Burch learned as he watched. It was Steel who let him decide that it was better to search the area they had been moving away from and then sweep back in a long spiral to catch their prey if they had indeed been following it. After turning more to a west-northwest course, Steel was satisfied that they had incorporated not only the most logical approach, but also the one that allowed a bit of luck to ride with them.
“I want to be ready for a snapshot,” he told Peter Simonds. “Our intruder could be just sitting by himself waiting for a target to show up. I can imagine that we might be on top of each other before we know it. I hope so.” If the enemy submarine was able to remain as quiet as Florida, it could be just like an ambush. The first one to shoot would be the likely winner. The only difference was that the loser who went to the bottom after a single shot would take more than a hundred men with it.
Chapter Twelve
Pasadena had come close to periscope depth momentarily to copy her broadcast before returning to depth to continue her search pattern. As she came to a zero bubble at three hundred feet, the ominous click of the IMC system echoed through each compartment. There was a time aboard Pasadena when an announcement had been something for the crew to look forward to. But at this stage of their existence, that had become ancient history. It had been only a matter of days — was that all? — yet to most even this small pleasure had disappeared in the sands of time. The announcements had become tedious, overbearing lectures.
Tension was thick in the air. It was beyond the scope of even a genius to invent a scrubber capable of purifying that. Every man could smell it! Feel it! It was transferred from one watch section to the next. It came from the man next to you, oozing slowly across the deck, up the bulkheads, along the overhead, and it gradually covered each of them. They were at war … with the Russians? Or was it with themselves? With each other? With their captain? They didn’t know, not really, and when the 1MC clicked on there was an increase in the tension, a silent electric discharge creating a human aroma of ozone.
“This is the captain.” Who else could it be? Newell was the only one who had used the system in the past two days. “Once again, Pasadena is approaching a moment in our mission that may influence American history beyond anything you can imagine. In the past few days, each one of you has faced tremendous odds and reacted in a manner that has brought honor to yourselves and your families. You have shown the world that one hundred thirty distinctly different individuals can be molded into a crew capable of preserving the ideals upon which our nation was founded.”
That was what they had expected, what they feared most — another pep talk, a morale builder. It was the opposite of what they wanted. News was what they cared most about. But Pasadena seemed cut off from the world — except for orders from SUBPAC. What was happening at home, if there was still a home? Was this the end of the world? Was it…? Anything but this.
Newell’s voice sounded deeper than usual and seemed to catch when he uttered some of the pat phrases he’d selected. Pasadena’s captain was a true believer in motivation, and he was a student of human behavior. He’d observed the attitudes of his men the past few hours and the results were patently obvious. Every word he had ever read about men in war, battle fatigue, personality conflict in time of stress, was displayed on each face he’d encountered. The men had expressed their concerns — yet not one of them was afraid for himself. Their only fears were for the war on the surface and the danger to their families. That was something he couldn’t help them with. Those who controlled Pasadena’s communications had chosen to isolate her. This type of problem had been overlooked. If he could have come up with something, anything, it might have helped — just this once — but he remembered nothing in his background that could fashion an answer to what they were looking for.
The information that had come to Pasadena was in the form of succinct naval messages. That was a format that contradicted the imagination. Of necessity, it was vague, businesslike. Their orders, their mission — that was all that the Navy was concerned with at this stage. That only encouraged each one of them to interpret for himself exactly what was happening on the surface.
Yet there was an ominous note to those few, short messages, a hint that the civilian population of the United States must be in peril, perhaps already under attack. That was what lurked in each man’s mind.
Wayne Newell would be the first to acknowledge that sonar’s initial identification of the two submarines they had sunk had magnified his problems. But what was certainly weighing on their minds even more, the fate of their families, should be of even greater concern. He would make it so. Was there a home they were still fighting for? Or would they find scorched cities if they ever returned? He wanted them to have something more to worry about than the masking device that made Soviet boomers sound American.
The recent communications received by Pasadena had been calculated to enhance the importance of her mission. The continued existence of a Soviet ballistic-missile threat at sea was vital to Pasadena’s maintaining a high degree of readiness. Their morale, their sense of mission, their unselfish efforts, might just save their families. This he believed with all his heart.
“I want to share a message just received,” Newell continued. “It says: ‘Imperative Pasadena locate and destroy enemy SSBN in assigned sector. Mission critical to survival of land targets and strategic negotiations.’ While that is open to interpretation, I believe that there is a definite probability that our families may still be safe. I was informed before our departure that Soviet targeting included many of our cities, so I can only assume our efforts may be vital to their survival. And if there are actually negotiations under way, that could mean that our success on this mission could strengthen U.S. terms,” An audible sigh escaped over the speaker in each compartment, “I can only repeat that I believe Pasadena is in the right place at the right time. We have been chosen to defend our nation in a strange and unanticipated way … and I just wanted one more opportunity to express my deep pleasure in serving with each one of you. I’m not repeating a speech we’ve all heard in the movies. That comes from the bottom of my heart. The next few hours in our lives will mean so much to those we love.”
That was what they wanted to hear — what he wanted them to hear.
When Newell replaced the microphone, Dick Makin saw droplets of sweat coursing down his cheeks. From the manner in which the captain had spoken, they could just as well have been tears. His final words had been spoken with his eyes tightly shut, as if he were in prayer. The executive officer of a ship was closer to the captain than any other man, and Makin understood Newell better than anyone aboard Pasadena. He had seen more emotion from the man in the past six hours than since they’d first met. Newell was as dedicated as any commanding officer in the fleet. Yet his personality also appeared to be changing radically as the pressure increased with this new target. Wayne Newell had never been an emotional individual before. He had been cold, calculating, efficient. Now there was a new, almost human, element. The change was rewarding in a way, yet also … frightening.