"And maybe capturing and examining an American Los Angeles class submarine would be a feather in some Russian admiral's gold-braided cap. We've had a big advantage over them in submarine technology for a lot of years, despite the damage done by the Walkers and other spies. This would give them the opportunity to match us at last, and maybe even surpass us."
"That's a real scary picture you're painting there, sir. For one thing, it means a traitor pretty highly placed in either the Pentagon or the Agency."
"I know."
"Are you writing Johnson and his people off, sir?"
"I'm not writing anybody off. We're here to do a job, and we're going to do it."
"There may not be anybody to pick up tonight, Captain."
"I know."
Chief Pyter reentered sick bay. "Okay, Lieutenant, Captain. We're all set in the forward escape trunk." He gave a signal, and a pair of sailors appeared with a Stokes stretcher.
"I can walk, damn it."
"I don't want you doing anything but what you're told, sir. Get in the stretcher."
As Randall got into the stretcher, he turned again to Gordon. "I don't know if there's anything to this, sir… but that crawler sub out there was parked and waiting, like it was in ambush. It was also packing a couple of small ASW torpedoes."
"Torpedoes?"
"Yes, sir: 406-mm jobs. Seventy kilos of explosive apiece. It would have taken at least two good hits to sink the Pittsburgh, but I'm thinking maybe the idea wasn't to sink her… but to cripple her, force her to the surface."
"That would make sense, Lieutenant. Thank you."
"It's also possible, sir, that there are more than the one out there."
"What makes you think that?"
"Because visibility is so shitty… and they wouldn't want to call attention to themselves by using active sonar. I think what makes sense is if they deployed, oh, half a dozen or so across the width of the Tatar Strait Channel. That way, no matter where the 'Burgh approached the pipeline to drop us off, there'd be a crawler sub within, oh, a mile or so. Maybe less. Close enough to hear us coming, maybe, and take a shot. A piece of fucking cake."
"I'll keep that in mind, Lieutenant. You have a nice stay in the escape trunk."
"Yeah. Right."
Gordon watched the SEAL being carried away. What Randall had said made deadly sense. The crawler subs, by their nature, would be hard to spot, lost in the ground clutter off the sea floor. The one Randall and Nelson had stumbled across had given away its location by leaving its engine on.
Had that been deliberate? Like bait? Or had they been counting on the fact that a crawler operating on its diesel engine didn't sound like a threat? Or maybe they'd been getting into position and simply hadn't shut down yet… not realizing that the Pittsburgh was already less than a mile away.
It didn't matter. Right now, Gordon had to assume that there were other crawlers out there, lost in silence, operating on batteries… and each packing warheads that would force Pittsburgh to the surface if they connected.
They were deep inside the Sakhalinskiy Zaliv, with Russian forces all around. Their single advantage was that the Russians didn't know exactly where the 'Burgh was….but that was an advantage that could evaporate at any moment, as soon as they were touched by a Russian ship's active sonar. All they had to do was make the rendezvous tonight, and sneak back out of the bay again.
A piece of fucking cake.
O'Brien stood next to one of the torpedo-room racks, watching as McCluskey and Fitch stowed the last of their diving gear after having carefully cleaned and checked all of it. Benson and Chief Allison were there as well. "You mean Mr. Randall killed a bunch of Russians out there? I mean… he just killed them?"
McCluskey looked up at him with eyes that carried just a touch of a haunted look, a dark expression that was hiding far more than it gave away. "I doubt that it was as easy as just killing them," the SEAL chief replied.
Getting the SEALs to say anything about what had happened outside was next to impossible. They were a closed-mouth lot who didn't open easily to outsiders.
Yet there was enough of a shared bond already that Fitch and McCluskey had been willing to tell the submariners a little. They'd said that at least four Russians had been killed… and they'd said, too, that Tom Nelson was dead. That bit of news had already spread throughout the boat. Too many sailors had seen Nelson's body brought in through the airlock and stuffed into a body bag for transport to the sub's tiny morgue locker for it to be otherwise.
"I know," O'Brien said. "What I mean is… did they attack him? Or did he sneak up on them?"
"You'll have to ask him, kid," McCluskey said.
Fitch gave an evil grin. "Maybe he wants some company in the escape trunk, man. You two could swap sea stories."
"I think I'll pass on that," O'Brien said, rubbing a hand over his clean-shaven scalp. "He'd have me for breakfast."
"He's a good man," McCluskey said. "He'll make a fine
Wheel."
"Wheel?" Benson asked.
"It's what we call the guy in charge of a SEAL platoon," McCluskey said. "Twelve men, two officers. The guys in charge are the Wheel and the 2IC. Mr. Randall's been 2IC, but he's in line to skipper a platoon when his promotion comes through."
"Cool," O'Brien said. For him, SEALs were a bit larger than life … real-life heroes combining the best of Rambo and James Bond who carried out exciting, deadly, impossible missions far behind enemy lines.
He wondered if he had what it took to become a SEAL. He was a submariner now, and he knew he wanted to stick it out until he got his dolphins, but after that he could apply for SEAL training, and if he made it…
"Those dead Russians," Benson said, sounding scared. "Does that mean there's going to be a war? A shooting war?"
"Not likely," McCluskey said. "The diplomats'll smooth it over."
"Right," Chief Allison added. "Y'know, a few hundred people have been killed in the Cold War already. I'm not talking about Vietnam or Korea or our people getting killed in the Mideast or even things like Flight 007 getting shot down by the Russians. There've been lots of missions like this one, and some of them haven't turned out so well, am I right, Chief?"
McCluskey shrugged. "Not really the sort of thing we can comment on."
"Yeah. I'll bet."
"In our line of work," Fitch pointed out, "if someone dies, or if word gets out that something went down, well, it means somebody fucked up."
"Your buddy was killed," Benson said. "And all those Russians. Does that mean this mission is fucked up?"
"That's one way to put it, kid," McCluskey said. "That is one way to put it."
"This op's been jinxed from the git-go," Fitch said. "Ol' Murphy's been working overtime."
"Murphy?" O'Brien asked.
"If something can go wrong, it will," McCluskey said. "Anybody who's been in combat knows Murphy's Law."
"I just wish I knew what was going to go wrong next," Allison said. "Way I hear it, half the Russian fleet is up there right now hunting for us."
McCluskey grunted. "Not surprised. From what Mr. Randall says, it sounds like this mission could've been compromised."
"You mean, someone knew we were coming?" O'Brien asked.
"That's exactly what I mean, kid."