“I know that you’re an engineer, Captain, and a damned genius and you can’t hardly keep your patience listenin’ to me tell you that story. That’s the difference between a good engineer and a good politician; politicians listen kinda close to people.
“Michael P. Brannon, Vice Admiral of our Navy, did to the Roosians what I did to that bully. He knocked the chip off their shoulder and he whupped their ass. They understand that kind of talk, Steel. The country understands that kind of talk.” The faded hawklike eyes under the bushy gray eyebrows peered through the cigarette smoke at Captain Steel’s ascetic face.
“Just mebbe, Captain, just mebbe you’ve misjudged the caliber of Michael P. Brannon. Mebbe he’s a mite too tough for you. Mebbe he’s got some ideas that I haven’t had a chance to hear. Think that could be so?”
Captain Steel drained the large glass of orange juice he had ordered. “We’re not staying on track, sir. Admiral Brannon has committed an act of war. He did so on his own. The President, the Congress of the United States, has been deliberately ignored by Brannon. That should concern you, very greatly.
“What concerns me is where does this madness of Brannon’s stop? I’ve lost one of my ballistic missile submarines. The Soviet Union has lost one of their newest attack submarines. What is next? Will the Soviets destroy two of my missile submarines and will Brannon then retaliate by destroying two of their submarines? You know, as well as I know, that our land-based nuclear missiles can be destroyed in the first Soviet nuclear strike. If that happens our only capability for retaliation lies in my missile submarines.” He leaned over the table, subjecting his sensitive nostrils to the Congressman’s cigarette smoke.
“I will not allow this to go on, sir! I will not risk losing one more of my submarines! I came to you, confided in you, because I trust you. But if you cannot solve this I will be forced to take action!”
Congressman Wendell leaned back in his chair and looked at the man across the table. He smiled softly.
“Captain, I told you to let me study this and I’d solve it. This is a political matter and if you want to know something, your tit’s in the wringer just as much as Brannon’s is. You knew about this whole thing and you ain’t done anything about it and you’ll be out on your Jewish ass right alongside of Brannon.
“Now you listen to me. We can’t go public with this as long as the Roosians don’t make any formal protests and I’m sure that ain’t gonna happen. We can’t force Brannon to resign because his personal life is so clean it nauseates me. But we got that stupid asshole, that Admiral McCarty on the Joint Chiefs. He’s a lightweight if I ever saw one. And like most lightweights who maneuver themselves into a nice position of power he gets worried if anyone tries to sneak anything by him. I’m havin’ dinner with him tonight at my house, got to rehearse him on his testimony before my committee, that business of the Navy wantin’ four more carriers. Might drop a word in his ear about how Admiral Brannon has run a sneak around the end of his line. McCarty was an aviator. They don’t usually like you submarine people. If I put it to him in the right way he might force Brannon to retire early. He knows how to put pressure on Brannon.”
“Tonight, then?” Steel said.
“Provided McCarty gives me the openin’ I need,” Congressman Wendell said. “I’ll be talkin’ to you soon.” He rose and shuffled out of the restaurant, leaving the check to be paid by Captain Steel.
Out in the broad reaches of the Atlantic Ocean the U.S.S. Orca was making all possible speed westward. Far out to her starboard side the U.S.S. Devilfish was following a parallel course. Mission: intercept and shadow a Soviet ballistic missile submarine headed for the East Coast of the United States and sink that submarine if it gave any indication that it was opening its missile hatches to fire its nuclear missiles.
Turk Raynor relaxed in a canvas chair on the starboard side of the Orca’s torpedo room. He cocked an eye toward the loudspeaker as it rasped, and listened to the Quartermaster of the Watch reporting the hourly course, speed, and depth. Raynor turned to one of his torpedo gang.
“Way things are going, heading on this course, we’re gettin’ farther and farther from Holy Loch. Gettin’ farther and farther from a chance to go up to the Personnel Office and put in for my transfer. Way things are going lately I’ll never get off this fucking ship. We’ll probably be on war alert and all hands will be frozen in their duty stations.”
Amos Spangler, a tall, slender torpedoman with arms roped with stringy muscle, lit a cigarette. “You get any dope on why we turned west and they opened up the throttle, Turk?”
“Quartermaster told me that we’re runnin’ with the Devilfish. She’s about five miles out to starboard. Some Russian missile submarine is comin’ down from the north and we’re supposed to intercept her and if she makes a funny move we sink her.” The senior torpedoman stretched his arms above his head until his heavy shoulder muscles creaked.
“Trouble with this fucking nuclear submarine Navy is that they don’t tell you a fuck-all about what’s goin’ on. I’ll bet those nuke poges we got aboard know all the operating dope. If you ain’t been to nuke school on these damned ships then you’re nothin’ but slave labor.”
“Until they tell you to get ready to fire. Then you’re damned important. Old Man comes down here to pass the time of day and make sure we ain’t fuckin’ off under the sun lamp or some fuckin’ thing,” Spangler said.
“Don’t knock the Old Man. He’s good people,” Raynor growled. “If it wasn’t for some old hands on this tub we’d never know what was going on.” He stared at his torpedomen.
“You people got to know we didn’t fire at no Goddamn electronic target when we blew them two out of the tubes. If you don’t know, we fired at a Russian submarine.”
“Why the hell did we do that? We didn’t get no announcement of war starting.” Spangler asked.
“Sharkfin is gone,” Raynor said flatly. “Quartermaster said the Russian submarine we went after with the sank the Sharkfin, couple of weeks ago. Old Iron Mike, sitting there in the Pentagon, thinks he’s back on a diesel boat in the war against Japan. He sent orders to Devilfish and us to get the Russian sub. We got her. Bam! Two! Now we’re gonna dog this Russian missile submarine and if the skipper of that tub makes one wrong fucking move we take him out like we took out the other one.”
“Jesus Christ!” Spangler said. “We’re at fucking war!”
“Word I get is that no war been declared,” Raynor said. “But if they keep up this silly shit you can bet your damned skivvies that if we ever get back to the States the Goddamned country will look like something that fucking cook makes in the Galley. Burned up. Like charcoal.”
Captain Reinauer sat in the Wardroom, a chart of the Atlantic in front of him on the Wardroom table. Eckert, his XO, sat next to him, pointing with the tip of a pencil at the chart.
“That’s the Russian’s course. We’re on a flat intercept, sir. Should make contact in the next eight hours if he doesn’t turn to starboard and head more toward the coast. Depending on his speed, it’s been varying.”
Reinauer touched the chart with his forefinger. “Looks like Devilfish will make the first contact, she’s closer to his course line if he keeps coming as he is.” He looked around the table at his officers.
“The order we received specified that we do complete surveillance of the Russian missile submarine. That means silent running. He can’t help knowing there’s one of us here but we’d like to keep him from knowing that there are two of us after him. Devilfish concurs. If they contact him first they won’t make any effort to go to silent running. They’ll dog him, follow him, run ahead of him, drop back, run alongside, always on his starboard hand.