“I’m really sorry I can’t help you.” The reporter’s nervousness was adding to her own uneasiness. “I’m sure the base public-information officer can take care of your questions.”
“Mrs. McCarthy, the base PIO refuses to talk with us. His office won’t return any calls. This isn’t something that any of us at the paper like,” he blurted, “but we’ve got to find out, in fairness to you and the other wives as much as anyone else. We understand one of the submarines — both Alaska and Nevada have been mentioned — is missing on patrol, and we have reason to believe the Navy is withholding information. Can you help me?” Lundgren’s hands hung at his sides, his face a mask of sadness and apology at the same time he seemed to be pleading for help.
Chicquita McCarthy’s mouth opened very slowly. There were no words. Her eyes never left the reporter’s. Very calmly, she folded her hands and raised them until they were level with her chin. She made a steeple out of her index fingers and bent her head until her lower lip touched her fingertips. “No, Mr. Lundgren, I haven’t heard a word.” Her voice was very soft, without expression. “I’m sure if there was the slightest chance of an accident of some kind, I would have been informed immediately.” She dropped her hands to her sides. “And I have nothing to say.”
“I’m sorry, really I am. If I’ve caused any — I mean … Mrs. McCarthy, I really do hate my job in a situation like this. I sincerely hope the rumor is false. I … I’ll leave you alone.” Lundgren turned on his heel and walked down the front walk, turning to his left at the street and heading for a nondescript car that was too distant to read the license plates.
The wife of the commanding officer of Alaska wouldn’t have noticed anyway. Before the blond, blue-eyed reporter had turned from her front walk, she ran into her house for the telephone. She punched out the number for the direct line to the desk of the commander of Submarine Squadron 17. “Bart, I need to know if Paul’s all right….”
A tingle of fear traced down Captain Bartholomew Bookman’s spine as he listened to Chicquita McCarthy’s frantic words. The order from Neil Arrow that preliminary preparation should be made to inform survivors had come less than thirty minutes before. Once they were ready, it would take hours before they were prepared to send the right people to each home. No sooner had he given a lame excuse that he’d check with Pearl Harbor and call her back, then he fielded direct calls from the wife of the captain of Nevada and the wives of the chiefs of the boat in both submarines. It was both hideous and terrifying at the same time. He had no answers!
The nice young men who identified themselves as reporters that day left absolutely no trace of their identity. Those in the military establishment who realized what had taken place now understood the extent of Spetznaz infiltration into the Puget Sound social fabric. There seemed far more to be concerned with than two missing SSBN’s. It seemed that the Russians, by the very fact that their curiosity had gotten the better of them, were giving good reason to the Americans to believe that Moscow was involved in the disappearance of the boomers. In fact, the Soviets were so curious about how effective they had been that they were willing to antagonize. But there was as yet no clue as to how they’d gotten to Alaska and Nevada — nor what their goal might be. Moscow remained silent.
“There’s nothing more to say.” Once Wayne Newell’s mind was made up, his expression was as firm and obvious as his voice. “The country’s at war. Pasadena is right in the middle of it, and I’d argue with anybody right now that we’re the key to swinging the balance in America’s favor. We’re the pivot point. None of us have any idea whether the U.S. is under attack or if our families have survived.” He spoke to his XO in a pronounced tone with an almost religious fervor. He wholeheartedly believed in what he was saying. “When each man on this boat is wondering whether his family is alive, I can’t have someone like Chief Lott magnifying our problems.”
Dick Makin wasn’t happy with what he was hearing and he held the captain’s eyes without responding. He could tell Newell wasn’t finished. The man’s solution to the problem had come as a shock, even though Makin was in agreement that a solution was necessary. It was just that the XO had never heard of any situation where the chief of the boat had been relieved like this. Tommy Lott, he knew, understood exactly what insubordination was — and there couldn’t have been the slightest doubt in the man’s mind that he was undermining his commanding officer’s authority by speaking out about the sonar tapes.
“I want you to have Chief Crowell put Lott under sedation for the duration of our mission. I can’t have him causing more trouble when we could be facing combat any minute. Once he’s quiet, that’ll shut up any others. Close off one of the staterooms in officers’ country as a temporary brig. And I want an armed guard assigned on a twenty-four-hour basis with orders to use his weapon if necessary.” He waved his hand as he changed his mind. “As a matter of fact, I’ll pick out the men I want to guard the brig. I want to make sure they understand my instructions. Tim Sanford will be the new chief of the boat….” Newell paused and tapped his index finger on the tip of his nose as if he were trying to make sure he’d covered everything.
This didn’t make sense — drug the chief of the boat? The men might just turn against Newell on this one. “Captain, he’s Lott’s best friend and I don’t think—”
“Don’t bother,” Newell interrupted rudely. “I know exactly what I’m doing.” He’d been staring into the light over his bunk as he outlined his plans to Makin. Now, sensing how curt he’d just been to his executive officer, he turned with a smile on his face. “You know I didn’t mean to be sharp, Dick. I’m sorry. I guess the tension can get to any of us. It was stupid of me.” He recognized the set of Makin’s jaw. It signified an innate stubbornness, like waving a red flag. “I really do apologize. Accepted?” He raised his eyebrows as if he expected his XO to accede automatically. It was decided. There was no room for argument.
“Captain, I can see why you want to get Lott out of the way. I’m the first one to admit there’s no room for what he’s saying.” The XO’s jaw remained outthrust, his lips pursed. He was second in command of Pasadena. “But Chief Sanford isn’t going to be happy about leaving his buddy comatose. I’m not so sure I like it either. Perhaps I could still sit down and talk with him.”
Newell waved his hand again to show he’d made up his mind. “No time, Dick. We could pick up our next target any moment now. We’re not out on exercises, remember. We’re fighting a war. Can you imagine trying to coordinate an attack with a man who’s decided he doesn’t like the target we’ve been assigned … not to mention he’s the chief of the boat who’s been insubordinate and is attempting to turn the men against their captain?” Newell shook his head briefly. “Nope, not a chance. I really appreciate your concern and being a sounding board for me, but we don’t have a moment to spare. You tell Chief Crowell what has to be done and send him to me after he’s taken care of Lott.” He folded his arms.
“Yes, sir.” Makin stood up and turned away slowly. Then, looking over his shoulder, knowing he’d feel guilty if he didn’t mention it, he said, “I guess I’d better ask about Wally Snyder. He’s no help right now, talking about phony messages, and I guess he’s even talked with Chief Lott about that.…” If that’s the way the captain felt about the chief of the boat, then it was the XO’s duty to cover all the bases. Less than an hour before, he’d been isolating his captain from Snyder’s bitches. Now it was time to get everything out on the carpet. “I think the situation’s pretty much the same with Wally.”