Seawolf Mask of Command (28 page)

Brodie knocked on the closed door of the officers’ head. “What’s keeping you?” he asked as he opened the door before they could stop him. He immediately closed it. He looked toward his XO with a disgusted expression. “I wasn’t aware we had pigs in the wardroom, Jason,” Brodie stepped by Kristen toward his own cabin.

“One or two, I’m afraid, sir,” Graves admitted.

Kristen had used the officers’ head several times before, and it was normally a mess. She was fastidious by nature, but unfortunately all of her peers didn’t share her enthusiasm for cleanliness. Not that she was about to complain about it.

Brodie opened the door to his cabin. “Bring her in here,” he said simply. “She can use my head.”

Kristen was in too much pain to protest intruding upon the captain’s inner sanctum. For most people, a private bathroom was something they took for granted. But on a submarine, a private head was about as great a luxury as one could ever hope for. They helped her into the tiny bathroom, then left her in privacy to attend to her business. Once finished, she managed to make it back out into his cabin, feeling much better. Gibbs, Reed, the XO, and the captain were waiting for her.

“Where in blazes did you get that robe, Gibbs?” Brodie asked as Reed and Gibbs once more positioned themselves on each side of her.

“Chief Miller, sir,” he explained again.

“I don’t imagine it occurred to either of you to find a robe that fit her, did it?”

“It was the only one I could find that was terrycloth,” Gibbs explained in his ever-cheerful tone. “I thought it would be nice and toasty warm, sir.”

Brodie shook his head and stifled a yawn. “Next time, see if you can find one that fits.”

“Aye, sir,” Gibbs replied.

They made it back to sickbay, and once Kristen was in bed, she asked them what she’d missed. She realized they’d submerged while she was asleep, but there was absolutely no sense of motion. The submarine was specifically designed to prevent unnecessary noise; thus, other than the whisper of air coming through a vent, she heard nothing to indicate they were moving or the engines were running.

“Just the worst Christmas surprise ever,” Reed explained.

“We aren’t going to be back for Christmas?” she asked, having already guessed this.

“No, ma’am,” Gibbs answered. “Once we submerged, the captain came over the 1MC and explained that the orders sending us on a training cruise were bogus.”

“We’re spending three days off the coast of Washington shaking everything out all right,” Reed added, which was the initial intent. “But, as soon as we’re certain everything is operating properly, we’re to head across the Pacific to link up with the
USS Frank Cable,
” he added. “Talk about a kick in the nuts. My wife’s gonna divorce me for sure,” he added in disgust.

“Did the captain say why we’re linking up with the
Frank Cable
?” she asked.

“I don’t even know what the
Frank Cable
is, ma’am,” Gibbs answered.

“It’s a submarine tender,” Kristen informed them, wondering why they were racing across the Pacific to link up with a sub tender. “Did the captain say anything else?”

Reed shook his head. “Nothing, other than it’s important. But scuttlebutt says we’re going to be shadowing Chinese submarines.” Scuttlebutt was Navy slang for rumors, and although Kristen was a Nub, she knew enough already not to listen to it.

She spent the next three days flat on her back in sickbay. Regardless of her attempts to convince Doc Reed she was all right, he refused to budge and threatened to get COB or the XO any time she even tried to get out of the bed without his permission. But it did give her a lot of time to read, going through technical journal after technical journal. Plus COB, Gibbs, the XO, and members of her division visited her often, which helped break up the monotony.

Once free of sickbay and back on her feet, she was anxious to get back to work. But no sooner had she reported for duty, than she was summoned to the captain’s cabin. She hadn’t seen Brodie since he’d bumped into her outside his cabin. She wasn’t yet back to a hundred percent, but she was feeling much better and determined not to have him assign her to some desk job for the remainder of the patrol.

“Enter,” came the reply after she knocked on the door of his cabin.

Kristen opened the door and stepped in, finding the XO and Brodie seated at the small table against the back wall. COB was seated in the only other chair.

“Good morning, Captain,” Kristen said as she entered. “I was told you wanted to see me.”

“Close the hatch if you will, Lieutenant,” Brodie said as he closed the cover of a binder marked for his eyes only. Kristen assumed the three of them had been discussing their mysterious mission.

She did as ordered then turned to face them.

“How’re you feeling, Miss?” COB asked, not hiding his genuine concern.

“Much better, thank you, COB.”

Brodie looked up at her. “You were stationed at Corpus Christi for a few months with the Mine Warfare Command after SOBC weren’t you, Lieutenant?” Brodie asked, getting right to the point and skipping any pleasantries.

“Yes, sir. I was only there for a few months before I was sent to COMSUBPAC,” she answered, not wanting to think about her time at Corpus. It had been one of the worst experiences of her life. She’d been treated like a pariah, and her commanding officer had been the worst kind of scum.

“What were your duties while assigned to Corpus?” Graves asked.

Kristen suddenly felt unsure of herself. They were asking her questions they could have easily gotten from her service record. “I was a systems engineer on the LMRS, sir.”

“LMRS?” Brodie asked.

“Long Term Mine Reconnaissance System, sir,” she replied, almost certain he knew what it was.She looked at each of them searching for a hint as to why they needed to know, but they weren’t giving anything away. “Is everything all right, sir?”

“Not hardly,” Brodie answered. But, without explanation, he changed the subject. “Tomorrow I want you to retest for the engineering exam.” It wasn’t a request. He didn’t ask her thoughts on the matter. He just said it as if there could be no doubt she was ready.

“Very well, sir,” she replied, unable to argue. “But I thought the test had to be administered by three qualified engineers?”

“The captain and I’ll be on your exam board,” Graves answered. It was highly irregular, but Kristen had already learned that nothing about Brodie was conventional.

“Aye-aye, sir,” she responded automatically. “Will that be all, gentlemen?”

Brodie nodded. “That is all, Lieutenant. Thank you.”

“A-hem,” COB said as he cleared his throat. He glanced at Brodie who’d apparently forgotten something.

“Oh yes, one more thing,” Brodie said, catching her before she left.

“Yes, sir?”

“We seem to have a bit of a problem that we may have found a solution for.”

“Yes, sir?”

“You and the officers’ head,” he said simply.

“I don’t consider it a problem, Captain,” she answered truthfully. She could care less how filthy it was. She would use it without objection.

“No, I know you don’t,” Brodie admitted. “Unfortunately, everyone isn’t as mature as you are,” he explained. “I’ve got wives back in Bremerton complaining to their Congressmen that their husbands’ privacy is being invaded, and that it’s “immoral” having the sexes use a single facility.”

“Plus, it’s a bit crowded in there at the best of times,” Graves added.

Kristen didn’t see any alternative.

Graves pointed toward the captain’s tiny bathroom. “I approached the captain and he agreed that until better arrangements can be made, it would be best if you used his head.”

“I’d prefer not to, sir,” she answered honestly.

“Why?” Graves asked. Brodie was already reading another report, apparently unconcerned and no longer listening.

“Sir, this cabin is for the captain only. I wouldn’t feel right disturbing him.”

“Now that we’re at sea, I think you’ll find that none of us spend a lot of time in our cabins, Lieutenant,” Brodie said without looking up from his reading. He then spoke in his usual calm voice, but his words carried a dark, ominous message, “Now, in less than three weeks this submarine, you, me, and every mother’s son on board is most likely going to be in a shooting war, and I don’t have time for this Mickey Mouse nonsense.” He paused his reading and looked up. She saw a flash of anger in his eyes. He was annoyed, tired and—she sensed—worried. “So, would you do me a favor and use that head so at least one problem will be resolved.”

“It’s all right, Lieutenant,” Graves added. “The captain and I’ve been sharing his head for three years now. One more person won’t make a difference.”

“Very well, gentlemen.” She could hardly refuse.

She departed a moment later having inadvertently learned more from the brief meeting than she wanted.

Shooting war? Who are we going to war with?

Bandar Anzali, the Islamic Republic of Iran

T
he port city on the shores of the Caspian was best known as the world’s capital for caviar. The Iranian government’s monopoly of the country’s caviar trade was based here and huge warehouses lined the wharfs where the caviar was removed from the sturgeons. These warehouses were guarded night and day to prevent theft by the poverty-stricken population in the city who, for the most part, scraped out a living from government assistance checks. However, caviar wasn’t the only activity in the city. The port facilities were some of the best on the Caspian, although work at the docks was normally sporadic. At least until recently.

For the past week, the docks had been bustling as every available man and boy was put to work unloading ship after ship and transferring their cargo to a never-ending stream of train cars heading south.

As another heavily laden ship appeared through the mist on the Caspian, Colonel Amir Paria of the Iranian Revolutionary Guard checked the latest cargo manifest as another train began to pull away. This train held over two hundred flatbed cars, and on each was a recently delivered, Russian-built T-80 tank or armored personnel carrier. And this was just one train, as the flood of equipment coming from Russia continued in an endless stream. The people of the city had at first welcomed the sudden surge of work, and they had flocked to the docks afraid there wouldn’t be enough work to go around. In fact, the surge of equipment had overwhelmed the port’s infrastructure so Colonel Paria was behind schedule and getting further and further behind every day. Even with the facility working around the clock, they simply couldn’t keep up.

“Another ship, sir,” his adjutant, Lieutenant Palavi pointed out.

“How much longer before this one is unloaded?” Paria asked referring to the vessel currently tied up alongside the pier as three cranes worked without stop to unload it.

“At least three more hours,” Palavi admitted, knowing they were far behind schedule. Two other ships were already waiting to commence offloading their equipment.

Paria knew his superiors in Tehran wouldn’t like the delay. He was already working the local population and his own men to the point of exhaustion, but there could be no let up. More equipment was scheduled to arrive the following day.

Just where the money had come from to pay for such an impressive arsenal of equipment, Paria couldn’t guess. As a member of the IRG, he was aware of the precarious nature of the Republic’s monetary woes. The Western sanctions imposed upon Iran in retaliation for the Republic’s refusal to give up its nuclear program were harsh and had nearly crippled Iran’s economy. Of course as a senior officer in the IRG, he didn’t feel the economic woes like most of his countrymen, but he could see it every day, especially here in the northern port city where the economy had almost come to a standstill. People eking out a bare existence, children starving, electric grids crumbling...

He watched as another huge T-80 tank appeared from the hold of the latest ship to be unloaded. He’d lost count of the number of tanks he’d seen over the last few days. Certainly there had been enough to outfit at least two armored divisions and possibly more. But just where these tanks were destined to be used, he couldn’t be sure. He’d first seen combat during the great struggle with Iraq back in the 1980s, and a part of him hoped they might turn these tanks west and overrun the fledgling, western-backed democracy. Now that the American military had withdrawn its forces, leaving behind just a large cadre of advisors—a polite euphemism for spies and mercenaries—he felt certain Iran could overrun its former foe easily, creating a new Persian Empire. A dream, he was quite certain, all Iranians secretly desired.

But one of the day’s early shipments had puzzled him. An entire ship loaded with PTS tracked amphibious vehicles ideal for river crossing or, in a pinch, for ship to shore amphibious assaults. They were old of course, designed back in the 1960s, but there had been nearly two hundred of the beasts, each capable of carrying up to ten tons of equipment or troops ashore. These unusual tractors were hardly designed for desert fighting, which caused Paria to dismiss a possible attack on Iraq. The idea of an attack on Israel was always possible, but the PTS tractors would need large amphibious transport ships to reach Israel and such an attack could hardly be kept secret. This forced his thoughts to turn to the Persian Gulf. There were many potential targets in the oil-rich waterway that, at one time, had been the center of the Persian Empire.