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 p
ort. 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.
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