Ray Larsen was jabbing his finger at a point well to the left of Robbie Newman, as if the President were actually in the room. Bennett found Larsen’s habit even more disconcerting when he was gesticulating into blank space.
“That’s right, sir. To be absolutely honest, Admiral Arrow’s people have been using their computers to project possibilities based on last known position and possible tracks … and they’ve come up with nothing yet. I wish I could offer some hard facts, anything other than my personal suspicions. It’s just that I’ve been in this business for — “
The CNO wasn’t used to being interrupted, and there was a surprised look on his face.
“Thank you, sir. I realize we’ve had our differences and I appreciate your confidence.”
Larsen listened and stroked his chin thoughtfully, occasionally glancing across his desk at the others. Then he shook his head forcefully.
“Damn. I can’t believe it. No indication whatsoever. That was going to be my next question, sir. I thought sure our intelligence people would come up with some hint.”
He leaned forward, cocking his head slightly to one side.
“Yes, sir, I’m sure of that. If there’s anything at all, you can be certain I’ll be in touch immediately.”
When he replaced the receiver, Ray Larsen chewed on his upper lip before he spoke. “Can you believe there’s no sign at all in Moscow that anything’s up? Not a whisper.” He exhaled slowly. “Our commander-in-chief expressed the desire that we come up with something plausible pretty quickly. He said that when there’s no light at the end of the tunnel, then you go to the next tunnel. We’ll set the Russian theory aside if we don’t come up with something damn soon.”
“Where else would we look?” Robbie Newman inquired calmly. “Every single engineering report since Nevada and Alaska began construction has been sifted through our computers. I couldn’t put my finger on anything unless I found the wreckage.”
“He doesn’t understand that,” Larsen responded irritably. “You see, he understands that there are hundreds of Alaska and Nevada survivors out there who have no idea their men are gone. Each hour we wait makes it all that much uglier … for him … for all of us.…”
Mark Bennett tried to imagine how Judy would have reacted if old Stonewall had gone down, especially if the information had been withheld from her. In those days, the kids were still around home. The loss would have been blown out of proportion. But that was years ago. Now they were on their own and Judy — well … he wasn’t sure how she’d handle it. He knew damn well how he’d feel if be were in her shoes and it was Judy who was lost at sea.… That was it. Now he knew.
“We’ve got to go to the families soon,” Bennett said. “They deserve it. I think we’ve got to make plans to have someone knocking at each door, and I think we’ll have to isolate Bangor for as long as possible. You know what I’m thinking about here — the-Navy-takes-care-of-its-own approach, so the media doesn’t get wind of it right away. Maybe by the time they do, we’ll have something to go on.”
Neil Arrow didn’t like the idea. On the other hand, he had to admit that eventually there’d be no other choice. “Okay.”
Markov grasped the arms of his captain’s chair as SSV-516 slid down the side of a huge swell and heeled heavily to port. A screaming wind tore the foam from the tips of waves as high as the bridge and swirled it in a gray mist that enveloped them. The ship hung for an instant, the inclinometer passing thirty-five degrees before beginning the long swing over in the other direction. This was a better course for the safety of the vessel, because they were keeping the sea on the starboard bow rather than burying the ship’s nose deep into each immense wave. It was easier on SSV-516, harder on her crew. Sleep had become just about impossible. Eating was for a select few.
The phone on the bulkhead buzzed. Markov’s grip on the chair tightened with one hand as he grabbed the instrument with the other. “Captain here,” he growled.
“The American aircraft is closing, sir. Now on a direct course.”
“When did it turn?”
“As soon as the last signal to the American submarine.”
“Range?”
“About seventy kilometers.”
“Call me if there is any change in the American’s direction.”
Captain Markov hesitated. There was no way that aircraft could get a visual on them in this dismal weather. But, he eventually reasoned, it was all a matter of electronics these days, so seeing your enemy no longer had meaning. He pushed the button for his warrant-missile specialist. “Our target is closing now. If he reaches forty kilometers, I want you prepared to launch on my direction. Is your kill range limited that much in this weather?”
“Negative, Captain. They’re heat seeking.”
“Then there’s no warning signal to the aircraft once they’re launched?”
“They have to know our radar’s on them and they’re being tracked, but they can’t tell exactly when we launch. Of course, they could pick them up on radar. But that’s highly unlikely in this mess.”
“I want you to fire all four missiles in the launcher. I don’t want them to have an opportunity to report any attack.”
Chapter Eight
Peter Simonds, Manchester’s executive officer, had never in his life — not once, not even in his single days when he partied every night with the other bachelors — considered becoming a SEAL. As an ensign there had been early signs of the stomach that now hid his belt buckle. He was a fancier or fine women and food and drink and had grown accustomed to that belly to the point that it was a comfortable friend. While it created an annual problem at the time of his Navy physical, his talents outweighed the spirit of the regulations. Peter’s good intentions expanded each year, enough to escape each doctor after a halfhearted warning. The result was that he continued to avoid anything vigorous that would take time from his favorite habits ashore.
There was a time when Peter considered settling down. It was the one memorable point of his single tour on a missile boat, Lewis and Clark, and at the same time the lowest point in his life before he’d grown to understand his good fortune. The incident occurred far enough in the past that he had finally been successful in moving it to the rear of his mental filing system.
He met her the first time they pulled into Holy Loch for a refit period with the tender Simon Lake. Any of the older officers in the wardroom could have warned him against falling in love with a girl he met in a bar, but it was something everyone had to learn. As unfortunate as it was to learn the hard way, Peter would no more have interfered today with one of his junior officers than his XO did with him at the time—”the school of hard knocks,” his captain said later on in a consoling voice, and “better than knocked up.”
Her name was Mary, simply Mary, none of those lilting Scottish names for her. She was pretty and talked with a pleasant, rich accent and she drank much too much of the local whiskey. But for a young, single officer in a foreign country for the first time, that was exciting. The fact that she didn’t take him to her flat until the second night convinced Peter that she’d decided he was special. When she told him she loved him, he sincerely believed his dashing charm had simply bowled her over. Not once did it occur to him that he was a ticket out of the life she had succumbed to in the past years. Not an officer in Holy Loch, whether stationed there or just passing through, had the heart to tell him who and what she really was.