Brink of War

2

CVIC-pronounced "civic" ― is the Carrier Intelligence Center. It is located on the 0–3 level of Jefferson, just down the flag passageway from the admiral's quarters and battle stations. From the passageway, it looks like just another compartment, albeit a highly secure one with a window opening up onto a guard desk and a heavy steel cipher-locked door separating it from the rest of the world. Admiral Wayne makes jokes about the locks being designed to keep me and my herd of intelligence specialists in rather than the general public out, and I don't always disagree with that. The enlisted technicians and intelligence officers that work for me in this nerve center of the carrier battle group can be a slightly odd bunch.

Odd ― but very, very good at what they do. Like now.

One of the electronic warfare technicians had buzzed me in my office and asked me to step into the signal evaluation center. It was just two doors down from my administrative spaces, and I didn't waste time asking him why he thought it was important. The EWs ― earthworms as they are familiarly called ― know when it's important to jump the chain of command and get right to the decision maker. I give them a lot of leeway on this.

Now I was standing in front of the tall rack of Navy gray equipment boxes, some of them covered with patch cords going in and out, others with LED displays. The earthworm, a bright, smart young kid from Omaha, Nebraska, with that corn-fed, scrubbed-face, blue-eyed look that you associate with Midwesterners, was pointing at the high-frequency end of the spectrum. "There ― it did it again. You see it?" he asked excitedly.

I frowned, trying to turn the chatter of electronic signals into something that made sense to my eyes. It had been years since I'd stood watch in front of these very consoles, and developed an eye for what was normal and what wasn't in the electromagnetic spectrum. I was pretty good at it back then, but time and other responsibilities had kept me away from the equipment for a long time. Maybe too long, according to the look on the technician's face.

I glanced down at the hard copy chattering out from the printer, hoping that if I could see the same noise held still it would make more sense. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw it ― it did, indeed, make a lot of sense.

"Communications burst," I hazarded, then glanced over at him to see if I was right.

He nodded, obviously pleased. "Of course it is ― and not just once.

There ― it's going again."

I nodded again, feeling my competence come back. "Classification?" I asked.

The technician looked thoughtful. "It sounds like ― feels like ― a routine communications data burst. But the frequency ― it could be ours, it could be theirs. It's probably theirs, in these waters. The intelligence summary says we don't have anything in the area." He left unspoken the possibility that our own intelligence sources weren't telling us everything they knew about the disposition of U.S. forces in the area. When you've worked in the intelligence field for as long as both of us had, that was a given.

"But you do think it's a submarine?" I pressed.

He nodded. "We can get pretty accurate on the location now," he said, blithely assuming that I didn't know the critical equipment parameters of the gear now in front of me. "That spot it's aimed at ― empty ocean. At least according to the radar. Now if we had an S-3 or something overhead, we might know for certain." "Anything from the undersea warfare commander?" I said, referring to the destroyer squadron, or DESRON, that occupied the 0–8 level of the aircraft carrier's tower. The recent changes in battle group organization had not left any of the traditional warfare commanders untouched. The DESRON, for decades called the Antisubmarine Warfare (ASW) commander, was now referred to as the Undersea Warfare (USW) Commander. He had charge of all the USW assets in the area, ranging from P-3s deployed from shore stations in support of the battle group, to the S-3 submarine-hunter killers that flew off our own flight deck, to the host of other national assets, including our own submarines.

This deployment, he didn't have that much to work with. Unlike most battle groups, we were traveling without a submarine. Given the sensitive nature of our deployment into Russia's northern waters, that seemed a politically sound decision. Additionally, we were out of range of most P-3 maritime patrol aircraft, which left us only with the organic helos and S-3s on the flight deck above me.

"Nothing from the DESRON," Petty Officer Martin confirmed.

I studied the signal for a while longer. A few more brief repetitions at the same frequency, each one of which made Martin tense up and lean forward in his chair. The printer continued its chattering, spitting out hard copy of all the data. It had two options for printing, either a graphic representation of peaks and valleys of signal strength or a numeric display with rows and columns of dense, closely spaced numbers. A guy in practice, like Martin, usually preferred the numbers. Older and less trained eyes like the graphic representation.

"I'll wander up and see the DESRON," I said finally. "Keep an eye on it ― call me up there immediately if there's any change. Anything significant, anyway."

Martin nodded. "Go wake ' up, just in case they're napping, sir." I smiled despite myself. EWs are convinced there's no rating on the ship that works as hard, or as smart, as they do. Sure, they admit that there's a certain glamour in flying aircraft off the ship, and working on the flight deck, and even in maintaining the USW pictures as the DESRON is supposed to do. However, they have a lingering distrust that everyone else isn't doing his job quite as well as the EWs are.

Part of it is based on fact. There are very few ratings onboard the aircraft carrier that have as many sailors that are as smart as EWs. Just to get in the program, they have to be in the top 2 percent of the Navy in intelligence, and in terms of sheer raw brainpower, many of the EWs are damned near brilliant. Most of them are a good deal smarter than the college graduate pilots and RIOs they brief and debrief every day.

Maintaining the properly respectful and military attitude toward their seniors is often quite difficult for them. In their minds, the facts are simply indisputable ― EWs are smarter, so the more senior people ought to pay attention to what they say.

Pilots, especially the very young or inexperienced, don't always see it that way. They are all too impressed with the insignia on their collars and the sheer fact that they are naval aviators. Sometimes they don't listen as well as they ought to. The EWs know that, and I've got them pretty well trained to come running to me when they have a collar count discrepancy problem. I let them rant and rave, wait until they calm down, and then either take care of the problem or placate them.

In this case, I knew what Martin was thinking. There might have been a little sniff of a submarine somewhere, something that an Aviation Antisubmarine Warfare Technician ― or AW for short ― hadn't taken a good look at. The other fellow might have dismissed it as noise, or maybe ― and I think this is what Martin privately suspected ― he was too busy shooting the shit with his buddy to do his job. When Martin had called up, he'd probably gotten an offhand, quick answer ― "No, buddy, no submarines in this area. If there were, we'd know about it." Something in the tone hadn't convinced Martin, and I could tell he was glad I was going up to take a look myself.

I clapped him on the shoulder and said, "I'll look at the data myself, Martin. Good catch on the signal."

Martin snorted. "Wasn't much to catch, sir. If it were a snake, it would have bit me on the ass."

I left him watching the scope and hustled up the six ladders leading to the 0–8 level, the home of the DESRON. They were located in the forward part of the tower, just behind the admiral's bridge. The admiral's bridge was normally vacant unless there was a reason for the admiral to have his own navigator and staff keeping a careful eye on the carrier commanding officer.

I stood for a second outside the DESRON spaces, catching my breath from the quick trip up the six ladders. It's a lot if you do it fast, even if you are in shape. I spend an hour a day on the Stairmaster, and I still manage to get winded when I'm in a hurry.

Finally, I stepped into the small compartment. In the back part of it, a paper-plotting table took up most of one corner, standing just barely out from the bulkhead so that sailors could move all around it. In the forward half of the compartment, a watch officer sat in a chair and stared at the status boards lining the bulkheads. Against one wall was a JOTS ― Joint Operation Terminal Set ― that displayed most of the data inputs from the other ships in the area, including commercial traffic. Some people claim that JOTS stands for Jeremy O. Tuttle, the renowned father of naval electronics who rammed through its implementation in the fleet by the force of his own personality.

"Good morning, Commander." The lieutenant who was the watch officer stood, took his hands out of his flight jacket, and gestured toward the pilot. "Anything we can do for you today? It's pretty slow out here ― no contacts of any sort." "Thanks, just up checking things out," I said neutrally. "I imagine it's pretty slow for you guys up here?"

The lieutenant nodded. "Wish we had somebody to play with," he said, his tone almost wistful. "The S-3s are biting bullets to at least get some stick time, but you know how the politics of it are." He shrugged and made a vague gesture toward the ocean around us. "Don't want to piss anybody off by doing our job."

I nodded, understanding what he meant. The Kola Peninsula was home to some of Russia's most advanced submarine bases. The Kola Peninsula is home to the northern fleet, Russia's largest and most powerful seagoing organization. The largest complex of bases is on the Kola Inlet, a swath of thirty-two miles stretching from the Barents Sea to the north to the junction of the Tuloma and Kola Rivers to the south. Severomorsk, the northern fleet headquarters, the commercial port of Murmansk, along with Arkhangel'sk and Polyamyy, were just a few of the areas of strategic military interest.

One of the most fascinating bases in the area was near Bolshaya Litsa, only about thirty-five miles from the Norwegian border. A variety of submarine piers, maintenance facilities, and normal Navy activities ring the area, but the southeast facility is the most interesting. Several large, underground tunnels for ballistic missile submarines are cut into the mountains. According to Norwegian intelligence estimates, the tunnels are large enough so that any North Fleet missile submarine, up to and including the massive Typhoon, can pull into these tunnels and re-arm during time of conflict. The masses of rock provide protection from all but the most concentrated nuclear attack.

For the DESRON commander, and the young lieutenant who was his watch stander, being this near to such a massive concentration of Russian submarine activity was a godsend.

Except for the fact that they weren't allowed to play. As I said, these were sensitive areas for the Russians, and I'd wondered from the start why they agreed to allow a U.S. battle group ― albeit a smaller one than normal ― to come so close to their most strategic assets.

One of the conditions had been that the U.S. had to promise to conduct no undersea warfare activities or intelligence gathering during our visit.

Admiral Wayne had argued strenuously that that meant only that we would not prosecute ― i. e., pepper with sonobuoys and run to the ground ― any Russian submarines we happened to find.

The Pentagon said otherwise. Not only were we not allowed to track submarines we did find, we were strictly prohibited from doing anything to find those submarines in the first place, up to and including discouraging pilots from making reports of visual contacts on submarines. No sonobuoys in the water, no active or passive sonars activated ― except for safety of navigation in constrained waters; Admiral Wayne won that one concession from them ― and no submarine hunter killer aircraft. No magnetic anomaly detectors, no passive acoustic tails in the water from the destroyers, and no satellite intelligence. Indeed, at the moment that she inchopped the Northern Sea, the USS Jefferson had been removed from several routing intelligence reports that located foreign submarines.

"Was the Commodore tempted to just shut down shop?" I asked, referring to Captain Stephens. The commander of a destroyer squadron is, by tradition, referred to as Commodore. While at one time Commodore was an actual rank, equivalent to the one-star rear admiral now, modernly it was used as a term for the senior officer in charge of a like number of units.

That is, the senior captain in charge of a number of destroyers is called Commodore, the senior captain in charge of all S-3 squadrons is referred to as Commodore, etc., etc.

"Commodore Stephens isn't that kind of man," the lieutenant said glumly. "I know what he means, though. If the shit hits the fan, we need to be maintaining tactical awareness."

I refrained from pointing out that there was nothing to maintain awareness of, not without any sensors. "How about the USW module down in CDC?" I asked, referring to the small compartment off the carrier's combat direction center that also housed a USW staff, ship's company rather than DESRON.

"They've closed up," the lieutenant said flatly. "No need for them to be up, really. Unless they're controlling some helos, they're just duplicating what we're doing."

"So you really don't have any way of knowing if there are any submarines in the area, do you?" I asked. I pointed at the blank displays, the silent radio circuits that normally would have been filled with reports from maritime patrol aircraft. "Not unless you get a lookout report."

The lieutenant nodded. "The theory is, the Russians are supposed to steer clear of us to avoid an incident at sea. INCOS, you know." He snorted. "Like that's going to be excuse for the captain if anything happens. We run over one of their submarines, we're still dead meat."

INCOS was the agreement struck between the former Soviet Union and the United States to prevent tragic incidents at sea. After years of Russian spy ships and combatants playing chicken with U.S. forces on training missions, both sides had hammered out an agreement to supplement the normal prudent seamanship rules of the road in international waters. The two nations specifically agreed not to hazard their vessels, not to come too close to each other. In civilian terms that meant no playing chicken.

They also agreed not to train their fire control radars on one another, not to interfere with vessels that were refueling or conducting flight operations, and to generally take every measure possible to avoid any risk of collision at sea.

But I knew what the lieutenant was saying as well. Under INCOS, since the Russians knew that we were not maintaining our normal underwater lookout, the Russian submarines in the area would have a duty to stay well clear of us. But if we ran over one, our ass would still be grass. No wonder the Commodore wanted a watch maintained up here.

And no wonder Petty Officer Martin had gotten such short shrift from the DESRON's watch team. It wasn't that they knew the area was clear of submarines ― it was that they simply had no information at all about it.

When pressed by one eager EW, the AWs had no doubt become truculent and unresponsive. Martin was right in this case.

"One of our fellows saw something a little bit odd," I began.

The lieutenant nodded. "Called up here and talked to Scruggins a few hours ago," the lieutenant said, and pointed at an AW lounging in the corner with a green plastic mug of coffee resting on the edge of the plot.

"Wanted to know what submarines were in the area. Of course, I told him we didn't know."

I doubt you told him that, I thought. Martin's got a very, very good memory, and that's not what he heard you say. Your fellow said there were no contacts in the area, not that your gear was down.

"In other words, you can neither confirm nor dispute Petty Officer Martin's contact report," I said quietly. "Let's not get in some pissing contest, here, Lieutenant. Right now, I'm the only source of USW information that you've got."

The lieutenant looked like he was going to start to huff and puff, then he quickly subsided as he realized that what I was saying was true.

"Sorry if we conveyed that impression, sir," he said finally. "Of course, we appreciate the information. And we'll keep a good lookout in that area ― that is if we're ever allowed to bring any assets online."

For the second time that hour, I had to soothe an ego. "Just some crossed wires, Lieutenant," I said in a reassuring tone of voice. "If you want, how about I take one of your AWs down with me? Let him look at the data that Petty Officer Martin's got ― he may be able to give us a clue as to the classification of the boat."

The AW slouched in the corner scowled slightly. "I'm not sure I'd be much help, sir," he said pointedly. "Your guy sounded like he knew what he was talking about."

"No, I think that's a fine idea," the lieutenant said, cheering up markedly. Evidently the possibility of transferring his problem child to someone else's care and control for a few hours sounded enticing. "Go ahead, Scruggins ― the commander will take you down to CVIC and get you set UP."

I eyed the lieutenant, suddenly convinced that I was able to read his mind. "Of course, a lot of our data is highly classified," I continued.

"Can't talk about it on the sound-powered phone lines or the ship's telephone system. And it would seem kind of silly to use a special encrypted circuit just to communicate between my people on the 0–3 level and yours on the 0–8."

The lieutenant nodded vigorously. "Couldn't agree with you more, sir." He turned back to his slightly disgruntled sailor. "Scruggins, how about you run up position reports and debriefs as needed, then? Shouldn't be more than two or three times every hour." The lieutenant patted his own flat, trim stomach with satisfaction. "That's how I stay in shape, running back and forth between my stateroom and here. It'll be good for you, Scruggins."

The AW groaned audibly now. He stood, his hand jostling the coffee cup that stood on the paper overlay for this area of the ocean. "But, sir, I-"

"Off with you now, Scruggins," the lieutenant said briskly. "Winder can keep the plot up ― such as it is."

"No need to worry about the coffee, Scruggins," I continued brightly, now convinced that I'd made a new friend in the lieutenant. Sure, he was a lot junior to me, but it never hurt to have a friend on every staff. "We don't allow coffee around the equipment in CVIC. A shame, too ― we have to keep it so cold down there. That damned equipment, you know."

A subdued and disgruntled Scruggins followed me down the five ladders to CVIC. From the little he said, he struck me as an OK fellow, although with a marked lazy streak. Aviation ratings are like that, just like their officers. If it doesn't involve being up in an airplane or flying, they don't have much use of it.

Scruggins had to be a bright fellow, his attitude aside. The AWs, as a rule, were almost as smart as the EWs. Almost.

I introduced the two petty officers, and left them in Martin's compartment, circling warily around each other like dogs about to stick their noses up each other's butts. They'd thrash out their pecking order, Scruggins would get interested despite himself, and the two would end up coming up with an answer to the intermittent electromagnetic signal we were picking up.

All in all, a good solution. And that was what leadership was all about.

Scruggins would finally come clean with Martin, and end up blaming the powers that be for his lack of data. In some way or another, he'd end up apologizing to Martin for the lousy answer he'd given him before. In the end, the two petty officers would end up honor bound to protect the carrier battle group against the horrible decisions made by their superior officers, taking on the challenge with the gusto that can match any two other underdogs in the world.

It would take more than a little commander-level leadership to solve the bigger problem, though. While I may be able to get two technicians talking to each other and forming up into a team, that didn't solve my real problem ― what to do about a submarine in the area. I headed down the passageway to find the admiral's N2 and brief him on the detection. In all probability, he'd want me to go see the admiral.

Intelligence ― you run into more no-win situations in this game than in any other warfare area. There are rarely certainties ― only probabilities, indications, and warnings, and the vast database of what the enemy has done in the past. When you're wrong, everybody remembers it. When you're right, sometimes they never even know it.

Another odd Catch-22 to the intel game The very best intelligence that peeks right into the enemy's knickers is often stuff you can't use.

It comes from national assets, the buzzword for satellite or other top secret airborne detection systems, or from a spy on the ground somewhere.

Or from a native source ― in this case, maybe a Russian dockworker who's making a little bit of extra money telling his buddies when submarines come and go in port. Whatever the case may be, the intelligence itself can be so highly classified that to give any hint at all about it would be to blow your sources completely or disclose some intelligence gathering capability that you would really rather the enemy didn't know about.

The classic example of this was the case of Coventry during World War II. The British had already broken the Enigma code, the cipher used to encrypt Nazi Germany's most sensitive communications. They were reading the German's mail, and knew that a massive air raid was planned against the small village of Coventry.

They knew it ― and could do nothing. If the British had attempted to evacuate the thousands of innocent civilians in Coventry, they would have exposed their own intelligence gathering capabilities to the Germans. The Germans would have abandoned Enigma, and moved on to another system that might have taken months ― even years ― to break. The British commanders were forced into one of the most gut-wrenching decisions an officer can ever make.

They made the right one, but at a cost that must have haunted them until the end of their days. They did nothing to warn Coventry of the inbound Nazi raid, took none but the most routine air defense precautions.

As a result, a flood of Nazi bombers crossed the Channel and smashed the small village into rubble, killing thousands. The lower levels of the British war-fighting organization knew nothing about the Enigma code, and responded in their normal fashion with a deployment of anti-air barrages and Spitfires. But it was too little, and too late, for the people of Coventry.

That's where the modern saying came from, of being sent to Coventry as an expression for being ostracized. In earlier times, to have been in Coventry was truly to have been left out permanently.

I briefed the admiral's N2, a senior intelligence captain by the name of Carl Smith. At first glance, Carl Smith was a nondescript, colorless man. He was even shorter than I was, and twenty pounds lighter. He'd never met a uniform that fit him well, and was constantly fighting to keep his shirt tucked in, his belt buckle centered, and his pants pulled up.

Looking at him, you'd probably dismiss him immediately.

That would be a grave mistake. Carl Smith's thin, plain face fronts one of the finest brains in the intelligence community today. He'd been deep selected for every rank since lieutenant commander, and was one of the most brilliant theorists on the capabilities and intentions of the cluster of post-Soviet Union countries that were making trouble around the world.

In addition to his education as an intelligence officer, Captain Smith was a student of history. He could recall every major and minor battle that I'd ever heard of, and had all that data stored in some fashion that made it instantly accessible to him. He was capable of the most amazing feats of military and tactical reasoning, drawing on examples and knowledge that were way beyond that of most officers.

On top of that, he was funny as hell. Carl had a saying Nothing is too cruel if it's funny. He was one of the biggest practical jokers onboard the aircraft carrier, although most officers were reluctant to believe it. It seemed incomprehensible to the swaggering jet jockeys that prowled the corridors of our carrier that this small, wimpy looking 0–6 could have engineered any one of the evil yet hilarious stunts that they'd been victims of. Moreover, he was too senior for easy retaliation, although I suspect occasionally that Carl would have welcomed the attempt.

At any rate, he listened carefully to what I had to say about the electromagnetic signals, nodded knowingly as I described the interaction between DESRON and CVIC. Finally, he spoke. "Good move, that," he said, referring to my adopting Scruggins into the CVIC community. "Seen that before ― you take a guy like that, he's not all bad. He's just bored, doesn't have anything to do. All that tension gets turned to evil purposes, sort of like Lex Luther and Superman. Bet he turns into a model sailor now that you've given him a purpose in life."

"Let's hope so. At the very least, it'll keep Martin happy. The guy likes to have a mission; he's sort of a crusader. I'm willing to bet that both he and Scruggins can learn something from each other."

"In the meantime, what do we do about the submarine problem?" Captain Smith asked. He eyed me quizzically, waiting for my suggestions. That was just like Carl ― he'd probably already decided how to proceed, but wanted to give me the benefit of the doubt. Like I said ― a nice guy.

I shrugged, somewhat at a loss. "I don't know there's much that we can do at this point," I said. "No sensors, no prosecution ― hell, we're so close to Polyamyy that we'll be lucky if we don't run over a couple dozen of them in the next two weeks. Taking into account the political considerations, I don't see that we have any options at all."

Carl nodded again. "About the way I figure it," he agreed. Then Carl shook his head, as though clearing away a particular train of thought.

"Your admiral's not making this any easier, you know." He said it quietly, with very little hint of emotion.

I froze. The whole point of the statement was to let me know that he, Captain Carl Smith, intelligence officer for the entire battle group, knew several things that he wasn't supposed to. First, he knew that Admiral Tombstone Magruder and I were on close terms. No big surprise there ― I'd been the ship's N2 intelligence officer when Admiral Tombstone was in command of the carrier battle group not so long ago. My tour normally would have been up a year ago, but I'd opted to extend it for a year.

Second, he knew about Tombstone's father and what the admiral was doing in Russia right now. Now, that was more of a surprise.

Most of the ship knew that during our last cruise Admiral Magruder had found indications that his father had survived his ejection so many decades ago over Vietnam. While they might not have the specifics, they did know one thing At some point the admiral's father had been alive and in country.

What they didn't know was the rest of the story. How Admiral Magruder had tracked his father's trail across country in the company of a dissident militant group, had survived an all-out air strike on the area that had obliterated the physical evidence of his father's existence.

Even more importantly, most of the ship ― I thought all of the ship ― was ignorant of what had happened next. Of Admiral Magruder's growing involvement with the MIA/POW groups, of the photographs he'd received in the mail from them. Admiral Magruder had come to me with the second event, and I eventually wormed the rest of the story out of him. He seemed relieved to have someone he could talk to, an intelligence officer who understood the clandestine and uncertain murky waters of the world he was entering. I tried to provide some perspective to him, cautioned that it might still yet all turn out to be a fabrication. He knew that, and on some level wanted to discuss it, but a part of him clung stubbornly to the possibility that his father might still be alive.

During our last briefing, just before he and the other members of his team had flown off the carrier, I'd come back to revisit the topic one more time. "You're going to be in country, Admiral," I said, using the term "in country" deliberately. In most circles, that refers to being on the ground in Vietnam, but using it to refer to Russia would, I hoped, carry a double meaning for Admiral Magruder.

He nodded, signifying he caught my drift. "I know that. We'll be on the lookout for anything of use."

Again, a hidden meaning. "No active collection, though," I cautioned.

"Despite all this love and brotherhood, Russia's not our closest ally." Tombstone smiled, a brief, wintry stretching of his lips that did not reach his eyes. "The essence of all warfare is seizing opportunities that present themselves," he said obliquely. "Just like intelligence. The best stuff comes not from your own efforts, but when someone else screws up."

I glanced at the other three officers sitting at the table. "Would you excuse us for a moment?" I glanced back at the admiral for permission.

"The admiral and I need to go over a couple of other measures."

Tombstone waved one hand. "I'll meet you in the handler's office," he said to Skeeter. A few moments of scuffling feet and chairs scraping, then we were alone in the small briefing room. "Admiral, with all due respect ― have you got something planned?" I asked, trying to tone down the worry and concern in my voice.

Tombstone regarded me gravely for a long moment. I was suddenly extremely conscious of the gap between our ranks, his three stars against my silver oak leaves. I knew he was letting the silence drag on deliberately, to put me in my place. Nevertheless, I persisted. "Admiral, again, with all due respect, sir ― I have the utmost regard for you, you should know that by now. But I'm deeply concerned that you have some… personal agenda in this visit. Sir, I know of no way to put this politely.

But as intelligence officer for this ship, I feel I must ask ― are you going to continue the search for your father during this mission?"

There was no immediate answer from Tombstone, just a slight change in his posture. It was barely perceptible, more an air of increased caution and wariness than anything else. He kept his eyes glued on me, his face revealing nothing. Finally, he spoke. "I understand your position, Commander Busby," he said, his voice cold and formal. "Be advised I'm well aware of my duties and responsibilities as a flag officer during this historic visit to Russia."

I nodded and waited for him to continue. But Tombstone had evidently said all he was going to say and had made it very clear that he did not wish for this conversation to continue.

"Hypothetically speaking," I tried again, "if you were to happen across any intelligence gathering opportunities while you were there, it might be helpful if I were standing by to assist you. Just hypothetically speaking, you understand. I wonder if you would be adverse to allowing me to suggest a series of simple code words that would, still hypothetically, enable me to be prepared to assist you. That is, should the occasion arise."

Tombstone appeared to consider this, and then inclined his head just a fraction of an inch, granting permission for me to continue.

"Just a few words West, if you find any evidence of your father's presence in Russia." I abandoned the hypothetical scenario I'd tried to play out, since none of it would do me any good if it came to a court-martial. It was clear that the admiral did not wish to place me in a compromising situation and was trying to shield me from whatever he had planned. Nonetheless, I had no doubts that Tombstone had a plan. He always did.

"If I hear the word west mentioned in casual context in your narrative, I will know that you have found something. Westward will indicate physical evidence. To the west will indicate HUMINT-human intelligence. Somebody who remembers something, an old-timer telling stories. I don't have to tell you how unreliable HUMINT can be." "Go on," Tombstone said almost disinterestedly.

"If for some reason you are in physical danger, or feel that you may be compromised in any way, mention something about your backache. You can phrase it in any way you wish, whether it has to do with the lumbar supports in the Tomcat or a workout you had, just something about your back. I'll know then that we may have to be prepared for some sort of extraction."

"I hardly think that will be necessary," Tombstone said, a thread of impatience in his voice now. "And this is all hypothetical, is it not?"

He shot me a hard, penetrating look. "And just what are you going to tell Admiral Wayne about all this?"

It was my turn to fall silent and consider my position. There was a strong bond between me and Tombstone, one that went back several cruises.

I had the utmost respect for him, both as an admiral and an aviator, and I'd seen him pull this battle group's ass out of the fire too many times not to trust him implicitly. Yet my current assignment was as Admiral Wayne's intelligence officer, not Admiral Magruder's. Admiral Wayne, Tombstone's oldest friend in the Navy, had first claim on my loyalties.

"I think you know what the answer has to be, Admiral," I said finally.

"If it affects the battle group in any way, I will have to tell Admiral Wayne. Other than that, I see no need to keep him briefed. What you tell him is up to you."

Tombstone nodded. "Your concern is appreciated, Lab Rat," he said, his voice losing the earlier formality. "I don't have to tell you ― hell, you're the one who knows most of the story. Maybe more of it, from what I hear about you intelligence people. You probably know exactly where my old man was and are holding out on me, aren't you?"

"I wish I did, Admiral," I said quietly. "I would tell you if I did ― and if I've got anything in this office that you need, you know you've got it." We worked out a few more details on the codes we'd use.

Tombstone would be sending back daily situation reports, using the radiomen and the secure communications gear in the COD, receiving updates from the carrier the same way. Finally, we had something we figured would cover most possibilities.

"Admiral, about Admiral Wayne-" I said finally.

"We don't tell him. Not unless he's got something tactical on the front burner." I wondered a little at the tone of Tombstone's voice, but simply nodded my agreement. Their friendship ran long and deep, but evidently there was a difference of opinion on this particular mission. I wondered what it was.

Tombstone sighed. "There are officers that you work with every day, ones that you fight with and go on cruise with, and learn to trust in any tactical situation. They get fewer and fewer as you move up in rank, until at my level they're far and few between. There's that kind of people ― and there are friends." His voice had taken on a reflective note, almost wistful in its tone. "Right now, I need the second kind of friend. I'll tell you this, Lab Rat. This is the worst thing I've ever had to do in my life. I'm not even sure I want the answers. What if he was alive? What happened to him here in Russia? Did they break him? Was there a chance for him to return to the United States ― to me and my mother ― that he turned down? I don't know which is worse, contemplating torture or brainwashing."

For the first time in many years, I heard a trace in his voice of the anguish he must be experiencing.

"Tombstone, if there's anything-" He cut off my comment with a hard gesture. All traces of the emotion that had swept over his face earlier were gone. "If there's nothing else, Commander ― I've got a hop to make."

He stood, concluding the conversation.

I held out my hand. "Remember, I'm here if you need me."

Tombstone nodded and took my hand, holding it hard as he shook it.

"I'll remember that. And if I get my ass in trouble, you make sure my old buddy Batman sends in the cavalry, you hear? Don't let him leave me rotting in some Russian hellhole because he's after my stars."

A joke. As feeble as it was, the fact that Tombstone had made one stunned me. "I'll do that, sir."

I walked with him to the massive steel door that makes up the entrance to CVIC, and as he stepped over the sill and knee knocker, I said, "Good hunting, Admiral." He didn't even turn around to look, but made a small wave of acknowledgment as he strode away toward the handler's office.

Now, sitting across the table from Captain Smith, staring into those preternaturally bright gray eyes, I had the feeling that he was seeing the whole scene replaying in my brain.

"Admiral Magruder understands his situation," I said carefully, hoping Carl would not ask me direct questions that I could not answer without either violating the admiral's confidence or lying. "You know how these sea stores are."

Captain Smith nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on mine, probing and brilliant with intelligence. "Intelligence officers hear a lot in their careers," he said quietly. "Sometimes I think we ought to be granted the same privileges and immunities as a clergyman. It might be appropriate, don't you think?"

What could I say? In his delicate, surgical way, Carl was letting me know that he suspected something was up. He was also paying me the ultimate compliment, by not forcing me to divulge what I knew or forcing me into a lie. By not asking any other questions, he was implicitly saying that he trusted my judgment, that he was relying on me to come to him if there was anything that he needed to know about Admiral Magruder and the Russians.

"Admirals aren't required to tell us everything, Commander. Sometimes they even lie."

"I wouldn't put it that way, sir."

"I would. And I'm not talking just about Admiral Magruder. We all have our admirals, the one's we'll go to the wall for. Tombstone just happens to be yours. You follow what I'm saying?"

I thought I did. It was advice ― and a warning. Captain Smith and Batman, me and Tombstone. As long as I didn't intrude on the former relationship ― and didn't pry ― Captain Smith wouldn't press me on what I knew about Tombstone. In that moment, I felt more afraid of my senior intelligence officer than either of the admirals.

"It sounds like an interesting idea, but it couldn't be an absolute privilege," I said warily. "After all, our first duty is to the Navy."

He nodded, evidently satisfied with my answer. "Speaking of the Navy ― I think you and I need to go fill in Admiral Wayne on this submarine.

As we've agreed, there's damn little we can do about it, not without violating most of the restrictions we're operating under. Still, we'd better let him know ahead of time, get him prepped up for the fight in case it comes to that."

I followed Captain Smith across the passageway to the chief of staff's office. Captain Smith knocked lightly on the door, then stuck his head inside. "Admiral in?"

The chief of staff grunted, and motioned toward the admiral's cabin.

"He's trying to crank out some paperwork ― he'd probably welcome the distraction."

We crossed the rest of the admiral's mess, the large combination sitting area and dining room that serves the twenty or so officers attached to Admiral Wayne's war-fighting staff. Captain Smith rapped lightly on the door, then pushed it open as the brass placard on the door instructed.

Good morning, sir. Got a moment for some intel?"

"Come on in, Captain," Batman's voice boomed. "God, I'd give anything for a reason to quit reading this crap. Anything interesting?"

Captain Smith waved me on in behind him. Batman's beady brown eyes lit up when he saw me. "Well, to what do we owe this honor? Come on, Lab Rat, pull up a chair. Don't see too much of you these days. How've you been doing?"

In marked contrast to Tombstone, Admiral Batman Wayne was a gregarious, jovial fellow. A hair shorter than Tombstone, with a figure that ran to roundness and a booming voice and quick wit, he was a people person in a way that Admiral Magruder would never be. That joviality did little to mask his sharp sense of tactics and operations, however, both on a tactical and political level. Batman had spent several tours in Washington, D.C. Back there, he'd learned to kill with position papers and formal briefings instead of Sidewinders and AMRAAMs, making him as deadly an adversary in budget fights as he was in the air. He was a good man to work for, and I'd jumped at the opportunity to stay assigned to Jefferson while he was in command.

"Commander Busby has been filling me in on some anomalous detections,"

Captain Smith began, then summarized in a few sentences our tactical position, our lack of assets, and the detections we'd had over the last twenty-four hours. "Bottom line is, there are submarines around, although I can't give you a classification without assigning some more surveillance assets to it. But I wanted you to be current on the situation, in case you have to take this battle to a higher level."

Batman looked thoughtful. "Anything threatening in what you've observed?" he asked quietly.

I shook my head. "It's a communications burst, not a video downlink transmission." Translation not targeting data, but maybe position reports.

Most Russian submarines are capable of entering into a data link with orbiting Russian aircraft or satellites, instantaneously transmitting and receiving targeting and weaponeering information. Had there been a Russian Bear in the vicinity armed with antiship missiles transmitting data to a submarine, it would have been an entirely different scenario.

"It's a satellite transmission, I'm pretty sure," I said. "Not from a Bear."

Batman nodded gravely. "So, maybe they read the weekly familygram, baseball scores, that sort of thing?" he mused. "Our submarines get 'em ― why not theirs?" We both knew the answer to that one. The Russians were not nearly as concerned about the health and well-being of their submarine crews as the Americans were. Hell, even the lead shielding around their reactors was inadequate to prevent widespread sterility among Russian submarine sailors.

"But you know, I'm thinking that these subs ― if they are subs, mind you ― pose a serious hazard to navigation." I could tell by his self-satisfied expression that he'd had this very possibility in mind when he'd wrung that concession out of his seniors. "Let's put some S-3s in the air, make sure there are no uncharted wrecks up ahead of us. Or astern of us, for that matter. And I'll move a couple more S-3s up to an alert-thirty status. Maybe some helos, too." He glanced up at us to see if we had any suggestions.

"I guess that's all we can do," I answered. "Frustrating, though."

Batman nodded his agreement. "Who else have you told about this?" he asked, his voice now sounding markedly nonchalant. "Just the two of you?"

Carl and I glanced at each other, uncertain what the admiral was getting at. "My EW knows," I said. "And probably one AW. A couple of DESRON watch-standers, but their lieutenant can keep them quiet."

Batman nodded, a small trace of relief on his face. "That's all, though? Just you four?"

"Yes, Admiral," I answered, now letting my puzzlement show in my voice. "I think so?"

"We can make sure, though," Carl said quickly.

Now, that surprised me. What was Carl doing, trying to suck up a little bit to his admiral? Completely out of character from what I knew of him. But why did this whole thing matter? The entire field of electromagnetic signals, the detection, analysis, and classification of them, was among the most highly classified of anything onboard the carrier.

Only those with a need to know ― a real need to know ― would have been routinely informed about the detections.

"If that's what the admiral wants?" Captain Smith asked. He waited for an answer.

Batman looked annoyed. "This isn't a tough question, gentlemen. I simply want to know how many people know about this submarine detection.

That's all."

An uneasy silence filled the admiral's cabin. I had the sudden conviction that there was something we weren't being told, something that Batman knew and we didn't. Modifications on his rules of engagement? Some intelligence source received back-channel during his Pentagon briefings prior to deployment. I shook my head, not liking being on the other end of a closely held secret. Spooks keep secrets from other people ― it's not supposed to work in the opposite direction. "I don't think anyone else knows, not unless Martin has talked to them," I said. "He came straight to me with the data, not through the watch officer."

"Good. For the time being, let's keep it that way. You two, your two technicians, and me. I'll talk to the DESRON myself. No further dissemination. Got it?"

I nodded, still uncertain what the admiral was getting at. "It may reoccur, Admiral." I waited to see if he had any suggestions. "If it does, more people may know about it."

Batman considered that for a moment, then said, "I have a feeling about this," he continued, clearly making up this story as he went along.

"Russians tend to do things in patterns ― if this is some sort of routine communications, it'll probably occur tomorrow at the same time. Or exactly twelve hours off of this, if that's the sort of schedule they're on. For the time being, make sure your two guys ― Martin and Scruggins was it? ― have the watch for two-hour time periods surrounding this detection time and the time exactly twelve hours off. That ought to minimize the number of people that know about it."

Carl and I glanced at each other again. I could see that he reached the same conclusion that I did, almost at the same instant. Whatever game the admiral was playing, we weren't going to call him on it. He had no duty to explain his reasoning to us, and we had no right to demand it.

What was clear now was that the admiral wanted dissemination of this information limited to the people that already knew about it, and he wanted USW assets in the air conducting what he claimed were safety-of-navigation operations.

Captain Smith stood and I followed his lead. "I understand, Admiral.

That's what we'll do, sir. Should there be any further detections, we'll make sure you're briefed immediately."

Batman stood now, too, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet and his heels. "Good, good. That's what I like about intelligence officers ― you don't have to explain everything to them. They understand… well… that sometimes there are nuances to situations. Other things that have to be considered, that sort of thing. Keep me posted," he concluded abruptly, apparently suddenly aware that he sounded like he was rambling. "That's all."

After we left the admiral's cabin, Carl and I went back down to my office spaces to talk to Martin and Scruggins. We found them seated in front of the high-frequency spectrum analyzer, with Martin pointing out to Scruggins the critical features of the communications burst he detected.

"It looks just like a lofargram," Scruggins said, referring to a low-frequency analyzing recording graph generated by sonar equipment.

"Same general principles," Martin agreed. "Now, you see here-" His voice cut off abruptly as he saw me standing in the doorway.

I strode into the room, followed by Captain Smith. "Martin, and you, too, Scruggins ― I need some help here," I began. That's often a good way to start with sailors, because needing help is something they understand.

Moreover, it was God's honest truth, and I knew they would appreciate that as well. "I don't know why, I don't know any of the details, but the admiral wants this kept real quiet. This communications burst you are detecting," I elaborated.

The puzzlement I saw on Martin's and Scruggins's faces mirrored that of my own, I was certain. "Don't ask me why ― I'd tell you if I knew, but God's honest truth, I don't." I briefly outlined the admiral's plan for keeping the two of them on watch during the period of signal vulnerability, and they nodded appreciatively. Both were clearly intrigued by the unexpected secrecy and sensitivity of their data, and were eager to continue maintaining ownership of the problem. Finally, I asked, "Any suggestions?" including in the question whether or not I'd told them everything they needed to now. I hoped so ― it was all I knew.

"No, sir," Martin said thoughtfully. He glanced back at Captain Smith, then over at Scruggins. "I think we can manage."

"That's good, real good," Captain Smith said. I hoped he was telling the truth this time.