The second semester he had worn six stripes as brigade commander, the highest midshipman rank at Annapolis. Every formation he had stood before the tourist crowds, his gleaming sword drawn, his modelworthy looks giving the formations a surreal recruiting-poster quality.
His midshipman room for three years had had a large sign nailed to the wall, the sign stolen by his classmates from a mall boutique and presented with mock fanfare. It read not just another pretty face. But deep inside Kane sometimes had his doubts, wondering if he had made his achievements honestly. He had never taken his success for granted, had always gone the extra mile for the Navy, always pushing himself.
When he was thirty-seven he had been the youngest submarine captain on the Squadron Seven pier and on the entire east coast. To earn that job he’d given up shore duty between his navigator tour and his XO job, a decision that had nearly cost him his marriage. He had gone to great lengths to placate his wife, Rebecca, because he genuinely loved her but also because she was a large factor in his success. Becky was blonde and beautiful, had even posed for Playboy when Kane was a first-class midshipman. At a late-night bull session, the copy of the magazine dogeared from the examination of the midshipmen, Kane was found staring at the photo spread. One of his classmates suggested he write the woman, and he had, enclosing not only photographs of himself as the six-striper, the brigade commander, but the beery and excessive testimonials of his friends. Amazingly she had written back, telling him she was a student at Hood College north of D.C. A year later they were married in the Academy chapel; a year after that they had their first child, the second on the way two years later. Through it all Becky had remained gorgeous, able to charm the most hardened admiral at the Navy functions. Kane thought about her often, missing her when he went to sea. And whenever the stress at sea rose to a high level, Kane reacted by thinking more and more about Becky; the act of thinking about her had become his own barometer of tension. The more he saw her face, the deeper the shit he was in. And he was thinking about her now almost nonstop.
Kane’s reflection was interrupted by the appearance of his executive officer, Commander Carl B. “CB” Mcdonne.
Mcdonne was a huge man, his blue coveralls stretching over a huge stomach; the crew joked behind his back that every single body part of Mcdonne was fat. His bulk was impressive; his head balding, his features rough and mismatched, his voice loud and caustic. Mcdonne noted with perverse pride that he was the “absolute ugliest officer in the Silent Service.” He filled every room he walked into with his nearly spherical body and his razor-sharp intelligence. CB Mcdonne was acknowledged by the crew to be “heavy,” the respectful submarine term for knowledgeable, but he could be arrogant too, with a sarcastic style. He might have been hated throughout the ship if not for his saving grace: his sense of humor was explosive and hilarious and irreverent.
When he felt the mood he could convulse a roomful of officers.
There were times when Kane was certain that the admiral in charge at navperscom who had sent him Mcdonne was a comedian — Kane could have searched the fleet for ten years and not found a worse match for his XO than CB Mcdonne.
Still, the XO had his moments, thanks to his encyclopedic knowledge of the boat and tactics. He was excellent at training, drilling the lessons into the officers. And strangely, Mcdonne was almost as good working a crowd as was Kane himself, his profane manner checked at the door of formal Navy functions. Kane had photos of Mcdonne at ship’s parties, his menacing look gone, a pleasing and jolly smile beaming out at the junior officers. Mcdonne was fundamentally different outside a nuclear submarine. If he could just manage to leave Becky Kane alone at their parties he would be redeemed in Kane’s eyes, but Mcdonne had a thing for Becky’s still impressive blonde beauty, and he just couldn’t quit.
All things considered, Kane and the ship functioned adequately with CB aboard, and Kane had heard from on high that he had amassed points with the brass for taking CB on without complaint. Kane looked up now at Mcdonne as the XO pushed in the forward door, his sides touching the port and starboard doorjambs as he stuffed himself in.
“I just got out of radio,” Mcdonne said. “You’d better see this.”
Mcdonne passed Kane the metal clipboard with the last message from the Augusta, the printout straight from the computer buffer after Phoenix had ascended to periscope depth ten minutes before on a routine trip to retrieve her message traffic from the commsat. Kane read the message and staring at the chart to the Strait of Sicily, his suspicions of the previous evening correct — the Destiny had sunk Augusta and might be coming their way.
Mcdonne looked disappointed in Kane’s reaction.
“What do you think about that?”
Kane looked at Mcdonne, his expression flat.
“I think, sorry to say, Rocket Ron made a mistake and paid for it.”
“Do you think the Destiny will come this far west?”
Kane shook his head. “No. He’s got to be going to the Atlas Front. That sub’ll broach its sail close in to the Algerian coastline, drop off Sihoud, then fade back to its port at Kassab. Two hours after he ties up to the pier a squadron of Stealth bombers will blow him to scrap metal. No, I doubt we’ll even catch a sniff of him.”
“That’d be a damned shame,” Mcdonne said. “I’d like to put a Mark 50 right down his throat.”
Kane nodded, thinking that he had trained for this tactical situation his entire adult life, and now it might happen for real, outside of the sterile world of exercises. The sub had put Rocket Ron’s Augusta on the bottom of the Med, and no mere amateur could ever hope to do that. The Destiny-class submarine must be good, good enough to blow apart an Improved-688. Kane couldn’t help worrying about the chance an old Flight I 688 boat had against the Destiny.
“You know, XO, Augusta was damn near brand-new. She had all the latest stuff. Almost as good as a Seawolf-class for acoustic detection range. And the Destiny plowed through her like she was a World War II diesel boat.”
Mcdonne nodded.
“Skipper, we know their tactics. He puts out a decoy, shuts down and hides. And when we attack the decoy he comes out of the baffles and shoots a volley.”
“So, CB, how the hell do we know if we’re following the decoy?”
“I guess the contact that shoots the torpedoes is the real submarine.”
“So we don’t know where he is until he puts weapons in the water, and if he’s shut down we still might not hear anything but the torpedoes — and by then it’s too late. Still think we’ve got an advantage?”
“We’re in trouble.”
“All we can hope for is that the Destiny makes a mistake or puts out a machinery rattle.”
“Wait a minute, sir. Ron fired off a volley of torpedoes at the Destiny. Maybe one of them hit him.”
“Did sonar have any explosions?”
“No … listen, Captain, if you think the Destiny will drop Sihoud off at the Algerian coast, maybe we should head east along the shoreline.”
“Can’t. CINCNAVFORCEMED was specific — guard Gibraltar. Kill the Destiny if he tries to come through. If he’s farther west, the P-3s or the Burke-class destroyers or the Vikings will nail him with sonobuoys, maybe force him our way. Maybe put a hole in him with a Mark 52.”
“I think I’ll stop by sonar on the way to my stateroom, make sure the senior chief knows what we’re up against. I’d just as soon not die in my sleep.”