honor the national ensign at Challenger's stern, then exchange salutes with the in-port duty officer.
"Commodore Morse," Wilson said, "let me introduce my executive officer, Jeffrey Fuller. . . . Jeffrey, meet Richard Morse." They shook hands. A commodore was a senior captain acting in the role of rear admiral, commanding more than a single ship. Jeffrey saw that Morse was qualified in subs—between the dolphins on his badge was a crown with inlaid rubies.
"Welcome to our island," Morse said, smiling. Then he added puckishly, "Of course, hardly anyone here's British." Diego Garcia was a U.K. dependent territory, in the middle of the Indian Ocean, in the middle of
nowhere. Its strategic value lay in being on the way to or from so many other places.
"The commodore's with us as an observer," Wilson said. "He'll take command of a new undersea battle group when we get to the Cape Verdes."
"HMS Dreadnought will be my flagship to escort the Allied buildup," Morse said, "so I'm quite interested in how you people go about things. You know our troopship and tank transport convoys to Central Africa will be crucial. German and Boer land forces are still hell-bent on linking up there."
Morse's frame was compact, like Captain Wilson's, and his wan complexion seemed more so next to the CO's deep chocolate brown. Morse had erect posture by submariner standards, with slightly rounded shoulders that spoke of quiet power. Wilson's shoulders were squared off, always, conveying toughness and a not-soquiet power.
"XO," Wilson said, "this is Ilse Reebeck. Miss Reebeck, Commander Fuller." A lieutenant commander was called "Commander" publicly, and as XO Jeffrey would have gotten the title in any case, a military courtesy. Now he could see Ilse was a civilian—
no one had told her civilians don't salute.
"How do you do," Jeffrey said. Ilse was slim, close to Jeffrey's height. She had a good figure and a good firm handshake, but her eyes were angry, or maybe sad.
"Pleased to meet you," Reebeck said officiously in a not-quite-British accent.
"Anything vital still not loaded?" Wilson said to Jeffrey, never one to waste his time or words.
"How vital do you mean, sir?" Jeffrey said.
"We've got mission orders," Wilson said, holding up his bulging briefcase, "but first things first. An Israeli Type 800 diesel boat just reported an inbound hostile PROBSUB
contact, then didn't have the signal processing power to hold on to it."
"The hostile's not nuclear-powered?" Jeffrey said.
"No, it's too quiet, that's the problem. Helos are being vectored now to help confirm and localize. We're tasked to make the intercept before the bastard gets too close."
"Understood, Captain."
"Tell Maneuvering I want to get under way in fifteen minutes. You take the bridge until we dive."
"Aye aye, sir," Jeffrey said. He knew Challenger's reactor had been kept critical. With her steam throttles cranked open and proper control rod adjustments, the ship would answer all bells almost instantly.
"Weapons load-out completed?" Wilson said. "Yes, sir," Jeffrey said.
"Everyone aboard? SEAL team squared away?" "We struck their gear below first thing."
"Good," Wilson said, eyeing the flexible conveyor passing boxes from the tender. " Anything still waiting when we single up gets left behind. And once we're submerged, I want your recommendation on what goes in the torpedo tubes. So use your head."
"Understood, sir," Jeffrey said.
"You got grease on your good uniform."
"Sorry, sir," Jeffrey said, didn't have time to change after the meeting with Admiral Cook."
Wilson nodded. "Call me when we're ready to cast off." Wilson let the Brit precede him down the hatch behind the sail. COB followed, presumably to help Morse get settled in. Ilse Reebeck lingered. She glared at the armed enlisted man who stood guard by the brow. He instinctively stepped back. "I'm South African," she told Jeffrey, making it a dare, not an explanation.
"I'm sorry," Jeffrey said. He thought she
"Commodore Morse," Wilson said, "let me introduce my executive officer, Jeffrey Fuller. . . . Jeffrey, meet Richard Morse." They shook hands. A commodore was a senior captain acting in the role of rear admiral, commanding more than a single ship. Jeffrey saw that Morse was qualified in subs—between the dolphins on his badge was a crown with inlaid rubies.
"Welcome to our island," Morse said, smiling. Then he added puckishly, "Of course, hardly anyone here's British." Diego Garcia was a U.K. dependent territory, in the middle of the Indian Ocean, in the middle of
nowhere. Its strategic value lay in being on the way to or from so many other places.
"The commodore's with us as an observer," Wilson said. "He'll take command of a new undersea battle group when we get to the Cape Verdes."
"HMS Dreadnought will be my flagship to escort the Allied buildup," Morse said, "so I'm quite interested in how you people go about things. You know our troopship and tank transport convoys to Central Africa will be crucial. German and Boer land forces are still hell-bent on linking up there."
Morse's frame was compact, like Captain Wilson's, and his wan complexion seemed more so next to the CO's deep chocolate brown. Morse had erect posture by submariner standards, with slightly rounded shoulders that spoke of quiet power. Wilson's shoulders were squared off, always, conveying toughness and a not-soquiet power.
"XO," Wilson said, "this is Ilse Reebeck. Miss Reebeck, Commander Fuller." A lieutenant commander was called "Commander" publicly, and as XO Jeffrey would have gotten the title in any case, a military courtesy. Now he could see Ilse was a civilian—
no one had told her civilians don't salute.
"How do you do," Jeffrey said. Ilse was slim, close to Jeffrey's height. She had a good figure and a good firm handshake, but her eyes were angry, or maybe sad.
"Pleased to meet you," Reebeck said officiously in a not-quite-British accent.
"Anything vital still not loaded?" Wilson said to Jeffrey, never one to waste his time or words.
"How vital do you mean, sir?" Jeffrey said.
"We've got mission orders," Wilson said, holding up his bulging briefcase, "but first things first. An Israeli Type 800 diesel boat just reported an inbound hostile PROBSUB
contact, then didn't have the signal processing power to hold on to it."
"The hostile's not nuclear-powered?" Jeffrey said.
"No, it's too quiet, that's the problem. Helos are being vectored now to help confirm and localize. We're tasked to make the intercept before the bastard gets too close."
"Understood, Captain."
"Tell Maneuvering I want to get under way in fifteen minutes. You take the bridge until we dive."
"Aye aye, sir," Jeffrey said. He knew Challenger's reactor had been kept critical. With her steam throttles cranked open and proper control rod adjustments, the ship would answer all bells almost instantly.
"Weapons load-out completed?" Wilson said. "Yes, sir," Jeffrey said.
"Everyone aboard? SEAL team squared away?" "We struck their gear below first thing."
"Good," Wilson said, eyeing the flexible conveyor passing boxes from the tender. " Anything still waiting when we single up gets left behind. And once we're submerged, I want your recommendation on what goes in the torpedo tubes. So use your head."
"Understood, sir," Jeffrey said.
"You got grease on your good uniform."
"Sorry, sir," Jeffrey said, didn't have time to change after the meeting with Admiral Cook."
Wilson nodded. "Call me when we're ready to cast off." Wilson let the Brit precede him down the hatch behind the sail. COB followed, presumably to help Morse get settled in. Ilse Reebeck lingered. She glared at the armed enlisted man who stood guard by the brow. He instinctively stepped back. "I'm South African," she told Jeffrey, making it a dare, not an explanation.
"I'm sorry," Jeffrey said. He thought she
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