Arctic Gambit

12 WORKING AGREEMENT

Lieutenant Commander Joshua Segerson came awake to violent shaking. He couldn’t imagine the source, since they were in dry dock, but the possibilities brought him wide awake instantly. Then the light suddenly came on in the stateroom. Blinking, he saw Petty Officer Bailey stepping back. “Sorry, XO,” she apologized. “You weren’t answering your phone, and the quarterdeck just got a call from the skipper. He’s inbound, ETA about fifteen minutes.”

Rubbing his face as he sat up, the XO answered, “All right, Tiff. Thank you.”

Segerson glanced at the clock, squinted, and took a moment to put his glasses on. It still read 4:20 in the morning. It was going to be a very long day, but the captain had been summoned to Washington in one hell of a hurry. Evidently, he was coming back the same way. That meant there might be news, which would be welcome.

Segerson dressed and washed up quickly. It wasn’t mandatory that he meet the skipper as he came aboard, but it was his policy. He was out of his stateroom in ten minutes, and threaded his way aft toward the forward escape trunk.

It was cool but clammy as he came topside and crossed the brow to the side of the graving dock. Jimmy Carter’s massive hull was lit by hundreds of work lights on the sides of the dock. More lights clustered around the quarterdeck shack. Ensign Truitt, the duty officer, saluted as the XO approached. “Skipper should be here any time, sir.”

After the XO returned the salute, Truitt asked, “Sir, do you think he’ll finally have some word on what the f— I mean, what we’re supposed to be doing?”

“I’m hopeful, Jim. If we do get word, is your division ready?”

“Twelve hours’ notice, sir. We’ve gotten a lot of stuff done. I’ve scheduled training today for…” He stopped as a pair of headlights appeared. They turned off as the car got closer, and Segerson saw CDR Weiss get out, accompanied by a fortyish man in civilian clothes.

The watch took care of their luggage while Weiss introduced Dr. Daniel Cavanaugh to the XO. The skipper’s explanation that the civilian was a “subject matter expert” did nothing to satisfy Segerson’s curiosity, but he understood the skipper would tell him what he could, when he could.

The three went aboard and down the escape trunk, then forward. Weiss led the way, then Cavanaugh, following clumsily, and Segerson in trail to keep the newcomer from making a wrong turn. Reluctant to slow down the two submariners, Cavanaugh tried to move too quickly at first, and paid for it by connecting solidly with a valve at shin level, then collected what had to be a bruised shoulder from a junction box. The second hit was enough to make him slow down and look carefully before taking each step.

When they reached officer’s country, Weiss disappeared into his stateroom, while Segerson helped the civilian get settled in the XO’s cabin next door. This involved moving stacks of papers off the extra upper bunk while Cavanaugh unpacked. Segerson mixed instructions about life on the sub with general questions. The civilian seemed pleasant enough. The last thing Segerson needed was a finicky or abrasive roommate.

Weiss rapped on the open door, and simply said, “When you can, XO,” then went back in his stateroom. After making sure that Cavanaugh knew where everything was, including the head between their stateroom and the CO’s, Segerson closed his door, took three steps, and knocked lightly on the captain’s stateroom door.

He heard “Enter,” and then as he came in, “Close the door.” Weiss motioned to an empty chair. As the XO sat, the captain announced, “We’re getting underway tonight. There’s a six-hour window when there are no Russian or Chinese imagery satellites overhead. They’ll begin flooding the dock at 2115 tonight, and not a moment before. The shipyard will recover the dock, and pump it back down after we leave. If we do it smoothly, we’ll be gone with no one the wiser.”

Segerson grasped the plan’s intent instantly. “How long does the deception have to last?”

“As long as possible,” Weiss answered. “A week would be nice, two would be ideal.”

The XO nodded his understanding and Weiss continued, “The crew will find out about the destination after we’re underway. It’s close enough to reveille now that we’ll give all hands the word about the sailing at officer’s call and quarters. Make sure everyone hears two things: when everyone is to be onboard, and that nobody outside this graving dock should know we’ve left. Nobody talks to anyone outside EB, no social media, no phone calls home, no e-mails, no nothing. The rest of the world needs to believe we are still high and dry in this dock.”

Weiss handed his XO an envelope. “This is where we’re going and what we’ll do when we get there. For the moment, just concentrate on getting us headed in the right direction.”

He gestured toward the XO stateroom. “Dr. Cavanaugh is completely briefed about our mission, so we can speak freely around him. I’ll give you the details about his role later.”

Segerson nodded. “Aye, aye, sir.” He didn’t know where they were going, but knowing they were going somewhere lifted his spirits. He was impatient to look at the material the captain had given him, and one part of his mind was already trying to remember where the tide would be late tonight.

“There’s one more thing, XO.” Weiss’s tone remained serious, almost grim. “Commodore Mitchell has been assigned as mission commander. He’s en route, and will arrive sometime this morning.”

The XO stifled his first reaction, an incredulous “What?” but really couldn’t think of what to say. There was a small chance he’d misunderstood the skipper, and he asked, “COMDEVRON Five is going with us?”

“Yes,” Weiss replied, then explained. “This mission is huge, Josh. I was briefed with President Hardy sitting next to me. He’s the one who decided Mitchell should be in charge.”

Segerson’s mind followed several tracks at once. The first thought to leave the station was Where the hell are we going? Pulling out shortly after that was He couldn’t say “No” to the Big Skipper. Finally, This sucks brought up the rear.

Lieutenant Commander Joshua Segerson had been aboard longer than Weiss, and comparing his current skipper with CDR Prindell, the last captain, he’d already decided that Weiss was the better officer, and the better leader. Prindell had been competent, methodical, and easy to work for. Just do whatever the book said. But he’d been cautious, and a little withdrawn. Weiss was outgoing, wanting to know everything, and had nerves of steel. He wasn’t reckless, but on the last two patrols he’d shown a keen ability to know when to take risks, and then ride out the results, good or bad.

But both of them paled in comparison with their squadron commander, Captain Jerry Mitchell, a legend in the flesh. The stories about what he’d done to earn several Navy Crosses would fill a book, and there were reliable eyewitness reports that he had some very ugly bullet scars. That he’d been in the thick of it was clear. He hadn’t been squadron commander all that long, but he’d done a good job. And by the way, he was best buds with POTUS.

The skipper must be feeling completely crushed. Segerson knew Weiss looked up to Mitchell, but Jimmy was Weiss’s boat. Nobody did this job entirely for glory, or pluses on fitness reports, but whatever the mission was, when they did it, it would not be Weiss’s mission. And understanding that didn’t help Segerson know what to do or say.

He finally shoved all his feelings into a corner labeled “pending.” His job was to take care of the boat and its captain. “Skipper, I’ll run this any way you want.”

Weiss smiled, and the XO realized how sad his expression had been. “Thanks, Josh. I’m still sorting out how I want to run it, but then I realize it’s not really my call. It’s how he wants to run it.” There was anger and frustration in his tone. “It all makes perfect sense when you think about it, but damn it! This was my mission until President Hardy got that bright idea to stick the commodore aboard! This is one of the few times I wish the Navy Way was something other than a smart salute and a cheery ‘aye, aye, sir.’”

The XO couldn’t think of a reply, but just listened.

“But the president said the mission has to come first, and I completely agree with that. So I’m going to set my personal feelings aside, and focus on making sure Jimmy’s as good as she can get.” After a short pause, he affirmed, “And we’ll let the commodore call the shots.” Then Weiss added, “This will make a little more sense after you read what’s in that envelope.”

Weiss let out a frustrated sigh, and then shrugged. “I think we should go do our own stuff for a while. Why don’t you look at that”—he pointed at the envelope—“and let’s get together just before breakfast, at 0615.”

Segerson nodded and stood. “Aye, aye, Captain.” He was reluctant to leave Weiss alone. He didn’t think the skipper was a suicide risk, but wanted to help his captain. He was just unsure of what to do. Finally, he left, closing the door to the CO’s stateroom behind him, thinking about “the loneliness of command.”

Dan Cavanaugh watched the executive officer leave, and focused on organizing his possessions into a very limited space. He was reluctant to explore the room too thoroughly, since it was Segerson’s personal stateroom, but the XO had made sure that the civilian knew what parts of the room were his to use.

Still, he was curious about his new roommate, the second in command of a nuclear submarine. The bulletin board behind his fold-up desk had a few clues: family man with three young kids, a purple-and-gold “Geaux Tigers” miniature banner, and a handwritten list of restaurants in Groton. He hoped Segerson didn’t mind snoring.

He didn’t sleep well on airplanes, and it had been an awkward flight with CDR Weiss, who obviously had a lot on his mind. Luckily, the military version of the civilian bizjet was designed to carry ten passengers, so he was able to give the disappointed officer some physical space.

The upper bunk called to him, but by the time he had everything properly “stowed,” it was after five, and they said “reveille” was at 6:00 A.M. He wanted to explore, but didn’t think that was wise. He’d probably trigger some sort of security alarm. Finally, he pulled out some notes he’d made during the flight, intending to organize them, opened the second desk, and sat down.

Cavanaugh awoke with a start to find a young officer standing next to him. The ensign offered his hand, and as the civilian groggily shook it, explained, “I’m Jim Truitt, the chemistry and radiation control assistant. The XO asked me to check whether you wanted any breakfast.”

Even half-asleep, that was an easy answer, and Cavanaugh let Truitt lead him a short distance down a passageway aft to the wardroom. It was full, almost to capacity, but Truitt led him to a side table with juice, fruit, and fresh-baked cinnamon rolls. Their aroma completed the revival process, and while the two collected plates, Truitt ordered eggs and ham from the galley. Cavanaugh followed his example.

Truitt led him to two empty seats, explaining, “Underway, we’ll eat in shifts, so it won’t be quite this crowded.” They were surrounded by animated conversation, and to Cavanaugh’s ears, it had an excited tone. Word of getting underway had already spread, and he was sure that at least one conversation was about whether they’d be going home. He remembered that Carter was based in Washington State, and had been away for some time.

He spotted the executive officer approaching, and after making sure the civilian was being properly cared for, Segerson broke into the buzz of conversation to introduce their guest. “He will be with us for the patrol, and is new to submarines, so be gentle.” There were several laughs, and Cavanaugh felt a non-specific uneasiness.

Ensign Truitt spent their meal explaining some basic submarining rules and nomenclature. The first imperative was “if you don’t know what it’s for, don’t touch it.” Jimmy Carter was a “boat,” not a ship, in spite of her size and commissioned status. Hatches were in the deck, doors allowed passage through bulkheads. There were no stairs between decks, just ladders. He was cautioned to follow all the posted directions, in the order listed, when using the head. Failing to do so would have adverse and unpleasant consequences.

They would check in with the yeoman after the sub’s office opened, and he would get a dosimeter, which was Truitt’s department. The ensign explained mealtimes, General Quarters, and other “evolutions.” Cavanaugh did his best to take it aboard, but accepted that even if he remembered everything perfectly, he was still the “New Guy.”

Breakfast ended at 0700, with quarters on the dock’s wing wall at 0715. Per Truitt’s instruction, Cavanaugh retreated back to the XO’s — his — stateroom, where Segerson collected him and led him back outside. He’d only been aboard the sub for a few hours, but coming back out into the open air had a novelty he’d never felt before. He was not claustrophobic, but open space had a new value.

Drawn up in neat rows, grouped by division, the crew cheered and clapped at the XO’s announcement they were getting underway. They listened as Segerson warned them about concealing their departure. Any hopes of a homeward-bound course were scuttled when he introduced Cavanaugh, who would be accompanying them on their “mission.”

After quarters, Cavanaugh stood back, waiting while a long line of sailors filed back aboard. Truitt found him. “The XO wants to get you checked in ASAP. I’ll take you to the office, and then maybe on a short tour.” Cavanaugh nodded his agreement.

Then Truitt asked, “You came aboard with the captain this morning. Do you know why the commodore will be going with us?”

That surprised Cavanaugh. The XO hadn’t mentioned Commodore Mitchell’s name, or that anyone else would be going with them. Evidently, submarines had a well-developed grapevine. “It has to do with the mission,” he answered as carefully as possible. That should have been a good way to politely end the conversation, but Truitt pressed his point.

“But don’t they think our skipper can cut it?” Truitt sounded almost personally offended. “This is my first boat, so I can’t say anything, but I’ve been thanking my lucky stars I got Captain Weiss as my first commanding officer. I know they’re not all this good. Mitchell is the commodore, and way more experienced, but it’s the skipper’s boat. Why put the commodore in charge?”

Cavanaugh couldn’t say anything.

The car was early, which was fine, because so was Jerry. The civilian driver was already taking care of the paperwork when Jerry arrived in the lobby at ten minutes to eight. He was a little jet-lagged, but he was functional. A small, pale woman with jet-black hair approached and offered her hand.

“Commodore, good morning. I’m Valerie Adams, one of Mr. Sellers’s assistants. Are you ready to go?”

“Yes.” As instructed, he’d brought everything with him, and as the driver smoothly took his carry-on and sea bag, Ms. Adams guided him outside. A black, imposing-looking limousine with dark-tinted windows waited at the curb.

Once inside, she pulled out a hard-sided briefcase, unlocked it, and handed Jerry a manila envelope. It wasn’t sealed shut, but it was vividly marked with several security warnings. “Chief of Staff Sellers asked that you read this material on the way, to save time. We have about twenty-five minutes until we’re at Pendleton. The car is screened, so we’re secure.”

He opened the envelope and pulled out a dozen-or-so-page document. The first one repeated the security warnings, and was titled “Overcharge.” The second page was a map of the Kara Sea and Arctic Ocean. He started reading.

The Secret Service had instantly turned down President-Elect Hardy’s first choice for a presidential residence, a five-acre estate right on the Thames River. Not only were they concerned about water access to the site, but the security perimeter would have to extend well offshore, and would interfere with traffic on the river. Besides, while the house was grand enough to entertain distinguished guests, five acres was simply not enough room. For example, there was no good place for the helipad.

Eventually, they’d settled on Pendleton Hill in Stonington, forty-two acres purchased in the 1890s by a robber baron that fancied himself a gentleman farmer. Hardy and Patterson got it at a good price, since the previous owners had not been able to keep it properly maintained. The place would have to be renovated anyway, before the new occupants could move in. There was a small stream on one edge of the property, which would have to satisfy the president-elect’s desire for water.

Jerry had been there once before, with Emily, at the official housewarming for the “Connecticut White House.” He remembered the first guard shack, just after turning off the main road. They didn’t even stop, but Jerry knew they’d been reported.

The real security came five minutes later, at a converted gatehouse that now served as the Secret Service’s local headquarters. Everyone showed their IDs, while dogs checked the car. Jerry, in the middle of his second, more thorough reading of the document, replaced it in the envelope and offered it to Adams, but she waved it away. “Please keep it for your meeting. The Secret Service will keep your luggage until you’re done.”

Once past the gatehouse, they drove by an ornamental garden dotted with small statues, as old as the house. Any further security was well concealed, and aside from a few people working on the grounds, there was nobody in sight.

The car pulled around to a side entrance, where Dwight Sellers was waiting for him inside. Hardy’s chief of staff greeted him warmly. “You’re early. That’s good.” He pointed to the envelope. “Did you get a chance to go over it?”

Jerry barely nodded yes before Sellers had them moving down a long central hall. He apologized, “Lately, the weather’s been good in the morning, and the president and first lady have been taking breakfast in the garden, but today they’re in their private dining room.” Jerry, his mind filled with what he’d just read, completely understood. He didn’t want even a sparrow to overhear their conversation.

“I’ve cleared his morning, so you shouldn’t feel rushed. We weren’t sure how long he would need — how long this meeting would take,” Sellers explained. “But there’s a lot going on…”

“I understand,” Jerry replied as Sellers knocked lightly and opened the door.

The first couple were seated, but they both rose and Joanna Patterson almost ran from behind the breakfast table to where Jerry stood, sweeping him in an enthusiastic and familiar embrace. “Jerry, it’s wonderful to see you.”

Jerry responded with a small squeeze and a peck on her cheek, but turned as quickly as he could to face Hardy. “Good to see you, Skipper.” Hardy’s handshake was firm without being competitive.

Jerry served himself from a trolley loaded with fruit, bacon, pastries, and almost anything he could imagine asking for. He noticed the other two were both eating light, and resisted the impulse to load up. As he sat, Joanna asked about Emily and Charlotte, and then Hardy asked about how the squadron was reacting to Toledo’s loss.

More questions followed. It seemed like they were hungry for news, or more properly, unfiltered, personal news. Jerry and Emily occasionally sent photos and short messages to a special e-mail address they’d been given, but they’d been reluctant to clutter the first couple’s inbox. As the conversation progressed, he made a mental note to send more personal e-mails to Hardy and Patterson. They might as well be living in a foreign country for all the contact they had with their old friends.

Jerry waited patiently for Hardy to get around to business. The three finally cleared the dishes away, by themselves, onto the bottom shelf of the trolley. It was clear to Jerry that this was to be a very private conversation. Hardy poured a second cup of coffee for all three of them, and then asked, “What’s your opinion of Lou Weiss, Jerry?”

That was an easy one to answer. “He’s very good. He took over Carter about a month after I arrived, so we’re both the ‘new guys’ in DEVRON Five. It’s his first command, but he’s done well, witness his last two outings. He’s energetic and methodical, almost to a fault, and is always thinking about what comes next.” Jerry gestured to the manila envelope, now resting on one corner of the table. “He’s got as good a chance as anyone in the fleet of getting this done.”

“What do you think of Overcharge? Any qualms about attacking a Russian base in Russian waters?” Hardy asked.

Jerry almost laughed. “After all we’ve been through? It’s almost old home week.” Then his tone became more serious. “I haven’t heard anything about this base since I was at the Toledo debrief. When I got the phone call, I wondered if Bolshevik Island was involved.”

Then he shuddered, not entirely theatrically. “Overcharge scares the hell out of me, because there is a small, hard-to-measure chance of triggering World War III…”

Hardy nodded reluctant agreement.

“But it seems like Fedorin’s getting ready to start one anyway. If not now, then whenever he feels like it, and we wouldn’t be able to stop him. I completely agree with what someone wrote in the plan about it ‘being the best way to remove a key element of the Russians’ strategy.’”

“Do you see any problems with the mission plan?”

Jerry sighed. “The only dicey spot I can see is having to snoop around and figure out the layout of the place before they can place the beacons. The Russians are still working there, so it’ll be a lot like a boat slipping into an enemy harbor during World War II, dodging the escorts until he can get close enough for a shot. If the UUVs are spotted before they start putting the beacons in place, or even before they’re done placing them…” Jerry shrugged. “And we’ve no idea of their timeline?”

“None,” Hardy answered, “except that the weather’s going to get progressively worse, and they won’t be able to work at all starting in October. It’s reasonable to assume they’re close to being done.”

The president added, “I’m also working with the Joint Chiefs on a massive no-notice deployment ‘exercise’ to Europe. The planners don’t know anything about Overcharge and don’t need to, but if this”—Hardy tapped the envelope—“fails, then the troops won’t be taking part in an exercise. They’ll be the first wave of reinforcements in what will be a very bad war.”

“It will work, Skipper. Lou is new, but he’s had time to learn his boat and his crew.”

Hardy made a face, not quite a frown. “But he’s never fought. He’s done well with the UUVs, and you just pointed out how tricky this will be…”

“Skipper, do you have some concern about Lou Weiss? Please, tell me.”

“Jerry, I’m putting you aboard Carter as mission commander.”

“Then you are concerned about Lou’s ability,” Jerry accused.

“No,” Hardy replied sharply. “Not a bit, and I understand what this will mean for both you and him, but as I told Commander Weiss yesterday, there’s a better chance of the mission succeeding with both of you aboard than just him. And this has to work, Jerry.”

Jerry didn’t reply immediately, sorting through the implications, then asked, “So Lou knows, then? How did he react?”

“I told him myself yesterday evening. And as you’d expect, he wasn’t happy,” Hardy admitted, “but he took it aboard. ‘Two heads are better than one.’ His own words.”

Jerry was still frowning, and Hardy pressed his point. “You have more time with UUVs than almost anyone else in the Navy, and you’ve used them in combat situations. You’ve fired torpedoes in anger; he hasn’t. I need that experience on board Carter.

“The arrangement will be awkward, but I think the two of you will figure out how to deal with it. After all, if a pair of hyperactive Type A’s like Joanna and I can do it…” Hardy looked toward his wife and smiled. Patterson stuck out her tongue. “Then you two can.”

“And if the president of the United States gives me an order, it’s up to me to do my best to follow it.” Jerry nodded solemnly. “We will make it work somehow, sir.”

“Which gives me a better feeling about this mission,” Hardy replied. “Dwight will get you down to Groton. Carter sails tonight.” He offered his hand. “Godspeed and good hunting.”

The car dropped Jerry off at the EB graving dock just before ten o’clock. Civilian workers were busy preparing for Carter’s departure. He’d been involved with enough undockings to see that everything was proceeding properly. There were few sailors visible in the basin. There was plenty for them to do inside.

The quarterdeck watch was waiting for his arrival, and a messenger ran up to collect his bags. He would have liked a moment or two to gather his thoughts, but realized he’d just be stalling. As he saluted and crossed the brow, he heard a bell ring four times, and “DEVRON Five, arriving.”

Jerry started to follow the messenger down the forward escape trunk, then paused. Instead, he told the quarterdeck, “Ask Captain Weiss if he can come topside for a few minutes.” The OOD relayed the message, and Weiss appeared only moments later. He approached Jerry, standing on the aft casing, and snapped a salute sharp enough to cut a mooring line.

“Welcome aboard, Commodore.” After Jerry returned the salute, as crisply as he could, they shook hands.

Jerry asked, “Can you step off the boat for a few minutes, Lou? Can they spare you?” He tried to sound as sincere as possible. The last thing he wanted was to slow down preparations while he and Lou Weiss hashed things out.

“Certainly, sir. It’s going pretty smoothly, and you know as well as I that the XO is doing most of the work,” Weiss reported, gesturing toward the brow. As he followed the commodore, he added, “Everyone’s been waiting for the ‘go’ signal.”

Jerry saw the quarterdeck watch preparing to render honors again as they stepped ashore, but he waved them off. “We’ll be close by,” he explained.

Electric Boat’s graving dock was surrounded by a concrete apron as wide as an eight-lane highway. While there was plenty of activity near Carter, they quickly found a quiet spot in sight of the boat. They sat on a low, wide packing crate long enough to hold a school bus. A cool breeze off the water offset the sun’s heat, reflecting off the surrounding concrete.

Jerry knew Weiss would wait for him to speak first, and lacking anything better to say, he tried to sound positive. “I just came from a meeting with the president; that’s when he told me I was going along. This is still your mission, Lou.”

“Thank you for saying that, sir, but it can’t be, not with you aboard.” Jerry opened his mouth to respond, but Weiss held up a hand and kept talking, the words pouring out. “I’ve seen how you operate, and I’ve done my best to follow your example. I’d be nuts not to. But I have to be honest. Every time I give an order, my guys will be looking to you for confirmation. You are senior, and you are much more experienced.”

Jerry couldn’t disagree, but there was more to it. “I don’t want the crew looking to me. That moment of indecision could be disastrous. The president told me to back you up, not take over. I won’t tell you how to run your boat, Lou. My job is to advise you and help you complete the mission.”

Weiss nodded. “And it makes sense for you to come along. You’ve got more command time and combat experience, not to mention working with UUVs.”

“You did good work with them on your last patrol,” Mitchell offered.

After a short pause that threatened to get longer, Jerry explained, “If it’s any consolation, the president knows exactly what he’s asking us to do. I was with Lowell Hardy when he was the CO of Memphis and Joanna Patterson was the mission commander — also assigned by a president. That was my first boat, and my first patrol. I watched them not work together. It took time, but they hammered out an arrangement that got the job done.”

“So that story is true?” Weiss asked.

Jerry shrugged. “I don’t know which version you heard, but there was a ‘process’ both of them had to go through.” He smiled. “But they managed to work it out. We can do that, too.”

“She wasn’t Navy,” Weiss observed.

“And she had a lot of learning do to, which we can skip,” Jerry countered. “Saves time. Think of it this way — let me be your consigliore. You have seen The Godfather?” he asked.

Weiss nodded. “Yep, and you’d be a wartime consigliore at that.”

Jerry relaxed a little, and expanded his idea. “On the trip up, we are going to work out tactics for Carter and the UUVs, and drill until they’re second nature. If we have any differences, that’s when we resolve them. Later on, if things get sticky, or you’re looking for a second opinion, I’ll be there.”

Weiss was considering what Jerry said, but he still looked like a kid who’d just gotten underwear for his birthday. He might really need it, but he didn’t have to like it.

Jerry said, “I really don’t expect, and don’t want to ever give an order when I’m in control. If I do have to give one, I’ll expect you to follow it, but that’s not how I see things sorting out. Think of me as a coach, prepping you for the big game, and standing by on the sidelines while you run the plays.”

“I like the consigliore analogy better,” Weiss observed. “Thanks for taking the time to talk about this, sir.”

“I owe you at least this much, Lou.” They shook hands again, then turned back toward Carter.

Vasiliy Lavrov was a frustrated man. It had been over two weeks since the Jimmy Carter had first arrived in Groton… sixteen days, and half that time was spent in a dry dock. He threw the latest report from the embassy’s observer back on the desk. The man was nearly useless. He had no way of knowing what was going on, even though he spent many hours each day peering across the Thames River. Once the Americans put Carter in a covered graving dock, he no longer had an unobstructed line of sight, and yet he still reported there was evidence work was ongoing.

Rubbing his face to ward off the effects of fatigue, Lavrov struggled to figure out where his analysis may have been flawed. Could it be that he was still right, but mechanical difficulties prevented the spy submarine from heading toward Bolshevik Island? There were plenty of news reports of a problem with the submarine’s main propulsion train, and the Americans did move Carter into two different dry docks. The observer had taken plenty of photos of the submarine as it was moved first into the dock at the submarine base, and then to an Electric Boat graving dock.

Stretching, he tried to understand the Americans’ activities. Was the boat truly suffering from a significant mechanical failure? Or was this just part of a well-run disinformation campaign? Drugov and Komeyev were both convinced the submarine was broken and no longer a concern. Lavrov’s instincts couldn’t accept that; he had to know what was actually happening. Grumbling, he sent an e-mail to the embassy demanding their observer expand his efforts beyond staring at a covered dry dock from across the river. The captain suggested that the man frequent some of the local bars and listen to the workers’ conversation. Perhaps he might learn something that would shed some light on this vexing situation.