Scott stood with his back to the central torpedo local-control panel and the four tubes canted outboard from centerline of the amidships torpedo room. He addressed the SEALs: “We have another mission briefing update in fifteen minutes. If you have any last-minute questions or comments about the mission, I’ll tell General Radford. It’ll be your last chance for a face-to-face with him.”
Van Kirk said, “Yeah, we don’t want no last-minute cluster-fucks, right, Colonel?”
Jefferson, as he toweled off, said, “Especially from you, Zipolski.” They all laughed.
Such studied insouciance masked the fact that their line of work was sometimes deadly, something they took in stride because they were ready, eager, and good at it. Scott had seen it in their eyes: confidence and a hunger for action. And a need to prove that they could handle the worst anyone could throw at them. It was a fraternity Scott was not part of and likely could never be part of because, good as he was, the SEALs considered him a liability and knew that to guarantee his safety one of them might have to die while babysitting him.
“No one’s expendable, not even you, Zipolski,” Jefferson added, eyeing Scott.
Zipolski slammed a loaded magazine into a Sig Saur with the heel of his hand. Then he joined the other SEALs headed for the wardroom.
“You okay on this, Scott?” Jefferson said as Scott crabbed through the cramped aisle.
Scott halted inches from Jefferson. He smelled the man’s sweat, felt his heat. He met Jefferson’s steady gaze. Scott knew what Jefferson meant. During training at Pearl, Jefferson had constantly measured Scott’s performance, probing for any weakness. He had observed how hard Scott had been breathing, how much trouble he’d had keeping up with the others in rough surf and during the slog across wet sandy beaches at night loaded down with gear and weapons. And above all, how good a marks-man he was with the M4 and Sig Saur. Very good, as it had turned out. Scott knew that despite his performance, Jefferson didn’t want him on the team, had said more than once that Scott belonged in the control room of a sub, not risking his neck on a mission with SEALs armed to the teeth.
“We can handle it,” Jefferson had flat out told him at Pearl. “The intel, I mean. Nothing we haven’t handled before. Maybe you should sit this one out. Radford would understand. Hell, I don’t know a damn thing about driving a sub, no reason you should know about—”
“Stow it,” Scott had said, while nursing a badly bruised thigh after a workout. “I’m along, like it or not.” He knew Jefferson resented the crossover into his territory. And why not? He wouldn’t want Jefferson driving his sub.
Now Jefferson finished seesawing the towel behind his neck and gave Scott a look. The tension that had been slowly building between them during the voyage was threatening to break into the open.
“Briefing in ten minutes,” Scott said.
Scott entered the Reno’s control room. The size of a small bedroom in a typical American split-level, the compartment was crammed with equipment and watchstanders.
On the port side forward was the ship-control station, with its seats, control yokes, and instrument consoles looking very much like those found in a jet airliner. Here, two men seated side by side controlled the Reno’s course, speed, and depth. The man on the left controlled the stern diving planes, the man on the right, the bow planes and rudder. The diving officer, a chief petty officer seated behind them, supervised their actions. To their left, the chief of the watch sat at a wraparound console equipped with monitors that displayed the status of the ship’s various systems.
A glance at the console and Scott noted the Reno’s depth — still 600 feet — and speed of advance — almost 40 knots. On the ship’s status board, Deacon had posted orders to maintain flank speed until they reached longitude 135 east. Only then, or for an emergency, would they slow down and come to PD for a look-see.
Scott moved aft to the two periscopes mounted athwartships — to the left a Type 18; to the right a Type2. Aft of the scopes were the twin plotting tables on which the Reno’s track under the Pacific Ocean was being recorded automatically, and also by hand by the navigator and the quartermaster of the watch.
Portside of the control room, behind the plotting tables, stood the ship’s inertial guidance system, gyro, and navigation equipment, all surmounted by racked radio equipment, video monitors, digital chronometers, and depth indicators.
Deacon and his exec, Rus Kramer, stood at one of the tables, the captain stepping off ranges on a chart with a pair of dividers. As Scott approached, Deacon said, “We’re making good time. Might break the record for transit, the rate we’re going.”
Scott gave Deacon a thumbs-up and said, “Ready for RDT whenever you are, Skipper.”
“Aye, sir,” Deacon said.
The Reno’s Rapid Data Transmission system worked in conjunction with GPS satellites to capture super-high-frequency transmissions at moderate depths while moving at high speed. Thus equipped, the Reno didn’t have to slow down or poke up a mast to communicate with ComSubPac at Pearl Harbor, or with the SRO in Virginia.
“Hold present course and speed,” Deacon commanded. “Make your depth five hundred feet.”
The planesman at the ship’s control station responded smartly: The Reno, her deck and hull vibrating from the changed angle of attack through the water, tilted up and sped toward the surface.
8
Scott, braced against the submarine’s up angle, entered the wardroom located one deck below the control room. It was outfitted with comfortable seating and a long table that accommodated the Reno’s officers for meals, watching movies, or conducting councils of war. At the moment the wardroom’s flat-screen video monitor displayed a wobbling dark blue background with the message RESTRICTED MEDIA.
Senior Chief Brodie, Zipolski, and the other SEALs, drinking coffee, waited for the show to start.
“Where’s Jefferson?”
“Showering, sir,” said Brodie. “Said he’d be right along.”
Scott chose not to ascribe sinister motives to Jefferson’s absence. To prepare for the broadcast, he made sure the video camera was rigged so that Radford would see all the SEALs seated around the table.
Ready, Scott checked his wristwatch. Underfoot, the deck leveled out as the Reno came shallow. The digital repeater indicated a steady 500 at the same moment the sound-powered phone squawked. Scott uncradled it and identified himself.
Deacon’s voice leaked past the handset. “Sir, we’re at five hundred feet. Course two-seven-zero, SOA forty knots. RDT is powered up and on standby.”
Scott hung up the handset and turned to Brodie. “Anything we need to discuss with Radford?”
“One thing, sir.” Brodie’s thick fingers, better suited to crushing an opponent’s windpipe than secretarial work, skipped through the pages of a small notebook. “Those Chinese pirates.”
“Drug-runners,” corrected Scott.
“Yes, sir, whatever. We sure as hell don’t know much about them. I mean, how many of them are on Matsu Shan? We don’t have anything definite in the way of numbers.”
“Agreed,” Scott said. “The SRO says that from their satellite coverage, there’s not more than twenty.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but that’s bullshit.”
“What’s bullshit?” asked Jefferson as he entered the wardroom, washed and polished, wearing fresh black cammies and matching T-shirt.
Scott looked Jefferson up and down, not masking irritation at his tardiness.