do it, Admiral.”
Pipes picked up his phone and dialed in a three-digit number, his direct line to CINCLANT. “Bill? Dick. I got a boy in my office I think you oughta talk to. Remember what we discussed last Thursday? We may have confirmation.” A brief pause. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. . . . Aye aye, sir, on the way.” Pipes set the phone down. “McCafferty, thank you for bringing this man in with you. We’ll go over your patrol report this afternoon. Be here at 1530. Toland, you come along with me.”
An hour later, Lieutenant Commander Robert M. Toland, USNR-R, was informed that he had been placed on extended active duty by order of the Secretary of Defense. In fact it was by order of CINCLANT, but the forms would be correctly filled out in a week or so.
At lunch that day in “flag country” of Building One of the complex, CINCLANT called in all his type commanders—the three-star admirals who controlled the aircraft, surface ships, submarines, and replenishment ships. The conversation was subdued, and ceased entirely when the stewards came in to change the courses. They were all in their fifties, experienced, serious men who both made and implemented policy, preparing for something they hoped would never come. This hope continued, but by the time each had finished his second cup of coffee, it was decided that fleet training cycles would be increased, and a few surprise inspections would be made. CINCLANT made an appointment with the Chief of Naval Operations for the following morning, and his deputy intelligence chief boarded a commercial airliner for a quick trip to Pearl Harbor, to meet with his opposite number in the Pacific.
Toland was relieved of his post and transferred to Intentions, part of CINCLANT’s personal intelligence advisory staff.
6
The Watchers
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
Intentions was a small second-floor office normally occupied by four officers. Shochorning Toland in there was difficult, mainly because all the classified material had to be covered up while the civilian movers got the desk in place. When they finally left, Bob found he had just about enough space to get into and out of his swivel chair. The office door had a cipher lock with five rocker switches concealed in a steel container. Located in the northwest corner of CINCLANT headquarters, the office’s barred windows overlooked a highway and little else. The drab curtains were closed anyway. Inside, the walls might have been painted beige once, but the plaster had whitened from underneath to give the office the sort of pallor expected in a yellow-fever ward.
The senior officer was a Marine colonel named Chuck Lowe, who had watched the moving-in process with a silent resentment that Bob only understood when the man got to his feet.
“I may never make it to the head now,” Lowe grumped, sticking his cast around the corner of his desk. They shook hands.
“What happened to the leg, Colonel?”
“Mountain Warfare School out in California, day after Christmas, skiing on my own Goddamned time. The docs say you should never break the tibia close to the bottom,” Lowe explained with an ironic smile. “And you never get used to the itching. Should have this thing off in another three or four weeks. Then I have to get used to running again. You know, I spent three years trying to break my ass out of intel, then I finally get my Goddamned regiment, and this happens. Welcome aboard, Toland. Why don’t you grab us both a cup of coffee?”
There was a pot atop the farthest filing cabinet. The other three officers, Lowe explained, were giving a briefing.
“I saw the write-up you gave CINCLANT. Interesting stuff. What do you think Ivan’s up to?”
“It looks like he’s increasing readiness across the board, Colonel—”
“In here, you can call me Chuck.”
“Fine—I’m Bob.”
“You do signal intelligence at NSA, right? You’re one of the satellite specialists, I heard.”
Toland nodded. “Ours and
Pipes picked up his phone and dialed in a three-digit number, his direct line to CINCLANT. “Bill? Dick. I got a boy in my office I think you oughta talk to. Remember what we discussed last Thursday? We may have confirmation.” A brief pause. “Yeah, that’s exactly what I’m saying. . . . Aye aye, sir, on the way.” Pipes set the phone down. “McCafferty, thank you for bringing this man in with you. We’ll go over your patrol report this afternoon. Be here at 1530. Toland, you come along with me.”
An hour later, Lieutenant Commander Robert M. Toland, USNR-R, was informed that he had been placed on extended active duty by order of the Secretary of Defense. In fact it was by order of CINCLANT, but the forms would be correctly filled out in a week or so.
At lunch that day in “flag country” of Building One of the complex, CINCLANT called in all his type commanders—the three-star admirals who controlled the aircraft, surface ships, submarines, and replenishment ships. The conversation was subdued, and ceased entirely when the stewards came in to change the courses. They were all in their fifties, experienced, serious men who both made and implemented policy, preparing for something they hoped would never come. This hope continued, but by the time each had finished his second cup of coffee, it was decided that fleet training cycles would be increased, and a few surprise inspections would be made. CINCLANT made an appointment with the Chief of Naval Operations for the following morning, and his deputy intelligence chief boarded a commercial airliner for a quick trip to Pearl Harbor, to meet with his opposite number in the Pacific.
Toland was relieved of his post and transferred to Intentions, part of CINCLANT’s personal intelligence advisory staff.
6
The Watchers
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
Intentions was a small second-floor office normally occupied by four officers. Shochorning Toland in there was difficult, mainly because all the classified material had to be covered up while the civilian movers got the desk in place. When they finally left, Bob found he had just about enough space to get into and out of his swivel chair. The office door had a cipher lock with five rocker switches concealed in a steel container. Located in the northwest corner of CINCLANT headquarters, the office’s barred windows overlooked a highway and little else. The drab curtains were closed anyway. Inside, the walls might have been painted beige once, but the plaster had whitened from underneath to give the office the sort of pallor expected in a yellow-fever ward.
The senior officer was a Marine colonel named Chuck Lowe, who had watched the moving-in process with a silent resentment that Bob only understood when the man got to his feet.
“I may never make it to the head now,” Lowe grumped, sticking his cast around the corner of his desk. They shook hands.
“What happened to the leg, Colonel?”
“Mountain Warfare School out in California, day after Christmas, skiing on my own Goddamned time. The docs say you should never break the tibia close to the bottom,” Lowe explained with an ironic smile. “And you never get used to the itching. Should have this thing off in another three or four weeks. Then I have to get used to running again. You know, I spent three years trying to break my ass out of intel, then I finally get my Goddamned regiment, and this happens. Welcome aboard, Toland. Why don’t you grab us both a cup of coffee?”
There was a pot atop the farthest filing cabinet. The other three officers, Lowe explained, were giving a briefing.
“I saw the write-up you gave CINCLANT. Interesting stuff. What do you think Ivan’s up to?”
“It looks like he’s increasing readiness across the board, Colonel—”
“In here, you can call me Chuck.”
“Fine—I’m Bob.”
“You do signal intelligence at NSA, right? You’re one of the satellite specialists, I heard.”
Toland nodded. “Ours and
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