Larry Bond: Dangerous Ground

“Deputy to Science Advisor Schaeffer,” Prescott elaborated, as if that explained everything. Hardy noted the gray power suit, the expensive tie, and immediately typed him. There is a natural antipathy in the military services for political animals like Prescott, and from his expression, Hardy guessed the feeling was mutual.

“President Huber needs the Navy to help him with a special problem.” Prescott intoned Huber’s name as if he was invoking a deity, and in effect, he was. Any orders that came from the Commander-in-Chief went straight to the top of the U.S. Navy’s to-do list. From Prescott’s expression, Hardy guessed he either didn’t think the Navy was up to the task or that the Navy would screw it up.

“As you all know, President Huber’s recent mandate was based in large part on his support of environmental causes, and his concern for the damage to the environment…”

Actually, Hardy hadn’t known that, or didn’t care to know it. He’d voted for Coleman, for all the good it had done. He personally regarded Huber as a nitwit, although as the Commander-in-Chief, he’d faithfully execute any lawful orders the freshly inaugurated nitwit issued.

Prescott’s speech was carefully worded, rehearsed, and Hardy suspected he loved the sound of his own voice. “…wants to be seen as an environmental champion, not only here at home but abroad as well.”

“At the upcoming World Environmental Congress in Sao Paulo, Brazil, the President has decided to bring the Russians to task for their many ecological abuses, especially relating to nuclear waste disposal.”

Good for Huber, thought Hardy. Maybe he’s not a nitwit. The Soviets had been legendary for their disregard of even common-sense management of nuclear materials. The Russians had been only slightly better and had done little in the past fifteen years to deal with the messes left by their predecessors.

“The Russian government has ignored repeated calls to deal with the crisis, in spite of evidence provided by international organizations.” Get to the point, man, Hardy thought.

“The U.S. Navy has long operated subs near the Soviet and Russian coasts to gather intelligence on its potential enemy. Well, we now want the Navy to enter those same waters to collect environmental intelligence.” Prescott smiled broadly, and Hardy knew just who had come up with that buzzword.

Prescott looked over at Vice Admiral Barber, who nodded to Rear Admiral Masters. “Captain Hardy, you will prepare Memphis for deployment, and as soon as you are ready for sea, proceed to the Russian coast off the eastern side of Novaya Zemlaya. Using the Manta and other special equipment that will be provided, make a detailed environmental survey of the seabed there.” Masters sounded like he’d also rehearsed his speech, but it was couched in the language of the service and didn’t grate as badly as the civilian’s platitudes. Then Hardy realized what the orders meant.

Prescott smiled, an almost predatory expression. “The samples and photographs of what we expect you to obtain will give President Huber the ammunition he needs at the conference. He will be able to reveal the true extent of Russian environmental abuse and secure his position as the leader of the environmental cause worldwide.”

Hardy didn’t reply immediately. His first response, which he fought back, was to say that Memphis wasn’t ready for a mission. They’d already started to defer maintenance in anticipation of the boat’s decommissioning. Several rather important items of equipment needed either a thorough refit or outright replacement. As the testing platform for the Manta prototype, they’d been involved in a lot of short, intense cruises, with lots of inport time to keep the old girl running. But telling the admiral that Memphis wasn’t ready would be professional suicide. Besides, Masters had to know the state of his boat. Hardy was required to send in regular reports on his material condition, and nobody could ever accuse him of gundecking a report.

Hardy searched for something intelligent to ask. “How specialized is this equipment, sir? How long will I have to train my crew in its use?” Months, he hoped.

“The equipment consists of two remotely-operated vehicles, their support equipment, and an environmental test lab.” The seated woman stood as she addressed Hardy. Her tone and manner were coldly formal.

“This is Doctor Joanna Patterson, Captain.” The admiral hurriedly introduced her. “She’s from the President’s Science Advisory Board and a specialist on nuclear waste disposal.” Standing, Dr. Patterson was almost as tall as Hardy’s six feet, with a pale complexion, ash-blonde hair, and blue eyes.

Hardy started to step forward and offer his hand, but she made no move to respond, and he quickly stopped himself. “You’ll be the one training my crew?” he asked.

Masters explained, “Dr. Patterson will oversee the installation, yes. She’s also in overall charge of the mission.” The admiral had an odd expression, and Hardy suddenly had a hollow feeling in his stomach.

“As in mission commander?” Hardy asked carefully.

“Both Dr. Patterson and Dr. Davis will accompany Memphis on this mission,” Masters explained.

The other woman, who’d stood beside and behind Patterson’s chair, stepped forward and offered her hand. “I’m Emily Davis, sir. I’m with Draper Labs.” Davis was a shorter woman, especially standing next to Patterson, with straight black hair and round glasses. She was dressed practically, if not stylishly. She seemed uncomfortable and glanced at Patterson nervously, as if looking for permission to speak.

“Dr. Davis will operate the ROVs and Dr. Patterson will analyze the results.” Masters explained. “There’s no way to teach your crew what they need to know in the time available.”

“In any amount of time,” added Patterson caustically, and Hardy’s feelings of unease sharpened into intense dislike. Professional suicide be damned.

“Sir, I’m sure you’ve recalled Navy policy regarding women and especially civilians. ”

Prescott interrupted Hardy smoothly, his tone reassuring. “We’ve already discussed this matter with the Secretary of the Navy, the CNO, and the Joint Chiefs. Navy policy has been waived before when necessary, and in view of the special needs of this mission… Well, I’m sure arrangements can be made.”

Waived, hell. Overridden is more like it, Hardy thought. And what arrangements? Where in hell am I going to put two females on my boat?

“And Dr. Patterson is more than just a mission specialist, Captain. She is the President’s personal representative, and as you correctly recognized, mission commander.” Prescott’s tone was harder.

It started to sink in. A civilian woman with some sort of political scientific agenda would look over his shoulder while he took Memphis, due for decommissioning, into Russian waters so they could count barrels of nuclear waste. And she would decide what kind of a job he’d done. And she had the ear of the President. This was insane. There were things worse than purgatory.

“Sir, my only qualified Manta operator’s already been detached, along with some of my crew. He’s left the Navy.” Hardy tried not to sound like a kid looking for an excuse to skip class, although that’s what he felt like.

“That’s already been taken care of, Captain. We checked into your personnel status several weeks ago when we started putting this mission together. You’ve got a new arrival who’s just finished the Manta operator course at the Naval Underwater Warfare Center.”

“New arrival?” asked Hardy, knowing he sounded dense. Since Memphis was slated for decommissioning, they weren’t supposed to be getting any new personnel.