A good-looking Hawaiian sat behind the reception desk, deeply immersed in the letter she had been typing. Cooksey remembered her from his last visit.
The young woman was so wrapped up in her work that he had to clear his throat loudly to get her attention.
“I’m sorry,” she blurted with a start.
“Captain Cooksey, I’m afraid you caught me in memo land I’m Lisa, and you’re certainly right on time. Can I get you some coffee before you go in to see The Boss?”
“Why, thanks. Lisa, that would be great,” Cooksey responded.
“Black is just fine.”
As she rose, he couldn’t help but appreciate her tall, thin figure, and waist-long flowing black hair. It had been much too long since he had seen a woman like this … much too long.
When Lisa turned with his coffee in hand, she caught the captain’s stare of inspection and smiled.
Shyly, Cooksey diverted his glance while taking the enamel mug from her steady hand.
“The Admiral said to show you in as soon as you arrived. Captain. Make the most of the good mood you’ll be finding him in. Seems he shot the best round of golf in his life yesterday.”
Aware that she could only coax the barest of smiles from the handsome captain’s face. Lisa beckoned him to follow her. Efficiently, she approached a pair of polished walnut doors set in the far wall. After knocking on the right side, she turned the handle and signaled Cooksey to enter.
The admiral was on the phone as Cooksey stepped inside. Motioning Cooksey to take a seat, the commanding officer of the Third Fleet continued with his conversation, oblivious to the presence of his newly arrived guest. Two high-backed leather chairs faced the admiral’s desk; and Cooksey chose the one on the left. After seating himself, he examined the office’s interior, while the admiral scribbled a long list of coordinates on a legal pad.
Solid, dark-stained wood furniture and plush red leather predominated.
One wall was covered by a massive bookshelf crammed with thousands of various volumes. A map rack stood beside it. Cooksey was surprised to find that an intricate map of Midway Island was pulled down and clearly visible. A red grease pencil had been used to circle various locations that lay in the waters to the north of the island. On the wall next to the map rack were over a dozen framed photos, which Cooksey knew were the various ships that the admiral had served aboard. Represented here were vessels ranging from fleet oilers to a destroyer, several World War II-style diesel submarines, and a nuclear-powered aircraft carrier.
The room’s only window was a massive affair, set immediately behind the desk. This afforded the admiral an excellent view of the port. A shiny brass telescope sat on a tripod beside it. It was said that Miller often used this scope to watch the sailors down below. It was rumored that many a shirker had been reported from this unlikely vantage point. A golf putting machine, complete with balls, a putter and a spongy green, rubberized skirt completed the furnishings.
Cooksey took a sip of his coffee and looked at the man who sat before him. Well into his sixties now, Admiral Broderick Miller still glowed with an abundance of robust energy. Even though his hair had long turned to pure white, this only gave him an additional degree of distinction. With his skin tanned a golden brown, and blue eyes sparkling, the man seemed a perfect picture of health.
It was hard to believe that this was the same man who had been carried off the flaming deck of the carrier Yorktown. For it was during the battle of Midway that the young officer, fresh from the Naval Academy, gained the attention of his superiors. Under the expert guidance of Admiral Spruance, Miller rose quickly in the ranks. Distinguishing himself as a brilliant tactician and competent administrator, he was placed on a variety of ships to accumulate vital experience. This wide range of knowledge served him well in his current post. The admiral’s imploring stare caught that of Michael Cooksey as he silently begged the young officer to have patience. Firmly, he talked into the telephone.
“I understand our time perimeters, Martin, but Friday will be here before we know it. I think it would be best to have all the contingencies thought out well beforehand. A single emergency could have consequences of a most dire nature. Get me that list of the various agencies involved by lunchtime, and by all means get me a copy of that flight plan. I’ve got to know exactly where that plane is the second it takes off from Petropavlovsk. Thanks for all your help with this, Martin.
I’ll be talking with you again shortly.”
With a sigh of relief, the admiral hung up the receiver, shook his head and addressed his visitor.
“Sorry about that, Michael. You know how much I enjoy inter-agency squabbling. That was Martin Lawrence over at State. Unbelievable as it may seem, they want the Third to help monitor the advance of Rodin’s plane when it takes off for L.A. on Friday. As if that’s all we’ve got to do.”
Pushing his chair back, he swiveled around to take a look outside, while stretching out his cramped, long limbs. This movement seemed to lighten his mood considerably.
“By the way Captain, welcome back home.”
“Thanks, Admiral. Is this summit really as serious as it sounds? We just learned of it while we were pulling in yesterday.”
“That’s right, you were out to sea when President Palmer issued the invitation. You wouldn’t believe how quickly this whole thing came down. Sure not like the old days.”
“Do you think that it’s going to make a difference?” Cooksey asked carefully.
The admiral looked him straight in the eye.
“Not as long as they’ve got vessels like that Alfa pulling hotshot stunts — like the one that you chanced upon at Point Luck. Damned if that kind of thing doesn’t get me infuriated!”
“Well, you should have been there watching it all come down,” Cooksey said.
“The scary thing about it is that they could have done pretty much whatever they wanted with our surface ships, or, for that matter, with the Triton.”
Broderick Miller’s response flowed gravely.
“I’ve read your preliminary, Michael. I can imagine how frustrating it must have been not even having a weapons system capable of running down the bastard.
By the way, we’ve got a definite on that particular bogey. Big Bird had a clean shot of Petropavlovsk when she came waltzing in with a Delta III on her tail. SOS US confirms that this Alfa and the vessel you went after are the same.”
“I can’t believe that the President is even bothering to waste his breath with the Soviets,” Cooksey said.
“Doesn’t he know what’s going on out there?”
“Well, we certainly send him the reports. Of course, you never know who reads them. I’m still of the opinion that if you’ve got a chance to open up a dialogue between two new leaders, you’ve got to do so.
Who knows? They might just hit upon something to stop this foolishness. In the meantime, we’re going to keep on doing our jobs the best we know how. That was a mighty fine intercept on the carrier task force, Michael. Before that Alfa showed up, our ships didn’t have any idea that you were even out there.”
Cooksey blushed a bit at the unexpected compliment.
“Thanks, Admiral. I’m working with one hell of a fine crew, and our equipment sure can’t be faulted.”
Broderick Miller stirred anxiously.
“Speaking of equipment — how would you like a torpedo that would give the Triton an ASW range of 300 miles?”
“That would depend on which science-fiction book I was reading,” Cooksey said with obvious disbelief.
“That was my exact response when I first heard of the weapon this spring. I didn’t believe the lab people until I read a report of the successful testing of just such a system four weeks ago.