Zhakov’s face was flushed red, his eyes narrowed. “You Americans,” he spat. “You tell the world you are ‘good guys.’ But one of our submarines goes down and you use as excuse to spy on us.”
Castillo took a step toward the man. “You Russians,” he said. “You are so busy trying to prove to your own people that you’re not the same group of ham-fisted commissars from the past that you have to refuse all help. Have to prove you can do it yourself. Tell me Admiral Zhakov, how many of those 44 dead Russians might be alive today if you had accepted help from Chihaya?”
Zhakov’s face was beet red and he was breathing hard. He looked like he might take a swing at the submarine captain. Or he might have a stroke. Castillo was ready for either eventuality.
Instead, the admiral turned and stalked off without another word.
Kagawa muttered something in Japanese. He turned to look at Castillo. “You took entire blame.”
Castillo shrugged, suddenly exhausted. “No sense getting both of us burned.”
Kagawa shook his head. “It’s not right.”
Castillo shook his head. “Sagutaro, you were working with me to try to find a way to do the right thing. That makes you a damn fine officer, that’s all. But it was me who violated Russian waters. End of discussion.”
For a long moment the Japanese officer just stared at Castillo, no expression in that round face or those dark eyes.
Then he came to attention and snapped out a perfect salute.
Castillo returned the salute, his throat closing up with emotion.
No sooner had Castillo dropped down the forward logistics and escape trunk then the XO appeared by his side. He hadn’t even had a chance to take off his bright orange Kapok. “I’m sorry, Captain, but your presence is requested on the bridge.”
Castillo sighed. The last few days had put him through the wringer — all he wanted was to hit the rack. But a captain’s job was never done. “Thanks, Paul,” he said, patting the XO on the shoulder.
He stepped into Main Control which was deserted except for the young seaman sitting at the helm wearing sound-powered phones. Seaman. . Cole. Danny Cole, Castillo remembered. From Salt Lake City.
“How’s it going, Seaman Cole?”
The kid flashed him a sunny smile. “Fair to middlin’, Skipper. Something I can do for you, sir?”
“No, you’re good.” Castillo pointed up. “Just going topside for a minute.”
The kid nodded and turned back to his gages. He was still smiling.
Castillo shook his head in wonder. Wasn’t the kid tired?
He stepped over to the fold-down steel ladder in the center of Control and began to climb straight up, his muscles screaming with every rung. The ladder took him up through the tight confines of the sail. He had to crawl up a full story before he reached the hatch and emerged into brilliant sunlight.
Only used when Pasadena was riding the surface, the bridge was a confined area at the top of the submarine’s sail. The OOD — it was Green, the big African American kid — had about fifteen knots on, and a cold wind knifed right through Castillo’s foul weather jacket. He heard the furious flap-flap-flap of the American flag behind him. Castillo threw a quick glance back at Green’s phone talker and then did a double take.
The talker was Senior Chief Washington.
Normally bridge phone talkers were junior firemen or seamen, kids who hadn’t even qualified helmsman/planesman yet. Not the chief of the boat.
“I think I’ve been set up,” said Castillo dryly.
“Not at all, Skipper,” said Washington cheerfully. “Mr. Green just needs to make a quick run to the head.”
Castillo grunted. Now he knew he’d been set up. Captains didn’t relieve j.g.’s so they could make quick runs to the head.
Green gave him a searching look. “If that’s okay with you, Captain.”
Castillo sighed. The cob was obviously determined to talk to him alone — he might as well get it over with. “Give me your turnover, Green.”
The JO spent a minute describing the ship’s status and pointing out various contacts. Castillo listened carefully — not because he didn’t have the bubble, but because he wanted to make sure his kid did. A submarine captain was always training.
After Green was done, Castillo saluted him. “I relieve you, sir.”
The kid grinned at the anachronism of his captain calling him “sir,” and saluted back. “I stand relieved.” And then he hustled down the ladder.
Castillo glanced back at Washington. “Cob, you have a knack of cornering me when I don’t want to talk.”
The cob’s smile was a flash of white against his dark skin. “Beg your pardon, Captain, but when people want to talk to me isn’t always as the same as when they need to talk to me.”
Castillo picked up a set of binoculars and trained them on Keet. In the time it had taken him to get back to Pasadena, the big ship had hauled the DSRV out of the ocean. He watched them swing it over the monster ship’s deck.
“How bad is it?” asked Washington softly.
Castillo never took his eyes off the Keet. The rescue vehicle was a fat submarine, painted in garish orange and white vertical stripes. The crane operator slowly began to lower it to the deck.
“The Japanese never violated Russian waters, so they’re off the hook. I showed that son-of-a-bitch Russian admiral my orders from CINCPACFLT. The Ruskies may try to pretend this was some sneaky American plot, but they’ll really know I acted on my own initiative. And if they make a big stink about it, they’ll have to acknowledge that we could’ve gotten their men out earlier. It’ll blow over.”
“No, sir,” said Washington gently. “How bad is it for you?”
Castillo put down the binoculars and turned to look at Washington who was staring intently at him. It was funny, until now he hadn’t really thought about exactly what they were going to do to him.
“Fast attack commanders are supposed to take risks,” he said slowly, thinking it through. “So I don’t think they’ll relieve me. I expect there’s an admiral or two at Pearl who’ll light me up pretty good once we get back from patrol.” He paused. “It probably means a letter in my jacket,” he said quietly.
A letter of reprimand. So no Trident command and no flag of his own. He might not even make O-6.
And he thought he couldn’t feel any worse.
“I hope not, Captain,” Washington said fiercely.
Castillo shrugged.
“But if you were confronted with the same set of facts tomorrow, you’d do the exact same thing, wouldn’t you, Skipper?”
It wasn’t really a question.
“What’s on your mind, Cob?”
“I tried to tell you before, Captain. When Rickover wrote the book on the nuclear navy he did a great job. We’ve never had a reactor accident. But his book, his philosophy, made some people think that they could get through life just by following directions: pull this lever back, turn this knob three notches counterclockwise.” The cob shook his head. “If you’ll excuse me for sayin’ so, Captain, life isn’t really a paint-by-numbers evolution.”
Castillo turned to look at the Keet in the distance. “No,” he said softly, “life isn’t really a paint-by-numbers evolution.”
“If you know that, really know that in your gut, you’ll be better prepared when the next crisis rolls around.”