Those really were Soviet boomers! Those really were … those really were.…
Newell’s eyes clouded over as he considered each of their attacks — picture-perfect attacks! Cat and mouse! But the mouse never had a clue where that cat came from. Imagine the Russians trying to fool them like that. Perhaps they might have fooled another submarine, but not one with a superb crew like Pasadena. Wayne Newell had seen through their charade. With the help of an executive officer like Dick Makin, the best XO in the business for damn sure, he’d been able to warn his crew. He’d been able to convince them that they’d matured from America’s first line of defense to a superb fighting machine able to breach perhaps the most sophisticated ruse the Soviets had ever attempted.
That was it! That was the way it was unfolding. It would be impossible to reinforce this … this undeniable truth for his men if their captain didn’t believe it completely himself.
But he did.
Those boomers at the bottom of the Pacific deserved their fate. They’d attempted to imitate American SSBN’s in order to prepare to launch their deadly missiles at the United States. But Wayne Newell … SUBPAC … American intelligence had seen through it. His heart beat more quickly with the realization that he had acquired a new level of understanding in this complex game where nothing appeared as it really was.
It was critical to reinforce this understanding with his men. They — or at least some of them — were, he knew, faltering in their resolve. His executive officer had explained that some of them even wondered if Pasadena was the victim of a deadly hoax, or intelligence deception.
It wasn’t that they mistrusted their captain. Nor was it the horrible responsibility of their mission. No, it wasn’t that easy. It was a case of not knowing whether their families were alive or dead, of not knowing if there was a United States or simply a command post deep underground issuing orders — and the end result was gut-wrenching suspicion when the sonar told them they were about to fire on one of their own, even when they had been warned beforehand.
He picked up the phone and had almost touched Dick Makin’s button before changing his mind. It had only been a few hours since their last discussion. As always, that implicit trust between them had been evident, but they had been unable to determine how to put the crew at ease. Maybe Dick had talked with some of the men by now. What the hell….
But why call Dick in here? He just might be in the next compartment. With that, he rose from his desk and stuck his head around the corner. There was a recessed light illuminating neat stacks of paperwork on Makin’s desk. And there was the picture of his family. How long had it been since the XO left that out for everyone to see? Newell took another step so that he could look directly in. His executive officer was stretched out on his bunk with the light shining over his shoulder on a single sheet of paper — the one that explained the Soviet masking device that allowed their boomers to imitate the sound signature of American boomers.
“Ah, Dick, great minds and all that.” He rarely used the XO’s first name, but this was a time to do so. “You’re thinking about exactly what I’m thinking.” He stepped inside and reached for the single chair, turning it so he could straddle it with his arms across the back, “Mind if I make myself at home?”
“Sure thing …” Makin gestured as he began to swing his feet out.
“No … no, please, Dick. Stretch out. There’s more room if you make yourself at home in your little castle.” Newell waved him back down with a grin. “You’re probably beat to shit like the rest of us.” Newell’s enthusiasm masked any weariness.
“I’m still pretty sharp.” Makin forced a smile. Old quarterbacks never admitted to giving in to anything. “I’ve felt better before, but I can tough it out with the best of them. Hell, Captain, you haven’t had much sleep yourself.”
“The catnap was designed for me, Dick. Five or ten minutes here and there will do wonders, and whenever I can grab an hour undisturbed, it’s just like a good night’s sleep for most others.” He nodded at the sheet of paper in Makin’s hand. “Scared about that?”
The executive officer’s forehead wrinkled in a frown and he shook his head. “No, not scared.” He paused and looked hard at Newell for a moment. “No reason to be that I know of,” he began tentatively, “unless there’s something else I should be aware of.”
“No, not that I know of either, Dick. I was just a little surprised that you were back into it again. I know some of the men have been concerned … and I sure as hell can sympathize if they don’t have a full understanding of that explanation.” He indicated the sheet of paper. “What do you hear?”
“I don’t quite know how to put it into words…. I’ve never been at war before, or.…” He shrugged, searching for the right words. “I guess I don’t know how men should react at a time like this. The shrinks covered a lot in prospective XO school in New London before I came out here, but I don’t think anyone could imagine a situation like the one we’re in.” He glanced over at the photo on his desk and held his lower lip between his teeth for a second. “There’s tension. Hell, we all feel that. And Wally’s talked to me about—”
“Wally?” Newell interrupted. “What in the world could possibly be bothering him? I’ve already discussed everything with him,” he added irritably.
“I know that, Captain. I know. But I promised I’d talk with you when there was an opportunity. He’s kind of a sensitive kid, you know, and he worries when everything doesn’t seem to be absolutely kosher—”
“I thought I’d explained everything as clearly as necessary,” Newell interrupted again. “I don’t give a shit who’s sensitive—”
“My fault.” Makin had developed a way of placing himself between the officers and the captain’s rare streaks of irritability, just as he normally sheltered Newell from the everyday wardroom problems. “I didn’t realize you’d already talked with him about that special communications check he brought up.”
Newell raised an eyebrow. “Special communications check? I don’t remember that I did. What’s that all about?”
“Very simple, he claims. If a comm officer is worried about his equipment at all — and he seems to be bothered by the fact that most of the messages we’re receiving are addressed to us, no other boats, no general addressees or information — you send a simple code on a burst transmission and the response comes back the same way. If there’s no answer, then you know you’ve got a problem. Wally says it’s designed for conditions like these, I guess to ensure security.”
“No.” The captain folded his arms across the top of the chair and rested his chin on them with a faraway took in his eyes. “No, I don’t want to take any chances breaking communications security at a time like this. Maybe after we complete this next mission … yes. But not now, definitely not.” His eyes focused on his XO’s. “Want me to go over that with Wally directly?” It was almost a challenge, a rarity in their relationship.