Scorpion in the Sea

SIXTY-TWO

Admiral Bennett and Captain St. Claire looked at each other blankly after Diane hung up.

“Get her back on the line,” ordered the Admiral, running his hands through his thinning hair.

The Admiral stood by the yeoman’s desk while St. Claire pushed the retrieve circuit button, but the STU-III in Mayport was not responding.

“No joy, Admiral.”

“But she was definitely calling from a STU-III?”

“Yes, Sir, and the ID was correct: quarters unit for the Chief of Staff at Group Twelve. Sir, I’ve met Mrs. Martinson. At a reception down there. It did sound like her.”

“She must be something to look at if you remember her, Mike,” said the Admiral dryly.

“Uh, yes, Sir, as a matter of fact she’s a memorable lady. But this bullshit about a submarine—”

“Yeah, I know. Run that tape back for me. I want to hear this all again. And then I want to talk to Eli Aronson. If it were any other name but that one, I’d go on to lunch. He and I were golfing buddies when he was on the SurfLant staff here a year ago. Super officer, but he’s also fully capable of getting mixed up in some squirrely thing like this. Must be something in the water at Mayport,” he said, shaking his head.

St. Clair rewound the tape quickly, and then they put it back on a speaker in Admiral Bennett’s office and listened to the whole conversation again. The two yeomen in the outer office tried to look like they were not paying any attention. St. Claire switched it off when they got to the point where Diane had hung up.

“Do we need to tell the Admiral?”

St. Claire did not have to distinguish between Admiral Bennett, who was a Vice Admiral, and Admiral Denniston, a four star who was the Commander in Chief of the Atlantic Fleet. The CinC. Admiral Denniston was the Admiral. Bennett shook his head.

“Not yet. But get the N2 up here — I want him to pull the string in the intel system on the possibility that the Libyans have planted a decoy. And get me Aronson on the phone — I’ll take it in here. Why does shit like this always have to break loose on a Friday,” he asked no one in particular.

Bennett walked back into his office, while St. Claire instructed the yeoman to get Commodore Aronson in Mayport on the horn for Admiral Bennett. He went over to his own desk, ready to pick up the silenced handset on which all EA’s listened in to their bosses’ conversations in order to keep records called memcons, a memo of conversation. He arranged a pad and pen as he waited. He heard the yeoman say yes, Sir, a few times, and then the yeoman punched a button transferring the call into Bennett’s office and gave St. Claire a signal to pick up. The yeoman scribbled down something on a yellow gummy, and passed it to St. Claire. Commodore not there; this is CSO. St. Claire nodded and listened.

“Commander Barstowe speaking, Sir,” came a nervous voice over the line.

“Commander, this is Vice Admiral Bennett; where’s your boss?”

“Uh, Admiral, he’s over on the Deyo right now, Sir. Can I help you with something?” There was a distinct note of anxiety in Barstowe’s voice now.

“Yes, Commander,” replied the Admiral in a patient but increasingly threatening tone. “You can get your boss on the phone. Secure. I want to ask him a question.”

“Uh, yes, Sir, right away. I’ll have him call you right away, Sir. Secure, Sir.”

St. Claire, realizing that there would be no conversation to record, hung up his phone. Prematurely, he found out, as he could still hear the Admiral in the other room.

“The subject?” said the Admiral in a voice that was getting louder. “Yes, I can tell you the subject. It’s a one word subject. It’s submarine. Make it two words, as in Libyan submarine.”

A pause. Then St. Claire heard the Admiral get up out of his chair.

“What did you say?!” the Admiral shouted. “Just what the hell do you mean by ‘Oh, shit,’ Commander?!”

Out in the front office, St. Claire hurriedly grabbed his phone and punched in the number for the duty officer at the Atlantic Fleet Operations Center.