's a reason they call us that."
We found the admiral in TFCC, slouched down in his brown leatherette elevated chair, staring dully at the giant-screen display before him. A cup of coffee that looked to already be cool was in one hand. From what I could tell, Admiral Wayne was seriously short on sleep. Conducting antisubmarine warfare is like watching grass grow ― the pace is almost as fast and exciting, except when things are going really, really wrong. But the tension in a situation like this is nonstop ― you know that the second you leave, something will happen. It's a fact of life.
"Sir, Commander Busby wanted to brief you on the latest intelligence," Captain Smith said quietly. He motioned me forward.
This was news to me. From Captain Smith's cryptic comments, I had had the impression that Batman wanted to talk to me, not vice versa. God knows I had nothing new or exciting to offer, no arcane insight into the tactical scenario. It was just what it looked like ― an uncertain, unclear situation in which judgment calls would have to be made. And those would be made by Admiral Wayne, not me.
Nevertheless, the captain had gone out of his way to make sure I understood what was going on. It wouldn't do to fail to support him. I cleared my throat and stepped forward to the side of Batman's chair.
"Admiral?"
Batman turned to stare at me, and I almost started at his expression.
The lines in his face looked deeper, his eyes tired and worn. In the last eighteen months that he'd had command of the battle group, we'd been on the front lines almost continually. I'd seen him go from a jovial front runner with a booming voice to a quieter, leaner, and more deadly appearance. It was unsettling, as though conflict had burned away the polish and smooth political veneer that Washington had laid down, exposing the heart of the true man. For some reason, I had a flash of insight. This was what he'd looked like when he first started out, when he was still flying combat air patrol missions and bombing runs.
If the Russians and Ukrainians had counted on encountering something besides a fully qualified and deadly serious flag officer on this ship, which Batman's reputation ashore may have led them to believe, then they were wrong. Real wrong.
"Talk to me, Lab Rat," Batman said. Despite his appearance, there was no trace of tiredness in his voice. "You got any good news for me?"
I shook my head, wishing that I did. "No magic answers, Admiral.
It's just what it looks like ― problems." Briefly, I summarized the intelligence reports of the last several hours, emphasizing that all our summaries, assessments, and conclusions were mostly speculation. Finally, I said, "And as for our submarine, Admiral ― the last report was thirty minutes ago. He doesn't appear to have suffered a fatal engineering casualty, at least according to the acoustic sensors we have in the area.
Nothing on sonar to indicate that he's putting out a lot of noise or that he's had to light off any emergency gear." "I think he's OK for now," Batman said slowly. He gestured at the large-screen display. "Sure, those two bastards hunting him are deadly.
But this skipper ― I know him from way back. If I had to guess, I'd say he's searching for somewhere to hole up for a while, maybe an underwater canyon of some sort. Somewhere that he can have a little protection from the sensors of our two bad asses out there, take some time to think through the situation. That's what they do, you know ― submariners. The ballistic missile guys more than the fast attack, but they're all of the same breed.
Quiet, cautious, and absolutely deadly once they've made their minds up.
No, I'm not immediately worried about him ― when he needs our help, you can be sure that he'll let us know, one way or the other."
I nodded, relieved in some undefinable sense I could not describe. As closely as I'd worked with submariners in the past, I knew that Batman had a better sense of how they fight their own silent wars beneath the waves.
"Then we sit and wait?" Batman smiled slightly. He pulled himself up to sit straighter in his chair. "I don't think so. I think we can give our friend a little help, maybe he's had something he hadn't planned on. TAO," he said, raising his voice slightly so that it carried to the flag tactical action officer, "how long does that S3 have on station?"
"Another two hours, Admiral," the TAO replied immediately. "Plenty of gas, plenty of sonobuoys ― hell, he's bored out there."
The years seemed to slip away from Batman as his face grew animated.
He hopped off the pedestal his chair was perched on, and walked forward in the small compartment. He stood immediately behind the TAO, one hand resting lightly on the man's shoulder. "Then let's give them something to think about. Have the S3 lay a pattern of DICASS buoys as close to on top of that Akula as he can. And I want them all pinging, constantly. I want him convinced we can nail his ass to the bottom of the ocean floor anytime we want to. And I'm willing to bet that we'll see him and his little playmate bug out real shortly thereafter."