“Tom’s boys are in charge of security at the sub base,” said Sue Ellen.
“That’s an important support role,” said Mario.
“Stop it,” said Cindy, slapping his hand as he laughed.
“Anyway…” Sue Ellen continued, laughing at the joke. “While one of those boats was deployed, it seems one of the young enlisted wives took up with one of Tom’s Marines.”
“Oh my.”
“They were very serious, and when the boat finally came back, after a six month Westpac, as you can imagine this young sailor was distraught.”
“I would think,” said Mario.
“So the captain of this boat, Mario, you might know him, Mark Procopius?”
“I do know him…”
Sue Ellen rolled on, not interested in the details. “So this Captain Procopius schedules a meeting with Tom, to tell him about the whole thing, how distraught this sailor is. And you know what Tom tells him?”
“I can only imagine.”
“He says, ‘Captain, I can understand why you’re upset, but I can’t be responsible for every Navy wife in Charleston who decides she’d rather be with a United States Marine!”
Cindy launched into a defense of the attractiveness of submariners when his cell phone rang.
“Soldato.”
“Captain, this is Bushbaum. We’ve got another flash message from 731.”
As his Chief of Staff explained, Soldato felt a stab of guilt, not for the first time, about being on shore duty, and for taking a half day away from the pier, as if trouble at sea was somehow his fault. Disaster had again befallen Alabama, and this time, someone had died: that’s all he knew, all that could be communicated on the unsecure cell phone that he always carried, and even that message was spoken in military jargon that was impenetrable to outsiders. He hung up without saying goodbye, and stood.
“Gotta go,” he said.
Cindy turned her head so he could kiss her cheek. She resumed her conversation with her sister before Soldato was gone, unshaken by his sudden departure. She’d been a navy wife too long to ever assume a full meal together was a guarantee.
He sped to the gate where the protestors and added security were slowing him down. He tried hard to control his temper at the two disparate groups that were holding him up, the earnest Marines with their clipboards and inspection mirrors, and the protestors with their glazed eyes, sandals, and smudged pamphlets. He declined to accept one when they came to his window. He actually had a lot in common with the protestors, it occurred to him. Like the protestors, Mario had spent hours worrying about the US, China, and Taiwan. But his concerns at the moment were far more immediate.
He finally made it to the gate and zipped through before the Marine had even lowered his salute. Down Trigger Road and to the pier, he ran up the stairs at squadron headquarters where Commander Bushbaum was standing by his desk with the message. He handed it to him without a word, knowing better than to offer an interpretation before the commodore had read it. Soldato imagined the scene in control as it was typed by the radiomen, vetted by the communicator, and then hurriedly approved by the captain and transmitted. He fought back the urge again to think that none of this would have happened had he still been in charge.
SAFETY FLASH — LARGE AMTS FREON LOST. SOME TRANSFORMATION TO PHOSGENE DUE TO THERMAL CONTACT WITH SCRUBBERS. ONE DEAD NO INJURIES. SIX HOURS TO VENTILATE INTO SPEC MAKING UP TRACK NOW ESTIMATE ON TIME ARRIVAL TO PAPA ZULU. INVESTIGATION UNDERWAY IN CONJUNCTION WITH PREVIOUS FLASH INCIDENT.
He dropped the message to his desk and rubbed his temples. Bushbaum took this as a signal that it was time for him to speak.
“I guess the good news is that they still think they can make it to Taiwan in time.”
“I know every man on that crew,” Soldato snapped. “Including the dead one.” He let the reproach hang in the air.
“Sorry sir…I didn’t mean…”
Soldato waved his hand in a way that said…that was a stupid fucking thing to say, but we’ve got more important shit to worry about at the moment. “After six hours at PD fighting the casualty…in EAB’s for Christ sake….they still might make it.”
“And it’s a good thing,” offered Bushbaum cautiously. “The CNO’s office is asking for updates almost hourly. His number two called me the other day to tell me that a White House speechwriter was working on something, wanted some facts and figures about Alabama. He thought POTUS might actually be there in Taiwan for the weapon transfer.” Bushbaum was an absolutely naked careerist, the reason he’d been able to make 0–5 at the age of thirty. He couldn’t keep the glee out of his voice at being just two degrees removed from the Commander in Chief.
Soldato looked back down at the message and tried to read into it what he could. A massive Freon leak, phosgene gas, a dead sailor. Six hours to replace all the bad air with good: a shit ton of Freon. Soldato tried to imagine how that much could be dumped, and failed to come up with a scenario. He imagined large amounts of food were turning bad inside the coolers of the Alabama. At the speeds they would be travelling, they wouldn’t be able to TDU it fast enough. They might run out of food. Odor would become an issue, although it was the least of the issues in his mind.
“Is Navships aware of this Freon-to-Phosgene conversion?”
“They knew there was a theoretical concern.”
“More than theoretical now, I guess.”
“They’re revaluating the advantages of the new refrigerant.”
Soldato had to wait a moment again for his anger to subside at that galactic fuck up by Navships, and then looked back down at the message. “Revaluating,” he said. “I’ll fucking bet. If I had more time, I’d track down that cocksucker EDO who recommended this change.”
“Did you also notice, ‘In conjunction with the previous incident.’”
“The dryer fire.”
“Right. That caught my eye too,” said Bushbaum.
It bothered Soldato, too, although he couldn’t put his finger on why. Words were like gold in a message like that, you didn’t include them unless you absolutely had too. These weren’t letters home, they were the first piece of paper in a stack that would grow into a mountain of documentation. They would be studied for months, possible even years, as the bureaucracy went to work and tried to figure out who to blame. Especially with a sailor dead…the incident would employ an army of investigators and desk jockeys for months to come. There was an art to writing messages like that, to include every essential fact and not one thing more.
“Why mention that the two investigations are in “in conjunction?”“
Bushbaum shrugged. “They’re being done by the same guy?”
“Probably.”
“But why mention that?”
“Maybe they think the two incidents have a common cause.”
Bushbaum stepped back. “What in the hell could be the common cause of a dryer fire and a Freon dump?”
Soldato hesitated. “A saboteur.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time. You’re too young to remember, but when I first got in the navy, during Vietnam, it was a real concern. They called it “Stop our Ship,” or SOS. Set fires, threw wrenches into reduction gears, sailors refusing to show up, shit like that.”
“On submarines?”
“No, it was mostly those pussies on carriers.”
“But you think it might be politically motivated? Because of the Taiwan mission?”
Soldato shook his head. “I doubt it, those orders are secret to the crew, only the officers know.”
“You think maybe an officer…”
“No,” said Soldato, cutting him off. But the thought chilled him. The boat’s equipment had been designed by some of the most brilliant engineers in the world. But none of that mattered without the right men in charge, from the newest enlisted man all the way to the captain, with whom all the responsibility ended up. Admiral Rickover, the patron saint of naval nuclear propulsion, had personally interviewed every officer in the program, knowing that strong men would be the fleet’s greatest asset. And if somehow the wrong guy made it into the wardroom of a nuclear submarine…