And of course the boys in Blue Tile country on McCain had jammed every damn frequency the NKA had tried to use, and how long had the Payback team been ashore? Twenty-five, maybe twenty-six minutes maximum. It had seemed a lot longer to the team — always did when you were being shot at — and so what time did the NKA have to rush reinforcements to Beach 5 when for starters they were unable to talk to one another?
Ah, thought the general. He was Monday-morning quarterbacking, his mood understandably mordant because of the loss of Bone. The fact was, he reminded himself, that the storm was so ferocious it would have grounded any NKA antisub aircraft, and the seas were so high that any sonar echoes the NKA spy junk might have hoped for had probably been degraded by the storm-churned tumultuous sea.
“All clear on countersweep,” pronounced Eddie.
“Thank the Lord for that,” said Aussie.
“Amen,” said Sal.
“All right,” said the general. “What’s ETA for McCain?”
“Forty-three minutes at maximum underwater speed,” replied Gomez.
“Sir,” put in Mervyn, “with our sonar mikes shot, I’d rather plane it. It’ll be rough, but with more speed and maneuverability we’ll—”
“I agree,” said Freeman, his mood more upbeat. He looked at Choir Williams. “Sorry, Choir, but if we go faster we’ll get there quicker.”
“In twenty-five minutes,” added Eddie encouragingly. “Two-thirds max surface speed.”
Choir nodded.
“Op’s over, Choir,” said Aussie. “You can pop a Gravol.”
“I have.”
The general turned to Salvini. “Moment we’re aboard McCain, Sal, you can open the box, but not in this turbulence. Besides, as I said before, we can’t disturb anything that CIA forensic might be able to use.”
“Roger that,” said Salvini, trying to hide his impatience and annoyance. Yes, yes, he knew the old man was right, but “stone the crows,” as Aussie would say, hadn’t they earned the right to have a peek? All right, he told himself, he’d be a good little boy and wait till they reached McCain.
Eddie was already making the turn, the seats reversing in concert, with the RS’s wedge end becoming the bow once more. But Salvini couldn’t shake the conviction that the general, the cool legend of the Siberian taiga, was having an attack of nerves, delaying opening the box as long as possible, as if he was afraid there mightn’t be anything worthwhile inside after all. Sal didn’t say anything, but his eyes, looking down at the box, told Aussie what he was thinking.
“Tighten your harnesses!” ordered Eddie, who still had the con. “This mother’s gonna be an ass-busting ride, old buddies.”
When the RS surfaced in a blow of dense spray that struck them like a car wash’s opening deluge, all seven men were tight in their H-harness, their heads cushioned in the dense “memory foam” cranial cushions, with a broad foam head strap immobilizing each commando for the series of body-slamming hits that ensued as they raced at 50 mph through a confused chop made up of residual Force 9 surge and vicious crosscurrents. Maximum speed in this witches’ brew would have caused multiple contusions and even fractures, had they not been restrained. Even so, the general had a headache, brought on not by the severe juddering caused by the RS’s high speed but rather a question that was gnawing away at him after the nearly disastrous depth charging, namely, had somebody alerted the PLA navy about the Galaxy and its palletized cargo? Even if they didn’t know exactly what that cargo was?
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“We have the RS-XP on radar,” announced Blue Tile’s OOD.
“I see it,” said John Cuso, the white blip on Big Blue pulsating along a line over a hundred clicks east-northeast of Kosong.
“Man,” said one of the junior EWOs, his eyes fixed on the RS, “that thing’s doin’ fifty or I’m a duck.”
“You’re a duck,” said the OOD on the main console. “Data block says he’s clipping near sixty miles an hour.”
“Oh, that’s what I meant, sir. Fifty knots.”
“Yeah, right!”
The ripple of laughter that ran through the Signals Exploitation Space bespoke high morale, but captain of the boat and admiral of the carrier battle group Crowley didn’t join in. He was doing morning rounds and as usual there was much on his mind. He was purportedly in the short list of admirals for the next CNO, the United States Chief of Naval Operations worldwide, one of the most powerful offices and officers in Washington, and rumor had it that he and Admiral Jensen, COMSUBPAC-GRU 9 (Commander Submarine Pacific — Group 9) at Bangor, Washington State, were in a dead heat with COMSUB Atlantic. It was a matter of honor among carrier proponents that Crowley win out against the “pig-boat duo,” the latter’s derogatory name derived not from the reputed pig-style conditions of life aboard the old water-rationed, nonnuclear subs, where the only two men allowed to shower daily were the cook and the prop’s oiler. In fact, the term “pig boat,” as Freeman knew, originated from the scenes of the relatively small subs all gathered about a tanker and/or replenishment vessel like so many piglets around a sow.
“Old man has a few more wrinkles this morning,” Air Boss Ray Lynch quipped to John Cuso.
XOs made it a career-saving habit to be noncommittal about their bosses, and so the tall, slim officer said nothing.
“Well,” continued Ray Lynch, “he should be smiling. Scuttlebutt is that they found COMSUB Atlantic in flagrante delicto with a SIG skirt.” He meant a female signals officer.
“Really?” said Cuso disinterestedly.
“Yeah,” said Ray Lynch, not so tired from launching another Combat Air Patrol that he wasn’t up to more idle chitchat. Despite his general fatigue, his demeanor changed into a rather good imitation of a Brit naval officer of the kind he’d had to cooperate with during joint NATO fleet exercises: “No, not good at all, old boy. Waylaying young damsels on the high seas. My spies tell me his executive officer did knock before barging into COMSUB Atlantic’s stateroom with a ‘Most Urgent’ form—” Ray Lynch affected a slight mental lapse, finger on lips, brow furrowed. “—from the base at Bangor, Maine, but alas, said admiral was apparently all the way up channel and didn’t hear his exec because of huffing and puffing and attendant ‘ooh-ahs’ from said skirt.”
“Haven’t you got some planes to park?” Cuso asked wryly.
“Oh, all chained up in the hangar. Brown shirts down there are swearing like that Australian Black Ops guy — Stewart?”
“Lewis, Aussie Lewis,” said Cuso, glad to change the subject from gossip about the rivalry for the CNO, though secretly he welcomed the news if it was true. If Crowley got the CNO spot, Cuso, God willing, should be on the very short list to have his own command. Suddenly the ejection from the F-14 Tomcat that had almost killed him seemed as if it might have been a blessing in disguise. He’d always pooh-poohed his mother’s old Southern Baptist conviction, which she held to this day, that God listens to us but doesn’t answer prayers right away, that the answer comes in different guises. He still was an atheist, a paid-up member of the glass-always-half-empty society. But, John Cuso mused, if he got command of the “boat,” one of the greatest ships afloat, maybe he’d write a special thank-you letter to his mom.