“Captain here,” he murmured into the phone.
“Captain, it’s almost time to send another message to the American submarine.”
“Then do it.”
“But … the American reconnaissance aircraft — they could intercept our signal.”
That was correct. Those planes had completely disappeared from his mind. Maybe he wasn’t functioning as well as he used to. “How much time?”
“Thirty minutes.”
“And if they don’t receive a message in thirty minutes?”
“They would dive and wait for another three hours before attempting to copy their message traffic again.” The satellite laser transmission could reach well below the depths of normal methods, but the Russians couldn’t chance transmitting when Pasadena was deep. That could definitely compromise their entire system. So they were forced to follow the old methods.
“How critical is this message?”
“They’re all critical, Captain. If I may recall for you, our instructions indicate that other members of Pasadena’s crew are loyal to the United States, and at a time like this we could be making a grave mistake if they had reason to doubt any little thing that’s taken place.”
“You’re correct … of course.” Captain Markov paused as SSV-516 strained to lift her bow from underneath tons of green water streaming down the forward part of the ship. She shuddered, shaking like a wet dog. “Where are the American planes now?”
“Circling, about the same range, maybe a little closer, but still out around one hundred kilometers.”
“And their chances to intercept the signal?”
“They could pick up something on their equipment, Captain. It’s almost impossible not to. But there’s no absolute reason they should know what it is or where it’s directed. After all, it is relayed to a satellite before being redirected to Pasadena.”
“But if the aircraft do receive it?”
“I don’t think they’d be able to interpret it accurately, not with the equipment they have. But they would pass it on to shore base.”
“How much should this storm affect their chances of interception?”
“Everything is affected. Captain. That’s why I can’t say.”
“There’s no reason to raise any doubt, then, with the other members of her crew. Send the message.”
Chapter Seven
Dick Makin was a realist. He anticipated the pressure that would come as XO of Pasadena when he first read his orders. That came with a career in the Navy. But he never once expected it to feel like this, not tension that you could cut with a knife. Through all his years in submarines — the equipment casualties, the emergencies, the agonizing personnel decisions — never once had he imagined that he would be questioning his own values. In his dreams he had always accepted the fact that someday he would have a command of his own and that he would be inescapably responsible for the safety of that ship and its crew. That was how he’d been trained, and it seemed natural to assume that was why Dick Makin had been put on this earth. He possessed the natural ability to assume that awesome responsibility, never once questioning that any other man in the same position wouldn’t be his equal.
As executive officer, he was the chief administrator and business manager of Pasadena, the man responsible for ensuring that the captain’s orders were carried out and that the ship was run smoothly and efficiently. Tommy Lott, as chief of the boat, was Makin’s alter ego among the crew. Together they were a team. Their respect for each other was mutual. The chief of the boat’s relationship with his captain should have been the same also. Until the last few days that had been the case within a military structure established hundreds of years before.
Now that age-old system was in question. Wayne Newell had refused to allow Wally Snyder to check his communications equipment even when the young officer had offered solid reasons for testing it. Newell had used security as a final reason, even though he knew the odds of Wally’s burst transmission being intercepted and their position marked were very long. Nor would he consider Tommy Lott’s professional analysis of the sonar tapes, a request that was becoming increasingly presumptive. For the first time, Lott’s emotions appeared to be overwhelming his reason.
Now Dick Makin was rereading the latest message from COMSUBPAC just handed to him by Wally. It was short and easily comprehended, yet his efficient, well-organized world was indeed coming apart:
IMPERATIVE PASADENA REPORT RESULTS OF ACTION TO DATE. YOUR SUCCESS CRITICAL TO NATIONAL STRATEGY.
There was no way of knowing it had been sent by SSV-516, nor that any response of theirs would be received only by the Soviet ship.
They were asking Pasadena to violate security at a critical juncture in her mission. This after Newell had refused a less dangerous equipment test. If she were located by electronic-counter-measures equipment because of this.…
“XO, that’s a no-no,” Snyder said. “I can’t buy it. I was told in comm school this would never happen. Not a chance in the world that they’d do something like that right now.”
“What about that communications test you wanted—”
“Comm tests, yes. A half-second burst transmission at best. No addressee involved, no chance to triangulate sources for a fix of any kind. They were designed for what I honestly consider an emergency now. But a message like this really scares me. It conflicts with everything I ever learned about naval communications. What can I say, sir? I smell a rat.”
The executive officer understood communications security as well as Wally Snyder, as well as any other man on Pasadena. Submarines were on their own. The limited communications they experienced were generated by shore command. During wartime it was understood that submarines reported their successes only when they returned — otherwise assumptions were made for lost boats after the fighting was over.
“The captain’s adamant about your request. We don’t make a peep. ‘That’s doctrine,’ he says.” So what would Newell’s reaction be to this message?
Wally Snyder glanced briefly at the XO. There was no doubt the case was closed, but he couldn’t walk out. He had to make one more try. If their equipment checked out, he’d have more faith in this message. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his knuckles pressed tightly together until he formed a steeple with his index fingers and touched them to the tip of his nose. Then he looked at Makin again. “I know there’s something wrong, XO. I don’t know why. I don’t know what it is. But I know deep inside that I’m right. When they trained me, they didn’t leave out anything. They turned out a damn fine submariner, too.” He slapped his thighs with his hands and stood up. “Request permission to take this to the captain myself, sir.” This was the way he’d get his point across to Newell. “I’d like your support.”
Makin’s lips tightened into that rare expression they all knew when he was about to dig in his heels. “I discussed this with him once. I won’t a second time. He’s got too much on his mind. You know you can talk to him anytime you feel it’s necessary, Wally — when he’s in the control room, in the wardroom, or you can go to his stateroom and knock—”