Chapter Twenty
The apprehension in the wardroom hung like a dark cloud over everyone seated around the table. Those present ate sparingly, barely doing more than picking at their food as each dealt with his own secret fears regarding the situation at hand. No one felt comfortable talking about what happened to the Virginia or what was awaiting the Seawolf as she continued her headlong rush toward the Persian Gulf, hell bent on challenging any and all comers.
Kristen took a few tentative spoonfuls from a bowl of instant oatmeal, a cup of lukewarm tea at hand, her head slightly bowed and her headphones on, listening to the ocean sounds, trying to discern something within the computer-generated noise pattern. She’d managed a solid nine hours of uninterrupted sleep, but the nine hours hadn’t passed uneventfully.
Upon arrival in the wardroom, she leafed through the classified message board and saw, during her rest period, the world above had been raging. Iran had announced the sinking of a foreign submarine in her “territorial waters.” As punishment for this trespass, Iran was temporarily restricting passage through the Strait of Hormuz as a sign of its resolve and unwillingness to be “bullied” by the “agents of Zionism.”
An immediate result of the Iranian announcement was a skyrocketing of oil prices on global markets. Plus, there was a flurry of diplomatic activity at the United Nations which issued a scathing rebuke to Iran. But the UN’s admonition was a toothless warning as Russia and eight other countries walked out of the General Assembly meeting in support of the Islamic Republic. Because of the crisis, international shipping traffic was fleeing the region following a speech by the President of the United States wherein he announced America’s unwavering resolve in the matter. Kristen assumed this meant war if the Iranians didn’t back down.
The loss of the Virginia loomed large among the officers and crew. It was difficult to find anyone on the Seawolf who didn’t have at least a passing acquaintance on the Virginia. Kristen knew one man who’d been on the downed submarine. He’d been with her at Annapolis, and even though she hadn’t known him well, the fact he was gone brought into close perspective her own mortality. Ski, who’d known the captain of the Virginia well, looked moodier and angrier than usual, and his dark mood made everyone else a bit jumpy.
The captain — normally a calming influence — had momentarily made an appearance in the wardroom but had then been called away to the message center to receive what she assumed would be more in a seemingly unbroken string of bad news. As she stared at Brodie’s empty chair, her thoughts again turned to what Patricia had told her about being afraid to live in the present. Kristen knew Patricia was right. She’d squandered so many chances for happiness, and now, as she stared at Brodie’s empty chair, she wondered if her choices had destined her to a life alone.
For most of her youth, Kristen foolishly thought she was the master of her own destiny. But during the last three months, she’d learned a hard lesson regarding just how little control she had over her future. In fact, she no longer felt she had control over anything, including her emotions. She’d fallen in love with a man she could never hope to have and now found herself thrust into a situation which she felt — despite her years of hard work and sacrifice — she would be able to influence only slightly. The world itself seemed to be coming apart and there was nothing she could do about it.
Her eyes lingered on the empty chair at the head of the table, wishing for a moment — just one moment — in which the mask of command could fall away and the concerns of protocol and duty might fade so she could tell him how she felt. After years of living for tomorrow, the cold reality had struck her hard with a simple truth: her tomorrows were — unquestionably — few in number. All she had left to cling to was the moment.
The door opened and Brodie walked in followed by Graves, both apparently undaunted by current events. All eyes expectantly fell on the captain, some seeming to beg for even faint hope of a peaceful resolution. Others — most notably Ski’s — hoped the Joint Chiefs would take them off the leash and let the Seawolf loose to seek vengeance for the lost Virginia.
Brodie sat down, showing no sign he noticed everyone’s eyes upon him as he resumed eating his cold breakfast. Beside him, Graves sat quietly sipping his coffee.
“What’s happened now?” Ski nearly growled.
Brodie didn’t look up; instead, he looked to almost force the food into himself as if knowing he would need the energy for the coming struggle. But after a long few moments of silence, he glanced at his executive officer and gave a brief nod indicating Graves should explain what they’d just learned.
Graves cleared his throat before speaking. “The Islamic Republic announced this morning they are now a nuclear power. Further, they have targeted several densely populated cities in Europe for destruction if any nation tries to force a passage through the Strait of Hormuz.” It was not completely unexpected, but hardly welcome news.
The mood in the wardroom grew a little bleaker as the Iranians raised the stakes once more. Any more thought of food was forgotten as each officer displayed visible signs of growing concern. All except Brodie, who continued to eat as if they weren’t on the precipice of open war. He looked almost nonchalant about the information as Graves, still grieving over the loss of the Virginia and his own close friends, continued, “As you know, the United States and our allies have been redeploying tactical air assets, antisubmarine patrol craft, and mine warfare resources into the region in preparation for a coordinated assault to overwhelm the Iranians’ landward defenses under construction in and around the Strait. But, given this new potential threat, it has been decided we can’t risk any overt attempt to force our way through the Straits until the National Command Authority can determine the credibility of the Iranian nuclear threat.” Graves was clearly struggling to keep his obvious anger and remorse in check as he paused, swallowing hard.
“Our own Air Force, in conjunction with the British RAF and other allies, is currently developing an extensive strike package for a massive, all-out assault on suspected Iranian nuclear sites and rocket facilities in hopes of overwhelming their ability to react and destroying any land-based strategic threat they may possess.”
Kristen wiped her face in exasperation, shaking her head. Even if they could take out the land-based threat in such an attack — which was in no way certain — there was still a significant and credible threat posed by the Borei, hiding somewhere inside the Persian Gulf. The possibility the Borei might be armed with missiles was not easily dismissed.
“Sir?” Graves asked when Brodie, who was methodically working his way through the food on his plate, glanced up.
Everyone assumed Brodie would say something regarding their mission, and every eye was once again on him. But instead of some comment on the crisis, the captain motioned toward Martin. “Mister Martin,” he swallowed down a mouthful of food, “could you pass the Tabasco Sauce, the eggs are a little bland this morning.”
Martin, nearly in a state of controlled panic at the possibility of a nuclear exchange, slowly, as if in a daze, reached out for the bottle of hot sauce and passed it down. The bottle passed silently from officer to officer, each man taking it in turn as they dealt with their own thoughts of what might be over the horizon. Despite the glum mood, Brodie’s sense of calm was infectious, and they watched as their captain steadily and methodically unscrewed the cap and doused his remaining food in a liberal soaking before screwing the cap back on and setting it in front of him.