Seawolf Mask of Command (2 page)

“No, sir,” his aide said automatically. With or without feeling Beagler couldn’t be certain. It wasn’t a secret that the woman he was coming to see wasn’t very popular. Infamous might have been a more apt description.

He reached the secured door, noting the badge access panel. The door was marked with a sign making it clear the office space contained classified information and access was restricted. Beagler knocked on the door and waited. But there was no answer. He knocked again, then looked at Parson. “She is in, isn’t she?”

“Yes, Admiral,” his aide replied. “I saw her myself earlier this afternoon when she came back from the pool.” Beagler knew she’d been a swimmer at the Naval Academy… a pretty good one.

After waiting a few more seconds without his knocks being answered, he swiped his security badge across the card reader and heard the electronic lock click as it disengaged. He opened the door and stepped into the dark room. More like a cave, the room was barely larger than a broom closet and packed with equipment. His first thought was that he’d stepped into the sonar room of a submarine. The equipment lining the walls and filling the space had come from various contractors and replicated, nearly exactly, the equipment used on an actual submarine. Which was fitting, considering the work being conducted here.

The only light in the room came from the soft red glow of the lights from the computer panels and displays, but it was enough to illuminate the room’s sole occupant. Dressed in khaki, seated in a standard office chair, her back to the door, and crouched over a panel with headphones in place, was the woman he’d come to see. Light from the hallway filled the small room and alerted her to the unexpected visitor, and she turned abruptly. For a brief moment, as she turned, he thought he saw a flicker of fear on her face. Her arms were tense, her fists clenched tight.

Just what had happened in her past that caused this reaction, he couldn’t be certain. She had never been loquacious; in fact, she was downright tightlipped. Prim and proper, he’d never seen her in anything other than the service uniform, even though the rest of his staff routinely wore the new camouflage utility uniform. He’d briefly seen her at the handful of mandatory staff parties he’d held over the last year, but at those she’d always come in uniform, and—now that he thought about it—she’d always been alone. No colleagues. No friends. At the weekly staff meetings which she dutifully attended, even though she never uttered a word at any of them, she was always as stiff and on edge as she now appeared.

His aide clicked on the light. Recognizing Beagler, the woman rose from her seat as she removed the headphones leading to the computer behind her. She automatically came to attention—the only officer in his headquarters who routinely did so. “Good afternoon, Admiral,” she greeted him automatically, sounding more like a machine than a human being. This too was normal. Her tone of voice—on the rare occasions when she did speak—was always professional and emotionless. “I was not expecting you.”

“At ease, Lieutenant,” he responded, preferring his officers to be relaxed around him. “Low stress equals high performance,” was a mantra of his. But she never let her guard down.

Quite tall for a woman, she was a good two inches taller than his 5-8 frame. Athletic in build, she had shoulders that were a bit broad like a man’s might be. Her face was rather plain without a trace of makeup. Neither did she wear earrings or nail polish. Other than the long hair she kept tightly concealed in braids, there was nothing feminine about her appearance.

“Is there something I can do for you, Admiral?” she asked as her posture changed slightly to a more relaxed position. Her tone however, stayed cold, distant, controlled.

He glanced at the rows of computers, sound synthesizers and other sonar equipment. She’d been down here nearly a year analyzing raw sound data from Chinese submarines. Her initial report had been presented nearly a month earlier and was now making its way through Naval Intelligence. “Still at it, I see,” he commented, wishing she might loosen up.

“Yes, sir,” she responded perfunctorily.

He looked back at her, wondering if she ever smiled. Certainly he’d never seen it. Perhaps now…

“I have some good news for you, Lieutenant,” he explained, studying her face, hoping to see any reaction at all to the news he was about to present. “The President just announced his decision.”

If she heard, she gave no indication of it. Her expression stayed tightly controlled.

“You’re going to sea, Kristen.” It was what she wanted. He’d watched as a spectator at first, and then as an advocate for her petition to join the submarine service. Since leaving the Naval Academy, she’d spent almost four years fighting the stubborn Navy Brass and an obstinate submarine service for the right to serve in the all-male domain of the Silent Service. Now, after years of setbacks and miles of red tape, she was getting her chance.

He expected something from her. A smile maybe, perhaps tears of joy. Anything other than the stony expression and mute silence. Was she in shock?

“Kristen?” he asked. “Did you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” she responded, her usually controlled voice sounding a bit forced suddenly. Was this all the reaction he would get? He’d expected… he wasn’t quite certain what he expected. But then he’d never been able to penetrate the icy veneer she kept wrapped around herself.

After a lengthy pause during which not a word was exchanged and the only sound came from the soft whirring of the computers, she spoke, “May I ask when I will be receiving orders, Admiral?” He thought he detected a hint of doubt in her voice, which was almost an emotional outburst for her. He understood. There’d been other such moments over the last three-plus years when she’d come close to stepping on board a submarine as a crew member, only to have the rug snatched out from under her.

He raised his left hand holding her official orders. “Hot off the printer.” He studied her face hoping to catch any hint of what she was thinking. He thought he detected a quickening of her breath, her eyes darted to the paper in his hand and there might have been a brief glimmer of hope, but she tucked away the brief flash of emotion almost immediately. Despite this carefully crafted exterior of control, there was no denying the slight tremble in her left hand as she reached for the orders sending her to sea.

“Congratulations, Lieutenant,” he offered as he extended his right hand.

She thoughtlessly took his hand with a surprisingly strong grip as she accepted her orders with her left hand. Her eyes dropped to the papers. More than most, he understood her uniqueness, her God-given gifts that made her so special. In less time than it took for him to shake her hand, she’d confirmed what he’d said.

This was no joke. She was going to sea.

She looked up at him, and now the rapidity of her breathing was unmistakable. She gestured toward the stacks of computers and sound equipment. “My final report isn’t finished yet, Admiral…”

Loyalty and dedication to duty were two traits he admired greatly. She had them in spades. Her dream was to be the first woman on a submarine, and now she had orders in hand to become that woman, yet she hesitated because of the obligation she felt to complete her task here.

Beagler brushed off the not-so-insignificant task. “We’ll manage.” Tapping the papers in her hand, he added, “Besides, your orders have you departing immediately.”

Silence.

She was hardly a fool. Fools didn’t graduate at the top of their Academy class. Fools didn’t work for Beagler. Yet, she seemed at a loss for words. Was this the outpouring of emotion? Disbelief? Shock?

“Unless you’ve changed your mind,” he prodded gently, knowing she hadn’t.

“No, sir,” she managed. “Not at all, Admiral. I just…”

He nodded in understanding, wishing he could tell what she was thinking. Even now, with victory literally in her grasp, she refused to celebrate. Perhaps she was even smarter than he thought. Despite the difficulties in getting this far, Beagler knew from experience that the toughest part was still ahead.

“Then I suggest you get packing, unless you want your leave cut short.” As with all permanent change of station orders, Kristen would receive thirty days of leave to help her make the transition. “Bremerton, Washington in winter is quite a change from sunny Hawaii.”

She managed a nod as her eyes seemed lost in deep thought.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it then,” he offered, sensing that perhaps she preferred to be alone rather than allow her emotions be put on display. He turned to leave as his aide withdrew to the hallway.

As Beagler took his leave she stopped him, “Sir.”

He looked back over his shoulder at her. She was still standing as if riveted to the floor. She appeared to be struggling to find the right words. “Yes, Lieutenant?”

“Thank you, Admiral.” They were simple words, but they were sincere.

“Don’t thank me just yet, Kristen,” he confided. “You’re going to the
Seawolf,”
he informed her. “I know her captain.” He paused for a moment to consider his lengthy relationship with the anything-but-conventional commanding officer of the
Seawolf
. “Rest assured, your biggest challenges lie ahead of you.”

USS Albany, Barents Sea

“C
on, sonar,”
came the voice through the speaker.

Captain Albert Styles reached up and took the microphone down from the overhead speaker. “What is it, sonar?”

“We’re picking up another power plant signature, Captain,”
came the reply.
“Another
Typhoon,
sir.”

“Son of a bitch,” Styles’ executive officer whispered next to him. “Are we at war and someone just forgot to tell us?”

Styles was beginning to wonder the same thing. Washington had been monitoring the Russian Navy more closely since intelligence began detecting signs of a marked increase in work in and around their submarine bases. Satellite imagery had picked up what appeared to be repairs and preparations for getting their aging submarine fleet back into an operational state. It was why the
Albany
was patrolling just outside the big Russian base at Polyarny.

With the exception of a few aging chief petty officers and the admirals back in Norfolk, there was no one left who remembered the Cold War firsthand, but whatever the Russians were up to, it sure looked big as far as Styles was concerned. “Anything on ESM?” he asked his XO, referring to their electronics antenna peeking up above the waves.

“A lot of radio chatter up there,” he replied dutifully. “They’re definitely coming out.”

“How many does that make now?” Styles asked his operations officer, wondering how many Russian subs they’d counted leaving port.

“Eight ice breakers leading out six
Akulas,
three
Typhoons
and what we believe to be the
Borei,
Captain.”

The
Borei
was the newest Russian ballistic missile submarine, and the US Navy knew almost nothing about her. Captain Styles again spoke into the microphone, addressing his sonar room, “Chief, make sure you’re running a tape on the
Borei.”

“Aye, Captain.”

“Should we go up and take a peek?” the XO asked.

Styles knew it was a risk, but with little information available on the
Borei,
he thought the risk worthwhile. The
Albany’s
periscope had a radar absorbing coating to help conceal it, and Styles would only have the scope above the waves for a few seconds. He nodded his head and stepped up onto the periscope pedestal.

Prior to raising the scope, he did a final check with his sonar and radio room to make certain there were no unexpected threats waiting above like an antisubmarine helicopter loitering directly above them. Once relatively sure they were safe from immediate danger, he raised the scope. Everything he would see was automatically recorded for later analysis. As planned, the scope was above the surface for barely three seconds, during which time Styles swept the view across the entire armada sallying forth out of Polyarny for—what he prayed—was just an exercise.

Once the scope was again below the surface, he ordered a course change to reposition the
Albany
to better observe the unexpected Russian deployment. Certain they were again safely hidden beneath the waves and not about to be run over by the approaching Russian submarines, he turned his attention to the film. One by one he and his fellow bridge officers identified the various submarines coming out or harbor. The
Borei
—despite being a ballistic missile boat—was conspicuously smaller than the
Typhoons.
This in and of itself was an oddity. Russian sub design had been going for ever larger submarines.

Styles couldn’t help wonder what other secrets she might be hiding.