Charles Taylor - Boomer

Bennett stared at the aircraft’s last position. “When they do send a new crew out, tell that pilot to stay away from that Russian ship.”

“I figure that’s what got ‘em, too,” Larsen agreed, “but we’ll probably never know.” He pointed a finger at Mark Bennett and waved it in a circle. “You were going to locate that attack sub of yours … Pasadena ,” he recalled.

“Nothing. No response during normal communications periods. We’ve had some aircraft in her operations area the past few hours searching, planting sonobuoys … everything. Not a sound. My boats don’t operate that way—” Bennett stopped in midsentence and stared back at the CNO, then waggled a finger back at him. “Now, damn it, Ray, stop pointing that thing at me. You really piss me off sometimes. I’ve got enough to think about without having to convince myself not to take a swipe at the Chief of Naval Operations — and believe me, I’ve thought about it the past twenty-four hours. So.…” He couldn’t think of another thing to say.

Larsen’s face expanded into a huge grin. His normally penetrating blue eyes twinkled. He turned the finger that was still pointing in Bennett’s direction around and stared at it. “Looks like a regular, run-of-the-mill index finger to me.” He raised his eyebrows. “Never shot anyone with it yet.” Then he uttered a short, sharp sound that was intended to be a laugh. “So I was intimidating you with it.” He looked at the anger. “I often wondered if it was working that well, but I never had the guts to ask anyone.” He glanced over at Neil Arrow. “Does it piss you off, too?”

“You’re damn right it does, Ray. We’re not a bunch of telephone commanders trying to act important, it irritates the hell out of me.” There, he’d made his own point.

“Well, all you’ve got to do is say something,” Larsen said, pleased with himself. “It’s just a bad habit, I guess.” But just as quickly he wheeled around and pointed it at Arrow’s flag lieutenant, whose mouth had dropped slightly at the shift in conversation. “If I ever hear a story about this conversation, I’ll know exactly where it came from, young man.”

“My lips are sealed, Admiral.” Once again the young officer was the picture of perfect naval decorum.

“Back to Pasadena ,” Larsen said. “You think the same thing happened to her that got your boomers?”

“We haven’t got the vaguest idea what happened to Nevada and Alaska, plus you’re talking about two different classes of submarines. No one’s reported any unidentified contacts that might be her. And the op areas were too far apart.” He pointed out the last locations of the three submarines. “Look at that distance. No one’s going to break their orders and go chasing all over the Pacific.”

“Engineering casualties?” Larsen glanced over at Robbie Newman, aware that the question had already been dismissed with the boomers.

“Doubtful again. More likely human error, if she really is gone. Pasadena was in beautiful shape. I had my boys in Washington comb her files. Nothing.”

Larsen’s eyes fell on Mark Bennett. He held his right index finger in his left hand as if it might escape. “I’ve got it under control now. See?” He held the trapped finger up for all to see. “How about the crew?”

“Wayne Newell is one of the best. He was one of my officers when I had Stonewall Jackson. Dick Makin, his XO, is a superior officer, too. There could have been an accident, but….” He finished the sentence by shaking his head.

“There’s no choice, then.” Larsen’s eyes were narrowed now into their familiar slits to display his unhappiness. “I haven’t got any proof, but I’ve got to tell the President that it appears our problems are due to enemy action — and the only enemy that I can imagine out there is Soviet … even if we haven’t located any of their submarines. He has to make a decision.”

“Captain, really … believe me, if I so much as hear a peep that sounds the least bit odd, you’ll be the first to know.” Moroney had been chief sonarman aboard Manchester for eighteen months, even before Ben Steel had assumed command. Up until now the captain had been what the men considered “cool.” Never flustered. Not a sign of anger unless it was obviously called for. He handled himself well in any situation. But now there were signs that he was anxious, an omnipresent figure lurking behind the sonarmen on watch, asking them questions every few minutes, borrowing headphones to make sure they were functioning properly. Moroney could see signs of irritation from his men.

“Am I that obvious, Chief?”

“Like your fly was wide open and the flag was dying, Captain. You know … when you’re looking for a contact, it takes twice as long to find it than if you just wait for it to show up. I’ve been in this business all my life, and I guarantee that if you’re not looking too hard, they just come to you.”

Steel felt a smile beckoning at the corners of his mouth. Moroney was right. That old saying about the chiefs running the Navy was right, too. If you let them do their job, you were running your ship properly. “Okay, Chief, you win. I’ll stay out of your hair. I can’t will a contact no matter how bad I want it. I promise I’ll stay out of your hair for the time being. But you got to understand it’s not easy for an old sonar officer.”

“Now, sir, you don’t have to ask permission to visit. We wouldn’t know what to do if you didn’t stop around for a cup of coffee. It’s just that I think you’ll be more ready for an attack when the time comes if you take it easier.…” He was fumbling for the right words.

“Say no more, Chief. I understand. As usual, you’re right.”

Moroney could feel his face warming. “I didn’t mean—”

“You’re just like my mother, Chief. She was always right, too. It just took me a little longer to admit it. “I’m on my way to control to bother Mr. Simonds. Then maybe I’ll grab a little sack time while you’re all busting your asses. That’s the soft life of a captain.” Steel was tempted to clap Moroney on the shoulder, as he might do to encourage the younger officers, but it didn’t seem the proper thing to do. The chief already had the headphones back on his ears and was leaning over one of the sonarmen’s shoulders, pointing at something on his screen.

Steel took the few short steps that brought him into the control room and stopped, gently sliding the sonar door shut behind him. It was almost as quiet as sonar. Each man was immersed in his job. Only the diving officer was talking, softly explaining something to one of the planesmen from his position to their rear. From the raised platform behind them the OOD quietly noted the displays on the control panel, one hand gripping the brace hanging from the overhead. The duty quartermaster was at the rear of the control room punching buttons on the navigation computer which would provide him with an accurate ship’s position. Two others were working on the fire-control equipment on the starboard side of the space.

No one noticed Steel until a radioman appeared from his tiny space situated back near the entrance to engineering. The radioman headed through control toward the forward passageway and glanced at his watch before saying, “Good morning, Captain.”

“Good morning, Wirtz. Got anything for me?”

“Negative, sir. We don’t go up to copy our broadcast for another couple of hours. If you’re headed for the sack, sir, you’d better grab a few quick hours. I’ll be the one waking you up then.”

Steel nodded. “Fine. Maybe I will try a few hours’ snoozing.” He caught the OOD’s eye. “Is Mr. Simonds taking a nap?”