"Don't start, Tom. As it happens, us spooks need good, steady people where we can tap them for reliable information. Sources. And sometimes we need sources in our own camp as much as we need them behind enemy lines."
"Are you saying I'm one of your sources?" Garrett was startled. But then, it did make a kind of sense. He remembered now that it was Gordon who'd asked a favor of him several months ago, in finding a radio shack billet for another of his proteges — a radioman first class named DiGiorgio.
"You're a friend," Gordon insisted.
"And a part of your personal spy network?"
"More like an old boys' network. I do you a favor, you do me a favor…. "
"In other words, manipulation. I don't like it, Captain."
Gordon scowled. "That manipulation, as you call it, just might save your ass. Unless you fold your cards now and get out of the military. You're… what? Sixteen, seventeen years in? Three more and you could be out with twenty."
"Is that what you suggest?"
"Negative. I suggest you ride this out. Don't try to fight that letter of reprimand with a court-martial. You'll just dig the hole deeper, and you might not be able to climb out."
"Then what—"
"Trust me, Tom. There's a way to get around Bainbridge and his reprimand, believe me."
"How? By becoming a spook?"
"Would that be so bad?"
Garrett sighed. "I don't know. I don't like desk work, I know that much. I've wanted to be a submariner ever since… hell, I don't know since when. Since I was a kid, I guess. Watching The Enemy Below and Das Boote. I always rooted for the Germans in those."
"Hunt for Red October? That was my favorite."
"That, too, though I was already in the Navy when that came out. Sean Connery made a hell of a Russian submarine captain."
"Better than Kurt Jurgens."
"Hell, yeah!"
Gordon nodded. "It's important. How we're portrayed on the big screen."
"Maybe. I always thought we tried to stay out of the limelight, y'know?"
"Sure. That's the way it has to be. But it helps if the public thinks of us as heroic figures. More to the point, it helps if Congress thinks of us as heroic figures."
"Amen to that, Captain."
How had Gordon done that? Garrett wondered. Somehow, he'd deflected his anger and gotten him talking about submarine movies and Hollywood stars. The guy was slick, that was sure.
"Look, Captain," he said, "I can't promise anything. I don't know if I have it in me to fight this thing."
"I don't want you to fight it, son. I want you to roll with the punch. Just keep your head down and your nose clean. You'll lose the Pittsburgh, of course…but there might be another command in your future. If you play it cool."
"What, a diesel boat? An SS?" Garrett snorted. "That's a lieutenant commander's billet." He shook his head. "I guess I could skipper a sub tender."
"A minute ago you were telling me you would never have another command and you might as well quit. Now you're telling me what you will or will not accept?"
"No. No, sir, I'm not."
"Good. This is a big navy, and there are lots of opportunities. Just don't go burning your bridges before you've crossed 'em!"
"Aye aye, sir."
"Oh, by the way… "
"Yes?"
"Thought you might like to hear. That request you radioed back for information on Chinese sub tenders in the area… it paid off."
Despite his mood, Garrett was interested. "Yeah?
What did they have?"
"The J503. Dalang class. She was loitering about maybe three hundred miles southeast of where you ran into the Kilo." He stopped when he saw Garrett wince, then recognized the unintended pun. "Ouch. Sorry about that. You know what I mean."
"Stands to reason," Garrett said. "A Kilo couldn't make it clear across the Pacific without refueling."
"Exactly. The question, of course, is why they sent a
Kilo. They have nukes. Their Han-class attack boats are pretty good, even by our standards."
"They only have five of those, at last count," Garrett replied. "And Kilos… This must be something new."
"Word is the PRC is taking delivery each year on more and more Kilos being built by the Russians up in Komsomolsk-na-Amur. Special order, just for Beijing."
"How many?"
"We're not sure."
"Why? Why the big buildup on diesel boats?"
"Believe me, there are people at ONI spending some very sleepless nights over just that question."
"Why are you telling me?"
Gordon shrugged. "I thought you'd be interested. As a friend."
Garrett wasn't sure he was ready to accept anything Gordon told him at face value. The man always seemed to have wheels going within the wheels.
"Yeah, well, I may not have a need to know anymore, Captain. Not if I'm going to lose the 'Burgh." The thought brought with it a cold tug of depression. He was trying to fight it, but…
The waitress appeared beside the table. "You boys be having anything else?"
"Actually, no," Gordon said. "I have to get back to the office."
"Same here," Garrett said. "For a little while, anyway."
For Garrett, "the office" was the Pittsburgh, high and dry now in a submarine dry dock. They'd pulled her out of the water almost as soon as she'd limped back to San Diego after Operation Buster. The damage was relatively light — she was getting a new set of periscopes in her refurbished sail, and there'd been some work on the sail-mounted diving planes — but the powers-that-were had decided to take advantage of the opportunity to give the boat a thorough going-over, installing new pumps and a quieter shaft, replacing the screw, which was starting to show signs of wear, as well as the TB-23 towed sonar array that had been jettisoned during the encounter with the Chinese Kilo. All told, the Pittsburgh would be in dry dock for a total of four weeks, which meant she would be kissing the water again in another six to eight days.
Garrett wasn't sure how long he would stay in command of the boat. He was half expecting new orders when he arrived aboard…then wondered if they would be giving him time to decide to resign first and save them the trouble of finding him a new billet.
The hell with that noise, he thought. His talk with Gordon had stiffened his resolve. He would see the thing through, and he wouldn't allow them to railroad him out of the service.
That night he had his last fight with Claire.
At the end of the work day, Garrett drove home in his aging Skylark. He and Claire rented a modest ranch out in La Mesa, a few miles inland from San Diego. He stayed there with her when the 'Burgh was in port, and she lived there alone when he was at sea, or sometimes stayed instead with her mother up in Bakersfield.
He joined Claire in the kitchen as she finished making dinner, and told her about both the conclusion of the inquiry and his interesting talk with Gordon.
"So… what are you saying?" she asked, wooden spoon in hand. "That you're going to stay?"
"I know you'd rather I quit," he told her. "But I can't do that. We've discussed this…."
"No. You've told me. We haven't discussed it. I tell you why I don't like the Navy, and you just ignore me."
She returned the spoon to the spaghetti, stirring hard. "I don't think you even hear me!"
"I do hear you, hon."
"Don't 'hon' me! Look at us! We're barely getting by on your paycheck, even with sea pay and hazardous duty! Now you tell me you probably won't even make captain! When I married you, you were a poor j.g., but you told me you were going to be an admiral someday, and I believed you! O-5 pay just doesn't cut it!"