Seawolf Mask of Command (36 page)

“So much for movie night,” Terry responded to the news with characteristic flare.

Kristen entered the wardroom a few minutes later. Most of the officers were already assembled as were COB and Doc Reed. She moved toward her chair, with everyone giving her plenty of room so as to avoid possibly brushing up against her burns.

“You don’t have to be here, Kristen,” Ryan Walcott suggested. “You’re on light duty.”

“The captain said all officers,” she replied. “I thought I should be here.”

All of them—save Ski—had come to visit her while in sickbay, and each of them had expressed their thoughts regarding her actions on behalf of the boat. And as she moved to her usual spot, she received several welcoming smiles. She took her seat, and, as expected, Gibbs appeared and immediately began fussing over her.

Kristen tried to deter him, but he was insistent she eat something and she was finally saved when Brodie, followed by the XO entered. Brodie’s face—as usual—was unreadable. The perfect poker face. Once everyone was seated, Brodie wasted no time with pleasantries and after Gibbs exited the wardroom, Brodie got down to it. “We should link up with the
Frank Cable
in the vicinity of the Bayonnaise Rocks at seventeen hundred tomorrow evening,” he began. “I don’t want to surface until after nightfall and definitely not before seventeen forty-five.

“What’s happening at seventeen forty-five, Skipper?” Ryan Walcott asked.

“A Russian
Zenit 6U
spy satellite will be passing overhead at that time. Now, it is doubtful the Russians will be looking for us, but I don’t want to take any chances.”

The fact the Russians even cared that the
Seawolf
was at sea was a point of concern.

“Once we rendezvous with the
Frank Cable,
we have eight hours to tie up alongside, load a pair of LMRS drones and accompanying crew,” Brodie said, nodding toward Kristen.

Now she knew why he’d been curious about her experience with the drones.

“Plus,” he resumed, “we will take on a Dry Deck Shelter, compete with a SEAL Delivery Vehicle, the SEAL support team for the DDS, and a second SEAL team.”

Across from her, Kristen noticed the color drain from Martin’s face. Everyone else was now watching their captain intently.

“Their mission remains classified, and if and when it is necessary, I’ll inform all of you of the details. Until then, no one is to question any of the SEALs regarding their mission. I’ll simply say their orders and ours come from the highest authority.”

“Skipper,” COB said with a face that reminded Kristen of a bull dog ready to sink his teeth into its next victim. “It takes twelve hours to rig a DDS.”

“I know what the book says, COB,” Brodie replied. “But eight hours and thirty-five minutes after the Russian satellite passes overhead, a Chinese
FSW-1
satellite will be in the area, and we must…
must
…be submerged and underway.”

“Oh, this just keeps getting better and better,” Terry said with a confident smile.

“I’m glad you agree, Terry,” Brodie replied, apparently liking Terry’s bravado.

“Excuse me, sir?” Martin asked, sounding anything but daring at the moment.

“Yes, Mister Martin?”

“What about the two TLAM-Ns?” he asked. “Are we transferring those to the
Frank Cable?”
His voice hinted at what he hoped would happen.

Brodie’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he exchanged a brief look of understanding with the XO. “No, Mister Martin. We’ll be holding onto those for a while longer, I’m afraid.”

“Sir?” Andrew Stahl asked the next question.

“Whatcha got, Weps?”

“We’re full up in the torpedo room. To fit a pair of LMRS drones, we’ll need to offload something.”

“Negative,” Brodie replied. “Load tubes one and four with MK-48 torpedoes to free up space.”

This was greeted with dead silence. They were already loaded to the gills with ammunition, and Navy regulations forbid storing weapons in torpedo tubes except in time of war.

“Uh, sir,” Stahl asked delicately. “Are we at war?”

“Not yet,” Brodie replied. “But when the shooting starts, I think we’ll want every torpedo we can get our hands on.” His tone wasn’t mocking or in the least bit humorous. Kristen found herself watching him, wondering if she might have been able to hold up as well as he had under similar circumstances. Only her brief interaction with him in his cabin had given her any hint that he might be under great strain. When about the boat, he was always calm and steady.

They spent another thirty minutes discussing the logistical details that went along with bringing up to twenty SEALs on board, plus a team of operators and technicians to handle a pair of LMRS drones. Being on light duty, Kristen was assigned no tasks, even though she was anxious to make herself useful. Finally, Brodie asked if there were any other questions. Kristen raised a reddish hand.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Sir, what can I do?”

“Until Doc Reed clears you to return to full duty, I want you to rest,” he told her. His eyes looked at her with the same uncompromising gaze she’d first seen a month earlier when they’d met.

“You deserve a rest, Kristen,” Graves added. “We can handle this.”

“Absolutely,” Terry nodded in agreement, and his comment was echoed. Around her, everyone was looking at her with a combination of pride and compassion, something she’d never expected would happen.

“Aye, sir,” she replied simply, unable to say anything else.

Qeshm Island, Islamic Republic of Iran

L
ocated just off the coast of Iran in the Strait of Hormuz, Qeshm was ideally situated geographically to be heavily involved in trade since the dawn of civilization. Every day, dozens of super tankers carrying hundreds of millions of gallons of crude oil exited the Persian Gulf and sailed directly past Qeshm. On the island’s limited acreage of arable land, those islanders not involved in fishing grew melons and dates for domestic use.

But, because of the strategic location of the tiny island, commercial interests weren’t the only concerns on the island. The Islamic state had built an extensive, underground military facility along the coast of the island. Buried deep beneath the island’s surface, a small naval port had been carved out of the rock where the Iranian navy maintained her modest submarine fleet safe from direct attack by American cruise missiles and aerial bombs. Finished in 2012, the small harbor could handle a total of twelve submarines, more than enough for the Republic’s tiny submarine force.

Admiral Hassan Jafari looked at those submarines tied up within the facility. Three were Russian-built
Kilo
class submarines and quite old. There was a single
Fateh
class boat. Domestically built, it was one of the newest submarines in the arsenal, but Iranian submarine technology wasn’t yet able to produce much more than a coastal patrol submarine capable of deploying mines, and certainly nothing to challenge a modern navy, yet. Finally, crowded in among a few berths at the far end of the facility, was Iran’s fleet of midget submarines. Twenty-one in all, these were meant more to harass enemy shipping than for direct confrontation. They certainly were no match for even a single American nuclear-powered submarine. Which meant, despite the fiery rhetoric of the Republic’s government, Iran’s submarine force was inconsequential.

At least it had been.

It was a moonless night outside the opening of the harbor, and he almost didn’t see the dark shape being nudged gingerly into the maw of the cave leading to the facility. Jafari’s skin tingled as the submarine’s hull slowly appeared. Larger than any of the Iranian submarines in the facility, and vastly more capable, the
Borei
was Russian built, but unlike the aging
Kilos,
the
Borei
was the newest, and the deadliest submarine on the planet. Jafari hadn’t ever expected to see her, let alone step on board her. Just how his government had convinced the Russians to part with the submarine, was a mystery, and Jafari didn’t really care. Lining the pier were fifty of Iran’s finest sailors ready to board the ballistic submarine to begin learning their new vessel under the tutelage of the Russian sailors who’d brought the submarine here.

But the
Borei
wasn’t alone. Jafari knew Russian ballistic missile submarines never travelled alone. Even before the
Borei
was secured to her waiting berth, a second ominous shape appeared, slipping in carefully guided by four tug boats. The
Yuri Gagarin
looked similar to a regular
Akula
class submarine, but Jafari knew this was a misconception. She was something entirely knew, and he literally shivered with excitement. The transfer of the two submarines from Russia to the Islamic Republic was one of the most closely guarded secrets in the state. Only carefully screened personnel could work in this underground facility, and of these, further precautions had been taken to ensure there would be no leaks. The crewmen of the tugboats were all navy personnel, and their families were under close watch. The dock workers were being closely watched, and their families targeted in the event of treachery. Patrol boats had secured all the approaches to the underground harbor and Revolutionary Guard troops patrolled the landward side, preventing enemy spies infiltrating the facility.

Jafari watched with supreme satisfaction as the newest, and truest jewels in the Islamic Republic’s Navy were secured at their berths before he went down to meet the Russian officials and officers who would supervise the handover of the two boats.

Sound Room, USS Seawolf

“H
ow’re you feeling, Miss Whitaker?” Chief Miller asked as Kristen took a seat in front of the narrowband stack.

Kristen had been going stir crazy with nothing to do while the rest of the crew was busy making preparations for the rendezvous with the
Frank Cable.
Her burns weren’t hurting as badly as they had, although her injured skin, especially her blistered left arm, was still very tender. But she’d worn out the deck in her cabin pacing back and forth, and Gibbs was acting like a mother hen whenever she went in the wardroom. So she’d sneaked down into the sound room in hopes of making some use out of her time.

“Much better, thank you, Senior Chief,” she answered, not wanting to talk about it.

He leaned over her, his breath reminding her of an ash tray. He then lowered his voice so the others wouldn’t hear. “I just wanted to tell you how proud we all are of you, Miss.”

“Yeah,” Fabrini said from a few feet away, obviously having heard Miller’s words. “I don’t think I could’ve done it.” The other sonar operators were at their stations, but they’d removed their headphones for a few seconds and were looking toward her, nodding in agreement.

“Thanks fellas,” she replied, having had dozens of crewmen stop her in the passageway on her way to sonar to say similar words. “But I really just want to forget about it, if you know what I mean.” She doubted they did. For her, the entire incident with the fire was a nightmare that she relived every time she closed her eyes. Her unusual memory made certain she could forget no part of it. Even now, as she sat at the console, she could remember the searing pain as the flames burned her, the smell of her hair burning, and then the terrifying sensation of choking as the Halon had sucked the oxygen out of the air around her and she’d gasped for air like a fish out of water. Miller stood back up, but offered a soft tap on the shoulder to accentuate his approval of what she’d done.

“We’re looking for the
Frank Cable
, people,” Miller told them, getting back to business. “The captain wants to use the rendezvous as a simulated torpedo attack, so look sharp.”

Kristen adjusted her seat to make herself as comfortable as she could, considering her burns, and went to work, wanting something to think about besides the fire. Before her was a pair of computer screens, one stacked on top of the other. The screens were green with sound detected by the submarine’s various hydrophones and sonar sensors displayed in a cascading series of bright dots. As Kristen moved her cursor over any single dot, she could listen to it.