Debt of Honor - Tom Clancy [365]
"Now hear this," the 1-MC announcing system told everyone. "The smoking lamp is out throughout the ship. The smoking lamp is out throughout the ship."
"You let people smoke aboard?" ComSubPac asked. Quite a few of his skippers did not.
"Command judgment, remember?"
Thirty feet away, Ron Jones was in the sonar room, pulling a computer disk out of his pocket.
"We've had the upgrade," the chief told him.
"This one's brand-new." The contractor slipped it into the slot on the backup computer. "I got a hit on you first night out when you ran over the Oregon SOSUS array. Something loose aft?"
"Toolbox. It's gone now. We ran over two more later," the chief pointed out.
"How fast?" Jones asked.
"The second one was just under flank, and we curlicued overtop the thing."
"I got a twitch, nothing more, and that one had the same software I just uploaded for you. You got a quiet boat here, Chief. Walk down?"
"Yeah, the Cap'n tore a few strips off, but there ain't no loose gear aboard now." He paused. "Less'n you count the ends on the toilet-paper rolls."
Jones settled into one of the chairs, and looked around the crowded working space. This was his place. He'd only had a hint of the ship's mission orders—Mancuso had asked his opinion of water conditions and worried if the Japanese might have taken the U.S. Navy's SOSUS station on Honshu intact, and that had been enough, really. She was sure as hell going in harm's way, perhaps the first PacFlt sub to do so. God, and a boomer, too, he thought. Big and slow. One hand reached out and touched the workstation.
"I know who you are, Dr. Jones," the chief said, reading the man's thoughts. "I know my job, too, okay?"
"The other guy's bouts, when they snort—"
"The thousand-hertz line. We have the dash-five tail and all the upgrades. Including yours, I guess." The chief reached for his coffee, and on reflection, poured a mug for his visitor.
"Thank you."
"Asheville and Charlotte?"
Jones nodded, looking down at his coffee. "You know Frenchy Laval?"
"He was one of the instructors in my A-School, long time back."
"Frenchy was my chief on Dallas, working for Admiral Mancuso. His son was aboard Asheville. I knew him. It's personal."
"Gotcha." It was all the chief had to say.
"The United States of America does not accept the current situation, Mr. Ambassador. I thought that I'd made that clear," Adler said two hours into the current session. In fact he'd made it clear at least eight times every day since the negotiations had begun.
"Mr. Adler, unless your country wishes to continue this war, which will profit no one at all, all you need do is abide by the elections which we plan to stage—with full international supervision."
Somewhere in California, Adler remembered, was a radio station that for weeks had played every known recorded version of "Louie Louie." Perhaps the State Department could pipe that into the building instead of Muzak. It would have been superb training for this. The Japanese Ambassador was waiting for an American response to his country's gracious offer of returning Guam—as though it had not been taken by force in the first place—and was now showing exasperation that Adler wasn't conceding anything in return for the friendly gesture. Did he have another card to play? If so, he wouldn't set it down until Adler showed him something.
"We are gratified, of course, that your country will agree to international scrutiny of the elections, and pleased also at your pledge to abide by the results, but that does not change the fact that we are talking about sovereign national territory with a population which has already freely chosen political association with the United States. Unfortunately, our ability to accept that pledge at face value is degraded by the situation which prompts it."
The Ambassador raised his hands, distressed at the diplomatic version of being called a liar. "How could we make it more clear?"
"By