Arabian Storm (The Hunter Killer Series Book 5) by George Wallace (different ereaders .txt) 📕

willed his attention back to the current moment and place, both of which were a hell of a long way from a nice summer day on a towel on Virginia Beach.

Glass’s cramped stateroom on the Improved Los Angeles-class nuclear submarine Toledo was literally on the other side of the world from his home and family back there near Norfolk. That brief instance of homesick nostalgia was swept away by reality as the submarine skipper hurriedly finished smearing on the cream, making sure to cover his ears and the back of his neck. Glass knew from painful experience that the tropical Indian Ocean sun could be unrelentingly brutal.

As Glass wiped his hands on a towel and began looking for his sunglasses, Lieutenant Commander Billy Ray Jones stuck his head in the stateroom door. The ship’s executive officer gave a contemptuous snort.

“Boy, this place sure smells like a piña colada, Skipper. Y’all opening up a tiki bar in here?” When Jones kidded, his thick Alabama accent and good-ole-boy mannerisms added to the effect. “Reckon you could pour your good old exec a big, frosty glass full, yo’ know with an umbrella and all?”

“It was the only SPF 50 I could find in our rush to get the hell out of Norfolk,” Glass responded with a chuckle. “You remember all the fuss in that work-up before the underway, like they were pushing us out the door. Lucky I had time to hit the Exchange at all.” Glass sniffed his hands. “But you’re right. I don’t know whether to slather this stuff on or eat it.”

Prior to leaving Norfolk for this deployment, Toledo, which had been much modified from her sister 688Is, had spent considerable down time getting still more new gear installed. It seemed the Navy wanted to bolt or weld onto the submarine every gizmo they had in development. Then, once installed, there was all the testing of the “experimental” equipment to see if it came close to doing what it was designed to do. This extra work and confusion added many unexpected hours and immeasurable frustration to what were already hectic pre-deployment work-ups. And, as usual, the NUWC eggheads always seemed to want to give the “must have” black boxes one more tweak before the boat could finally get underway. Which required still more testing and verifications.

But when it came time to go, the urgency and secrecy were apparent. Out of port and best speed all the way around Cape Horn just so no one would have any idea where they were going. Now they were on the other side of the world, first mission completed and pulling in to port for a little rest and to finish up on some of that testing and verification. And it would be hard to find a port more hidden and out of the way than the tiny island of Diego Garcia.

“Look, XO, after seventy days enjoying the fluorescent sunshine, I figure we’re all pretty pasty white,” Glass added. “I ain’t taking any chances. Did you get the mission-report message off?”

“It went out in the first message traffic when we surfaced. We got a reply a few minutes ago,” Jones answered, now all business to match his skipper’s sudden mood switch. “The intel weenies are supposed to be meeting us when we tie up so they can take our sonar tapes. Kinda funny how they are suddenly so very interested in our latest catch.”

“Not surprised,” Glass grunted. “It’s not every day we catch a Chinese sub trying to sneak up on our little tropical paradise here. They’ll have plenty to study. A week in trail as she snooped around here, pretty complete acoustic mapping on her, then a good turnover to IUSS as she headed north. And no indication that our Chinese friend was any the wiser. I would say we did pretty well.”

“Gotta agree,” Jones answered proudly. The crew of Toledo had, indeed, done an admirable job. “But the reason I stepped in was to tell you that I’ve got Bob Ronson on the bridge as UI for his first landing. He may need some coaching to keep him from finding the reef the hard and destructive way.”

Joe Glass nodded his approval as he pulled his ballcap down snugly onto his head. So many new faces on this deployment. Sometimes it seemed to Glass that the entire crew had changed out without his knowing it. The fact was most of the crew actually had changed out, and for quite a few reasons. One was Glass’s own successful pleading that he be able to make one more run. That meant he had already been Toledo’s skipper for a good bit longer than was typical.

“Roger. Ronson seems like a good kid, bright and eager,” Glass responded. “And this should be a pretty straightforward maneuvering watch. No wind to amount to anything. No current.” The skipper pulled an index card from his breast pocket. “Entrance channel course one-one-nine, turn bearing on Observatory Point zero-five-five, Anchorage Channel course one-seven-one. Then port side to the tender.”

Jones shook his head and grinned. “You really are a bona fide Luddite, Skipper. You know there’s an electronic chart right up there on the bridge box, right?”

“I never did trust them newfangled thingamajigs,” Glass shot back with an exaggerated hillbilly drawl of his own. “Fancy gizmos always on the fritz just when you need ’em most.” Glass waved the three-by-five card. “But these never go haywire or need batteries.”

Looking past the XO, Glass noticed Doc Halliday, Toledo’s corpsman, slipping by, heading toward the control room.

“Doc!” Glass called out. “Make sure that the bridge party and line handlers all use sunblock. We certainly don’t need anyone on the binnacle list with a damn sunburn.”

“It’s in the bridge bag, Skipper,”