rhetorically.
“Submarines,” McCafferty pronounced. “Tanks, armored vehicles, command cars, starter carts for planes, lots of stuff painted green, y’know? Bob, what you’re saying—shit, what you’re saying is that all of a sudden Ivan has decided to increase his readiness across the board. Question: Do you know what the hell you’re talking about?”
“You can bet your ass on it, Danny. The bit on the four colonels crossed my desk, I eyeballed that report myself. It was received on one of our ferret satellites. Ivan doesn’t know how sensitive those Hitchhiker birds are, and he still sends a lot of stuff in the clear on surface microwave nets. We listen in to voice and telex transmissions all the time—you guys can forget you heard that, okay?” Toland got nods from the others. “The thing about the batteries I picked up by accident, but I confirmed it with a guy I know in the Pentagon. Now we have your story about increased live-fire exercises, Dan. You just filled in a blank space. Now if we can confirm that those diesel boats really are down for battery replacement, we have the beginnings of a picture. Just how important are new batteries for a diesel boat?”
“Very important,” the sub skipper said. “Depends a lot on quality control and maintenance, but new ones can give you up to double the range and power of old ones, and that’s obviously an important tactical factor.”
“Jesus, you know what this sounds like? Ivan’s always ready to go to sea, and now it looks like he wants to be real ready,” Morris observed. “But the papers all say that they’re acting like born-again angels with this arms-control stuff. Something does not compute, gentlemen.”
“I have to get this to someone in the chain of command. I could drop this on a desk at Fort Meade and it might never get anywhere,” Toland said, remembering his section chief.
“You will,” McCafferty said after a moment’s pause. “I have an appointment tomorrow morning with COMSUBLANT. I think you’re coming with me, Bob.”
The last member of the foursome arrived ten minutes later. He was disappointed with the quality of the game. He’d thought his skipper was better than this.
Toland spent twenty minutes reviewing his data in front of Vice Admiral Richard Pipes, Commander, Submarine Force, U.S. Atlantic Fleet. Pipes was the first black submariner to make three-star rank, a man who had paid his dues with performance as he’d climbed up the ladder in what had traditionally been a whites-only profession, and he had the reputation of a tough, demanding boss. The Admiral listened without a word as he sipped coffee from a three-starred mug. He’d been annoyed to have McCafferty’s patrol report supplanted by a speech from a reservist—but that attitude had lasted only three minutes. Now the lines around his mouth deepened.
“Son, you violated a few security restrictions to give me some of that.”
“I know that, sir,” Toland said.
“Took balls to do that, and it’s nice to see in a young officer, what with all the ones who just want to cover their ass.” Pipes rose. “I don’t like what you just told me, son, not one little bit. We got Ivan playing Santa Claus with all this diplomatic horseshit, and at the same time he’s dialing his submarine force in. Could be a coincidence. Then again, it might not be. How about you and me go over to talk with CINCLANT and his intelligence chief?”
Toland winced. What have I got myself into? “Sir, I’m down here for a training rotation, not to—”
“Looks to me like you got this intelligence crap down pretty pat, Commander. You believe what you just told me is true?”
Toland stiffened. “Yes, sir.”
“Then I’m giving you a chance to prove it. You afraid to stick your neck out—or do you just offer opinions to relatives and friends?” the Admiral asked harshly.
Toland had heard that Pipes was a real hard-case. The reservist rose to his feet.
“Let’s
“Submarines,” McCafferty pronounced. “Tanks, armored vehicles, command cars, starter carts for planes, lots of stuff painted green, y’know? Bob, what you’re saying—shit, what you’re saying is that all of a sudden Ivan has decided to increase his readiness across the board. Question: Do you know what the hell you’re talking about?”
“You can bet your ass on it, Danny. The bit on the four colonels crossed my desk, I eyeballed that report myself. It was received on one of our ferret satellites. Ivan doesn’t know how sensitive those Hitchhiker birds are, and he still sends a lot of stuff in the clear on surface microwave nets. We listen in to voice and telex transmissions all the time—you guys can forget you heard that, okay?” Toland got nods from the others. “The thing about the batteries I picked up by accident, but I confirmed it with a guy I know in the Pentagon. Now we have your story about increased live-fire exercises, Dan. You just filled in a blank space. Now if we can confirm that those diesel boats really are down for battery replacement, we have the beginnings of a picture. Just how important are new batteries for a diesel boat?”
“Very important,” the sub skipper said. “Depends a lot on quality control and maintenance, but new ones can give you up to double the range and power of old ones, and that’s obviously an important tactical factor.”
“Jesus, you know what this sounds like? Ivan’s always ready to go to sea, and now it looks like he wants to be real ready,” Morris observed. “But the papers all say that they’re acting like born-again angels with this arms-control stuff. Something does not compute, gentlemen.”
“I have to get this to someone in the chain of command. I could drop this on a desk at Fort Meade and it might never get anywhere,” Toland said, remembering his section chief.
“You will,” McCafferty said after a moment’s pause. “I have an appointment tomorrow morning with COMSUBLANT. I think you’re coming with me, Bob.”
The last member of the foursome arrived ten minutes later. He was disappointed with the quality of the game. He’d thought his skipper was better than this.
Toland spent twenty minutes reviewing his data in front of Vice Admiral Richard Pipes, Commander, Submarine Force, U.S. Atlantic Fleet. Pipes was the first black submariner to make three-star rank, a man who had paid his dues with performance as he’d climbed up the ladder in what had traditionally been a whites-only profession, and he had the reputation of a tough, demanding boss. The Admiral listened without a word as he sipped coffee from a three-starred mug. He’d been annoyed to have McCafferty’s patrol report supplanted by a speech from a reservist—but that attitude had lasted only three minutes. Now the lines around his mouth deepened.
“Son, you violated a few security restrictions to give me some of that.”
“I know that, sir,” Toland said.
“Took balls to do that, and it’s nice to see in a young officer, what with all the ones who just want to cover their ass.” Pipes rose. “I don’t like what you just told me, son, not one little bit. We got Ivan playing Santa Claus with all this diplomatic horseshit, and at the same time he’s dialing his submarine force in. Could be a coincidence. Then again, it might not be. How about you and me go over to talk with CINCLANT and his intelligence chief?”
Toland winced. What have I got myself into? “Sir, I’m down here for a training rotation, not to—”
“Looks to me like you got this intelligence crap down pretty pat, Commander. You believe what you just told me is true?”
Toland stiffened. “Yes, sir.”
“Then I’m giving you a chance to prove it. You afraid to stick your neck out—or do you just offer opinions to relatives and friends?” the Admiral asked harshly.
Toland had heard that Pipes was a real hard-case. The reservist rose to his feet.
“Let’s
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