"The boat is up to it, certainly," Latham said.
"And the crew," Warren added. "They're hot, prepped, and eager to please."
"Maneuvering is in A-one condition, Captain," Ostler said. "But you knew that."
Gordon nodded. He'd been making almost daily inspections of the engineering department for the past two weeks.
"Please God we won't need them," Walberg said, "but the Tomahawks and Mark 48s all test out optimal. We've got teeth, if we need them."
"As you say, let's hope it doesn't come to that. Okay, gentlemen. Thank you for your input. This mission is a go."
He thought now that he knew what Caesar had felt while crossing the Rubicon.
There was no going back now.
15
"Three minutes, ladies!" Randall called out, bellowing to be heard above the clatter of the UH-lN's rotor. "Check your gear!"
There were only four of them, instead of the usual squad of seven. SOG operations frequently required customized fireteam and squad deployments. Besides Lieutenant (j.g.) Randall, there were TM Chief Donald McCluskey, GM1 Tom Nelson, and RM1 Rodney Fitch. All wore wet suits, masks, and fins, and lugged heavily laden satchels carrying the rest of their gear. The Huey Slick had been traveling south for the past fifty miles, searching for a featureless spot on a vast and wave-ruffled ocean.
Conditions were not especially good — low overcast, scattered showers, limited visibility, and winds gusting to forty knots.
Randall took his seat next to Fitch, seated on the edge of the cargo deck, feet on the helicopter's starboard-side skid, with the mingled wind and prop wash blasting around his ears like a hurricane. Somehow, the chopper pilot had to find a pencil-thin sliver out there in all that gray and whitecap-streaked water.
Still, they'd received pretty precise coordinates at Adak Naval Air Station before they'd lifted off, precise enough that the copilot had just given him the three-minute warning. He checked his watch; two minutes ten, now.
"I still want to know what genius thought I looked Russian!" Fitch yelled.
"Don't sweat it. If you get questioned, just tell 'em you're looking for your prayer rug!"
Fitch was black, though with skin tone light enough that he could pass for an inhabitant of one of the central Asian republics. And he did speak fluent Russian.
"Besides," Randall added, "you volunteered, remember?"
"Must have been temporary insanity, Lieutenant. You and me both know it never pays to volunteer!"
"Should be coming up on the drop point pretty quick…. "
"There!" Fitch yelled. "Just off to starboard! Y'see it?"
Randall leaned out a little against his safety harness. Fitch had damned good eyes; it took a moment or two for Randall to spot the telltale feather of a periscope wake against the whitecaps and spindrift. As they watched, the dark gray rectangle of a submarine's conning tower broke the surface, then rose, as plumes of white spray burst around it.
The Huey dropped toward the deck, until its landing skids were skimming just twenty feet off the water.
"Okay!" the Huey's pilot called back to them. "You're good to go!"
"Thank you, Lieutenant!"
"Any time! Good luck!"
"Okay!" Randall yelled to the other SEALs. "Gear… then go!"
From either side of the helicopter, large bundles of the team's equipment were heaved out into the wet air, to plummet into the waves below. An instant later, all four SEALs leaped out as well, two to either side of the aircraft, in a maneuver known as helocasting.
Randall dropped with his arms folded across his chest, his legs crossed, and his head tilted far forward, as he'd practiced innumerable times. He hit the ocean hard, and was instantly engulfed by the bitterly cold water. Kicking hard, he broke the surface, blowing and gasping. The water was frigid on the exposed parts of his face; the waves were a lot rougher than they'd appeared from the air, carrying him up, up, and up, then swiftly down again as the wave rolled past. He'd maintained his bearings, however, and was able to strike out in a vigorous crawl, swimming for the submarine intermittently visible through the surging waves.
A wave broke over him, salty green and freezing. Then he broke through to the surface again, and the submarine's hull was almost within reach. A line fell across his outstretched arm; he grabbed hold and let himself be pulled the rest of the way in.
Clambering up the side of a submarine in heavy surf wasn't easy, but training and sheer strength let him haul himself aboard at last, to lie gasping on the steel deck. Someone stooped over him in a bright orange life jacket, connecting a safety line. "Request… permission to come aboard… sir…."he gasped out.
"Granted," the voice replied. "Though I'm not a fuckin' sir…. "
Ten minutes later, all four SEALs were aboard and safely in the enlisted mess, cups of hot coffee in their hands, warm blankets flung over their shoulders.
"I very much hope this is an American submarine," Randall said after taking a hard swig of coffee. "I didn't see a flag coming down, and it would be embarrassing if you were Russians."
"Prisvetstvie," a bearded man said, grinning. "Dobri dyehn'! "
"Da," another said. " Vi ryehzyehrverahvahli nomyehr?"
"Yes, I have a reservation," Randall replied. "Very funny. But the guy who dragged me aboard topside gave it away when he welcomed me aboard."
"That would be me," a sailor said, raising a finger, "but I speak perfect English."
"I'm Commander Gordon," a lean, angular-looking man said, stepping forward, "and don't let Douglas or these other hooligans tell you otherwise. Welcome aboard the Pittsburgh, gentlemen."
"Good to be aboard, Captain," Randall said. "Thanks for the lift."
"Not a problem. You boys picked a pretty rough day for it."
"Not our idea, believe me, sir."
"I should introduce these gentlemen," Gordon said, gesturing at four of the men in the mess hall, including the two who'd spoken such perfect Russian. "Sergei Mikhailovich Putin and Anatol Grigorovich Kasparov, late of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. And George Smith and John Johnson, of the USA."
"Good to meet you, Lieutenant," Smith said. He was thin and cold, with an assassin's hooded eyes. "Medved'" he added, the Russian word for bear.
"Povushka" Randall replied, giving the Russian word for trap and completing the recognition code.
"Good to know who your friends are, huh?" Johnson said. He was shorter, with a neatly trimmed beard.
"Lieutenant (j.g.) Randall," he said. "My men — McCluskey, Fitch, Nelson."
Gordon's eyes narrowed. "Did you say Lieutenant Randall?"
"Yes, sir."
"Kenneth Randall?"
The SEAL hesitated before responding. "May I ask if we know one another, sir?"
"We'll talk later, son," Gordon said. "Douglas here will take you all forward to the torpedo room and see that you get settled in, get dry clothes, and get what you need to be squared away. You'll be bunking in there until we reach our destination, which should be in another three or four days. Make yourselves at home. There's not much room to stretch, but the chow's good, and the company is congenial. Enjoy your stay."