I exploded. "He can't surface? What the hell is he doing-"
The chief of staff invoked one of his other rare privileges and interrupted me. "No, I imagine he can surface. He would have told us if he couldn't. And do some depth changes. Remember, those are all mission-essential capabilities. But what I'm saying is he hasn't got the reserve that he'd like. If he has to hit the roof, then he may not have the reserve capacity to submerge and come up again. And, sitting where we are, this far from home, that's a real problem."
I shut up to think. If what the chief of staff was saying was true, then our submarine escort was one hurting puppy. Space onboard a fast attack boat is limited, so they don't carry extensive repair facilities and spare parts.
The carrier, on the other hand, did. "Any chance we can give him some help with anything?"
A slight grin tugged at the corner of the chief of staff's mouth. "I think there might be. But remember, it's going to cause him to have to come up to the surface to take onboard some gear. In these waters, with the weather this bad, that's a problem. Not to mention the political problems when our Russian friends fly over and see the submarine that we swear we don't have surface alongside us. However, there might be a way."
Now it was my turn to interrupt. "You sly old bastard, you never present me with one of these insoluble problems unless you've got something on your mind. Spit it out before I have to beat it out of you."
"Well, I checked with the meteorologists. They say this storm should blow over today, and tomorrow we might have some unusually calm conditions.
Still a little wave action, but not much at all. It's all blowing inland.
So, say we were to be operating at night. Say we put the carrier between us and anybody who might be flying over or watching from land, and brought the sub up to the surface on our seaward side. You get him in close enough, he's under the overhang of the flight deck and won't be any easy target for overhead observers. Plus, you do it at night. I'm willing to bet the odds are better than even that we could pull it off."
"That close to the carrier." I shook my head. "That skipper isn't going to be loving life, you know that."
"I know it. But if he pulls it off, one attaboy makes up for a lot of oh shits, particularly if he pulls his boat together and can continue on station until we finish this mess off. Judging from his messages and the times I've met him, I think he'll go for it. What do you think?" I thought about it for a few moments before replying. If you look up the word risk in the dictionary, you'll see the insignia of the U.S. Navy printed as a definition. We don't get the job done by being timid, and that man in command eight hundred feet below my keel had earned the right to take this chance. "Set it up. You write the message. Tell him we understand what he's saying without pulling the sheets down too far. We'll let him maintain the illusion that everything is OK for now."
"There's just one other thing," the chief of staff said. "Those Russian boats following her ― she'll know for sure that our boat is surfacing. And she may have an opinion about that."
"If we can't protect our own submarine while she's tied up damn near on our flight deck, then we're the ones who're in trouble."
The chief of staff left, and I dug through my dirty clothes for the pair of running shorts I'd used the day before. I had a hell of a lot more stress to work off than I'd had just ten minutes earlier.
Then again, if it didn't work, I'd have a hell of a lot more time on my hands to work out, when the Navy got rid of me.
I had just finished three miles on the treadmill when Lab Rat tracked me down. The chief of staff moves fast when he wants to. Sometimes I see the intermediate steps, sometimes I don't know what he's been up to until I see the final results. Whatever the case, my senior intelligence officer looked pretty damned unhappy. 1, on the other hand, was floating along with that sense of well-being that you get when the endorphins start kicking in, when all you've had to worry about for the last thirty minutes was your pulse rate and whether the belt under your feet was still moving.
Lab Rat settled into a waiting posture, that determined look on his face that I recognized. Lab Rat's got a finely honed sense of priorities, and I could tell from the way he was standing that he thought his news was (1) important enough to come find me, and (2) could wait until I finished running. But not until I'd finished the entire workout, and certainly not until I'd showered, shaved, changed back into my uniform, and been once again swept away by the massive amounts of paper in my in-box. No, this was definitely a "get him after he finishes running but before he showers"
sort of emergency.
I nodded in acknowledgment in his direction, then waved him off. Lab Rat got the message ― he could wait till I finished five miles.
Twenty minutes later, he was still standing in the same spot, looking neither bored nor annoyed. Just that same look of keen intelligence, showing that ability he's got to integrate all sorts of facts into one single comprehensive picture that's of use to an admiral in command of a carrier battle group.
He walked up while I was doing another mile as part of my cool-down routine, moving closer and in front of the treadmill.
"Talk," I said. With Lab Rat, you don't really have to worry about hurting his feelings, the guy's focused on his job, and all he wants to know is when to begin.
"It's not a good idea to have the submarine surface," he began, stepping closer, with his voice pitched low so that it would reach my ears only. "The chief of staff told me to come talk to you about it, because we don't entirely agree on the conclusions." "What's up?" I asked, keeping my questions short as my breathing returned to normal.
"One of the biggest advantages of an attack submarine is her ability to remain undetected and hidden. We bring her to the surface and she's at risk for more than getting spotted by an aircraft. That Russian boat, the Victor ― there's every chance she carries a team of Spetznaz onboard her.
If they get close enough, with our submarine all opened up for taking on repair equipment, they could try to board her while the Akula does some serious damage to her if they can't."
"Pirate her? Come on, Lab Rat, surely you can't be serious?"
Floating along on my post-run high, I chuckled lightly. Lab Rat nodded.
"That's exactly what I mean. Admiral, it's at least a possibility, however remote it might seem. Look at the facts. Russia is desperate for hard currency, and one of her major exports is diesel submarines. Nuclear submarines she hasn't been as successful with, first because hers are dangerous to own and operate, and only second because of world treaties against nuclear proliferation. But suppose Russia was manufacturing a small nuclear submarine for export, one that had U.S. technology for sound quieting and weapons control onboard it. Not to mention reactor safety standards. What do you think that would do for the Russians?"
The treadmill spun down to a slow amble, and I started thinking out loud. "The Russians would surely love to get their hands on one of our Los Angeles-class fast-attack boats," I said, just doing stream of consciousness without trying to bring any analytical capabilities to bear on it at this point. "It would make a world of difference in their own programs and, you're right, the export programs as well. But right alongside us?" I shook my head. "Commander, that would be the height of foolishness. We'd have to kick their asses over that, no way around it.
Besides, the submarine has some defenses itself, doesn't she?"
"Only some small-caliber handguns and shotguns," Lab Rat said. "I'm not claiming it's probable ― just a possibility we haven't really allowed for yet. And I'm not suggesting that we don't do this, Admiral. The chief of staff explained his reasoning quite cogently. However, we ought to make some preliminary preparations just in case."