Текст книги "Ghost Recon (2008)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Other than the jet lag, the sore muscles, the blood-shot eyes, and the pounding headache, Mitchell felt great. His people felt likewise and lied about it exactly as he had.

He and Ramirez (now a master sergeant) had already set up the computer and projector so they could begin discussing the target intelligence package they had downloaded a few hours earlier. He began with the Situation Report.

SITREP:Chinese cabal about to escalate war in the Pacific.

Task:Conduct direct action mission to infiltrate into China and terminate Spring Tiger Group at Hakka castle location.

Purpose:Disrupt Spring Tiger Group attack plan, Pouncing Dragon.

Method:Infiltrate into China via submarine, link up with CIA operatives of Chinese descent who will help recon and get into position in and around castle where the cabal members plan to meet on 22 April at 0800.

"Sir, once we're onshore," began Diaz, "how far inland is the target?"

Mitchell brought up a series of satellite photos of the Hakka castle, with its four silolike buildings and single rectangular structure. "We'll cover all the details of our infil. But for now, have a look. These castles are scattered throughout the region. At least the Tigers picked one that's only a three-hour drive into the mountains. We've got good cover through the outer cordon. High-rising mountains to the west, and some nice hog-backs and saddles to the east. Forests look pretty dense, too."

Brown raised his hand. "Sir, the photos show lots of civilians."

Mitchell sighed. "Yeah, they do. The TIP confirms at least a hundred or more individuals living and working in the castle."

That drew a chorus of groans.

"There is a chance the Tigers will move out the civilians for their meeting–maybe for security reasons, but frankly, I doubt that."

"We do have at least one asset to help us deal with collateral damage," said Ramirez. He worked the computer's mouse and brought up a surveillance photograph of a skinny, gray-haired guy with pants hiked up to his belly button. "This is Huang. He's one of the village elders at the castle. Our two CIA guys have already gotten to him, and he'll be our eyes on the inside."

"That's right," added Mitchell. "We assume most of the Tigers will fly in, probably the night before the meeting. They'll be put up in various rooms. My problem with the initial OPORDER was we were being tasked to find these guys, who could be in five different buildings. That'd waste time and leave us too vulnerable. If Huang comes through for us, he'll indicate exactly where each commander is sleeping before we hit the place."

"And if he doesn't?" asked Beasley.

Mitchell snorted. "Then it's going to be a long night. Anyway, let's take a look at the targets."

Ramirez brought up another photograph depicting a cherub-faced, fifty-year-old Chinese man wearing thick glasses and a dark suit.

"The TIP suggests that this guy won't be at the castle, but he's the top dog. Deputy Minister Wang Ya from the Central Military Commission's political department. His military attache is the DIA operative who got us this intel."

"I like his haircut," said Nolan, referring to the sheen on Wang's bald pate. The medic was always good for a wisecrack, and Mitchell allowed him his fun–to a point.

"Next guy in line is this individual, Major-General Chen Yi. He's a graduate of the Army Command Academy and commander of the entire Nanjing Military Region."

Chen was a few years younger than Wang and had a lazy left eye. He offered a solemn stare in a clearly staged photograph with the Chinese flag in the background.

Mitchell continued, "When the Tigers meet, Chen runs the show. And then there's this guy . . ."

Ramirez brought up a picture of a dark-haired young man with a broad nose, long neck, and solemn stare who stood near one of the Chinese Army's new four-wheel-drive vehicles. "He's Colonel Xu Dingfa, a graduate of the Communication Command Academy in Wuhan. Xu was actually a member of the '08 Olympic gymnastics team. He didn't earn any medals, but let's make sure he doesn't cartwheel his way to escape."

That drew a few chuckles. Mitchell eyed Nolan, who raised his thumb and nodded.

The next photograph depicted a short but muscular man wearing a robe and slippers and holding the leash of a small dog. Behind him rose a lush garden.

"Say hello to Vice Admiral Cai Ming. He's the commander of the East Sea Fleet in the NMR. Here he is taking his dog for a dump near the HQ in Ningbo."

"I like his dog," said Nolan. "That's a Pekingese. They go good with a nice Cabernet."

"I prefer a Pinot Noir," said Diaz, smirking at Nolan.

"And last but not least, we have Major-General Wu Hui. He's a graduate of the Air Defense Command Academy in Zhengzhi."

Wu had just climbed out of a fighter plane and removed his helmet. He wore a scowl made famous by martial artists like Bruce Lee. Of all the Tigers, he seemed like the real badass, in Mitchell's humble opinion.

"So once again, we have four primary targets: Chen, the NMR commander; Xu, our army commo guy; Cai, our admiral; and Wu, our top gun. For simplicity and communications purposes we'll designate these guys as Targets Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, and Delta respectively."

Ramirez brought up a slide depicting all four men with target designations superimposed over the photos:

"Sir, y'all mean to say that these four guys can start World War III?" asked Paul Smith, scratching his head.

"Four guys? Only takes one with his finger on the trigger," said Nolan.

"Paul, these guys have been working on this Pouncing Dragon plan for years, and they have feelers spread through the entire military," said Mitchell. "The Politburo makes the ultimate decision about war in China, and their boy Wang is plugged in pretty well there. Once the ball's rolling, the Chinese government can't stop it."

"What's their strike plan?" asked Diaz.

"That's not part of our TIP, and higher may not know. But back to your question Paul, yes, these four commanders can light the fuse."

"Sir, we've mentioned the civilians," said Beasley. "What about threat force composition and disposition?"

"You mean bad guys guarding the place?" asked Brown, poking fun at Beasley's formality. The team sergeant didn't talk much, but when he did, it was always by the book.

Mitchell cleared his throat, and that quickly silenced those chuckling. He lifted his chin at Beasley. "Matt, we can assume the Tigers will bring their own security force. The larger that force is, the more attention they'll call to themselves, so we expect they'll limit that team to two or three squads, hopefully no more than twenty. I've requested streaming video of the castle so we can make an accurate threat assessment, assuming the security team will arrive before the Tigers do. If all goes well there, we'll run a split team op." Mitchell nodded to Ramirez, who brought up the personnel list:

ALPHA TEAMMitchell (team leader and rifleman) Ramirez (asst. team leader, commo, and rifleman) Smith (asst. operations sergeant and grenadier) Nolan (medical sergeant and SAW gunner)

BRAVO TEAMBeasley (operations team sergeant and rifleman) Jenkins (engineer sergeant and grenadier) Hume (engineer sergeant, demo, heavy support) Brown (commo and SAW gunner)

CHARLIE TEAMDiaz (marksman/sniper)

"Alpha Team will be the inner cordon, tasked with infiltrating the castle and terminating the targets. Matt? You guys will be outer cordon, taking out security, removing any chances of escape from the AO. Alicia, you're on your own to clear Alpha Team an entry point."

Jenkins raised his hand, his expression dubious.

"What do you got, Bo?" asked Mitchell.

"Sir, I don't doubt Bravo can secure the outer cordon. But even with our guy on the inside to help locate the targets, you'll be going through multistories, probably got animals running around to make noise, old guys getting up in the middle of the night to use the outhouse, and a thousand other things that can go wrong to blow your cover."

"You mean it's just another day at the office."

"All I'm saying, sir, is if we recon the place, and it looks too hairy, why don't you let Johnny and me cut loose with some rockets. We'll be standing off and take down the entire castle."

"Sounds like a plan to me," said John Hume, who would always vote yes for explosives.

"I agree, that's safer," said Beasley. "But if the general wanted it big and loud, he wouldn't have called us."

"That's right," said Mitchell. "But I understand your reservations, Bo. And I hope you don't mind me acknowledging your sacrifice to be here. Bo's father was admitted to the hospital just before he got the call. His dad's stable, but he didn't even get a chance to say good-bye. Bo, I speak for everyone when I say thanks for being here."

Jenkins averted his gaze and nodded.

Ramirez glanced up from the computer. "Sir, we have a call from General Keating."

Mitchell exhaled in frustration. "I thought he wasn't calling until later. Put him through."

With that, everyone sat up.

"Mitchell, good to see you soldiers arrived on time."

"Thank you, General. And we'll be happy to stop breathing in the asbestos and ship out ASAP."

"Roger that, soldier. We just received word from your CIA contacts they've procured their trucks and boat."

"We were just getting ready to cover the infil in detail."

"That's good. No other changes to report. Your request for live stream on the target has been sent up the pipe. I've also put in a request to the DIA to call upon their operative one last time, should we need him during the exfil. I have a feeling that when all hell breaks loose, we'll need every asset we have."

"General, it is my intention to infiltrate that castle, take out those targets, and be back home before they know what hit them."

"I like your style, son."

"Yes, sir."

Keating raised his index finger. "Now, Ghost Team, I'm depending on you to pull this off. Those maniacs plan to invade Taiwan, and if they do, the U.S. will go to war with China. Millions will die, the U.S. economy will be ruined, and God forbid they raise a Chinese flag over the White House."

Mitchell steeled his voice. "Sir, we understand what's at stake."

"Good. Now, I want a clean operation. No blood trails. I've made sure all your ammo comes from our friends in Texas, so you'll field your best weapons. That brass is unmarked, untraceable–and that's a good thing, because I don't want you people packing Chinese water pistols on this operation. Oh, and by the way, if any one of you dies without permission, you're going to piss me off. And worse, you'll piss off your buddies, because they'll need to carry you home. No one–dead or alive–gets left behind. Do you people read me?"

Everyone answered in unison, "Sir, yes, sir."

"Very well then. The XO from Montanawill be contacting you once they arrive at the pier. Send additional intel requests my way. That's all for now. Make us proud, people."

Mitchell answered for all of them: "We will, sir. Thank you, sir."

Ramirez cut the link. Every pair of shoulders slumped.

"Geez, no pressure at all," said Smith. "He sounded worse than my old man."

"But he's not nagging us to go to college or take over as sheriff," said Mitchell, hoisting his brows.

Smith gave a reluctant nod.

"All right, let's break for a drink. When we come back, I'll walk you through the infiltration. And whatever I don't cover, the SEALs will later on."

As the group filed out toward the door, Ramirez lingered behind, looking more than a little concerned. "Sir, this ain't Europe. This ain't the 'Stan. This is China."

Mitchell repressed a shudder. "I know what you mean, Joey."

Chapter Twenty-One.

THIRTY-FIRST GROUP ARMY HEADQUARTERS (NMR)

SPECIAL OPERATIONS FORCES OFFICES

XIAMEN, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Colonel Xu Dingfa had just spent a few days with his parents, and it had been exceedingly difficult not to tell them they would soon be reunited with their children. All he could say was that he had a great surprise and that they would know more joy than they'd had in many, many years.

His father, well aware of the current escalation of forces between the United States, Taiwan, and China, had warned Xu, "I hope, dear son, you are not talking about war."

Xu had not answered.

He wished he could have shared the Spring Tigers' great plan. He and his colleagues had waited far too long to set the dragon free.

In the days to come the Third and Sixth Destroyer/ Frigate Flotillas would set up a naval blockade of all Taiwan's principal cities, disrupting the flow of food and oil. The Tigers assumed that Washington would not sanction attacking a Chinese man-of-war patrolling in international waters. Moreover, those carrier commanders could not divert screening assets away from their carriers to shadow the Chinese warships, because that would leave antisub, antiair, and antisurf gaps in the screens protecting them. U.S. officials would be enraged, but their own rules of engagement precluded any military response as a viable option.

Once surface elements from the Third and Sixth were in place, air units from the Fourth and Sixth Naval Air Division would carry out surgical strikes on Taiwan's airfields, command and control centers, and those newly erected Patriot missile sites. This one-two punch would sever Taipei's communications with its U.S. protectors and eradicate the island's fledgling missile defense system.

At the same time, Xu's Special Forces already on the ground in Taipei near the Datong District would link up with two more companies of Chinese sleeper-cell forces and continue with direct-action missions to destroy radar facilities and further disrupt command and control as they moved south to capture the presidential office building.

At this juncture the pendulum could swing either way. The Americans could step up or Taipei could step down. Xu envisioned the inhabitants of the Pacific Rim watching, waiting. Only diplomacy could keep the pendulum motionless, but Xu had allowed for even that.

Those four Shang-class nuclear attack submarines from the Twenty-second and Forty-second Submarine Flotilla would, under Vice Admiral Cai's command, assume key positions in the Taiwan Strait, with their primary objective the two U.S. carriers.

Major-General Chen had argued that if those subs could damage or sink just one carrier, the loss would be catastrophic, and the U.S. Navy would have to retaliate with lethal force to save face. The Americans would hunt down the four Shang-class subs, while Major-General Wu ordered the launch of Dong Hai-10 Land Attack Cruise Missiles (LACM) with 900-mile ranges from the NMR into Taiwan, targeting major seaports.

Those LACM's would inflict even greater pressure on Taipei to capitulate while upping the ante on the U.S. to stand and deliver. The U.S. would have to launch a direct attack on mainland China to neutralize Wu's missiles, drawing both countries closer to nuclear confrontation. In his mind, Xu saw the entire world holding its breath.

And if the Tigers wanted their dragon to pounce even harder, they could launch even more missiles at the U.S. Air Force bases in Yokota, Kadena, and Misawa, Japan, as well as those in Kunsan and Osan, South Korea–all five within the Dragon's Lair, a term coined in a Rand Corporation report made several years prior. A translated copy of that report sat on Xu's desk.

Indeed, the U.S. would have to fight an all-out war with China or give up Taiwan.

However, the U.S.'s ongoing war on terror had stretched military personnel and its defense budget to the breaking point. What's more, the American public was still screaming for an all-out withdrawal from the Middle East and continued to be abnormally sensitive about military casualties. Officials seeking reelection would not vote for war.

Thus, the Spring Tigers had concluded that the United States could not afford to be challenged on its promise to defend Taiwan.

And once Pouncing Dragon was completely under way, the Chinese government could not afford to stop it, whether they took credit or not.

Finally, the plan cleverly avoided the use of large-scale amphibious landing forces, which all Tigers had agreed were far too predictable, far too cumbersome, and far too complicated to communicate with and support.

After finishing his tea, Xu left the office and took a drive out to a training field behind the base to see how Fang was doing with their security force, two eight-man squads who would be leaving tomorrow afternoon, bound for the Hakka castle.

The training field included an obstacle course with bridges and barbed wire, wall climbs, and a few other training challenges. At the far end of the field stood several buildings used for close-quarters combat training, and it was there that Xu spotted a circle of men.

As he drove closer, he realized Fang was in the middle of the group, and another man, one of the soldiers, was lying on the ground, head pulled into his chest as Fang struck him repeatedly across the back with his unsheathed sword cane.

Xu parked, climbed down from his Brave Warrior, and approached the group. The soldiers immediately snapped to attention, and Fang glanced up in midswing, then lowered his sword.

"What do we have here, Captain?" asked Xu, flicking his gaze down to the soldier, who chanced a look up at Xu, his face covered in blood.

"We have a discipline problem, sir," answered Fang, trying to catch his breath. "This soldier is not comfortable with my leadership."

"What do you mean?"

"Apparently, and I'm unsure how, a few of them learned that I was born in Taiwan. Sergeant Chung here has already referred to me as a spy."

Xu leaned down and got into the bleeding man's face. "Is that true, soldier?"

"I am sorry, sir."

Frowning, Xu faced the men. "Captain Fang's loyalty is without question. Is there any man who disagrees?"

The men stood, statues dressed in camouflage.

"Excellent. Carry on, Captain. You have less than twenty-four hours to be ready."

"Yes, sir!"

As Xu climbed back into his truck, a chill woke at the base of his spine. Fang Zhi's anger knew no bounds, but he would earn the respect of his new force.

Still, that rage could turn into something uncontrollable. Xu would continue to watch the man.

As Xu left the field, his cell phone rang. One of his smugglers in Pakistan was on the line. Another arms shipment had been successfully sold to the Taliban. Xu congratulated the man. The Tigers had turned their gunrunning operation into a most profitable venture. They used the money to buy the silence and fierce loyalty of many more military commanders within the region, men who, while not part of the group, would do as they were told when the time came.

HAKKA CASTLE

XIAMEN, CHINA

APRIL 2012

Buddha stood on the ridge overlooking the castle, watching as Huang ascended the dirt road winding back and forth like a brown snake–or better still, a noodle, the thought of which made Buddha's sagging gut growl.

Buddha's real name was Hsieh Chia-hsien, but over the years he'd actually come to prefer his CIA moniker. He had been working for the agency for more than two decades, recruited at the ripe old age of forty-one. He'd had a full head of hair when the Americans had come calling, and Bill Clinton had been in the White House.

Yes, times had surely changed. Now the agency had paired him up with some college kid. Both the CIA and the DIA had been hiring too many of these Boy Scouts, as the Americans called them, and twice Buddha's cover had nearly been blown by them.

As an expression of his disdain, he'd dubbed his new partner, the baby-faced Chan Chi-yao, as Boy Scout, and that would be his code name, whether he liked it or not.

Boy Scout wore a perpetual scowl that he thought concealed his inexperience. At twenty-four, what he knew about the world could fit in a teacup. But oh, he wasn't afraid to tell you how smart he was, in case you forgot. Poor boy. It might take him fifty years, but he would realize what a young fool he'd been and that he should have had more respect for his elders. This new generation had been raised by wolves.

Buddha fished out his handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his brow, then shoved up his spectacles. The temperature was mild, but that didn't matter. He seemed to sweat no matter what he was doing.

Boy Scout glanced over at him, shaking his head. "Have you considered a diet?"

They spoke in Mandarin, but occasionally Buddha would throw an English phrase at the kid to test him, like he did now: "You wanna play, you pay. That's the way it is, kid. And I'm way too old for a diet."

The kid frowned. Nope, he didn't quite understand that one. But hadn't the kid said he was an expert on American slang? Uh-huh . . .

Their inside man Huang finally reached the ridge, and Boy Scout gave a slight whistle. The elder moved into the dense stand of trees and nodded to them.

"How did it go?" asked Buddha.

After a slight shrug, Huang answered, "Okay, I guess."

"What you mean, old man?" snapped Boy Scout. "Did you tell them or not?"

"I told them, but they still want to meet you. They don't trust me."

"Quiet for a moment," Buddha ordered the kid. "Huang, all they need to do is stay out of the way. You keep telling them that those men coming tomorrow night are drug smugglers working with the army. You tell them the secret police will be coming to arrest them, and that everyone should remain in their rooms. And when we're finished, I promise you that those men will not bother you or your family ever again."

"I want to believe you."

"Just do as we say. And when you know exactly where each man will be staying, you will call us with that information."

"And if I don't?"

"Then we'll–"

Buddha slapped a palm over Boy Scout's mouth. "Then we'll assume you're dead. If you want to save your village, help us."

"But you are not with the secret police, are you?"

"What makes you say that?"

Huang flicked his glance to Boy Scout. "He is too young and too stupid."

Buddha smiled. "I agree. But the police are desperate these days, and we need anyone we can get."

"Okay, but remember our deal. The man I told you about?"

"Yes, Fang Zhi?" said Buddha.

Huang nodded. "You will kill him."

"Of course. Better go now. Fang will be calling you soon. And so will we."

For a moment, Huang just stood there, looking at them, and Buddha pitied the man. He was just a simple farmer caught up in something far more dangerous than he could possibly imagine.

Fang Zhi was assumably one of the Spring Tiger Group's cronies, a guard or security chief who meant nothing in the grand scheme. His name was not even worth mentioning to the Special Forces team coming ashore, and while Buddha had promised to kill him, that was only to satisfy Huang.

Buddha regarded his partner, then tipped his head toward the path. "Back to the car, little one."

Boy Scout's eyes widened. "You will not say that again."

"I see your parents have been neglectful, and the Americans have poisoned away what was left of your respect. But that is okay. You will do as I say, or I will strangle you until you are blue then white then dead. And then I will communicate the unfortunate accident to Langley." Buddha narrowed his fiery gaze, and Boy Scout withered where he stood.

Then, abruptly, Buddha threw his arm around the kid and chuckled. "We're going to have a lot of fun in the next couple of days. Let me ask you something. Other than in training, have you ever been shot at?"

"No."

"That's not good."

"Why should I be worried? This is an assassination, nice and quiet."

Buddha chuckled again. "My dear boy, when the Americans are involved, nothing is ever quiet."

Chapter Twenty-Two.

PIER 3E

SUBIC BAY FREEPORT ZONE

PHILIPPINES

APRIL 2012

Captain Scott Mitchell drove one of the team's two SUVs around some cargo pallets, then he and Ramirez, who was at the wheel of the other truck, slipped beneath a row of six-inch-thick hawsers secured to the bollards of a supertanker on the opposite end of the pier. They drove farther out, then finally parked alongside the submarine, whose hull glistened like the black skin of a killer whale in the moonlight.

Their weapons and other gear were packed in more than a dozen heavy load-out bags and stowed in the cargo areas of each truck. Jenkins and Smith began unloading, but Mitchell told them to hold off until they talked to the crew.

"Captain Mitchell," called a tall, broad-shouldered man coming forward.

"That'd be me, sir."

"I'm Lieutenant Commander Sands, the XO, and this is Master Chief Suallo, chief of the boat. We call him COB."

After shaking the XO's hand, Mitchell turned to the shorter, stouter man with the forced grin and did likewise. "Master Chief."

"Captain."

"Glad to have you aboard, Captain," added Sands.

Mitchell gave a little snort. "I appreciate that, sir, but you'll be happier once we're off your boat."

The XO chuckled then raised his voice to address the entire team. "Okay, listen up. Welcome aboard Montana. Master Chief Suallo will issue each of you a thermoluminescent dosimeter, like the ones he and I are wearing." Sands reached down to his belt and gestured to a device slightly smaller than a deck of cards. "The dosimeter records your total radiation dosage while on board, and it must be worn at all times. Once COB assigns you one, you'll be escorted down this after hatch, through the lock-out trunk, and into the galley on the upper level."

"Damn, we get to eat first thing," Ramirez whispered in Mitchell's ear.

"I doubt it."

"Question, Captain Mitchell?" asked Sands.

"No, sir."

"Good. You'll be briefed about spaces that are off-limits, certain ship routines called rigs, and most importantly, how to flush the commode."

Mitchell and his Ghosts chuckled.

But Sands wasn't kidding. "While that's happening, a working party will finish unloading your gear and move it below. It'll be waiting for you in the torpedo room."

Turning to Mitchell, Sands added, "Captain Gummerson would like to see you in his stateroom at your convenience."

"I'm at the captain's disposal," replied Mitchell. "Lead the way. But I guess I'll grab one of those Geiger counters first."

After yelling, "Down ladder," as instructed, marksman Alicia Diaz studied the twenty-five-inch-wide black hole, grasped the hatch knife edge, and lowered herself down, rung by rung, right behind Master Chief Suallo.

She, along with Smith, Hume, and Suallo, gathered outside the hatch at the bottom, waiting for the others.

"What's that smell?" asked Hume.

"It's Smith," said Diaz with a laugh. "He tries to cover up that body odor with cologne, but he smells even worse."

Smith drew his brows together in mock seriousness. "You kidding? That's my natural musky odor, and it drives women wild. You must have a cold, Alicia."

COB rolled his eyes and recited an explanation he had obviously provided before. "What you're smelling is a mixture of high-voltage ozone, diesel and lube oil, and a derivative of ammonia called amines from our atmospheric system. You'll get used to it."

"What's that ringing in my ears?" asked Smith.

The chief grinned. "That's the 400-hertz electronic buzz that turns us into wonder sub. All our computer systems are processed using 400-cycle power instead of 60-cycle. That higher frequency means everything is smaller, lighter, more accurate, and runs a whole lot cooler. Don't worry. The buzz will go away, too." He glanced to one of the mess tables. "Why don't you folks grab a seat while we wait for the others."

Diaz complied, and Hume, who dropped beside her, leaned over and said, "You're the only woman on this entire sub. You know that, right?"

"So what?"

"It's just . . . we'll keep an eye out for you."

"Gee, thanks, Johnny." She showed him her ugliest face.

"I'm just saying–"

"Too much," she finished.

Mitchell entered the captain's stateroom, which was much smaller than he had imagined. In one corner stood a tiny fold-down desk, but the bulkheads were barren, along with the rest of the quarters.

Captain Gummerson came forward, beaming, his graying hair as mottled as granite, his voice deep and resonant. "Evening, Captain. Ken Gummerson, welcome aboard."

"Thank you, sir. Please call me Scott." Mitchell offered a firm handshake.

"Forgive the empty room. I'm all packed up. We were on our way to Japan to pick up my replacement when we got the call. This may be my last operation on Montana."

"Well, I'm hoping you don'tgo out with a bang, sir."

"Me, too."

"And I have to say, I've been around, sir, but this is my first time aboard a Virginia-class sub. Pretty amazing."

Gummerson grinned and nodded. "I've been riding boats for thirty years, but Montanastill makes me a little bug-eyed." The captain motioned to a seat near his bed. "Relax a minute. I need to run through a few things, and I need to get radio to bring in your message board. You have some update traffic from your boss. Once submerged, the radio messenger will come to you with that message board whenever you have incoming traffic."

"Okay, sir."

"Scott, right now we're situated on the midlevel deck. I call it Main Street. Forward of my stateroom is the control and attack center. Aft of this space is a head that I share with the XO, the XO's stateroom, and aft of him is the VIP stateroom. Aft of that is a bulkhead with a hatch accessing the reactor compartment tunnel. From that hatch aft is off-limits to all but engineering personnel." Gummerson paused.

"Uh, understood, sir."

The captain grinned. "Don't lie. Even I don't remember what I just said. But you'll be taken on a tour."

Mitchell returned the grin. "Good idea."

"I've kicked the ops officer out of the VIP stateroom to turn it over to Sergeant Diaz."

"No need for that," Mitchell assured him. "Sergeant Diaz digs her own latrine just like the rest of us. We never offer her special treatment."

"I appreciate that, but Montanais a twenty-first-century machine crewed by stubborn geeks following the old naval traditions. Hell, until these guys got to sub school in New London, they never heard of Rick-over. They thought Jules Verne was the father of the atomic submarine. You don't think Verne was the father, do you?"