Prior to raising the scope, he did a final check with his sonar and radio room to make certain there were no unexpected threats waiting above like an antisubmarine helicopter loitering directly above them. Once relatively sure they were safe from immediate danger, he raised the scope. Everything he would see was automatically recorded for later analysis. As planned, the scope was above the surface for barely three seconds, during which time Styles swept the view across the entire armada sallying forth out of Polyarny for — what he prayed — was just an exercise.
Once the scope was again below the surface, he ordered a course change to reposition the Albany to better observe the unexpected Russian deployment. Certain they were again safely hidden beneath the waves and not about to be run over by the approaching Russian submarines, he turned his attention to the film. One by one he and his fellow bridge officers identified the various submarines coming out or harbor. The Borei—despite being a ballistic missile boat — was conspicuously smaller than the Typhoons. This in and of itself was an oddity. Russian sub design had been going for ever larger submarines.
Styles couldn’t help wonder what other secrets she might be hiding.
Chapter Three
Lieutenant Junior Grade Kristen Whitaker looked through the car window at the cold Puget Sound rain. Upon getting her dress uniform back from the dry cleaners, she’d gone over it with an iron to make certain it was impeccable. Her uniform cap was brand new. Her shoes were shined to a mirror gloss. Her four ribbons were perfectly centered one eighth of an inch above her left breast pocket. Her hair was impeccably braided. She’d spent years preparing for this moment, and she’d done everything she could to make her first impression a good one.
Except she’d forgotten her umbrella.
Dummy.
Kristen looked at the gate leading to Pier D. It was only twenty yards away, but she could barely make out the two civilian rent-a-cops on duty cowering under the awning of a guard shack. She’d be soaked to the skin before she got halfway to the gate. She contemplated the gloomy skies, hoping there might be a break in the rain. But low clouds hung over the harbor like a shroud and gave no indication of a let up anytime soon.
“Maybe you could check in tomorrow, ma’am?” the female petty officer who’d driven Kristen from the squadron headquarters in Bangor offered. “Your orders say you don’t have to report for another four weeks.”
Kristen glanced back at the pudgy African American who’d been so kind to her — the only one who had — when Kristen checked into the squadron headquarters earlier in the day. Kristen knew the petty officer was right. Upon receiving her orders from Admiral Beagler back in Hawaii, she’d forgone any leave due her and rushed directly to Washington well ahead of schedule. So she could, in good conscience, return to her nice, dry room at the barracks and wait until the next day.
What’s another day?
Kristen shook her head. “It’s just a little rain. A little rain never hurt anybody,” she assured the petty officer who looked up at Kristen’s hair.
“If you say so, ma’am,” the petty officer replied skeptically. “Maybe we could run to the Base Exchange and get you an umbrella…”
“No, I’ve waited long enough for this,” Kristen replied and took her uniform cap and set it firmly on her head, knowing it would look more like an old sack by the time she reached the pier beyond the gate. She looked back at the petty officer a final time. She wasn’t one for ostentatious displays of emotion. Quite the opposite in fact, but she appreciated politeness and kindness.
“Thank you for… everything.”
“No problem, ma’am,” she replied with a conspiratorial grin. “Us girls gotta stick together, right?
Kristen reached over and squeezed the woman’s hand. “Right.”
“Give’em hell, ma’am.”
Kristen took a deep breath and grabbed her soft leather briefcase before opening the door and stepping out into the torrential downpour. She walked across the pavement to the gate, and, as she’d feared, she was soaked through to the skin before she reached the puzzled guards. Kristen stepped under the awning leading to the metal detector and handed her security badge over to the men.
She waited patiently as they looked through her briefcase to make certain she wasn’t carrying anything hazardous and ran her security badge through a card reader. Kristen stood calmly, doing her best not to show the combination of excitement and nervousness she was feeling.
Her whole life had been in preparation for this moment. The last four years especially so, as she’d fought the naval establishment, deep-seated prejudice, and more than a healthy dose of chauvinism to reach this point. No woman had ever done what she was about to. She’d sacrificed nearly everything short of her life to get here, and no rain would stop her now. She clipped her security pass back in place, stepped through the checkpoint, went past the vehicle barriers, and onto the pier itself.
Any thought that her years of struggle weren’t worth it faded as she saw the dark, menacingly beautiful shape of the submarine tied up along the pier. Despite the taciturn demeanor she carefully maintained, she couldn’t resist a shiver of excitement followed by a queer numbness as she looked upon her personal Holy Grail. Mooring lines held the nine-thousand-ton beast fast along the pier. Dockside, there were half a dozen trucks and vans from various contractors who were helping the crew get the submarine ready for sea.
As if in a dream, Kristen walked down the pier toward another security booth, this one positioned at the top of the gangplank leading to the dark hull of the submarine. As she walked, relishing every moment, her senses struggled to absorb every sight, sound, and smell. Diesel fumes mixed with saltwater and the smell of burning metal as a symphony of power drills, metal grinders, torches, hammer drills, portable generators, and countless other tools roared while men worked feverishly.
She stopped at the second security checkpoint where two armed crewmen wearing bulletproof vests were on duty, inspecting security badges yet again before allowing anyone onto the submarine. They each eyed her curiously, apparently not expecting her.
“What can we do for you, ma’am?” a chunky Latino named Ramirez asked from under the protection of the checkpoint roof.
Kristen knew this would be just the first of many tests she would have to face now that she’d gotten what she wanted. Rear Admiral Beagler had warned her before leaving Pearl about “being careful what you wish for.” He’d been instrumental in helping her achieve her goal of serving aboard a submarine, but even he’d felt it necessary to warn her that the difficulties she’d endured to this point would pale in comparison to actually serving on a real sub. As she stood in the driving rain, she looked at the petty officer, hoping she didn’t appear too bitchy as she replied smoothly, “You can start by snapping out a salute, Petty Officer Ramirez.”
Although required to salute all officers, it was quite common for sailors in the Navy to conveniently forget this simple protocol, especially when the salute was for junior officers. Properly chastised, Ramirez and his fellow sentry saluted, and Kristen returned it smartly.
“Sorry ma’am,” Ramirez apologized. “What can we do for you?”
“I’m checking in,” she replied trying to sound professional and matter of fact at the same time. It was no secret she was coming, but she wasn’t scheduled to arrive for nearly a month, so she wasn’t surprised by their looks of disbelief.
“No shit?” Ramirez thought out loud.