“Any questions?”
The master chief spoke up. “Skipper, do you really think a Russian boat would do that? Come down the strait, I mean.” He had twice the sea time as Jackson and easily as much common sense. “It just don’t figure.”
“I’d do it,” replied Jackson, pinching the ridge of his nose to relieve the pressure. “This is war. We’ll survive by doing things the enemy doesn’t expect. He’ll be thinking the same.” The word “war” had an unsettling effect. It made the cramped room squirm.
“Could we transit faster, sir?” asked a lieutenant. “Get to deep water sooner and be in better position to detect a sub?”
“Good thought, but we can’t risk being on the surface, even at night. We know there are always agents monitoring traffic on the Canal. I’ve got to believe they’re still there. If we’re spotted, they won’t need an attack boat, they could finish us with a ballistic missile. It only takes thirty minutes, and we’d have moved along a known path.”
“You think they’d spot us at night, Skipper?”
“We can’t take that chance. We shouldn’t even have our scope exposed for any length of time, at least not until we reach the sound.” That meant a submerged transit at night. The executive officer cringed. That’s what he was afraid the skipper had meant.
“But no one’s ever done that. Any dickhead on the Russian payroll is long gone. We could make ten to fifteen knots on the surface, even at night.”
“Can’t risk it. We go submerged. We’ll lift off the bottom at 2130. We’ll follow the navigator’s plan and set down past Foulweather Bluff early in the morning and take inventory. In the meantime, get as much rest as possible and some chow. Any other questions?” Jackson looked around one final time. “Dismissed.” There was a surge for the door and fresh air.
Jackson glanced at his watch. “Lieutenant Brandice.” A medium-built, blond-haired officer jerked to a halt and looked up. “Have a seat.” Brandice struggled against the tide of bodies until he was opposite the captain and then sat down nervously. Jackson waited until the others had departed. But all had known the topic as soon as the officer’s name was called. Lieutenant Norman Brandice was the strategic weapons officer.
The lieutenant was in his late twenties, with a round face and was slightly overweight. It was a curse that plagued the constantly confined submariners who rated the best chow in the fleet. He was relatively new aboard Michigan, and Jackson had not gotten to know him very well, too much confusion during refit. He disposed of any pleasantries. He looked at Brandice hard.
“When the order comes, and it will, I need to be assured there won’t be any problems.” The lieutenant understood, nodding, and started to respond, but Jackson cut him off.
“I know what you’re going to say, but hear me out.” Jackson folded his hands and rested them on the table. His eyes bored in on Brandice. “We’ve all gone through the drills. We try to imagine what we would do if the real thing ever happened. Well, it has. If any man has moral reservations, I won’t hold it against him. But I can’t have hesitation. Canvas your department, and let me know. Give them time to think it over.” Jackson started to stand. “That includes you by the way.”
“There won’t be a problem, Captain.” Brandice’s tone was soft, yet firm. Jackson managed a slight smile. “That’s all.”
Jackson watched the weapons officer depart, and then hung his hand over the open door. He was so tired he could barely stand. “Go lie down,” he scolded. The thought of an hour in his rack brought a rush of contentment. Then he flashed back to Brandice’s final comment. Won’t be a problem? he thought. He remembered once reading interviews with the crewmen of the Enola Gay. How would he feel days, weeks, years after — if he were alive? Michigan would make the historic suffering imposed on the Japanese people look like child’s play.
CHAPTER 23
The MH-53J helicopter plunged as it crossed the jagged tree line, popping white-hot magnesium flares — a precaution against someone with a Stinger missile. The passengers clung tightly to aluminum tubing welded to the fuselage, fighting the G-forces that squeezed their bodies. The engine vibration shaking the cabin made it worse. Thomas, a veteran of countless helo rides, broke into a sweat. Aft, Genser’s aide was doubled over, vomiting. The foul smell quickly engulfed the cabin, gagging his immediate neighbors.
The special ops bird flared and hung motionless then dipped and bounced roughly to a stop. Colonel Harcourt sprang to his feet, pistol in hand, forcing open the cabin door, jumping to the dirt. The pilot idled, waiting for the reassuring all-clear before securing the engines. When the twin turbines changed pitch and wound down, Harcourt stuck his head back through the retracted door and locked his eyes on Alexander.
“Follow me, sir,” he barked against the racket. He wanted to get his passengers out of the helo. Sitting on the ground, it was a big, fat target.
It was 8:05 p.m. The last traces of daylight disappeared behind tall pines. The trees grew black and ominous. Alexander poked his head through the exit and led his troupe down the aluminum steps. They moved haltingly, gripping the handrail, glancing nervously across the unfamiliar landscape. They were quickly surrounded by twenty or so Rangers in full battle dress, camouflage paint smeared over their exposed skin. All carried the recently issued, shortened M-16, the M4A. Squad leaders maneuvered the soldiers quickly and efficiently, without a sound.
“Where the hell are we?” Alexander asked the colonel.
Harcourt looked exasperated. “Change of plans, sir. The GMCC is not ready. They’ve had trouble getting a full crew and getting underway. It’s going to be a while before we can rendezvous. My orders are to hold here.”
“What’s a while?” barked Alexander. He wasn’t long on patience at the moment.
“Can’t say, sir. Maybe two hours, maybe three. I have to keep you safe. We can’t risk a linkup until the GMCC is operational and security has been set. Right now, it’s a mess. We’ve always had a lot more time.”
Alexander was beside himself. Here he was the secretary of defense, and he felt like a hostage. He needed to get back into the command loop. He needed to find out what was happening. He turned to Thomas. “We’ve got to get some sort of comms going. See what you can do. Coordinate with General Bartholomew. Come up with a plan.”
Thomas grabbed the colonel and moved out. The other passengers were herded well away from the helo. Rangers bracketed the leaders from Washington as they marched down a narrow trail leading into the woods.
Alexander’s troupe had landed on the outskirts of Mathews Arm Campground, a popular overnight campground bordering Skyline Drive. Terrified holiday visitors had been ushered to the exit by men in combat gear. A handful of stubborn campers were under a makeshift house arrest.
Winding one hundred yards through the dense trees, the group emerged into a partial clearing. Here they would wait until further instructions.
The setting was surreal. The secretary of defense and of state and top generals and admirals from the Joint Staff were gathered in a picnic area at Mathews Arm, surrounded by troops. Despite the September heat, the night brought a chill at this elevation. They all stood awkwardly in suits and dress uniforms. Except for the clothes, it could have been something out of the civil war. The only thing missing was a campfire.
At thirteen minutes past nine, Alexander convened a stand-up, ad-hoc war council. Alexander had to raise his voice to be heard. The Rangers had provided makeshift lighting.