His hands were still on the periscope controls. He took a breath. “All right. So what?”
Moore’s face seemed flushed. “Being a member of our intelligence community, I thought you would want to know. I’m planning to take some photographs, some measurements, before we proceed.”
Scott shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Commander Moore. You know what your orders are. To proceed up to the vicinity of the Soviet naval base with all due speed. Not to take time out for something that piques your interest. We need to get moving, Commander. You know I’m right.”
He could sense the dislike and hate behind those pale blue eyes staring right at him, the damn civilian who had pretty much taken command of his boat and crew. But Moore was a good officer. Had to be, for what he did for a living, to come so far into the Russian Bear’s playground.
“Very well,” he said stiffly. “Down scope.”
A voice came from inside the conning tower. “Down scope, aye, sir.”
Some hours later he was in the cramped control room with Commander Moore, who was doing his best to ignore him. He half listened to the chatter that was going on about him, as the well-trained and well-oiled crew did their job, just as they were supposed to do. Some quick “sneaks and peaks” through the periscope had verified their position, and the executive officer had been pleased to report that a rainstorm was passing through, meaning no sunlight glinting off the periscope’s optics announcing their presence. Scott stood there, with a crowd of sailors but alone, knowing he would always be apart from them, no matter how many of them treated him with kindness or politeness. He was here and didn’t really belong, and he found he really didn’t care. Just get the mission done and get back home alive and in one piece. He never wanted to be underwater, ever again.
Moore said, “Open number one tube outer door.”
“Number one tube outer door open, aye, sir.”
Moore murmured something to another officer, seemed to catch Scott’s eye for just a second. “Torpedo room ready?”
“Torpedo room reports ready, sir,” came the reply from a sailor with some sort of microphone suspended in front of his chest.
“Very well. Fire one.”
There was just the faintest shudder, and then the report. “Number one fired, sir.”
Moore seemed to take that in, not saying anything, arms across his chest. Not firing a torpedo, but a black box, delivered by some spook, must still have been odd to him, Scott thought.
“Close number one tube outer door.”
“Number one tube outer door closed, sir.”
Then, a faint smile. “Well, Mr. Blair. I sure do hope your little black box works.”
“Me, too.”
“Very well,” Moore said. “Let’s get the hell out of here, shall we?”
More smiles, but no one said anything. They didn’t have to. Scott went up to say something more to the commander, to thank him for everything he had done, but the commander’s back was turned as he ducked through a hatchway leading forward. Scott didn’t feel like chasing him, so he didn’t.
Later he found himself back in the mess room, once again sitting across from Corkland, who was eating a fried Spam sandwich. Scott made do with some crackers and another mug of navy coffee, and Corkland said, “Well, sir, I hope you do appreciate the fine living you went through on this trip. Unlike most of us, you had your own bunk.”
“I do appreciate that, Chief,” he said, and he meant it. On this mission the crew were divided into three shifts, each functioning at a different time of day, which meant that most of the crew “hot bunked,” having to share their bunk with two other crewmates and their sweat and smells and dirty clothes. Scott had his own bunk, tiny and cramped as it was, and he was thinking that when he got back to the States he’d take some leave time and take the train up to New York City and just spend a long weekend in the biggest bed he could find, in the Park Plaza. Just order room service and watch television and roll around on the bed, without listening to the incessant hum of machinery, the talking and coughing from the Navy personnel, and smelling grease and diesel oil, the ever-present diesel oil.
Scott said, “Tell you what, Chief. You ever get to Virginia, I’ll give you a tour of the place. Deal?”
Corkland seemed amused by that. “All right, sir, you got yourself a deal. Tell me, what’s it like, being in the CIA?”
“Except for trips like this, pretty boring. Lots of reading, paperwork, attending meetings.”
“How did you join up with the spooks?”
“Wasn’t joined,” Scott said, smiling at the memory. “I was recruited. By my history professor.”
Corkland took another bite out of his sandwich. “Recruited? You mean, they asked you to join? While you were in college?”
“That’s right. About a month before I was to graduate from Yale with a degree in American history and no employment prospects. My professor asked me to meet with an old friend of his in government. We had a pleasant lunch at some faculty club and after a while, he issued me the invitation. I said sure, and well, it went on from there. Didn’t even hesitate. And you, Chief?” Corkland swallowed. “Whadja mean, me?”
“You. How did you get into the navy?”
The chief petty officer smiled. “Well, I guess you could say I got recruited, too. And this invitation came from the emperor of Japan.”
“Excuse me?”
Corkland said, “I was seventeen years old. Lived outside of Boston with my ma and four brothers. And on December eight, 1941, I stood in a long line with a bunch of other guys, enlisting. Been in the navy ever since. Seen a lot of things over the years, lots of different things.”
“And more to come,” Scott said, suddenly liking the older man even more. “You see, pretty soon, the navy and all the other armed services, well, they’re going to become tools of the intelligence services, very important tools to keep the peace.”
Corkland’s chewing slowed. “I don’t know if I like that idea. Being a tool.”
“Oh, I meant no disrespect,” Scott said. “What I meant is that with nuclear weapons and such, intelligence gathering is going to be one of our most important tasks. And getting the intelligence we need is going to rely on the tools of the military. Whether it’s the army, navy, or air force, you’ll be seeing that a lot more of your missions will be done in coordination with us.”
Corkland shook his head. “No offense, sir, but I don’t like the sound of that. But what the hell. You know what?”
“What?”
“The navy tells me where to go, and that’s good enough.”
“That’ll probably be—”
And damn it, just like before, another tap on the shoulder, again from the same sailor as before. And again, the same words: “The captain’s compliments, Mr. Blair, but he’d like to see you in the conning tower.”
Up in the conning tower Commander Moore said to him simply, “Again, Mr. Blair. Do me the favor of taking a look-see.”
Scott felt his temples throb as he bent over to look through the optics. The same building as before, the same paved stretch of road. But the black vehicle had moved, and there were people near the base of the building. He felt a chill, realizing that these Russians—soldiers, perhaps?—would have probably died of shock if they knew they were being watched by an American naval vessel. He shifted the periscope again, left to right, left to right, and saw construction on either side of the brick building. Frameworks were being constructed, but he couldn’t tell what was going on.
He stepped away from the periscope. “Looks like a little more work is proceeding. What seems to be the problem, commander?”
Moore looked exasperated, like a grade-school teacher trying to explain the intricacies of one plus one equals two. He said, “Look, Mr. Blair, it doesn’t belong there. All right? I know what I’m talking about, and this isn’t right.”
“How’s that again?”
“Look again if you want,” he said. “But I was wrong at first. Tha
t’s not a building. It’s a facade, a fake to look real. You can see the framework for the other two buildings—there’s no depth there.”
“Meaning what?”
“I’m thinking they’re building a scale model of a city block, that’s what.”
“Perhaps you’re correct. I still don’t see what the matter is.”
Moore said, “We’re going to stay here for another day. I want a full workup of photos and drawings. This needs to be reported when we get back.”
Scott shook his head. “No.”
“Why so quick to say no? For someone who works out of Langley, I thought you’d be interested in what might be going on over there.”
“Well, I’m not, and neither is this submarine or its crew.”
“I don’t think you have a say in this matter, Mr. Blair.”
“Oh, I think I do. Please check your orders. I have authority when it comes to this mission.”
“The mission is complete,” Moore said flatly.
“The hell it is,” Scott said. “You said something interesting back there, about when we get back. Do I need to remind you how many miles inside Russian territorial waters we happen to be? Saying ‘when we get back’ is a statement that’s wrong. It should be ‘if we get back,’ and you know it.”
“Listen to me, you young piece of—”
“No,” Scott interrupted, noticing that the few crewmembers up there in die conning tower with them were studiously staring at dials or the steel deck, “you listen to me, Commander. This mission isn’t over until we’re outside of Russian territorial waters. If we get grounded or struck by a fishing boat or otherwise get found, then the Soviets are going to go apeshit, wondering what we were doing here. And they’re going to look at every square foot of land and river within a mile of their naval base. That cannot be allowed to happen. The mission can’t be jeopardized because you see something you think might be interesting. That’s no way to manage an intelligence-gathering operation like this.”
Moore said bitterly, “We have a term for what I’m seeing. Emerging targets.”
“And yeah, we have a term, too. Stick to the mission and don’t get greedy. Commander Moore, you know you have your orders. Stick to the mission.”
Scott had twice jumped out of an airplane, had on one freezing night been chased through some dark alleys of Budapest, and came near to having his head shot off in Beirut in ’58, but never had he felt in such mortal danger as right now, with Commander Moore staring right at him. Scott held his ground. He knew he was right, and he also knew that he didn’t want to spend one more smelly minute in his steel tube than he had to.
Moore turned his head, spoke softly. “Periscope down.”
“Periscope down, aye, sir.”
And he didn’t say one more word to Scott, all the way back to their base in Great Britain, weeks away.
The young pup named Glen Kyte paused in his writing and said, “What happened, then, to the surveillance pod that was dropped?”
Scott shrugged. “No idea. I didn’t have the need to know. All I do know is that whatever was transmitted from the pod was sent to the National Security Agency and the Office of Naval Intelligence. By then I had plenty of other things to worry about besides that damn mission.”
“So the pod worked, then.”
“Guess so.”
“Then why did you consider the mission a failure? Was it because of the construction you spotted?”
“Damn right,” Scott said, now recalling in his mind’s eye exactly what it had been, almost forty years ago. “I should have listened to that commander, that old submariner. I thought I was the expert, that he was just some boat driver, doing a job. I was wrong. My God, how wrong I was.”
“I don’t understand,” Kyte said. “What was the point of that construction, then? Did you ever figure it out?”
“I surely did,” Scott said, his voice now quavering. “About seven months later, after the mission was completed. You see, the Russians were building what Commander Moore thought they were building: a reconstruction of a city block, complete with a paved road running through it. And not just any city block. Nope, it was a number of buildings in a particular American city. A city called Dallas. And a place called Dealey Plaza.” There was a soft clink as Kyte dropped his pen on the floor. Scott said, “The bastards . . . they even had a Lincoln Continental, just like the one he would be riding in. They were practicing there, a few months after they were humiliated by the Cuban Missile Crisis, and I don’t know if it was the army or the KGB or GRU or whoever it was who wanted their revenge, but they got it, later that November. And me and Commander Moore got a sneak preview, a preview of what was about to happen. And I was too young and stupid and pigheaded to do anything about it.”
“My God,” Kyte said, his face pale.
“Yep, my God,” Scott said. “So. That’s how a mission can be both a success and a failure.”
He waited. Kyte said not a word. His pen was still on the floor. Scott sighed. He thought he would feel better after this confession, but he didn’t. Too many dark memories, way too many dark memories.
He said, “You’ve got any more questions?”
The young man shook his head. It was like he had been struck dumb.
Scott said, “I’m making a cup of tea. You want one, too?”
Kyte nodded. Scott got up and headed into the kitchen. It seemed there was nothing else to say, and that was just fine.
Crash Dive Page 28