Silent Waters

Chapter 12

Clearing the security checkpoint, Lieutenant Sarah Connelly hoped that she wouldn’t be the last one arriving at the conference room on the fourth deck of the E-Ring. She’d received the call only thirty minutes ago from her superior, Admiral Meisner, the head of Naval Intelligence. Ready in ten, she’d had to put her fate in getting here on time in the hands of the driver they’d sent to get her. The car had barely touched the ground on the way to the Pentagon.

As an attorney and a senior naval intelligence officer, Sarah was regularly directed to sit in on hearings or emergency briefings beyond the full caseload of assignments that she and her staff were assigned. Nothing out of the ordinary there.

Today was totally different. The Admiral’s news of a submarine hijacking had her scurrying to get ready. When he mentioned Darius McCann’s name, she’d come running.

In the car she considered how odd it was to hear the Admiral refer to Darius. As she thought about it, Sarah had felt a sense of relief almost that her superiors didn’t see a conflict in calling on her with this specific situation. She and Darius had known each other for thirteen years. For two of those years, they’d been lovers. For ten of those years, they’d been good friends. During the past year, however, their only communication had been a birthday card that she’d put in the mail for him. That was just last week. He hadn’t bothered to remember hers.

To everyone who knew them, the relationship had run its course for both of them. They each had adjusted well to the breakup and had gone their separate ways. But Sarah couldn’t ignore how she felt this morning when she’d heard he was in the middle of a naval investigation — in the middle of a potential nightmare. It was just another reminder of those invisible wires that still connected them.

She ran the last few steps to the elevator, just as the doors were closing. Someone near the door put a hand out, holding it open for her.

“Thanks,” she said, stepping into the crowded elevator.

Wanting to keep her mind focused, she did not look at any of the faces around her. Instead, she stared at the panel displaying the floors. The elevator nearly emptied on the third floor. Stepping out on the fourth floor, she nodded thanks to a navy commander who motioned for her to go ahead of him. He was the same person who’d held the elevator door open for her.

After signing in at the security desk, Sarah started toward the large conference room where she’d been told the meeting would take place. Her companion from the elevator was right behind her, and they both stopped at a reception desk just outside of the conference room.

The young man behind the partition looked up from his computer screen, reading their badges. “Lieutenant Connelly. Commander Dunn. They’re waiting for you inside.”

“I guess that’s as good as any introduction,” the commander told her, extending a hand as they headed toward the conference room door. “Bruce Dunn.”

“Sarah Connelly.” Surprised at his lack of formality, she moved her briefcase from one hand to the other and shook his hand. Clear green eyes, strong chin, Dunn was definitely easy on the eyes. A nose that looked like it had been broken once or twice only added character to his face.

“How much time did they give you to get here?”

“Half an hour,” she said. “How about you?”

“About the same.”

“I live twenty minutes away,” she added. Sarah noticed the tiny bit of tissue still attached to a cut right under his chin. She pointed to it. “Your stitches are showing.”

He wiped a hand down his throat, brushing the tissue away. “Better?”

“Much.”

He reached to open the door of the conference room. “They better have some cinnamon donuts in there.”

She liked his sense of humor, but her thoughts about him were cut short the moment they walked in. Seeing the gathered brass, Sarah felt her stress level go to about a thousand RPMs. This was not the standard briefing. The tension inside the room was crisp, and the subdued conversations stopped as the Admiral entered with the Head of the Joint Chiefs. About two-dozen uniformed and civilian-dressed personnel crowded around a huge conference table. She immediately recognized some of them, but her attention was immediately drawn to a large TV screen at the far end of the room. The volume was turned up as a reporter described the live footage of New London Harbor. The man’s voice bordered on frantic. A large electronic map on the wall next to the TV screen highlighted the location of Hartford.

“… can see where the unmanned New London Ledge lighthouse has sustained damage. The landmark, a brick building that sat by itself in the water at the mouth of the harbor, appears to be totally destroyed. Smoke is rising from the ruin. From here, we can see smoke from the… get a shot of the Coast Guard cutter,” the reporter said to his cameraman, “there, you can see it now. Smoke is engulfing the Coast Guard cutter that the submarine clearly fired on. It’s hard to believe that this is taking place right here on the Thames River.”

The network anchor cut in as the camera zoomed closer. It appeared that they were filming from the top of a building in downtown New London, overlooking the harbor. Groton was visible across the river. Just then, the screen split into two images and an aerial shot of the scene appeared. Sarah could see the submarine gliding through the dark water.

“The submarine looks to be heading for Fisher’s Island or what locals call ‘the Race’, the opening that leads to the Atlantic from New London harbor. But, of course, we can’t tell for certain,” the reporter said to the network anchorman.

The anchor cut in. “We’re getting unofficial word that the submarine we’re looking at from our New London affiliate’s helicopter is the USS Hartford, one of the navy’s improved Los Angeles-class submarines.”

“What the hell is that news helicopter doing up there?” one of the generals barked.

A member of the Admiral’s staff picked up a telephone and spoke into it briefly.

“We’ve just been told that there will be a press conference at the navy submarine base in Groton any minute, now,” the anchorman added. The image shifted to an empty podium in a briefing room. A number of officers were standing behind it, and others were coming in an out of the picture. “For those viewers who’re just joining us…”

Sarah felt a touch on her arm. Commander Dunn pointed to two empty seats against the wall, away from the TV screen. Admiral Meisner had seated himself at the table in front of the chairs, and he nodded to the two of them as they made their way to be seated.

The admiral rolled his chair away from the table and leaned back as Sarah sat down.

“Are you up to this?” he whispered.

“Absolutely,” she said confidently.

“We’ll take care of the tactical side of things and any negotiations when they come up,” Meisner explained. “You and Commander Dunn will handle the investigative side of it.”

Sarah realized Bruce Dunn was listening to the conversation.

“By the way, have you two met?”

They both nodded.

“Your primary objective is to identify who is running the show inside. We want to know the man on top and everyone else on his crew,” Meisner continued. “Most of us in this room believe that only a present or a former U.S. sub driver could pull this type of maneuver. Also, you should know right up front that we’re not ruling out that some or maybe all of the ten crewmembers left on board Hartford are willing participants in the hijacking.”

The sudden rush of temper set Sarah’s ears on fire. She knew McCann, and so did they. She held back her comment, though. She knew she needed to come across as cool and objective or she would immediately be removed.

“Are you okay with this?” the admiral asked her directly.

Sarah’s past relationship with Darius was no secret to anyone that she worked with. “Of course, Admiral.”

Meisner turned his chair slightly. “And you, Commander Dunn?”

“We’ll see what evidence presents itself, sir,” he answered coolly.

The admiral nodded, satisfied. “We’ve set up a command center for the two of you three doors down. You’ll have a staff of six investigators, but you have clearance to use anything and anyone you want… CIA, FBI, Homeland Security, and any local or national law enforcement databases or personnel. We’re putting together your list of contact liaisons right now. We’ll make sure that you’re made aware of any or all communications that we might establish with Hartford.”

Sarah nodded.

“When do we start?” Dunn asked.

“Commander McCann’s records are to be reviewed before us in a couple of minutes. You’ll want to be present for that,” the admiral advised. “You’re dismissed right after that.”

“Why only McCann’s records?” Sarah asked.

Meisner frowned. “McCann is the most knowledgeable and powerful person aboard that submarine. We know that and we’re certain whoever is behind this operation knows that. He has the keys and the combinations that could result in a nuclear holocaust. You understand, don’t you, Lieutenant Connelly? ”

“Of course, sir. We’ll assess the records of the others aboard Hartford.”

Nothing more needed to be said by him, and Sarah didn’t miss the warning look sent by her superior. She was to stay objective.

The television was turned off. Sarah had no doubt that the press conference would not actually take place for quite some time, if at all.

Admiral Meisner called the meeting to order and made a quick introduction of the major players attending. He finished with Sarah and Commander Dunn. Looking up at the electronic map on the other side of the conference room, she realized that the submarine was now southwest of Fisher’s Island, but it had not yet made a change in its course to the east and the Atlantic. If it turned to the west, the sub would be bottled up in Long Island Sound. Not a good thing. It would be like having a tiger shark in a wading pool. A tiger shark with serious teeth.

A handout was passed around. Sarah received her copy and stared down at Darius’s military resume. Years of hard work jammed into a couple of paragraphs. The stamp at the bottom read “Under Investigation.” She stared at the two-by-three photo of him in his dress whites at the top of the page. Professional and serious, but definitely good looking. His piercing dark eyes and chiseled features made him the classic poster boy. Tough, but not unapproachable. Confident, but not arrogant. She knew for a fact that the navy had used this same picture of Darius in recruiting efforts over the past few years.

To calm her agitation, she reminded herself that this was only a briefing. As an attorney, she knew she could gather enough facts and figures to show that Darius could walk on water if it came down to it.

A navy lieutenant named Seth McDermott, who sat on the far side of the table from her, began reading McCann’s fact sheet aloud.

“Commander Darius McCann is 40 years old…today.” He paused for a second. “Commander McCann graduated magna cum laude from Notre Dame with a bachelor of science degree in Aerospace Engineering. Upon graduating, he attended Officer Candidate School in Newport, Rhode Island. Received commission September of 1989. Following commissioning, completed nuclear propulsion training in Orlando, Florida, and Idaho Falls, Idaho.”

An older admiral that Sarah remembered being introduced as Smith cut in. “Married? Children?”

“No, sir,” the lieutenant looked down at the sheet in his hand before answering. “Never married.”

“Steady girlfriend?” the admiral persisted.

Sarah focused on the sheet on her lap, feeling the gazes of several in the room fix on her.

“No, sir.”

“Let’s stick to the resume, Seth,” responded Admiral Gerry, the commander of Atlantic Fleet.

The older officer frowned at his sheet. “Go ahead,” he growled, “but it’s clear as day that this work is incomplete. I’m going to have some questions.”

“I’m sure you won’t be alone, Admiral,” Gerry replied. He nodded to the lieutenant, who continued.

“After completing Submarine Officer Basic Course, he completed three North Atlantic deployments before reporting to the naval postgraduate school in Monterey, California.”

A light tap on her arm drew Sarah’s attention to Dunn, who tilted a pad of paper toward her. She read his scribbling. Old goat… retired Rear Admiral Joseph Smith, assigned to the panel by President Hawkins this morning. She nodded. That explained why she didn’t know him.

Dunn scribbled something else on the paper. Sarah looked over.

Smith doesn’t like me much.

She gave a small nod and turned her attention back to the room.

“Graduated with distinction, earning a Masters of Science in Physics with a military professional subspecialty in Nuclear and Directed Energy Weapons. He was presented the Naval Sea Systems Command Award and the Superintendent’s Most Outstanding Thesis Award for his work on Nuclear Propulsion.”

“That’s impressive,” someone murmured. There were a number of other comments.

“After completing Submarine Officer Advanced Course, subject reported as Engineering Officer on USS Rhode Island, completing two deployments, including numerous surfacing in the packed ice and open water polynyas of the Arctic.”

Sarah remembered those blocks of time very well. That was when they’d first become romantically involved.

“Immediately following second deployment, served as assistant force nuclear power officer reporting to the Commander Submarine Force, U.S Atlantic Fleet.”

There was another tap on her arm. She looked over at Commander Dunn again. He had another note for her. Seth McDermott. Good guy. He’ll be working on our team.

She nodded and turned her attention back to Seth.

“During this assignment, instrumental in developing advanced submarine firefighting tactics, damage control equipment, and active ventilation procedures. Additionally, subject earned his Professional Engineering license in the Commonwealth of Virginia.”

This time, there was no tap, but the legal pad slowly slid in front of her. Sarah looked down.

Let me take the first swing.

Surprised, she read it again before turning to Commander Dunn. He was all attention, focused completely on the speaker. She didn’t know what he meant or how to take his comment.

“In his next deployment, he served as executive officer on a five-month deployment around South America on USS Omaha, during which time he conducted top-secret weaponry testing. Following that tour, he was assigned his first command, USS Hartford.”

Seth McDermott finished reading and looked up. To Sarah’s relief, for a couple of moments, absolute silence ruled the room. Now she understood that it was actually advantageous for McCann to have his impressive record read by these people.

“All the makings of a fine early career,” Rear Admiral Smith said curtly, flipping through his pages. “Now let’s get back to basics. Commander McCann. What was his first name?”

“Darius, sir.”

“Darius. What is Commander McCann’s ancestry?”

Sarah had to fist her hand in her lap and bite her tongue so she wouldn’t stand and object to the question. She couldn’t believe what Smith was implying. The innuendo was hardly subtle. McCann’s flawless record spoke for itself.

Lieutenant McDermott looked across the room at Admiral Meisner. Sarah saw her superior hunch over the table, his elbows planted on the dark mahogany. She knew that was a sure sign that Meisner wasn’t any too pleased with the question, either.

“What is it that you want to know, Admiral?” Meisner asked.

“I’m interested in his ancestry.”

“How many generations would you like to go back, Admiral?”

“One will do.”

Sarah knew her superior was well aware of this information, so she was pleased when Meisner took his time and thumbed through a manila folder on the conference table first before answering.

“Father, fourth generation Irish. Cork City, I believe. Commander McCann’s mother was born in Iran.”

Smith looked positively smug as he turned to Admiral Gerry, Commander of the Atlantic Fleet. “Has Commander McCann ever expressed anything that might demonstrate disagreement with our Middle East policy?”

“Of course not,” Gerry said.

“Does he have any family members that still reside in Iran?”

“Admiral Meisner?” Gerry said, fending off the question.

“He does, sir.”

Sarah saw the Head of the Joint Chiefs scribble a note that he handed off to an aide. The man left the room immediately.

“Is this his first patrol in the Persian Gulf region?” Smith asked the Atlantic Fleet commander

“Yes, sir,” Gerry answered, obviously showing deference to the president’s advisor.

“Did he have any objection to this assignment?”

“No, sir.”

“My apologies for interrupting, Admiral Smith,” Dunn said before Smith could fire the next question. “But we’re wasting valuable time discussing information of very little relevance.

“Very little relevance, Commander Dunn?” Smith asked critically.

“Yes, sir. My understanding was that this briefing was being held for the purpose of understanding the credentials of the ranking officer so that strategies can be developed to counter the potential actions of the unidentified hijackers. It serves no purpose to assume that Commander McCann has betrayed his trust.”

“Do you think it is irrelevant that McCann has family connections with a rogue nation that is a sworn enemy of the United States?”

“Yes, sir. It is entirely irrelevant to the purpose of this briefing,” Dunn responded sharply. “Unless, of course, we had all been told beforehand that you wanted to conduct a genealogy club meeting, then I could have brought pictures of my Russian great-grandmother who, as you know, was a diehard communist. Perhaps you have something to share about your own great-grandfather, who I believe stole horses for the South during the Civil—”

“That’s enough, Commander,” the Head of the Joint Chiefs snapped. “But I have to agree that we are digressing from our purpose, Admiral.”

Sarah didn’t miss the daggers that Dunn and Smith sent each other. He wasn’t kidding when he said they didn’t like each other.

Admiral Pottinger, commander of the Atlantic Fleet Sub Force, spoke for the first time. “We need to discuss a plan for taking back control of this vessel. We cannot afford to leave that submarine in the hands of hostile forces for even a minute longer than we have to.”

“Whatever is decided upon must be quick and decisive,” someone else replied from across the table. “We cannot allow any half-assed cowboy stunts like the one the Coast Guard pulled this morning.”

Others began to weigh in with their opinions, but Sarah knew she’d have no involvement in any of those decisions. Admiral Meisner was on the same wavelength, for she saw him stack up the files in front of him and turn around and hand them to her.

“McDermott will stay and bring you anything pertinent from this meeting,” Meisner said. “You’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Sarah nodded and grabbed her stuff. Commander Dunn was on his feet, and the two of them left the room.

Outside, she turned to him. “You’re lucky you’re not being escorted to the brig, talking like that to Admiral Smith.”

“He’s retired,” Bruce said coolly. “He just doesn’t know yet that he doesn’t run every show.”

Sarah looked at him as they walked down the corridor. “So what’s the real bone of contention between the two of you?”

“If you really have to know,” he replied, smiling as he pulled open a door for her, “I’m his former son-in-law.”