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Soldato flashed his ID at the guard with Bushbaum right behind him and with an electronic buzz at the inner door they were allowed inside. They descended down a narrow staircase into the part of the building that was reinforced and “survivable,” built to withstand a nuclear blast for at least a moment, so they could transmit to the boats of Group Nine the orders to launch their missiles and fight a nuclear war. The space was small, windowless, and packed with electronics. Perhaps not intentionally, it was exceedingly reminiscent of being on a submarine. The duty radioman nodded briefly as the two men entered. Soldato was surprised that he knew him: RM1 Hanson, he’d been a striker onboard Skipjack. He was one of those guys you knew would do alright, and he was a natural for the Group Nine billet: a kid confident enough in his abilities that he wouldn’t mind admirals and captains constantly looking over his shoulder.

“You’ve got 731 on bridge-to-bridge?” said Soldato.

“Yes sir,” said Hanson. He was wearing a working uniform and sat in front of an actual operational radio console, and it made Soldato’s spirits soar again, just to be in the room with someone who was actually accomplishing something, doing real work. “We’re not listening to it now, because we have all these priority one messages we’re sending back and forth, modifying patrol orders and alerting the other boats…”

“I understand,” said Soldato. “But can you patch it in for me? I need to hear it.”

“They’re really not saying much now, sir,” said Hanson. “Once the two OOD’s made contact, they didn’t have much to say to each other. And we can’t talk to them, we’re just patched through.”

“I understand,” said Soldato again.

Hanson shrugged, and looked down at his messages, which were becoming increasingly lengthy and administrative. As a radioman, he liked hearing the scratchy voices of men’s voices being carried on the airwaves too…so if the commodore wanted to hear it, who was he to say no?

He stood and leaned toward a controller that was over his main computer monitor, and flipped a toggle switch. Immediately the white noise of static came through a speaker behind them. He adjusted another switch, and the static quieted slightly, replaced by an occasional crackle that told them they were tuned to a radio signal. Soldato turned and found the speaker by his shoulder, turned a knob to raise the volume.

“That’s it,” said Hansen. “They’re not saying anything right now.”

They waited, until finally a voice came through.

Sturgeon, this is steelhead, do you copy?

“Sturgeon is Alabama,” said Hanson. He pointed to the frayed book of NATO call signs on his desk. “Steelhead is the Navajo.”

After a pause…Sturgeon, this is steelhead, do you copy?

Soldato held his breath awaiting a response. Even though he too was eager to hear something from the submarine, he scowled at the impatient tone of the second request from that skimmer officer on Navajo: my God, do you know what they’ve been through? What they must still be combating on their end? Give him a fucking second.

Finally, a response. Steelhead this is sturgeon, go ahead. But the sound was garbled, hard to hear, and trailed off.

Sturgeon, this is steelhead, are you changing course?

There was a long pause, and then the officer of the deck of the Alabama replied: Steelhead this is sturgeon, we are turning to port to heading zero-seven-zero, request you stay on station, over.

This time, the voice of the officer of the deck came in remarkably clear, despite the many miles that separated them. And there was no mistaking in it a mild Tennessee twang.

“Thank you Hanson,” said Soldato, turning toward the steps. Bushbaum reflexively turned to follow him, a look of confusion still on his face. “You wait here,” said Soldato. “Meet me in the van in ten minutes.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Bushbaum, looking a little stung, a hint of reproach behind his eyes. He didn’t know what Soldato was doing, but it was something he didn’t want his Chief of Staff to hear.

And Soldato didn’t give a shit.

He strode out of Group Nine into the van, sat in the passenger seat, and pulled his cell phone from his pocket. He dialed a number that he had stored.

“Hello?” Angi picked up before the first ring was over, her voice weak with worry. He could hear a news station in the background. She was waiting for CNN to tell her what the Navy wouldn’t.

“Angi, this is Mario. I can’t tell you anything else, but…Danny is fine.”

• • •

The wounded submarine limped eastward on the surface, crippled but operating under her own power. For a time the Navy had two sea-going tugs standing by, but towing was a humiliation the proud boat was able to avoid.