Terminal Run

“Unnamed sources within the Pentagon have indicated that the developments in inland China are far more worrisome than the fleet maneuvers, pointing out the completion of the deployment of the Peoples Liberation Army to the frontier of the western occupation zone of the Republic of India. India’s troops have been placed on maximum alert according to reports from the field, and Indian dictator Patel today indicated that any moves by the Red Chinese toward war would be met with the immediate launching of India’s ten intercontinental ballistic missiles toward Beijing, all of them reportedly armed with nuclear warheads. The Red Chinese reportedly did not respond; however, Pentagon sources state that the northern China ballistic missile silos are being watched for signs of the missiles being fueled. The State Department today reiterated that the U.S. remains strictly neutral in this crisis, though the mobilization of the U.S. Navy fleets would seem to indicate otherwise. We go now to our Pentagon correspondent, Chris Caverner. Chris?”

Catardi clicked the display off and looked up at Alameda and Pacino. “Hello, Carrie, Patch.”

“Good evening, sir,” Pacino said.

“Evening, Skipper,” Alameda said. “Go ahead, Patch.”

“Sir, we’ve been relieved of junior officer of the deck watch and OOD watch by Mr. Phelps and Mr. Crossfield. Ship is on course east, depth seven hundred, all ahead two-thirds, turns for ten knots, propulsion is on both main engines, normal full power lineup, reactor is natural circulation. Contact Sierra two seven, westbound merchant, is past closest point of approach and opening. Last range was twenty miles on the edge of the starboard baffles.”

“Very well. Lieutenant Alameda, you had something to add?” “Well, sir, I was going over Mr. Pacino’s qual card, and it’s apparent that I’ll need to take him into the spec-op compartment to get him signed off. I was going to request permission the next time you’reawake, but since you’re up … would that be possible?”

“Very well. Have your mid-rats, then have the OOD call me to request permission.”

“Thanks, Cap’n.”

Alameda motioned for Patch to follow her down the ladder to the middle level, into the narrow passageway and through the heavy hatchway to the featureless tunnel of the special operations compartment. Pacino had passed this way dozens of times, always on his way aft to the aft compartment, the engine room studying the reactor plant and the propulsion machinery or electrical circuits. On the way, Alameda turned around and smiled at him, and the expression on her face startled him so severely that he tripped on the step-off pad of the hatch to the special operations compartment tunnel, catching himself on the hatch opening. He tried to replay the instant before in his memory, not trusting his own eyes. The smile the engineer had given him was not the smile of a senior officer for a talented midshipman, or one submarine friend to another, but of a woman toward a man. And not even that, but of a woman for a man she has feelings for, and passionate feelings at that. Pacino searched his heart to find what he thought about it, and found only turmoil — because he knew in other circumstances he would find Alameda intensely attractive, but the taboo between officers and midshipmen was as defined as that between brother and sister.

The impulses he felt for her had no business on a ship of the line, and to acknowledge them was to admit that he was committing an offense serious enough to get him dismissed from the naval service.

Still, she had smiled that smile, but why? Could she have sensed his emotions for her? Or could he have said her name in his sleep? That was entirely possible, as several times he’d awakened in his Bancroft Hall room to hear his roommate tell him he’d talked in his sleep about midterms or a bothersome firs tie or an upcoming date. How embarrassing would that be, he thought in panic, if Alameda had heard him moaning her name while he was in the lower rack mere inches from her fold-down desk while she pulled an allnighter on her engineering paperwork?

He watched her face for further clues, and found them. Alameda picked up the phone at the hatch of the spec-ops compartment interior, the handset positioned by several warning signs at the hatchway. As the engineer hoisted the phone to her face, her lips — were they redder now with lipstick applied after their control room watch? — curling into another smile of affection and promise. Pacino swallowed hard, but could not help his mouth from returning her smile, his pounding pulse making his head ache.

She cranked the motor of the phone noise maker.

“Control, Diving Officer,” the voice answered.

“Chief Engineer here. Request permission to make a spec op compartment entry.”

“Aye, wait, Eng.”

The line was silent for some time. The OOD would be notifying Catardi that they requested to go in, and when the captain gave his permission, the diving officer would tell them to enter.