“Sir?”
He shook his head. “Nothing, Mr. Goldstein.”
“Sir, the admiral?”
“Did you talk with him?”
Goldstein’s eyes widened. “Yes, sir. He asked for you, and then asked for the officer of the deck.”
MacDonald smiled. Green and he were old navy. When they wanted to talk with the senior officers, it was to the bridge they deferred.
The assistant boatswain mate of the watch brought him his first afternoon cup of coffee. MacDonald grunted as he took it, sipped, and calculated the coffee was leftover in the urn from this morning. He grimaced as the tannic acid burned when he swallowed. He put the cup in the nearby holder. It would remain there until the watch changed and the BMOW tossed the coffee out — if it hadn’t eaten through the cup by then.
“Did he say how many ships he intended to put into this surface action group?” Before Goldstein could answer, MacDonald raised the palm of his hand at the officer. “And did he say who would be in charge of the SAG?”
“No, sir. He did not. He just asked to have you call him and for us to prepare to go after a submarine.”
“Submarine? He called it a submarine?” MacDonald chuckled, his breath coming out more as a guffaw. It was nice working with Green again.
“Yes, sir. He said probably submarine. Said the — pardon me, sir — he said, ‘the son of a bitch was targeting him.’ ”
“Well, he is on the carrier. Can’t see a Forrest Sherman class destroyer like the Dale being the sub’s high-valued target.”
One moment he was grabbing forty winks and the next he was going after submarines. If the ocean had as many submarines as Green thought it did, then the marines could walk to Vietnam across their backs instead of sailing there.
He took a deep breath and let out an audible sigh. He knew Goldstein and the others on the bridge were wondering why he was waiting to return the admiral’s call, but it was good for the crew to see the “Old Man” act as if events of a non-routine nature were normal. He believed strongly that to act otherwise promoted a condition much like Pavlov’s dogs, where no one knew what to expect. It created a bedlam of confusion when your skipper was mercurial and unpredictable. He knew. He had served under such a man on his first ship as an ensign.
Besides, when all was said and done, it was his goddamn ship and not anyone else’s. Might be his first. Might even be his last, if he screwed up this first command, but god damn it, it was his ship. He smiled.
The Navy Red secure communications squawked overhead; the bagpipe sound of the cipher keys synchronizing screamed for a couple of seconds before the normal white noise of the radio band filled the speaker. Then the call sign for Commander Task Force Seventy came from the voice on the speaker to every ship in the battle group, cautioning them that the Kitty Hawk was changing course.
Sailing with a carrier was dangerous. One wrong maneuver, one navigational error, and one ship’s engineering casualty became another ship’s navigational hazard, and a warship like the Dale would become fodder for the largest warship in the world — the American aircraft carrier.
The navigational rules of the road on the open ocean seldom applied to an aircraft carrier. The unwritten rule was that when an aircraft carrier was maneuvering, all others stood clear. It was the law of gross tonnage, and MacDonald did not want his last sight in life being the bow of an aircraft carrier hitting the Dale as those aboard the carrier wondered what that slight bump was they’d sailed over.
“How far are we from the Kitty Hawk?”
“Sir?”
“I said, Mr. Goldstein, how far are we from the Kitty Hawk?” he asked again, enunciating each word loudly and carefully. “A captain should not have to repeat himself.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Then how far are we?”
The quartermaster leaned toward Goldstein and whispered something.
“We are five miles, sir?”
“We are not five miles, Officer of the Deck. We are ten thousand yards. Not five miles,” MacDonald rebutted. “Besides,” he added, “it’s five nautical miles, not five miles.”
“Yes, sir.”
MacDonald motioned Goldstein to him. When the young officer reached his chair, MacDonald leaned over toward him, putting his weight on his left elbow, resting on the arm of the captain’s chair. “If you want to be a good officer of the deck, then you must own the bridge. Not depend on your sailors to cover your ass, Sam.” He shook his head, his voice rising slightly. “Lieutenants should know the language of the bridge. Shit! I expect them to know the language of the navy. You should know… No — you must know everything about the condition of the Dale, and you must know every navigational detail about our destroyer and the ships surrounding it. Not wait until I ask you. Everything must be on the tip of your tongue. Understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Goldstein answered, his voice shaken.
MacDonald saw the sweat inching down the junior officer’s face, tracing a path across sunburn earned from standing the grueling four-hours-on, four-hours-off watches on the bridge. Shit! Couldn’t any of these new officers take a little criticism? “You’re doing well, Sam. You’re going to be one of my best. Not your fault you were a supply officer for a few years before seeing the error of your ways and switching to the surface warfare navy. But that also means you’re behind others of your year group in learning how to do battle group steaming.”
“I am standing double OOD shifts, sir.”
“I know. I think that is admirable and can only lead to improvements. Now, go back and get us a course safely out of this battle group toward the submarine’s last location and a course that will ensure we don’t get run over by the Kitty Hawk. Can you do that for the old man?” Thirty-seven and he was calling himself the “old man.”
“Yes, sir.”
MacDonald picked up the red handset in front of him. He looked at Goldstein, who seemed riveted in place beside his chair.
“Go,” he motioned away, and watched Goldstein hurry back to the navigation table. MacDonald turned his attention forward, leaning back in his chair, failing to see the silent glances exchanged among the sailors of the bridge.
Maybe he was too rough on his wardroom. But at the academy they taught you that command was a lonely position. Better he train them while they had some modicum of peace with the Soviets, before the eventuality of having to fight them occurred. Who knew when and where the at-sea battle would begin with the Soviet Navy, but when it did he wanted his ship battle-ready.
MacDonald pushed the small button in the center of the handset and listened to the cryptographic keys bagpipe synchronization with the secure network between the battle group ships. He glanced through the open hatch to the port wing. The USS Kitty Hawk was visible.
Automatically, his nautical mind took in the angle of the carrier. The stern of the Kitty Hawk was only partially visible. He could see more of the bow. That angle meant the carrier was closing the distance to the Dale, if only at a slow approach. Another F-4 Phantom catapulted off the carrier, the loud noise of its jet engines filling the bridge. Meant the wind was blowing toward them from the Kitty Hawk. Launching aircraft also meant the carrier had steadied up on its new course.
MacDonald glanced at the compass. Wind was coming from the north-northeast.
“Mr. Goldstein! Has the carrier completed its course change?”
Navy Red mounted over the angled windows of the bridge burst into life. “All ships, this is Alpha Xray; Corpen Romeo two-zero-zero.”