“Contact to port appears to have slowed,” came the report from sonar. Pasadena was never mentioned. The name had yet to be entered in the log. Their target-motion analysis was constant at this point. The contact’s speed couldn’t be calculated exactly, but a change of speed could be assumed by checking their relative position. At best, it was a rough estimate.
“She’s probably got us … if we got her,” Simonds commented.
“We should be at battle stations …” Steel said. It seemed more a comment than an order.
The OOD looked curiously in his direction. For the past few hours the crew had considered themselves as close to battle stations as could be. That was what the XO had ordered — stand easy at battle stations.
“… because we don’t know what we have,” Steel concluded, muttering in a voice so low he could barely be heard. “Where’s Burch?”
“Torpedo room.”
Of course he was.
“Tell him to come up here, super quick.”
The SEAL was standing beside Steel in less than forty seconds.
“I need to know your exact conversation with Admiral Arrow,” The voice that normally boomed in a confident, John Wayne manner had been soft and tentative for some time now. “Did he expect any other submarines to be in Florida’s sector, any at all?” His lips were a thin line across clenched teeth.
“Negative. He said no one else gets near Florida. That was why you were supposed to have a special code to alert her over active sonar, the one I gave you when I came aboard.”
“And that’s what keeps them from shooting at us?”
“He said that normally they’d pick us up before we found them. They should be able to figure out who we are, but there’re no guarantees around a boat that’s not supposed to be located by anyone. Boomers are quieter, I guess.”
“Supposed to be,” Steel agreed. “And if we didn’t send that signal?”
“Like I said, their orders are to take nothing for granted. Anything that gets near their position without a definite positive ID is fair game.”
“What would happen if one of our own submarines wandered into a boomer’s sector unawares?” He’d known the answer since his days on Stonewall Jackson, but this was the Steel method of clearing the mind for a decision. He was unhappy with himself and what he’d decided moments before.
“Admiral Arrow explained that they don’t. No one has permission to transit a boomer’s assigned sector in peacetime. The only time it might happen was during DEFCON ONE, and then every boat would hopefully be issued the appropriate sonar code to transmit if they ran into a boomer by chance.”
“No other submarine — and that means absolutely none — should be in this sector, then,” Steel concluded cautiously to himself. His expression showed that it was still a question that required confirmation. But his tone of voice indicated that he’d confirmed what he’d concluded earlier.
Burch wrinkled his forehead, thinking he’d made that clear already. “Absolutely, Captain.”
Steel walked, almost tiptoed, the short distance to sonar and stuck his head inside. “Has there been any use of active sonar whatsoever from your contact to port?” Once again his lower lip was tightly clenched between his teeth.
“Nothing, Captain. That’s something we would have picked up right away. They’re playing kitty cat.” Creeping … slowly … silently … through the grass … more a shadow than an entity.…
Steel turned back to Burch. “You said other SEALs in your unit were headed on similar missions. Where?”
“I wasn’t told that. But it was other parts of the Pacific. I have no idea where,” he responded irritably, “but I know damn well that this was the only boat assigned to Florida’s sector.”
“Well, Commander, my chief sonarman is willing to put his nuts on the line that our sister ship Pasadena is off our port bow right now … right here in this sector, acting just like they belong here. How does that fit?”
Burch folded his arms stubbornly. His reaction wouldn’t have been any different if he were facing the President. “You asked for Admiral Arrow’s specific conversation. I told you everything I know.”
Peter Simonds had sidled over until he was a third party in the discussion. “It seems to me that maybe we should try to close Pasadena and ask her what she’s doing here.”
Steel rubbed his chin thoughtfully before shaking his head. “Not a peep. Our orders say to make contact with Florida and protect her.” He glanced warily toward sonar. “I have no absolute guarantee that’s Pasadena out there. It only sounds like her. We have our orders to carry out. If that’s Wayne Newell, he can make the first move.”
There was no pecking order at sea at a time like this. Nowhere was it stated that the senior officers of two submarines — neither of which knew why the other was in a restricted area — were required to ascertain the intentions of the other. You operated independently until you were otherwise ordered, and you didn’t stick your nose in the other guy’s business. You especially kept your own counsel when the hairs on the back of your neck seemed to operate by themselves. And you followed your instincts.
Simonds pushed his glasses back on his nose. Steel had a habit of explaining himself to his XO. This time Simonds had no idea what was going through the captain’s mind.
“Yes, sir.”
“We are at battle stations?” Steel asked, rubbing his eyes tiredly.
“Yes, sir.” The XO was about to explain that since entering Florida’s sector they had been about as close to battle stations as they could be. He’d made an exception — a percentage of the men could sleep near their stations until they had a solid contact. No one was sleeping now.
“Turn away a little from that contact to port, the one Moroney thinks is Pasadena. I want to try to keep our distance. Let’s close the other if we can. That should be Florida.” He turned to Burch. “When you get back down below, you tell the chief he may just be using one of his torpedoes shortly. It better be a record when he reloads.”
“You don’t think that’s Pasadena out there, Captain?” Simonds asked curiously. He needed assurance that he still understood Steel.
For the first time since he’d considered the situation, Steel realized he hadn’t been sharing his thoughts with his executive officer. He smiled broadly. “XO,” he said, as if he’d just seen Simonds for the first time. “I haven’t the vaguest idea what’s going on. For the time being, I don’t believe anything. And when you don’t believe anything, you better try to do everything you can to protect your ass. So that’s what we’re doing until we understand things a little better. We’ll proceed with the idea we may fire on either contact as soon as they’re in range … as quiet as they are,” he concluded softly. “And you better bet they already wonder what we’re doing out here. I think everybody’s creeping.” He raised his eyebrows. “We’re all a lot closer to each other than it seems. I want to be ready to shoot … perhaps a snapshot if I’m not careful,” he mused.
Jack Tar raised his head when Myra Newell walked into the room. He continued to wag his tail even after she walked past him to stare out the window. She tapped the glass with a long fingernail, then turned and looked down at him. Hoping for attention was the hallmark of a good family dog. The tail moved faster.