In another two hours, tense minutes, but without incident, the Pittsburgh entered open water once more, the broad, wide emptiness of the North Pacific. With Rodriguez's assurances that there were no enemy vessels close by, Chase ordered the Pittsburgh back to within a few feet of the surface once more, so that she could extend her radio mast in order to pick up orders … and to broadcast a mission complete.
"Well, XO, we skinned the cat again," he said, after ordering the ' Burgh ahead full, with her prow set toward distant Hawaii, her next scheduled port of call.
"Yup," Latham said, nodding. "With all those sonar contacts banging away up there, it sounded like the whole Red Banner Pacific Fleet was after us. I hope it was worth it."
"If the other boat skippers did their jobs, it was," Chase replied. "It'll help to know just how good their reaction time is."
"Sometimes, I think the Beltway bean counters don't really care one way or another for the information we bring back," Latham said, folding his arms. He looked uncharacteristically troubled.
"Oh?"
"It's got to be some kind of a game for them. See how far they can push the other guy, see how hard they can stomp on his toes before he blinks… or throws a punch."
"Could be," Chase replied. "Could be. But God help us all if you're right."
Breakfast had been served already, but coffee, juice, and various snack foods were always available in the Pittsburgh's galley. Every man aboard agreed that the chow served in the Silent Service was the best in the Navy… a tradition that went back as far as World War II.
"So, whaddaya think of the Old Man's performance, Big C?" TM2 Roger Benson said, grinning as he topped off a cup of bug juice at the mess dispenser. "Was that slick or what?"
"Not bad," BM1 Charles Scobey said. He'd opted for coffee. "Not fucking bad at all. He gets points on originality, at least."
"Not bad? Hey, he was fucking incredible! Doubling back and dusting off that cruiser's belly, then pulling a Wilkinson like that, cool as you please, and then following the son of a bitch right up to the mouth of the channel. Man, I ain't seen nothing like it!"
"Ahh," Big C replied with a negligent wave of his hand. "Saw the same thing on Swifty Larson's boat, back in '80. And that was in the Barents Sea, too, with Russkie boomers and attack boats crowded elbow to elbow, and half the Northern Red Banner Fleet lookin' on. It was in an old Sturgeon class, not one of these fancy Lala-Land boats that do everything for you 'cept take a piss when you need it."
"Ha! You think that was bad?" TMC Bart Allison said, taking an empty seat at one of the mess-deck tables. "Back when I was a very raw newbie on board the old Seawolf… now that was primitive. Nothing ever worked right on that boat. Yeah, I remember the time when the reactor scrammed, left us shut down and drifting under the Bering ice. The skipper was threatening to rig oars, but the chief nuke puke figured out how to use the COB's breath to recharge the reactor."
"You're full of shit, Chief," Big C said. "Nah. Just finished using the crapper in the goat locker, thanks."
"Damn, I thought I smelled something putrid wafting aft," Big C said.
"Must be a conspiracy, Scobey," Benson said. "Better tell the captain."
They all laughed. "Big C" had acquired his handle not by his size — he was short even for a submariner, and almost painfully thin — nor by his first name. Big C was a conspiracy theorist, big-time, and could always be counted on to regale his listeners with stories of deep, secret, and mysterious conspiracies, everything from both Kennedy assassinations and Chappaquiddick, and how they all obviously tied in together, to cattle mutilations and black helicopters out West. The other 'Burghers teased him unmercifully about his paranoid thinking.
Which was fine by Scobey. He liked being the center of attention.
"Anyway, in my expert opinion," Benson went on, "our skipper is the best damned sub driver in the fleet. Listening to him in the CC today, it was like watching a master craftsman at work, y'know? Cool as the Pole Abyssal, givin' orders like it was some kind of damned training simulator. It's gonna be a real shame to lose him."
"Is this really his last cruise?" EM3 John Boyce asked, joining them at the table with a cup of coffee and a couple of doughnuts on a plate.
"That's the word," Chief Allison said. "He'll be off to some nice, cushy job in the Pentagon for a few years, I suspect. Or maybe captain of a sub base."
"Y'know, the Brits have the right idea," Big C said. "When their sub captains get too senior to drive boats, they move 'em up to skipper an ASW surface ship. Set a fox to catch a fox, right?"
"Nah, wouldn't work for the skipper," Allison said, shaking his massive head. "He's a true submariner, and that means that as far as he's concerned, there's only two types of ships, you know … submarines… "
"… and targets," Benson and Scobey chorused, completing the line. It was an old joke, a favorite of submariners.
"Fuckin' A. I can't see the skipper backsliding so far as to start driving targets. Uh-uh. Not his style."
"Well, we don't have to worry about a new skipper yet," Scobey said. "We're headed for Pearl! …" and with that he stood up, ground his hips in a lewdly suggestive hula, and moved his hands to outline a woman's curves. "Man, there ain't no liberty like Honolulu, man! The girls there are so… are so… "
"Know exactly what you mean, Big C," Allison said, laughing. "No words for it."
"But you're a married man, Chief!" Boyce said.
"Doesn't stop me from appreciatin' the finer points of biology, son." The others laughed.
"So, did you guys hear the scuttlebutt about our next mission?" Scobey asked.
"There can't be no scuttlebutt about no next mission," Allison said, "on account of the orders ain't even been transmitted yet."
"Well, maybe. But I heard it from a buddy of mine in personnel back at Mare Island. They're planning on starting up something like Ivy Bells again. You know, slipping into Oshkosh, tapping a telephone cable, and—"
"Belay that," Allison growled. "I think the name of that op is still classified."
"Sure, but the op is over, right? The Russians found out and pulled the plug."
"That may be, but we're not supposed to talk about some things, even among ourselves."
Scobey shrugged. "Sure sounds like a conspiracy of silence to me."
They laughed.
Benson wondered, though, if Scobey really did have an inside track to the straight dope. Oshkosh — the enlisted submariner's slang name for the Sea of Okhotsk — was damned hot and getting hotter, if the Soviet fleet's performance there that morning was any indication.
And he was beginning to wonder if all the sneaking and peeking was worth the lives of Pittsburgh's twelve officers and 120 men. It was something he'd never admitted to anyone… even himself, but after that morning, he was forced to see it.
Roger Benson was afraid. The captain had pulled their fat out of the fire that time, but he was leaving the ship as soon as they got back, to be replaced by an unknown.
He was wondering if he was going to be able to stay in the Silent Service himself, and the thought left him feeling both afraid and ashamed.