Charles Taylor - Boomer

“They can’t possibly have any clue about Pasadena —” the KGB head began.

“Quiet!” The General Secretary’s voice was a thunder clap. He intended to maintain control. “I invited you here to discuss the situation, not to argue with me. Understood?”

The others nodded unhappily. In the past their leader had normally preferred to listen to the others first. Then he would make his decisions based on their recommendations. The KGB head was wholly unprepared for such an absolute deviation from the man.

“They will leave SSV-516 to us if for some reason that satellite of ours falls … out … of … orbit.” His final phrase was uttered one word at a time to clarify the fact there were no alternatives.

“I don’t understand.” The Chief of the Main Political Directorate rarely spoke unless he was extremely concerned. “Perhaps being new here has something to do with my confusion.” He chose his words carefully. “The objective of this strategy was to bring the United States to their knees. It sounds to me that you have second thoughts.” He’d been polite and rational and now he waited patiently.

“Obviously, I’ve had second thoughts.” The General Secretary glanced around the table aware that what he’d just said was an admission that he’d experienced those “second thoughts” well beforehand. “I think you all have had second thoughts — or if you haven’t, you should be questioning your common sense,” he growled, suddenly pleased with himself. “This plan was originated by people who did not anticipate today’s Soviet Union, nor did they believe that the Americans would detect—” No, that wasn’t quite right. “I must admit I am at a loss as to how they did detect the loss of their submarines. If not, we might not be here now.”

The Minister of Defense’s elbows were on the table and his chin rested on his folded hands. He’d never liked the General Secretary. He found him even less appealing now. But the man’s little purge had certainly made an impression on him. There was no clue what direction might be taken. “Why did the President contact you?”

“You know as much about that as I do.”

“No effort had been made on our part to contact Washington before this?”

“I can assure you none was made by me.”

“We might bring them to their knees if we can take out some more of their missile submarines,” the defense minister said. “Their other delivery vehicles can be neutralized within acceptable limits.” His head was still down. He didn’t want to look into the General Secretary’s eyes, or anyone else’s for that matter. “That would need some further investigation, but—”

“Your acceptable limits do not coincide with mine. A first strike is not on top of my mind right now, although I wouldn’t be surprised if the Americans weren’t considering one.” He had no sense of the defense minister, no idea of what motivated the man. They had never fought before, nor had they ever really worked together. Now he wondered why he hadn’t sent him off to Lubyanka. “Unless I am forced into a corner, unless there is absolutely no alternative, I will not launch first. Do you concur?” he finished defiantly.

“Yes, I do,” the defense minister conceded. “I would follow orders to launch if they were given, but I don’t believe we’re in the position to initiate anything now either.” He raised his head slightly and his eyes searched out the others around the table without moving his chin from his hands. Then he looked back to the General Secretary. “I doubt anyone here is ready to dispute you right now. I think we have to wait to see what happens — even if we rattle our sabers by appearing to prepare for a launch.”

“Agreed!” The General Secretary couldn’t believe it. Perhaps….

“Send the identification signal. Chief,” Steel called to sonar. “We’re letting it all hang out now anyway.” Manchester was careering ahead through black water toward an uncertain resolution. He turned to Peter Simonds with a wry smile. “At least Florida will know who the cavalry is.”

“Christ, everyone knows who we are now,” the XO snorted hoarsely. “Weapons-control coordinator reports torpedoes warm, presets entered, Captain.”

“Very well.” Steel was beaming. The tubes had been flooded, the pressure equalized — the weapons were ready. All they needed was a target confirmation.

What the hell was supposed to happen now? They’d sent the identification signal provided by Commander Burch over active sonar. In unique situations it was intended to provide access to the boomer’s sector, or at least security — each man hoped. It was Manchester’ s ID, her authorization that she was supposed to be there.

They waited. It was akin to waiting for someone to answer the phone.

There was no response.

“You know,” Moroney remarked from sonar, “you know there is no such thing as a reply to that signal … don’t you?”

“Right, Chief,” Simonds answered. “Just sort of a letdown, I guess … not to get an answer, I mean,” he added to Steel.

“That other boat had to hear that,” the captain said.

“You mean Pasadena ?” Simonds glanced out of the corner of his eye then quickly looked back toward the control board.

“That other boat.” Steel’s words were uttered carefully and deliberately. They also meant that the captain didn’t want to hear Pasadena’ s name again. Steel rubbed his cheek thoughtfully, as though he might need a shave. “What would you do on that other attack boat if you heard our coded signal? Shit,” he answered himself disparagingly, “you’d be trying to get your own signal out super fast so Florida doesn’t know which end is up. Keep her wondering until it’s too late. And if you weren’t aware of it, and with the way we’re all approaching each other like someone’s going to shoot any second, you’d jump up and down and wave your arms and say, ‘Hey, it’s me — don’t shoot.’ Right?”

The XO nodded, although he found he was incapable of responding. Simonds could think of nothing to say, nothing intelligent or forceful enough that would express just how he felt. He pushed his glasses back on his nose and turned away from Steel to stare once again at the depth gauges.

“Targets, David?” Steel called out to his sonar officer.

“Both sound like they’re increasing speed. Starboard bow, the one that was heading north, that’s the boomer. Moroney concurs, and the other.…” His voice dropped off.

“Talk to me, David.”

“Pasadena, Captain. It’s got to be … like … looking in a mirror,” he choked.

“That’s my target,” Steel said with an exaggerated firmness. “Firing-point procedures, tubes one and two.” This had to be a trick of some kind … or perhaps a test of Manchester. Some sick son of a bitch of a staff officer with nothing better to do had dreamed up this whole scenario. No boomers had ever been sunk. It was all a ruse, even picking that SEAL out of the ocean. Commander Burch just made it more realistic. They were just testing Manchester … or more so, him. Ben Steel….

“One and two …” was the whispered response.

“Open the muzzle doors. I want them to hear that. Maybe.…” But Steel’s voice drifted off as he was interrupted.

“I heard muzzle doors out there,” Moroney shouted from sonar.

Someone else was preparing to fire! Which one?

“Captain, we’ve altered course slightly for the target,” said the OOD. “The ship is ready,” he concluded ominously.

“Captain.…” Peter Simonds’s voice was an octave higher than normal. “Ben …” he implored. No one in control had ever heard the XO use the captain’s first name. His face reflected a hurt that he couldn’t express.