Charles Taylor - Boomer

Now that age-old system was in question. Wayne Newell had refused to allow Wally Snyder to check his communications equipment even when the young officer had offered solid reasons for testing it. Newell had used security as a final reason, even though he knew the odds of Wally’s burst transmission being intercepted and their position marked were very long. Nor would he consider Tommy Lott’s professional analysis of the sonar tapes, a request that was becoming increasingly presumptive. For the first time, Lott’s emotions appeared to be overwhelming his reason.

Now Dick Makin was rereading the latest message from COMSUBPAC just handed to him by Wally. It was short and easily comprehended, yet his efficient, well-organized world was indeed coming apart:

IMPERATIVE PASADENA REPORT RESULTS OF ACTION TO DATE. YOUR SUCCESS CRITICAL TO NATIONAL STRATEGY.

There was no way of knowing it had been sent by SSV-516, nor that any response of theirs would be received only by the Soviet ship.

They were asking Pasadena to violate security at a critical juncture in her mission. This after Newell had refused a less dangerous equipment test. If she were located by electronic-counter-measures equipment because of this.…

“XO, that’s a no-no,” Snyder said. “I can’t buy it. I was told in comm school this would never happen. Not a chance in the world that they’d do something like that right now.”

“What about that communications test you wanted—”

“Comm tests, yes. A half-second burst transmission at best. No addressee involved, no chance to triangulate sources for a fix of any kind. They were designed for what I honestly consider an emergency now. But a message like this really scares me. It conflicts with everything I ever learned about naval communications. What can I say, sir? I smell a rat.”

The executive officer understood communications security as well as Wally Snyder, as well as any other man on Pasadena. Submarines were on their own. The limited communications they experienced were generated by shore command. During wartime it was understood that submarines reported their successes only when they returned — otherwise assumptions were made for lost boats after the fighting was over.

“The captain’s adamant about your request. We don’t make a peep. ‘That’s doctrine,’ he says.” So what would Newell’s reaction be to this message?

Wally Snyder glanced briefly at the XO. There was no doubt the case was closed, but he couldn’t walk out. He had to make one more try. If their equipment checked out, he’d have more faith in this message. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his knuckles pressed tightly together until he formed a steeple with his index fingers and touched them to the tip of his nose. Then he looked at Makin again. “I know there’s something wrong, XO. I don’t know why. I don’t know what it is. But I know deep inside that I’m right. When they trained me, they didn’t leave out anything. They turned out a damn fine submariner, too.” He slapped his thighs with his hands and stood up. “Request permission to take this to the captain myself, sir.” This was the way he’d get his point across to Newell. “I’d like your support.”

Makin’s lips tightened into that rare expression they all knew when he was about to dig in his heels. “I discussed this with him once. I won’t a second time. He’s got too much on his mind. You know you can talk to him anytime you feel it’s necessary, Wally — when he’s in the control room, in the wardroom, or you can go to his stateroom and knock—”

“But I want your backing, XO. I—”

“I have never in my career placed my captain in an awkward position with a junior officer and I don’t intend to now.” His eyes narrowed until the black pupils glistened with anger. “I’ve initialed that message. You may deliver it to him now and express yourself if you want to take the chance, but I’ll back my captain a hundred percent. His reaction will be the same as mine. We’ll remain silent until our mission is accomplished. The source of that message is secondary until our orders have been executed.”

The communications officer’s head inclined briefly m acknowledgment. “Thank you, sir,” he murmured softly. There was no purpose in challenging the authority of naval command. He turned slowly and stepped into the passageway. Makin heard Wally whisper to himself, “Thanks a lot,” as he moved away.

The XO rubbed his tired eyes slowly, pressing against his eyelids until multicolored stars glistened against the blackness. The United States was at war, not a show of force, not a localized action, but a terrifying confrontation with the Soviet Union. There were no boundaries. Civilians were as susceptible as the military. Every man aboard Pasadena had someone back home he was thinking of during every waking moment. Makin knew that each time he thought about Pat and the children in their new house looking down on Honolulu, he had to remember all the other families, too. But that was easy enough to say. It was next to impossible to do. The image of the three of them, Pat and the kids, kept pushing to the forefront, forcing all the others backward to merge in an incomprehensible blur.

That house was the first the Makins ever lived in that had a personality of its own. The others had been what a junior officer could get on a junior officer’s pay in a military community. Those had been shelters — neutral, bland, unenticing to anyone with a sense of taste. And Pat had taste that she was willing to keep in check until their time came.

It came when her husband received orders to Pasadena. She had gone out to Pearl herself to look for housing while he stayed back in New London to attend pre-XO school and mind the children. An old friend told her about a perfect house that had been purchased by her husband’s company when one of their executives was transferred back to the mainland. Places like that usually remained within the corporation in a tight housing economy like Honolulu, but it was a case of a friend of a friend who looked the other way.

Surprisingly, Pat had found a house they could afford with a view of the city and the water, and it was distinctive enough to have a personality of its own. The end result was a new personality for the Makins, a sense of pride and place that united them as a family.

It was the beginning of their transition. Dick had gone from a junior officer with ambition to the next stage, XO on an attack boat, which would make or break his career. And at the same time, the Makin family had established a sense of self. It had been a great year.

Dick smiled to himself when he realized his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. He wanted so much to retain that precious picture of Pat and the kids in front of that house that looked down on Honolulu and out to sea. But he shouldn’t — he couldn’t.

There were a hundred thirty other men aboard Pasadena who one way or another were projecting similar mental images. There were parents back on the U.S. mainland, brothers and sisters, and a number of the crew had wives and kids back there, too. He had no more idea than any other man whether they were already under attack. All-out war meant every place was a target, not just the military. For all he knew, for all any man aboard Pasadena knew, America could already be dead.

You always understood that such a situation was possible. But there was no real way to comprehend such horror until it was upon you. Beneath the surface of the Pacific, a few short words from a burst transmission were the only indication that their loved ones might have experienced a horrible death. The unknown was more ominous than any of them could have imagined. Their helplessness became magnified by their isolation. It had been only a matter of days since the initial war message, yet hours seemed days and the days seemed weeks. Only the two attacks they’d made interrupted the mental agony of not knowing. Ignorance was anything but bliss. Yet there was no desire for revenge, since they had no idea what type of vengeance they might exact.