The second omission in Boomer’s life this weekend was more serious. He had not yet plucked up courage to tell Jo their vacation together was off — when he left for the submarine base on Monday morning, it would be for several weeks. Maybe months. And the operation was Black. Jo would never know where he was, or when he was coming home again. Boomer was not wildly looking forward to that particular conversation.
To prepare himself for the ordeal he busied himself with the barbecue. While it reached its optimum heat to cook the big New York sirloins, he wandered inside to pour a couple of Navy-size drinks for himself and Jo — two tall rum and cranberry juice cocktails, on the rocks, in frosted glasses. Then he strolled outside and gave his beautiful wife a kiss and a drink and told her that no hour ever passed by, no matter where he was, or where he was headed, when he did not think of her, and all that she had always meant to him.
“Boomer,” she said suspiciously while looking at him as if at a naughty schoolboy. “You must have something you are waiting to tell me…something lousy, I’d guess.”
Realizing that he had seriously overplayed his hand, the commanding officer of Columbia elected to seize the moment rather than prolong the agony until after supper. “Jo,” he said, slowly. “I have to go away…for several weeks.”
She stared at him for a moment, a sudden sadness sweeping across her face. Whatever he said, it would make no difference. It was not his fault, she knew. She was a Navy wife. This was not unique. But it happened so often.
“When?” she asked simply.
“I won’t be back after tomorrow morning.”
“How long?”
“I can’t tell you. A while.”
“Can I know where?”
“No.”
“Is it Black?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Oh…oh my God. Not months?”
“Probably weeks.”
The endless nightmare of all commanding officers’ wives stood before her. The weeks stretched out to infinity. There would be, she knew, no one to whom she could turn for information. His loneliness out there in command of the great hunter-killer submarine would, in the end, be hers. In the face of danger too great to contemplate, they would both be alone.
She willed herself not to cry, but another summer was shot to pieces, another year really. She turned away toward the grill and just told him, defenselessly, “I love you, Boomer.” And then she felt his great sailor’s arms around her, and she fell apart without shame against his massive chest. In front of the glowing fire. In front of their daughters.
In the far distance, the almost-full moon began to rise over the boat sheds by the Osterville town bridge. And very soon, on this clear night, there would also rise out over the Atlantic one of the brightest constellations in the galaxy…that of Orion himself. The other hunter.
Commander Dunning arrived at the gates of the New London submarine base at 0845. It had taken him two hours to travel down I-95 from the Cape. And he swiftly made his way to the jetty where Columbia awaited, her crew making final preparations for a long patrol.
There was a huge sense of purpose right now as they loaded the hardware — torpedoes, missiles, spare parts, welding kit, acetylene, extra computers, seals, hydraulics, rubber and plastic pipes, valves, tubs of grease, paint, and polish, and carbon dioxide for the Coke machine.
Supplies such as steaks, pork roasts, ham, bacon, eggs, potatoes, fruit, salad, vegetables, fish, coffee, tea and soda, would be taken on board closer to the time of departure. The cooks baked their own bread during the voyage.
The nuclear reactor would go critical two days from now in readiness for the final sea trials. The submarine’s ETD was 1400 on August 7.
Boomer went below immediately and found his XO, Lieutenant Commander Mike Krause, who apologized for not meeting him at the gangway. Then the CO called a brief meeting of the senior executives: the XO; the combat systems officer, Lieutenant Commander Jerry Curran; the Chief Engineer, Lieutenant Commander Lee O’Brien; and the navigator, Lieutenant David Wingate. Boomer told them what he could but explained he was leaving immediately by helicopter for SUBLANT in Norfolk, Virginia, and would be back in two days. Until then he would leave Columbia in their capable hands.
No one had time to watch the chopper, bearing their leader, clatter off the pad and rocket away toward the hot south, to the Black Ops Cell where the keenest brains in the US Navy were planning the demise of the last two Chinese Kilos, K-9 and K-10.
Boomer Dunning was pensive during the 390-mile flight to Virginia. The Navy pilot crossed Montauk Point and out over the ocean, setting a course south-southwest, which would take them well east of Long Island, New York, Philadelphia, the great estuary of the Delaware River, and ultimately the long tidal waters of Chesapeake Bay.
Each mile seemed to take him farther away from all that he loved. He tried not to think of Jo and the girls, and the tranquil waters of Cape Cod. He tried instead to concentrate on the task that lay ahead of him, the deep dark waters, and the two Russian submarines he would destroy. They would both be operational, and armed, he had no doubt. They would also be under heavy escort. He knew he would be single-handedly taking on a small Russian convoy, and that no ship in that convoy would hesitate to sink Columbia and all who sailed in her.
He and his team were faster, cleverer, and inestimably more lethal. No destroyer, or frigate, or cruiser was a match for a well-handled American SSN. Now was the time to prove that. But his thoughts stubbornly returned to the big white house on Cotuit Bay, and he wrestled with the unspoken anguish of all submariners: what if I should not return? What will happen to Jo without me? And then, inevitably, not “Have I loved her enough?” but “Have I told her often enough.” He closed his eyes and pictured again the long-legged redhead from New Hampshire who did, he knew, adore him. But her loneliness made him too sad, and he wished he could sing to her their favorite Willie Nelson track, the wistful, regretful, “You Were Always on My Mind.”
Boomer understood he needed to shake himself out of his melancholy. He would soon face the heavies in SUBLANT, Admirals Morgan, Dixon, and probably Mulligan, the CNO himself. Down below he could see the headland of Cape Charles. They were dropping down to one thousand feet, and the sprawling Norfolk dockyards lay dead ahead. Boomer watched the pilot slide the chopper into the wind, hover twenty feet above the pad, and then touch down lightly. He unclipped, patted the driver on the back, and climbed through the door. The rotor was still beating as he stepped into the waiting staff car, which drove him to SUBLANT HQ.
Inside the Black Ops Cell, Admiral Dixon and Arnold Morgan were both waiting. They rose and greeted him warmly. The President’s National Security Adviser poured coffee for them all, black and strong. He then fired “buckshot” into all three china cups without asking and handed them around. Then, as if remembering his manners, or lack thereof, he chuckled, “Black op, black coffee…right?” He never gave a thought to the plateful of cookies parked by the coffeepot, presumably with the CNO in mind. Arnold Morgan considered that real men didn’t eat cookies.
But there was something so positive about this despot of Naval Intelligence it was impossible to feel irked by him, even if you would have preferred a half gallon of cream in your cup, and six cookies, as indeed Boomer did.
“CNO’s arriving soon,” said Admiral Dixon, taking a cup. “And I thought we’d give you a thorough briefing before he arrives, bring you right up-to-date on K-9 and K-10.”
“Yessir. I’d appreciate that.”