"And I'd like to be sure no one was playing with a jiggered coin."
"That's G2's show," Goldman reminded him. "They'll be looking at that op real closely, believe me."
Had it been a trap? Or coincidence? Right now there was no way to know, but Gordon knew that Intelligence would be digging into the possibility of a leak somewhere along the line of command from the Pentagon all the way down to SEAL Team Two.
He found himself wondering about the intelligence sources he'd heard quoted, though. HUMINT was so damnably frustrating. People were fallible… and fickle as well. An informer could be bought, or turned. Or planted by a clever foe.
And no matter what the cause, two good men were dead… and Frank Gordon had helped to kill them.
"I have something for you here," Goldman said, flipping open his briefcase. He extracted a manila string-tie envelope and handed it to Gordon.
Gordon had seen similar envelopes often enough in his eighteen years of naval service to know what it was.
Orders.
He accepted the package, and with one glance for reassurance at Admiral Goldman, unwrapped the string and pulled out the top page.
FROM: COMSUBSPECLANT
TO: CDR FRANK CHARLES GORDON
SUBJ: CHANGE OF DUTY
… YOU ARE HEREBY REQUIRED AND DIRECTED TO REPORT TO MARE ISLAND NAVAL STATION, VALLEJO, CALIFORNIA, NOT LATER THAN MONDAY, 6 JULY 1987, WHERE YOU WILL PREPARE TO ASSUME YOUR DUTIES AS COMMANDING OFFICER, USS PITTSBURGH, SSN 720. CHANGEOVER OF COMMAND WILL TAKE PLACE AT 1030 HOURS, MONDAY, 13 JULY 1987….
His vision was blurring. He could scarcely read the words on the paper.
He held in his hands the fulfillment, the realization of twenty-three years of work, blood, training, dedication, and belief.
Frank Gordon had entered the Navy in 1969, upon his graduation from Annapolis. After his initial training at the U.S. Navy Submarine School at Groton, Connecticut, he'd had his first sea tour… aboard the submarine tender Canopus, which had spent most of her time tied up at a dock at the sub base at Bangor, Washington.
And because he'd run off with an admiral's daughter while he was still at Groton — the same admiral who was now standing there on the other side of Gordon's desk with a knowing grin on his face — it had looked as though Frank Gordon's career was never going to go anywhere more interesting than the leaden gray-skied purgatory of Bangor.
He'd gone the whole nuke career track. Every submariner officer who wanted to go anywhere wanted to go nuke … and most especially wanted to go with the nuclear fast-attack force — not the big, quiet, sneaking mobile fortresses of the SSBN boomers, but the swift and deadly sharks of the sea, the Sturgeons and, especially, the Los Angeles attack boats. That's where the prestige was. The glory. The promotions. The coveted chance at an eventual promotion to admiral and a flag command. He'd served aboard several boats, learning each department — engineering, navigation, weapons. He'd endured the interview every prospective nuke officer dreaded with Hiram Rickover, a man known as the Father of the Nuclear Navy… and a man who could have given Torquemada a few pointers in the tactics of inquisition. Rickover had passed him with a gruff "Not bad," high praise indeed from the father who could make or break any aspiring nuke officer's career with a single sarcastic word.
But after serving as XO aboard the ancient diesel boat Bluefin during the Iranian hostage crisis, he'd found himself, after yet another training billet, again on board the Bluefin, this time as her CO. Admiral Goldman had a long memory, and less than pleasant feelings for the brash ensign who'd eloped with his daughter just before her high-society wedding. The upward track of his career had begun lagging almost from the first, with missed promotions and less than strategic tours of duty.
It wasn't pleasant for any junior officer to think about, but the command ranks in the U.S. Navy, captain and above, were heavily politicized. A Navy commander on someone's shit list, an officer who didn't have some fairly impressive friends and patrons in high places, was lucky to make captain and would never make admiral.
It looked as though Commander Gordon was never going to rise higher in his chosen career, or command anything more prestigious than the Bluefin. Then, two years ago, he'd taken the Bluefin into one of the Soviet Union's innermost sancti sanctorum, the forbidden White Sea east and south of the Kola Peninsula. His mission, code-named Arctic Fox and still so highly classified it wasn't likely to see the light of day for another fifty years, had involved the transport and insertion of a Navy SEAL team near the Soviets' heavily guarded submarine base at Severodvinsk. At the end of that mission, he'd received the smallest ray of hope, again from Goldman, that he might yet find himself in command of a nuke. His estrangement from his powerful father-in-law had ended, thanks largely to Rebecca's interventions, he was sure, but also in part to his handling of his boat in those desperate hours within sight of the Soviet Empire's most closely guarded havens.
He was proud of what he'd done, proud, too, of his abilities.
And now, in his hands, was his reward. "I… I'm not sure what to say, Admiral."
" 'Thank you' will do, son."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome. You've earned it." He paused, lips pursed, as though considering what to say next. "Things haven't always been clear sailing between us, Frank. I regret that. And partly, too, you know, I had to be careful not to appear partial. Nepotism is an ugly, filthy thing, especially if it puts an unfit man in command of a Navy's ship or sub."
Gordon blinked. He'd always been focused so tightly on Goldman's anger over his elopement with his daughter he'd never considered the opposite tack, that Goldman was withholding the best billets because he didn't want to appear to be fostering his son-in-law's career.
It was an interesting new slant, one that put a whole new light on things.
"But your handling of the Bluefin in Arctic Fox," Goldman went on, "was nothing short of brilliant. I told you there might be a new command in it for you, after a year or two ashore. And here it is."
"I appreciate this, Admiral. I'll do my best."
Goldman made a sour face. "I had little to do with it, beyond signing off on the recommendation. As for doing your best, you'd damned well better if you know what the hell is good for you!" The smile robbed the words of their sting… or most of it.
"Does Rebecca know?" he asked. It was an odd position to be in. An admiral's daughter sometimes had near-instant access to information that could take some time trickling down the chain of command.
"Of course not. She could be a Russian spy!"
The words were both joke and rebuke. Of course no one in Goldman's position would discuss information as sensitive as who was going to be in command of a Navy submarine with anyone not authorized to receive that information, even if she was family. Gordon had just come close to insulting the admiral simply by suggesting such a thing.
"Just checking, sir," he said, trying to change his gaffe into a joke. "Navy wives have their own communications setup, you know. They pick up and transmit information at speeds faster than light, and no one can ever figure out just how they know what they know. I thought maybe I had the inside track, there."
"Well, you're right about that, but I'll leave it to you to break it to her." His expression had gone a bit cold. "Frank, is everything all right between you and Becca?"