“But you—”
“Enough, Ensign.” The note of command in Cowlings’s voice was unmistakable. “We will not discuss this again.”
“Yes, sir.” Forsythe fell silent.
“So, the question is, what do we do now?” Cowlings continued, reverting to his earlier tone of voice.
“Come to communications depth and find out what’s going on?” Forsythe suggested.
“Soon enough. When I’m sure we’re safe.”
Fifteen minutes later, the reply from Second Fleet was short and to the point. Under no circumstances was the Seawolf to return to Bermuda. Instead, she was to remain on station until relieved by the USS Tulsa. Second Fleet ordered Lieutenant Commander Cowlings to assume temporary command of the submarine until relieved by his commanding officer, and to advise Second Fleet in the event that he was unable to comply, either through lack of training or material deficiencies, with any detail of the order. Arrangements were being made to provide a qualified senior officer as commanding officer within a few days, but there was currently no ship with helicopter capabilities within range. Cowlings was advised that Second Fleet had every confidence in his ability to carry out its orders as stated, and wished him good luck. And, finally, almost as an afterthought, Second Fleet noted with approval Cowlings’s decision to get the ship underway and the ability of the crew on board in carrying out that order.
“Well, it looks like we dodged that bullet,” Cowlings said, passing the message to Forsythe. “They put that all at the end of the message to make a point — that what we did was just what we’d been trained to do. If they’d made a big deal about it, it would be like saying we surprised them by doing the right thing. Second Fleet’s got a way with subtle compliments, wouldn’t you say?” He glanced over at Forsythe. “Guess that makes you the temporary executive officer. Can you handle it?”
“Sir, I’m not even a qualified officer of the deck underway yet,” Forsythe said. “How can I be the XO?”
Cowlings stared at him for a long moment, and said softly, “Under the circumstances how can you not?”
“Conn, Sonar. Sir, contact. Subsurface, classify possible Russian Kilo class diesel! And there’s two — correction, three of them, sir!”
Forsythe stood behind the sonarmen at the display. Not an unknown subsurface contact, not even one Russian — then suddenly there were three. And there wasn’t any assurance that there weren’t more.
“I think we know who was responsible for the gunfire,” Cowlings said quietly. “Battle stations, Chief. And set quiet ship.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” the chief answered. He turned to the navigator and said, “Pass the word — now.”
The petty officer left, and moved back down the long passageway running down the centerline of the submarine, whispering “Battle stations. Quiet ship.” A red light began flashing in the control room, indicating battle stations.
“Chief, come left to course two seven zero. Drop us down to nine knots — and get us down to below the layer depth, if there is one. I want to clear the area, and do it quietly.”
“Recommend seven hundred feet, sir,” the sonar man said. “There’s a radical drop-off just above that — if we stay below the layer, chances are they’ll never hear us. And besides, I’m not sure, but that may be below their normal operating depths.”
“Make it so.” Then, for the first time since they’d heard the gunfire, Cowlings appeared to hesitate. Indecision flashed across his face, and Forsythe noticed that his breathing increased slightly. “Chief, have weapons ready in tubes one and two. Keep the outer door shut, but I want them flooded as soon as we are below the layer.”
“Roger, sir. I understand.” The chief’s face settled into an expression that Forsythe had never seen before, but one that looked entirely too well-practiced. “Like the old days, sir.”
“Yes, I imagine it is. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Sir, the contact report is ready to transmit and we’re still above communications depth,” Forsythe began. “Nobody else knows there are subs in the area. Shouldn’t we—?”
Cowlings cut him off. “Get your priorities in order, mister. Protect the ship first. That means getting clear of these fellows. Until we’re clear of them, I don’t give a shit who knows that they’re there.”
Forsythe felt his face flush. “Of course, sir.”
Cowlings studied him for a moment, his expression stern. “If anything happens to me,” Cowlings said slowly, “here are my orders. I want you to first take every measure possible to preserve the safety of the ship. Second, you are to clear the area, avoiding all contact with any unknown surface or subsurface vessel. As soon as you are in a position of safety, you are to come to communications depth and immediately advise Second Fleet of your situation. Under no circumstances are you to delay reporting my… incapacity… to Second Fleet. And you are not to attempt to prosecute any contacts or in any other way do what you think I would do under the same circumstances. Get clear and report in. Got it?”
Forsythe stared in confusion at Cowling. “But what do you mean, sir? Nothing is going to happen to you on the Seawolf—or, at least, if something happens to you, it’s not likely I’ll survive, either. So I don’t see the point—”
Cowlings cut him off. “This isn’t a discussion, Ensign. It is a one-way conversation. And yes, I’m fully aware of the capabilities of this boat.” He leaned forward, jabbing his finger at a Forsythe to emphasize the point. “Anticipate the unanticipated. Whatever you plan for will not happen. So the more things you plan for, the less chance there is for things to go wrong. And, remember, there is not a finite number of mistakes in the world. Even when you’ve thought of everything, something else will happen.”
“Yes, sir. I understand.”
But Forsythe didn’t, not really. And, furthermore, his pride was hurt by Cowlings’s lack of confidence. After all, hadn’t they gotten underway shorthanded? And hadn’t he, Forsythe, correctly identified the potential danger and preparations for getting underway even before he spoke to Cowlings? Okay, so he was on his first cruise. But there was a first time for everything, wasn’t there? Like Cowlings getting underway without the captain and without tugs.
If he’s dead, I’ll be in command. I won’t have to obey his orders. The Navy will expect me to use my best judgment, and, given the fact that there are three diesel submarines out here and no relief in sight, I know what my best judgment tells me.
“So where do we start, sir?” Forsythe asked. “We can’t attack three submarines at once, can we?”
“Of course we can’t.” Cowlings voice was firm. “And, besides, maintaining continuous contact on them probably isn’t a way to go about it.”
“But that’s what our orders are, aren’t they?”
Cowlings shook his head. “Just to locate them. Look, the Russians know these waters. They spent decades on ballistic missile patrols around Bermuda, before they developed long-range missiles. They know how to operate in this area with two or three boats at a time, and I’m willing to bet that they’re just as cautious about mutual interference as we are. And with these diesels, it could be a real problem when they’re on battery. So, what they’ve probably done is divide up the area around Bermuda into different operating areas. Three operating areas at least — although we can’t be certain that there aren’t more boats out there, can we?”