Ten minutes later came a follow-on message that set his mood back: three men dead. Two enlisted, one officer. He thought of Angi Jabo at the gate again, and vowed that somehow, if the dead officer was Jabo, he would be the one to tell her. He thought about what it would feel like to drive to her house, ringing that door bell…then forced himself to put that thought away. Telling Angi about her husband’s death might very well be the last thing he ever did in a Navy uniform. The message, of course, contained no names, and Soldato would have no way of finding out more details until the ship came in. But he knew that the dead man was probably a junior officer…they were the first to the scene of a casualty. And the best ones, like Jabo, were usually the first ones to get there.
Information of a more banal nature dripped in. Group Nine got involved to handle the press that they would inevitably have to deal with when word got out: only Group Nine had dedicated PR staff, a group of three officers who set up a press “command center” at the Group Nine building. Anything involving the words “nuclear” and “collision” would have to be explained endlessly, and the anti-nuke groups were always ready to pounce on news like this. Thank God he didn’t have to screw with that, and he probably never would, since dealing with twenty-five year old journalists was deemed a crucial enough activity that only an Admiral was capable of handling it.
A message came in from Alabama with a warning about the collision, an uncharted seamount. Soldato referenced the chart he had in his office. He couldn’t find anything on that vast expanse of ocean that the ship might have run into. Group Nine wrote orders for Alabama to turn around and go the floating drydock in Pearl, entirely on the surface. Soldato approved the orders and they went to the Group Nine radio room to be transmitted. The Taiwanese wouldn’t be getting their nuclear warheads, at least, not from the Alabama.
He’d been at his desk for almost eight hours when Commander Bushbaum knocked and stuck his head in the door. “Sir, the Navajo is in visual contact with Alabama.”
Despite the fact that he’d been reading radio transmissions from the boat for hours, that made him feel good, a shot of optimism, the thought that of real human eyes seeing the ship on the ocean. “What do they see?”
Bushbaum shrugged. “Nothing out of the ordinary, but probably most of the damage is below the waterline. These guys are skimmers anyway, not sure they would know what they were looking at if something was wrong.”
“True,” said the Captain. He wished he was out there, on the bow of the Navajo, speeding toward his old boat with salt spray soaking through his uniform.
“The two OODs are communicating with each other on bridge-to-bridge, sounds like the Alabama is making about eight knots.”
Soldato looked up at that “They’re talking on VHF?”
“Yes,” said Bushbaum, a little startled by the strength of Soldato’s reaction. “They’re no longer on alert, and they’re using call signs anyway, so it’s acceptable.”
“Can we hear them?”
“Yes,” said Bushbaum. “It’s being patched through in Group Nine’s radio room….I was just down there.”
Soldato stood and darted past Bushbaum, who followed him. They took the drab Navy van in front of the pier up to Group Nine, whose headquarters looked as nondescript as a small insurance agency, or a public library built sometime in the late seventies. Only the prickly array of exotic radio antennas atop the roof gave away the fact that interesting things might occur inside.
Soldato flashed his ID at the guard with Bushbaum right behind him and with an electronic buzz at the inner door they were allowed inside. They descended down a narrow staircase into the part of the building that was reinforced and “survivable,” built to withstand a nuclear blast for at least a moment, so they could transmit to the boats of Group Nine the orders to launch their missiles and fight a nuclear war. The space was small, windowless, and packed with electronics. Perhaps not intentionally, it was exceedingly reminiscent of being on a submarine. The duty radioman nodded briefly as the two men entered. Soldato was surprised that he knew him: RM1 Hanson, he’d been a striker onboard Skipjack. He was one of those guys you knew would do alright, and he was a natural for the Group Nine billet: a kid confident enough in his abilities that he wouldn’t mind admirals and captains constantly looking over his shoulder.
“You’ve got 731 on bridge-to-bridge?” said Soldato.
“Yes sir,” said Hanson. He was wearing a working uniform and sat in front of an actual operational radio console, and it made Soldato’s spirits soar again, just to be in the room with someone who was actually accomplishing something, doing real work. “We’re not listening to it now, because we have all these priority one messages we’re sending back and forth, modifying patrol orders and alerting the other boats…”
“I understand,” said Soldato. “But can you patch it in for me? I need to hear it.”
“They’re really not saying much now, sir,” said Hanson. “Once the two OOD’s made contact, they didn’t have much to say to each other. And we can’t talk to them, we’re just patched through.”
“I understand,” said Soldato again.
Hanson shrugged, and looked down at his messages, which were becoming increasingly lengthy and administrative. As a radioman, he liked hearing the scratchy voices of men’s voices being carried on the airwaves too…so if the commodore wanted to hear it, who was he to say no?
He stood and leaned toward a controller that was over his main computer monitor, and flipped a toggle switch. Immediately the white noise of static came through a speaker behind them. He adjusted another switch, and the static quieted slightly, replaced by an occasional crackle that told them they were tuned to a radio signal. Soldato turned and found the speaker by his shoulder, turned a knob to raise the volume.
“That’s it,” said Hansen. “They’re not saying anything right now.”
They waited, until finally a voice came through.
Sturgeon, this is steelhead, do you copy?
“Sturgeon is Alabama,” said Hanson. He pointed to the frayed book of NATO call signs on his desk. “Steelhead is the Navajo.”
After a pause…Sturgeon, this is steelhead, do you copy?
Soldato held his breath awaiting a response. Even though he too was eager to hear something from the submarine, he scowled at the impatient tone of the second request from that skimmer officer on Navajo: my God, do you know what they’ve been through? What they must still be combating on their end? Give him a fucking second.
Finally, a response. Steelhead this is sturgeon, go ahead. But the sound was garbled, hard to hear, and trailed off.
Sturgeon, this is steelhead, are you changing course?
There was a long pause, and then the officer of the deck of the Alabama replied: Steelhead this is sturgeon, we are turning to port to heading zero-seven-zero, request you stay on station, over.