"Excellent! I must leave now. I'll be back when we start rolling tanks."
Alekseyev handed the phone back to a junior officer. It was like listening to a hockey game on the radio!
"The next objective, Pasha?"
"Northwest to Hameln and beyond. We might be able to cut off NATO's northern army groups. If they start to disengage their forces around Hamburg, we go to a general attack and chase them all the way to the English Channel! I think we have the situation we've been hoping for."
At NATO headquarters, staff officers looked at the same maps and reached the same conclusions with less enthusiasm. Reserves were dangerously low-yet there was no choice. Men and guns converged on Alfeld in ever increasing numbers.
It was the biggest transit of U.S. Navy ships in years. The gray hulls used both sides of each lock system, preventing westbound traffic from moving. They were in a hurry. Helicopters moved the Canal pilots to and from ships; speed restrictions were broken, regardless of the erosion problems at the Gaillard Cut. Those ships needing refueling had it done as soon as they exited the Canal at the Gatun Locks, then formed an antisubmarine barrier outside Lim?n Bay. The formation's transit from Pacific to Atlantic lasted twelve hours under ruthless security. Finished, they departed north at a fleet speed of twenty-two knots. They had to go through the Windward Passage at night.
They call it the smell of the sea, Morris thought, but really it's not. It's the smell of land It came from the tidal marshes-all the things that lived and died and rotted at the water's edge, all the smells that fermented in the marginal wetlands and when released blew out to sea. Sailors considered it a friendly odor because it meant that land, port, home, family were near. Otherwise it was something to be neutralized with Lysol.
As Morris watched, the tug Papago shortened her towline for better control in the restricted waters. Three harbor tugs came alongside, their crews throwing messenger lines to the frigate's sailors. When they were secured, Papago cast off and proceeded up the river to refuel.
"Good afternoon, Captain." The harbor pilot had come out on one of the tugs. He looked to have been bringing ships in and out of Boston for fifty years.
"And to you, Captain," Morris acknowledged.
"I see you killed three Russian subs?"
"Only one by ourselves. The others are assists."
"How much water are you drawing forward?"
"Just under twenty-five feet-no," Morris had to correct himself. The sonar dome was at the bottom of the Atlantic now.
"You did well to bring her back, Captain," the pilot said, looking forward. "My 'can didn't survive. Before you were born, I guess. Callaghan, seven ninety-two. Assistant gunnery officer, I'd just made j.g. We got twelve Jap planes, but just after midnight the thirteenth kamikaze got through on us. Forty-seven men-well." The pilot took the walkie-talkie from Ins pocket and started giving directions to the tugs. Pharris began to move sideways toward a pier. A medium-sized drydock was straight ahead, but they were not moving that way.
"Not the drydock?" Morris asked, surprised and angry that his ship was being moved to an ordinary pier.
"Mechanical problems in the dock. They're not ready for you yet. Tomorrow, day after for sure. I know how you feel, Captain. Like your kid's hurt and they won't let her in the hospital. Cheer up, I watched mine sink."
It made no sense to grumble, Morris knew. The man was right. If Pharris hadn't sunk during the tow, she was safe enough alongside the pier for a day or two. The pilot was an expert. His trained eye measured the wind and the tide, and he gave the proper orders to the tug captains. Within thirty minutes the frigate was secured to the cargo pier. Three TV news crews were waiting for them behind a screen of sailors in shore patrol livery. As soon as the brow was rigged, an officer hurried aboard and came right to the bridge.
"Captain, I'm Lieutenant Commander Anders. I have this for you, sir." He handed over an official-looking envelope.
Morris tore it open and found a standard Navy dispatch form. The message ordered him in terse Navy prose to Norfolk by the quickest available transport.
"I have a car waiting. You can catch the shuttle to D.C., then hop a short-hauler to Norfolk."
"What about my ship?"
"That's my job, Captain. I'll take good care of her for you."
Just like that, Morris thought. He nodded and went below to pack his gear. Ten minutes later he walked without speaking past the TV cameras and was taken to Logan International Airport.
