“It’s not bleeding. If that’s the worst that happens, you’ll survive this mission. I’m Commander Chad Shipley, the commanding officer of this boat that had to surface during daylight to pick you and your men up, Lieutenant. We’re not much on protocol aboard the Squallfish. We don’t have the room or the time to do it. So sit down before you hurt yourself again.”
Shipley slid in on the other side of the man.
“I’m Lieutenant Jeffrey Logan, sir.” Logan awkwardly extended a hand, which Shipley shook.
Firm handshake, Shipley thought. “You have anything for me, Lieutenant?”
Logan reached on the seat beside him and lifted a familiar brown guard mail envelope taped up inside wax paper. “Sir, this is from my boss via CINCNELM and the Director of Naval Intelligence. It directs—”
Shipley held up his hand. “Don’t tell me, Lieutenant Logan. Let me read it; then you can explain it.” He looked at Logan. The man had an expression that reminded Shipley of a dog when it did something wrong. He smiled. “It helps me put into context for our follow-on discussion.” He looked at Logan’s cup. “You ought to have another cup after that trip from the Stevens. The North Atlantic can be a rough customer.”
As Logan slid out of the seat he asked, “How are the sailors who fell into the drink, sir?”
Shipley smiled. “Luckily they didn’t fall into the sea. We managed to grab them before that happened, but they were soaked. From here, I’ll head over to sick bay and see what the doc says. But they’ll be all right.”
“I overheard one of the sailors say they had fallen overboard and. .”
“. . Were near death when we finally got them back onboard?” Shipley finished.
“Yes, sir; something like that.”
“Scuttlebutt is all it is, Lieutenant. Sailors and Southerners are some of the best storytellers our nation has, and I think we have a submarine full of them.” Shipley ripped the wax paper off, laying the crinkled trash on top of the table. Then he unwound the string to open the guard mail envelope. “Top Secret,” he said, glancing up at Logan as he pulled the inner envelope out.
“Yes, sir. With your permission, Commander, I would like to use the safe in your radio shack to store the classified material.”
“You have other classified stuff with you?”
“Not much, sir, but the two sailors I have with me may have some.”
“ ‘May have some’?”
“Well, sir, we were put together pretty quickly because of the importance of this mission.”
“I understand from Captain Stewart that the two sailors are photographer mates?”
Logan shook his head. “No, sir. They are both communications technicians.”
Shipley looked up, his eyes narrowing. “Why do I have CTs on board my boat?”
Logan set his cup on the table. “I’m an intelligence officer—”
“I know that,” Shipley interrupted. “I’m used to intelligence officers, but I know what CTs do and have done. I know about OP-20G.”
“World War II?”
“Yes, World War II. CTs are the descendants of Joe Roquefort and his band of code breakers in Hawaii. We have never taken them on board submarines, so why now?”
“They aren’t code breakers, sir. They are both trained in detecting atomic particles and being able to determine their level of radioactivity.” Logan nodded at the paper in Shipley’s hand. “I think it is explained in the letter, sir. The two enlisted are a Naval Intelligence team trained to analyze the radioactivity and associate it with the photographic evidence. It helps our analysts determine source and capability.”
“Okay, I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me, so sip your coffee while I read, Lieutenant.” Before he opened the papers, Shipley raised his head. “How can you analyze the air if I don’t surface?”
“Main induction valves, sir.”
“Using main induction valves means we’d have to be on the surface. The Soviets aren’t as dumb as London and the Pentagon would like them to be. They’re paranoid and destructive with anything that comes within what they perceive to be their home waters and territories.”
Logan took a deep breath.
Shipley chuckled. “Guess you’re used to asshole submariners who have a lot of questions?”
Logan smiled. “No, sir. Usually they’re surface ship skippers. About the safe in radio, sir?”
“What about it, Lieutenant?”
“Once we finish gathering our intelligence information, the photographs and the air samples will become classified. Both will have to be stored in an approved facility until we return to port.”
Shipley laid the orders facedown on the table. “I see. Well, Lieutenant Logan, I have yet to read this, and I’m not sure I’m going to like what I read when I finish. When I was talking with the commanding officer of the Stevens, he indicated we were going to rendezvous with him on our return trip. At that rendezvous you and your men are disembarking. I am presuming that once we return to Holy Loch, there will be no proof the Squallfish ever went on this mission.”
Logan reached up and gingerly touched the bump on his head. Then he clasped his hands together on the table.
“You’re not nervous, are you?”
Logan straightened. “No, sir; I don’t think I am,” he answered, his eyes looking around the wardroom mess.
“So answer me: when you get off the Squallfish after we rendezvous with the Stevens, where will you go?”
“I’m not really sure, sir,” he answered, shaking his head. “All I know is that you are to take—”
Shipley held up his hand, palm out. “Don’t tell me. Let me read these.” He lifted the paper and started reading it. “Top Secret” in red-stamped ink kept drawing his attention to the top and bottom of the page. Top-secret documents were things the submarine service was used to, but not seeing them carried around in a guard mail envelope by a fresh-faced lieutenant in the North Atlantic. Where was the briefcase with the lock on it that was supposed to be used to transport top-secret material?
Shipley took a deep breath and a quick drink of the coffee. The tannic acid of old coffee crossed his mouth as he swallowed. If it were morning, he’d have Crocky up here making it himself. But it was late in the afternoon, and on board the Squallfish, only one fresh pot a day was the norm.
He continued reading the orders until he reached the last paragraph, and when he read it, he looked up sharply at Logan. “Are they kidding?”
Logan shook his head. “No, sir. The Director of Naval Intelligence has coordinated this with—”
Shipley laid the paper facedown on the table and cocked his head at Logan. “Don’t tell me; I know you’re an intelligence officer, Lieutenant?”
Logan blushed. “Yes, sir; but I’ve got lots of sea time.”
“But not on board a submarine?”
Logan licked his lips. “No, sir, but I’m a fast learner.”
“It’ll take more than a fast learner to discover every danger on a submarine.” He lifted the paper again and reread the last paragraph. “Lieutenant, I hope this is worth the risk to the lives of the crew and to the Squallfish. This is the most dangerous and dumbest mission I have ever heard of, and I can understand why they waited until we got under way to tell me about it and that your Admiral Frost wants us to do it.”
“Sir, if we could move to the radio shack, where we can talk freely—”
“You mean talk classified shit, Lieutenant Logan?”
“Yes, sir,” he said with a quick nod. Logan looked around the wardroom. “This is pretty open.”
“This is as open as it gets on these old boats, so get used to it.”