“Unknown, Scotch. But obviously, if you’re going for your load-out at latitude fifty-six north, you’re spec-op will be farther north to see our good friends from the Russian Republic.”
“This loadout looks unusual,” Seagraves noted.
“Arctic supplies,” Flanagan said. “A dry-deck shelter. And a team of SEALs will be joining you. Same blokes you deployed to the Gulf of Oman with this summer.”
Seagraves nodded. “Always good to operate with old friends.”
Flanagan nodded. “The same reason you folks from the Vermont all cross-decked together over to the New Jersey.” Flanagan stood. “I suppose I should get topside for your change of command.”
“Thanks for coming over and delivering the orders personally, Commodore.”
“It was good to see you again, Scotch.” At the door leading to the passageway, Flanagan turned to Seagraves. “Oh, and Scotch, try not to burn New Jersey to smithereens, will ya?”
“Fuck you, Twister,” Seagraves said, a crooked smile on his face.
He pulled on the starched choker whites and buttoned them up, then picked up the orders and reread them. Oddly, there was no code-name for whatever this operation would be. The orders were classified top secret but not code-word, which meant the real secrecy would begin in Faslane. Seagraves put the orders in his safe, locked it, then grabbed his white officer’s cap with the scrambled egg embroidery on the brim, and left his stateroom to head to the plug trunk hatch.
9
Captain Seagraves stood at rigid attention, saluted the PCU commander of New Jersey, and said, “I relieve you, sir.”
The PCU commander returned the salute and said, “I stand relieved.”
Light applause broke out on the platform and on the pier. Lieutenant Anthony Pacino watched Seagraves shaking hands with the DevRon Twelve commodore. Ditching the after-ceremony conversations, Pacino stepped to the plug trunk hatch. The sooner he could dump these dress whites, the better. He hurried to stateroom three, hoping he would beat River Styxx to the room. Changing into his working uniform for the underway operation would be embarrassing if she charged into the room while he was in his boxers. He finished changing uniforms, grabbed his pad computer, his binoculars and his brand-new USS New Jersey ball cap and opened the door just as Styxx was reaching for the doorknob.
“Ma’am,” Pacino said instinctively, coming to rigid attention. “Weps.”
“There’s no ma’ams onboard, Mr. Pacino,” she said, smiling slightly. “Just Weps or River. Although, I propose if we’re undressed in the same space at the same time, we’re strictly on a first name basis.”
Pacino smiled at her, relieved that she was being friendly.
“Any news about your navigator?” she asked. “Romanov?”
Pacino’s smile vanished, his face drooping to sadness. “Last I heard, she was in bad shape. She may have lost brain function.” It was easier to say that than the words brain dead.
Styxx put her hand on Pacino’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Patch. Maybe we’ll hear an update when we’re on the way to, well, wherever we’re going.”
“Any news on that? Where are we headed?”
“Your buddy Lewinsky plotted navigation points on the chart, but they only go to the dive point due east of Nantucket and then fifty miles beyond. After that, it’s apparently top secret. Maybe he’ll tell you.”
“Did you ask him?”
She nodded. “Predictably, he told me to go fuck myself.” She grinned. “You know, in a totally professional way.”
“Oh, of course,” Pacino laughed. “Anyway. I’d better do a pre-watch tour.”
“Have fun up there, Patch. I’ll be your contact coordinator.”
“Watch out for all that dangerous surface traffic.”
“Yeah, sailboats and the occasional family fishing outing on a motorboat.”
“And the inevitable Russian trawler.”
Pacino turned and hurried aft to go to maneuvering to see Vevera and how the reactor plant was behaving.
Pacino climbed through the deck grating’s hatch up to the cockpit of the sail, joining Ensign Short Hull Cooper on the bridge. The bridge was a recessed standing area cut into the top of the sail, the top surface of the conning tower retracted using segmented flaps called clamshells. The deck of the space was grating set over the bridge tunnel, the vertical accessway to the bridge from the upper level of the forward compartment. With the boat facing south, the way out of the river, the conning officer would start out on the port side to supervise their disconnection from the pier, and since Short Hull would be driving, Pacino put his pad computer on the receptacle on the starboard side. In the river basin, a large tugboat slowly approached them. Short Hull’s VHF radio crackled to life.
“U.S. Navy Submarine Captain, this is Navy tug Massapequa II, requesting permission to tie up on your starboard side, over.”
Short Hull looked over at Pacino. “What do I do, sir?”
Pacino shook his head. “The only ‘sirs’ onboard are the XO and the captain, Short Hull. Call down to the captain’s stateroom and ask permission to bring aboard the tug. Hand me the VHF.”
Short Hull picked up the 7MC, selected the captain’s stateroom and clicked the microphone button. “Captain, Junior Officer of the Deck, sir.”
Pacino clicked the VHF radio’s transmit button. “Navy tug Massapequa II, this is U.S. Navy submarine, please stand by, over.”
“Navy submarine Captain, roger, standing by,” the VHF rasped. In the channel, the tug’s engines grew quiet as she idled, only keeping up with the current in the Thames.
“How come you didn’t answer up as the USS New Jersey?” Short Hull asked.
“We never self-identify,” Pacino explained. “In case our good Russian or Chinese friends are loitering out in the Sound. We keep the enemy guessing.”
“Captain,” the 7MC crackled.
“Captain, Junior Officer of the Deck, sir,” Short Hull said, sounding amazingly steady. Pacino wondered if he himself had sounded anywhere near that solid when he’d first conned out Vermont on the Panther run. “Request permission to bring aboard the tug on the starboard side, sir.”
“JOOD, you have permission to bring aboard the tug to tie up on our starboard side,” Captain Seagraves’ voice rasped.
Short Hull acknowledged the captain. Pacino handed him the VHF radio.
“Navy tug Massapequa II, this is U.S. Navy submarine, permission granted to come alongside and tie up on our starboard side, over.”
“Roger U.S. Navy submarine Captain, Massapequa II, out.”
On the deck, the line handlers accepted the heavy manila ropes tossed over by the tugboat’s crew. Soon the tug was made fast to New Jersey’s starboard side, lashed tight at the tug’s bow and stern.
Pacino checked his diver’s watch. 1559. The captain had wanted the ship in the channel by 1600. Dammit, they were going to be late.
“Bridge, Pilot,” the 7MC blasted. “Captain to the bridge!”
“Pilot, Bridge, aye,” Short Hull said into the 7MC mike. Pacino stood aside and lifted up the bridge deck grating. The captain climbed up from the bridge access tunnel.
“Afternoon, sir,” Pacino said.
“Afternoon, Captain,” Short Hull seconded.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Seagraves said. He lowered the grating and climbed the four steps up to the top of the sail, where a temporary set of handrails had been erected, the “flying bridge.”