“Send Wally in to me. I’ll settle this with him directly.” Newell’s blue eyes were piercing, his lips a sharp, gray slash etched on his face when he added, “I’ll complete my mission if I have to sedate every disrespectful son of a bitch on this boat.”
The communications officer looked miserable when he knocked at the captain’s stateroom and stuck his head inside. “The XO said you wanted to see me, Captain.”
Newell glanced up at Wally Snyder with a look of contempt, “Step inside, Mr. Snyder.”
The young officer reached tentatively for the back of the vacant chair.
“No need to sit down. This will be quick. You’ll either have a change of attitude or find yourself wading in deep shit.”
Snyder nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Do you think I’m stupid, Mr. Snyder?”
“Of course not, Captain.”
“I was a comm officer once. Years ago. Things were different then, but I did a hell of a job. Do you for even a moment think I forgot everything I ever learned?”
“No, sir.” Snyder rocked slightly on his heels as he realized how his captain was setting him up — and how defenseless he was at that moment.
“Is it possible that COMSUBPAC might have made me more aware of the strategic situation and his communications intentions than he did you? After all, I am commanding officer of this submarine.”
“I’m sure he did, sir.”
“Then why do you continue to question my judgment when Pasadena is in a state of war with a foreign nation?”
“It’s not that, sir. I simply feel that—”
“You’re not in a position to make decisions for me, or to question the orders that I give.” Newell’s eyes had narrowed once again, until the pupils were barely visible. “Is it fair to assume you are aware of that, Mr. Snyder?” He pronounced the young officer’s name as if it were a foul taste he needed to clear from his mouth.
“I didn’t intend to—”
“I have no interest in intentions. We are on a mission of grave importance to our nation, and you have not only questioned my decisions, I understand you have also been comparing notes with the chief of the boat Are you aware that Chief Lott has been relieved of his duties and no longer has the run of the boat?”
“Why … no, sir. I had no idea.…”
“Well, now you do. Pasadena has destroyed two Soviet boomers and we’re on the track of a third. Luck had nothing to do with that. Superb intelligence, superb communications, and a superbly trained and closely knit crew accomplished that. I intend to maintain that peak efficiency until we either shoot our last torpedo or are ordered to return to Pearl Harbor. I realize the pressure on the crew of this submarine and I also know that the slightest hint of insubordination can harm our mission. Do you concur, Mr. Snyder?” Newell’s voice dropped until the final words were a bare whisper.
“I do understand, Captain,” the young man answered softly. No one had ever treated him in this manner since he’d earned his commission. His eyes centered on a spot in the middle of the captain’s chest.
“Look at me.” Still a whisper.
Wally Snyder looked up.
“I expect your verbal support among your peers in the coming hours. If you as much as hint at any dissatisfaction with the manner in which I operate this vessel, I promise you will find yourself facing a court-martial. And since I consider us in a state of war, the punishment I would insist on is death.” The last half-dozen words became a hiss that punctuated his threat “Can you think of anything you want to say, Mr. Snyder?”
“No, sir.”
“Then get out of here and do your job … and I’ll do mine.” Newell waved him away with a flick of his wrist. Once Snyder was gone, the captain’s head sank slowly until his chin rested on his chest. His entire body shook with exhaustion.
Why … why the hell do I have to straighten everybody out? Just for once couldn’t people get their own acts together? Christ, it was just like being back home with the family.
Newell actually shuddered when he thought about that confrontation the last time with Kathy and that young punk … whatever his name was. Boys were no different than they were when he was that age. All they wanted to do was get their hand down some girl’s bra, then go tell all the other guys about it. That’s exactly what he’d told Kathy, and she had no right to go off crying to her mother. Myra had no more idea what went through a boy’s mind than the man in the moon.
And, goddamn it, that Snyder kid had no more idea what went on in the enemy’s mind. They were just as devious, except the game out here wasn’t to get a little bare tit. This was the big game. They were going all the way, cover all the bases, then slide into home a winner.
There is just no reason to put up with that kind of crap out here, not while I’m captain of Pasadena.
And there’s no reason to lower standards at home either!
Oh, Christ, I’m tired, he thought as his eyes fell shut and his mind went mercifully blank.
The first missile from SSV-516 exploded in the fuselage of the American intelligence plane. The blast wasn’t powerful enough to bring her down, but one of the electronics technicians was killed and the other badly wounded. The second missile, only seconds behind the first, struck the starboard wing, rupturing one of the fuel tanks. Burning avgas swept back along the fuselage and through the ragged hole made by the first explosion.
The aircraft was mortally wounded at that stage but still capable of ditching. The frantic pilot put his violently bucking plane into a turn toward the Alaskan islands at the same time his copilot instinctively shouted a Mayday over the radio. But neither the maneuver nor the emergency call were ever completed.
SSV-516’s final two missiles exploded in the cockpit, ripping the nose from the aircraft and hurling both men into the stormy Pacific.
Chapter Nine
Through the course of naval history — triremes, papyrus reed boats, war canoes, sailing men-of-war, ironclads, PT boats, nuclear submarines — a few great captains have appeared whose names survived through the ages. Somehow, by the time a man is considered for command, there are few incompetents who have slipped through the cracks in the system. There have been some bad ones, many capable ones, and a vast majority who were a credit to their ship. What history has taught us is that it takes a truly unique individual to achieve absolute mastery of his ship — one who possesses that rare understanding of the complex process that blends a man and his ship into a single identity.
Buck Nelson’s unique gift of mentally positioning himself in the geometric heart of Florida was a source of relaxation for him. It was a mental exercise hinting of almost mystic experience. The ability to accomplish this feat was a talent he never dared mention to another soul. At times it could be disturbing, for he found himself projecting even when he hadn’t willed himself to do so.
If he found himself alone in a space close to the epicenter of the submarine, the simple act of closing his eyes coupled with intense concentration allowed him to project his mind throughout the moving cylinder that was Florida. He seemed to be floating in a weightless state much like an astronaut. Yet here there were no compartments or bulkheads or miles of piping, not even a reactor, just an immense empty cylinder slicing silently through the depths. It could happen in the missile control center, the computer room, sometimes even the engineering spaces, and once even in the wardroom when he was fortunate enough to be alone.