"Very well," Jeffrey said. He shrugged. "Security, I guess."
"Gripes," COB groaned. "Please, no."
"Watch that," Jeffrey said, but smiling. He'd seen why COB had cursed. Captain Wilson was coming down the gangway from the tender, accompanied by two uniformed figures. One had a beard and one was female.
Jeffrey went to meet them at the brow, the portable aluminum stepway that led onto the hull. The brow was positioned at Challenger's so-called quarterdeck, a flat space behind the sail.
The captain's male guest was a Royal Navy four-striper in summer whites, a full captain, not like Jeffrey's CO, who was actually a commander. The woman wore a khaki shortsleeved shirt and slacks, but from a distance Jeffrey couldn't make out her collar tabs. He watched the arriving threesome honor the national ensign at Challenger's stern, then exchange salutes with the in-port duty officer.
"Commodore Morse," Wilson said, "let me introduce my executive officer, Jeffrey Fuller … Jeffrey, meet Richard Morse." They shook hands. A commodore was a senior captain acting in the role of rear admiral, commanding more than a single ship. Jeffrey saw that Morse was qualified in subs — between the dolphins on his badge was a crown with inlaid rubies.
"Welcome to our island," Morse said, smiling. Then he added puckishly, "Of course, hardly anyone here's British." Diego Garcia was a U.K. dependent territory, in the middle of the Indian Ocean, in the middle of nowhere. Its strategic value lay in being on the way to or from so many other places.
"The commodore's with us as an observer," Wilson said. "He'll take command of a new undersea battle group when we get to the Cape Verdes."
"HMS Dreadnought will be my flagship to escort the Allied buildup," Morse said, "so I'm quite interested in how you people go about things. You know our troopship and tank transport convoys to Central Africa will be crucial. German and Boer land forces are still hell-bent on linking up there."
Morse's frame was compact, like Captain Wilson's, and his wan complexion seemed more so next to the CO's deep chocolate brown. Morse had erect posture by submariner standards, with slightly rounded shoulders that spoke of quiet power. Wilson's shoulders were squared off, always, conveying toughness and a not-soquiet power.
"XO," Wilson said, "this is Ilse Reebeck. Miss Reebeck, Commander Fuller." A lieutenant commander was called "Commander" publicly, and as XO Jeffrey would have gotten the title in any case, a military courtesy. Now he could see Ilse was a civilian — no one had told her civilians don't salute.
"How do you do," Jeffrey said. Ilse was slim, close to Jeffrey's height. She had a good figure and a good firm handshake, but her eyes were angry, or maybe sad.
"Pleased to meet you," Reebeck said officiously in a not-quite-British accent.
"Anything vital still not loaded?" Wilson said to Jeffrey, never one to waste his time or words.
"How vital do you mean, sir?" Jeffrey said.
"We've got mission orders," Wilson said, holding up his bulging briefcase, "but first things first. An Israeli Type 800 diesel boat just reported an inbound hostile PROBSUB contact, then didn't have the signal processing power to hold on to it."
"The hostile's not nuclear-powered?" Jeffrey said.
"No, it's too quiet, that's the problem. Helos are being vectored now to help confirm and localize. We're tasked to make the intercept before the bastard gets too close."
"Understood, Captain."
"Tell Maneuvering I want to get under way in fifteen minutes. You take the bridge until we dive."
"Aye aye, sir," Jeffrey said. He knew Challenger's reactor had been kept critical. With her steam throttles cranked open and proper control rod adjustments, the ship would answer all bells almost instantly.
"Weapons load-out completed?" Wilson said.
"Yes, sir," Jeffrey said.
"Everyone aboard? SEAL team squared away?"
"We struck their gear below first thing."
"Good," Wilson said, eyeing the flexible conveyor passing boxes from the tender. " Anything still waiting when we single up gets left behind. And once we're submerged, I want your recommendation on what goes in the torpedo tubes. So use your head."
"Understood, sir," Jeffrey said.
"You got grease on your good uniform."
"Sorry, sir," Jeffrey said, didn't have time to change after the meeting with Admiral Cook."
Wilson nodded. "Call me when we're ready to cast off." Wilson let the Brit precede him down the hatch behind the sail. COB followed, presumably to help Morse get settled in. Ilse Reebeck lingered. She glared at the armed enlisted man who stood guard by the brow. He instinctively stepped back. "I'm South African," she told Jeffrey, making it a dare, not an explanation.
"I'm sorry," Jeffrey said. He thought she had nice hair. Light brown, like her eyes, straight and shoulder-length.
"You were with the SEALs," Ilse said, pointing to his Special Warfare qualification badge.
"Long ago," Jeffrey said. "I transferred to the SubForce. It's been more than fifteen years now."
"Miss it?"
"Excuse me?"
"Do you miss being in the SEALs?" Ilse pronounced each word distinctly, as if Jeffrey were retarded or Tightly deaf.
"Frankly no."
Ilse pointed to his uniform blouse again, below the gold twin dolphins. She jabbed two of his ribbons. "Silver Star, Purple Heart. Somewhere in Iraq, the captain said … Did it hurt much?"
"Yeah." Jeffrey wondered what this woman was all about. "It was months till I could walk again."
"Feeling all right now?"
"Yes," Jeffrey said too quickly. Times when he went short on sleep, his left thigh ached badly.
"Good," Ilse said. She looked him up and down. Jeffrey met her gaze. She responded with the coldest sneer he'd ever gotten from a woman.
Ilse walked to the hatch, then glanced back at Jeffrey as she started climbing inside. "I suppose nobody's told you yet," she said. "You're coming with me on the raid."
Jeffrey asked the junior officer of the deck, the JOOD, to stay with him up in the tiny cockpit on top of the sail, the conning tower, to watch and learn — maneuvering on the surface wasn't like underwater. Jeffrey glanced at the sky. The sun was noticeably higher. Today would be hot, in more ways than one.
"First question should always be, where's the wind?" Jeffrey said.
"Still light from off the stern, sir," the lieutenant (j.g.) said.
"Not that that matters much," Jeffrey said. "Subs ride so low in the water, and these days have such tiny, stealthy sails, wind's usually the last thing you have to worry about when getting under way."
"Just like I read, sir. Just like in the simulator."
"What's the latest fallout report?" Jeffrey gestured to the intercom. Of course, he already knew the answer.
The young man cleared his throat and pressed the button. "Control, Bridge. Radiology, how's the air?"
"Milliroentgens per hour and counts per minute well inside normal tolerances, sir."
"Very well," the JOOD said.
"Good," Jeffrey said. "Frank Cable's met staff predicted that, but you should always check. Weather forecasts are still just weather forecasts."
"Understood, sir."
"Meltzer, you ever been to Diego Garcia before?" A rhetorical question, since Jeffrey had the night before reread young David's file.
"No, sir. This is my first time overseas, not counting summer cruises at Annapolis."
Jeffrey looked down from his vantage point atop the sail. He'd done Naval ROTC instead, at Purdue. "The tide's running out, from right to left. See the way that buoy's listing with the set?"
"Two knots maybe, sir. Not strong."
"The lagoon here's huge, but the opening at the north end's pretty wide. There's lots of room to ebb and flow without making nasty currents."
"Should we use our auxiliary propulsors, sir?"