"Taylor, Charles D. - Boomer" - читать интересную книгу автора (Taylor Charles D)

Admiral Bennett's hand began to shake, but so slightly that he failed to notice the tremor even when the message slipped from his hand. He was shocked when he bent to pick up the paper and found it rattling between his fingers.

Bennett placed the message on his desk and smoothed it with his hands before depressing the button to the outer office. "Florence, would you please call Admiral Larsen's office for me. Tell him I'll be there in three minutes." He would need the first two minutes in the head to compose himself before walking into Larsen's office. Raymond Larsen may have been another close friend, but he was also Chief of Naval Operations and never overlooked a human weakness--especially from someone who might one day sit in his chair.

When he stepped from the private bathroom at the rear of his office, the red light was blinking on the interoffice communicator. "Yes, Florence."

"Admiral Larsen has Secretary Kerner and two senators in his office now. He asked that you come by about noon."

Bennett moved into the outer office and tapped his secretary on the shoulder. "Call back and tell him to throw out the senators. The Secretary can stay." The Secretary of the Navy was part of the chain. "Tell him it'll still be three minutes because I'm going to bring Admiral Newman with me." Robbie Newman was Director, Naval Nuclear Propulsion, one of seven full admirals in the Navy at the time. Bennett was out the door before Florence had gotten the CNO's office back on the line. Newman, who'd come from his Crystal City office, would be waiting outside Larsen's office.

The Chief of Naval Operations' office became deathly quiet after Mark Bennett explained as succinctly as possible that Nevada had now joined Alaska among the missing. Neither the Secretary of the Navy nor two of the Navy's most senior admirals could find the correct words. They stared at each other, eyes shifting from one individual back to another as if one of them would suddenly come up with an answer. It was a quirk of fate--if they hadn't agreed to this experiment, just once. . . . "One . . . possibly," the CNO finally murmured. "But two . . . highly unlikely."

"Two . . . almost impossible," the Navy Secretary concurred.

Silence once again dominated the room.

Then the Secretary spoke up again. "How many boomers do we have on patrol in the Pacific right now?"

"Including Alaska and Nevada, there are Four," Bennett responded. "We have two in transit right now, four alongside the pier."

"I'd better inform Harry Carpenter now," the CNO decided. "He's going to fight me on this one." Carpenter was the President's Chief of Staff.

"The hell with him," the Secretary interrupted. He knew much more about the workings of the White House than he did about the Navy. "This is for the President directly. I don't want us wasting a second with Carpenter's bullshit . . . just in case . . ."

Long-range strategic bombers and intercontinental ballistic missiles, the other two elements of the country's triad, were more fragile. They could be shot down, destroyed in their silos, possibly sabotaged, but the SSBN's were supposed to be invincible, impregnable to Soviet intelligence efforts. They were the single element of the triad that kept the balance, and they carried almost half of the U.S. strategic weapons. One missing boomer was critical to United States security. But two of them gone left a gaping hole in American strategy--especially if they had been sunk--for the country was essentially on its hands and knees, at the mercy of its enemies.

How many more?

And how . . . ?




CHAPTER ONE

Looking Back: How the Impossible Took Place

The American 688-class attack submarine (SSN) is slightly longer than a football field but only thirty-six feet wide, a sleek, silent hunter. Since she is nuclear powered and designed exclusively to deliver torpedos and surface-hugging missiles, creature comforts are respectable but secondary, unlike the immense SSBN's more than twice her size. The wardroom of this smaller submarine is the size of a dining room in a comfortable suburban home, perfect For a party of perhaps eight to ten people, a little tight for more. It is the place the captain meets with his officers.

With the exception of those on watch, all of the officers of USS Pasadena were now assembled in the wardroom at the captain's request. As a result, the most junior officers were unable to be seated, and leaned, arms folded politely, against the bulkhead.

Wayne Newell sat in his normal place at the head of the table as Pasadena's commanding officer. This was his second tour on a boat of this class, and he exuded confidence in every aspect of his job as a result. Since he had already put in his necessary time on a ballistic-missile submarine, he assumed squadron command might come with his imminent promotion to captain.

Newell looked Navy. Even in the working khaki uniform worn at sea, he was immaculate. His shirt was starched and pressed knife sharp, like a Marine's, his commander's silver leaves and submariner's dolphins reflected the overhead light brilliantly, and three rows of service ribbons accounted for his successful career. His brown hair, cut once a week, was never ruffled. With his hands folded on the green-felt table cover, his blue eyes fell on each of his officers as he spoke. "Navy regs don't require a speech at a time like this." A slight, comforting smile displaying even white teeth appeared--a casting director's dream come true. "I'm sure the rumor has already hit every compartment, and the answ er is--no, we're not involved in a nuclear war, at least none that I'm aware of." More smile to put his officers at ease. "But, yes, there appears to be a definite possibility."

This was one of a number of such wardroom gatherings over the past week. Newell, aware that it was vital to keep every member of Pasadena's crew well informed, had insisted that the contents of each critical message be known to his men. From that initial warning--this is not a drill, repeat, this is not a drill--every man had known that international problems were escalating. They had also learned that Pasadena might serve a critical role in the coming days. Pride, instilled by their captain, had a great deal to do with their performance since that first moment. They were ready . . . committed . . . completely under his control. . . .

"We are approaching our assigned station, which is a point approximately fifteen hundred miles south of Adak and three thousand miles east of the main Japanese island." It was something they already knew, but Newell was repeating exactly where they had been ordered so no man could possibly doubt anything during this patrol, literally a voyage into the unknown. "We will shortly stream our antenna for one hour in anticipation of our next set of orders. From what little we have been able to gather, diplomacy is still in effect--Washington and Moscow are apparently talking . . . common sense, I hope," The captain smiled again and glanced around a table of comfortable officers. He sensed that they knew they were well ted.

"Captain?" The engineer officer raised his hand.