Exchanging smiles, they looked back at the Captain. “What next, sir?” Cross asked.
Looking out to the west, over the railings, he said, “From the looks of those storms coming toward us, we’ll be dead in the water for a day or so. Nobody launches. We’ll have plenty of time to plan our next move, tomorrow. Now why don’t you fellows head down to Mess and chow down. I opened it for you. Private meal for our dignitaries.”
“Thank you, sir. We’re famished. That took way longer than we expected. But it was worth it.”
With the deck returning to normal, Bluefins being hauled aboard, set carefully in their cradles, they went to Mess, warmly welcomed by the Culinary Specialists. They had pulled out all the stops: prime rib for dinner, laid out in a large spread on a white linen tablecloth at the Captain’s table, a moment they would never forget.
“Poole, here,” the scrambled voice answered.
“Lieutenant Poole, this is Captain Broward aboard the Trident Tine.”
“Oh hello, Captain. Hope you’re calling with good news.”
“That I am, Lieutenant. Cross and Briscoe just located Adam, tagged him; he’s ready for extraction. About a mile west of us, toward Santa Catalina, a thousand feet down.”
“Oh my God, Captain. Can you say that again? I’m afraid I didn’t hear you correctly.” Her voice trembled with excitement.
“I said the diving team you sent out has been successful in their search. They found the warhead, not far from us, thanks to your GPS coordinates and Cross’s determination and ingenuity.”
The line paused; over the scrambler-carrier buzz, he heard Poole excitedly screaming the news back to her crew. Back on the phone she asked, “What are you going to do with it now?”
“Exactly what I was going to ask you, Lieutenant. Do you have a bomb squad that could disarm it?”
“Normally I would, but not one bound up in deep-sea diving suits in a thousand feet of water. They just won’t go for that.”
“I don’t blame them either. Not a decent working environment for any task. Impossible for disarming a nuclear bomb. If they make a mistake, it takes them and most of southern California with it. Best to move it further out to sea and let it explode.”
“Well I suppose so, but won’t that hurt the environment?”
“Tell you what, Lieutenant. If I remember correctly, you have nuclear specialist on your team, Gruber, I think. Pass the scenarios by him and ask for recommendations. I already have one from Cross. He wants to deep-six it two-hundred miles west, toward Hawaii. The ocean’s about two miles deep there. Should be nothing more than a big mushroom water splash, possibly visible from your coast. Maybe a little fire mixed in, but no damage to California. Or Hawaii.”
“I’ll do just that Captain. He’ll be glad to help. He always is.”
“Can you get me an answer tomorrow? A storm’s coming; we can’t dive, so we’ll be idle. Call me anytime.”
“Will do, Captain. Batten down those hatches. Poole out.”
With ComSec still holding his secure line, he flashed the hook, bringing the operator back on line. “Now connect me with Commander Norton, NWS Seal Beach. Thank you.”
“Commander Norton.”
“Roger, this is Tim Broward. I have some crow to eat. Your fellows, Cross and Briscoe found Adam today. Sorry I doubted you.” Between senior officers, formalities often dropped in favor of efficiency. This was one of those times.
He held the phone from his ear, before Norton yelled, “Woo-hoo! Told you so Broward.”
“I just gave them four ruffles and flourishes when they boarded with the news. They are as good as you say they are. Just to let you know. Thank you for sending them my way.”
“No problem, Tim. Just remember that next time you doubt my judgment.”
“I will. Oh, Roger, speaking of judgment, I could use your opinion on another matter. What do we do with Adam now. Can’t defuse him. Can’t leave him where he is. Too close to the coast.”
“Hmm. With the short fuse, I say you take him out to a harmless distance off shore and drop him down.”
“How far out? Suggestions?”
“I’d say a couple hundred miles, Tim. Find some deep canyon, a couple miles down, and lose him there. The press will report it as a lost bomb that fortunately landed in a harmless location. Don’t say it’s nuclear. They’ll attribute any marine life loss to Fukushima. I’ll go along with that: a conventional bomb, lost from our NWS inventory on a training exercise. We’ll get a slap on the wrist, not much more. Or blame an underwater volcano. That will work, too.”
“Ýou’re a genius, Roger. I’ll keep you updated. Broward out.”
Contented, he went to the Mess Hall to meet with the XO and plan the new POD. It would be simple: storms. His table was clear by now, Briscoe and Cross had dined and were sitting around the TV watching a movie. Dr. Strangelove was playing amid hoots and whistles. They all cheered for the cowboy, Major Kong, to ride the bomb.
STORM DELAY
“Reveille! Reveille! Reveille! all hands heave out and trice up. Reveille!” The day started with the 1MC echoing reveille, but the deck stood empty; the crew waiting below, avoiding lightning strikes, drenching rain and blustery winds. Waves rocked the ship at regular intervals, spraying water over the deck. Thunder rumbled nearby under blackening clouds.
Early, a call came from Poole. Broward, sitting at his desk, listened as she told him of Gruber’s comments on Adam’s disposal. He recommended the same as Cross and Norton, less the clandestine approach. Instead of lies, not fitting the Navy, he suggested the truth. It would eventually rise to the surface, anyway, placing the blame on Fogner.
“So he concurs with the others: drop him out at sea?”
“Yes, but stay within the two-hundred nautical mile boundary of international waters. That should avoid U.N. and other international involvement; keeping our problems at home, so to speak.”
“Point taken, Lieutenant. Thank you for your information. Also, thank Gruber for me.”
He released the call and set about making a delivery plan. First came a meeting with Lieutenant Bill Harper, the Osprey’s pilot. A fit career man resembling Keanu Reeves, thirty-two, black hair, proudly wearing aviator wings on his chest, he sat immersed in the Captain’s plan. With nine years of Naval flight experience, he was trained to fly many aircraft; the Osprey was his favorite.
Broward continued, “… so they’re going to bring the warhead up, drop it on the rail dock, then we’ll hoist it up to the deck. That’s where you come in. You’ll need to drop a line down to the deck, let our crew attach it, then head west out over the Pacific, one-hundred-eight nautical miles, lay it on the surface, and release it. Do not go beyond that. Simple.”
“But why am I doing that? Relocating it? I thought I was to take it to NWS Seal Beach for refurb and storage. I have the flight plan,” said Harper, confused with the Captain’s new plan.
“Harper, what you’ve heard is not entirely true.” He lowered his voice, leaning closer. “It’s a cover to avoid panicking everyone. Now, what I’m about to tell you goes no further than this room, okay? It’s classified Top Secret, NOFORN. You’re cleared for that, right?”
Harper nodded. “Yes I am Captain,” he replied, leaning forward in his chair.