“Green board, sir,” the chief of the boat said, indicating that the telltale indicators showed all hatches secure.
“Pressurize the submarine,” Cowlings ordered. Seconds later, Forsythe’s ears popped as blasts of compressed air increased air pressure inside the subway slightly, testing every seal.
“Pressurization set,” the chief said. “The ship is ready for sea, sir.”
“Very well. Conning officer, periscope depth. Or, just a little less than that — I want the decks awash, but not the entire sail. Be ready to dive as soon as we’re clear of the channel and commercial shipping.”
“I recommend seventy feet, at the keel, sir,” the chief said immediately.
“Very well. Make your depth seventy feet.” Cowlings turned to Forsythe. “Get the antenna deployed and get an OPREP message out to Second Fleet and COMSUBLANT. Tell them what you heard, that we’re underway, and that, unless otherwise directed, my intentions are to head for deep water. Once I’m satisfied that we’re in no immediate danger, we’ll come to communications depth for further guidance. If they’ve got a major problem with that, they can reach us on ELF.” Cowlings’s mouth quirked slightly. “Put it in a little more tactful terms, but make sure you tell them that we’re out of contact for about eight hours, other than ELF.”
SIX
To an outsider, Advanced Solutions looked like any one of a number of small defense contractors known as the Beltway Bandits that lived and died off defense industry contracts. They sprang up overnight like mushrooms, flourished briefly on one or two contracts, and disappeared just as suddenly, either through insolvency if unsuccessful, or being absorbed into larger corporation if they were so lucky as to actually make a profit. Indeed, the exterior office had the requisite mauve and blue furnishings, metallic veneered name plates, and other accoutrements of prosperity that tried to give the impression of solvency without actually achieving it. The receptionist could spout knowledgeably about Advanced Solutions’s prospects, the current and anticipated contracts, and their hiring requirements. Unemployed aerospace professionals provided a steady flow of remarkably similar résumés, but Advanced Solutions never seemed to have any openings. And this, too, was typical of most Beltway Bandits.
But behind the facade, a highly professional and skilled team was at work. The two recruiters, nephew and uncle, were funded as a black operations project, so far off the books that their budget never even raised an eyebrow in defense oversight circles. Indeed, their expenditures were so small compared to most of their ilk that no one would have noticed anyway. They drew primarily on military personnel on detached assignment, and, with Uncle Thomas doing the brainstorming and Tombstone the mission planning, they were able to do far more with far less than any other covert organization. Their skills were specialized, not used in every conflict, but called in to play whenever the United States needed small, sensitive aviation missions executed with the utmost secrecy.
At present, the staff of Advanced Solutions consisted of only four people — the two Magruders, Greta, the receptionist, and Tombstone’s backseater, Navy Lieutenant Jeremy Greene, also a Tomcat pilot. On this particular morning, all except Greta were gathered in the conference room, a secure, carefully shielded space that was cleared for the most sensitive information in defense circles. They were reading the message traffic coming in from the fleet and getting their updates from CNN, just like the rest of the world, and most especially the military establishment.
Tombstone swore quietly as he saw yet another Russian transport land heavily on the airfield. One part of his mind, the part that didn’t give a damn about national security or anything else except flying, noted that the landing was a clumsy one. The transport bounced three times before it finally decided to settle down, and the Bear’s initial taxi had almost run her off the strip.
Beside him, his backseater seethed. An excellent pilot in his own right, he was increasingly proficient as a RIO, although the assignment often annoyed him. Still, all of their aircraft were configured for two pilots, and having him aboard assured him that someone could get them home even if Tombstone were incapacitated.
Of the three, his uncle was the quietest. His gaze was fixed on the screen, his fingers drumming monotonously on the fake-wood table. A deepening scowl framed his eyebrows and strong features.
“Damn, I should have stayed with my squadron,” the younger aviator said. He shot up out of his chair as though on afterburner and started pacing the room. “Something’s going down, and I’m not going to be part of it.
“Settle down,” Tombstone said mildly. He stared at the younger man, seeing himself fifteen — okay, twenty — years ago. “You really think we’re going to bomb the Russians out of Bermuda? A few quick strikes and it’s over? Because I have to tell you, that’s not going to happen. There’s too many civilians there, natives, tourists, everything else. No, this isn’t going to be over quickly, not at all.”
“You mean we’ll just sit here and let them land Russian forces on American soil?” The younger man demanded incredulously. “How can you sit there and watch this?”
An embarrassed silence hung in the room for a moment. Tombstone and his uncle exchanged a telling glance, one that was simultaneously confident and slightly amused. “What?” Greene demanded. “I hate it when you two start the telepathy stuff.”
Finally, Tombstone spoke. “It isn’t our soil,” he said quietly. “We forget that sometimes. We can’t just go storming in there without an invitation of some sort. A United Nations’ resolution, a request from the Bermuda government, something of that sort.”
For a moment, the youngster looked befuddled, but he recovered quickly. “I know it’s not a state. But it’s right off our coast! You mean to tell me that we’re going to put up with that? What about Cuba, or something like that? We didn’t put up with nuclear weapons there. Why should we put up with it in Bermuda?”
“Oh, we won’t,” Tombstone assured him. “You can be sure of that. But it’s not a simple matter when a foreign government is involved. And the question of civilian casualties — well, every nation in the world knows how sensitive we are to that, especially since the Middle East. All they have to do is invite CNN to broadcast pictures of a dozen sunburned tourists being held at the airfield and we’ll back off immediately. We’re not going to risk their lives. And, even if we are invited to take action, there will be some pretty strong restrictions to avoid collateral damage, not only to the tourists and people, but to the tourist industry infrastructure as well.”
The young pilot flung himself into a chair, a look of disgust on his face. “Special forces. Get the hostages out, then bomb the bastards.”
“And that can’t take place overnight,” Tombstone said, striving to keep a tone of reason. “Look, everybody feels the same way you do. But going in without the proper preparation just means people get killed.”
“It’s not like we’ll have anything to do with this anyway,” the pilot said, his voice dejected. “This will be strictly an active-duty operation.”
For the first time, the senior Magruder spoke. “Don’t be so sure.” They all turned to look at him.
“Talk,” Tombstone said. “What do you have in mind?”
“It’s not what I have in mind,” his uncle answered. “But I did talk to Don Stroh early this morning. He has some interesting insights into this, to say the least.”