Chapter 6
The Watchers.
NORFOLK, VIRGINIA
Intentions was a small second-floor office normally occupied by four officers. Shoehorning Toland in there was difficult, mainly because all the classified material had to be covered up while the civilian movers got the desk in place. When they finally left, Bob found he had just about enough space to get into and out of his swivel chair. The office door had a cipher lock with five rocker switches concealed in a steel container. Located in the northwest corner of CINCLANT headquarters, the office's barred windows overlooked a highway and little else. The drab curtains were closed anyway. Inside, the walls might have been painted beige once, but the plaster had whitened from underneath to give the office the sort of pallor expected in a yellow fever ward.
The senior officer was a Marine colonel named Chuck Lowe, who had watched the moving-in process with a silent resentment that Bob only understood when the man got to his feet.
"I may never make it to the head now," Lowe grumped, sticking his cast around the corner of his desk. They shook hands.
"What happened to the leg, Colonel?"
"Mountain Warfare School out in California, day after Christmas, skiing on my own Goddamned time. The docs say you should never break the tibia close to the bottom," Lowe explained with an ironic smile. "And you never get used to the itching. Should have this thing off in another three or four weeks. Then I
have to get used to running again. You know, I spent three years trying to break my ass out of intel, then I finally get my Goddamned regiment, and this happens. Welcome aboard, Toland. Why don't you grab us both a cup of coffee?"
There was a pot atop the farthest filing cabinet. The other three officers, Lowe explained, were giving a briefing.
"I saw the write-up you gave CINCLANT. Interesting stuff. What do you think Ivan's up to?"
"It looks like he's increasing readiness across the board, Colonel—"
"In here, you can call me Chuck."
"Fine—I'm Bob."
"You do signal intelligence at NSA, right? You're one of the satellite specialists, I heard."
Toland nodded. "Ours and theirs, mostly ours. I see photos from time to time, but mostly I do signals work. That's how we twigged to the report on the four colonels. There has also been a fair amount of operational maneuvering done, more than usual for this time of year. Ivan's been a little freer with how his tankers drive around, too, less concern about running a battalion across a plowed field, for example."
"And you're supposed to have a look at anything that's unusual, no matter how dumb it seems, right? That gives you a pretty wide brief, doesn't it? We got something interesting along those lines from DIA. Have a look at these." Lowe pulled a pair of eight-by-ten photographs from a manila envelope and handed them to Toland. They seemed to show the same parcel of land, but from slightly different angles and different times of year. In the upper left corner was a pair of isbas, the crude huts of Russian peasant life. Toland looked up.
"Collective farm?"
"Yeah. Number 1196, a little one about two hundred klicks northwest of Moscow. Tell me what's different between the two."
Toland looked back at the photos. In one was a straight line of fenced gardens, perhaps an acre each. In the other he could see a new fence for four of the patches, and one patch whose fenced area had been roughly doubled.
"A colonel—army-type—I used to work with sent me these. Thought I'd find it amusing. I grew up on a corn farm in Iowa, you see."
"So Ivan's increasing the private patches for the farmers to work on their own, eh?"
"Looks that way."
"Hasn't been announced, has it? I haven't read anything about it." Toland didn't read the government's secret in-house publication, National Intelligence Digest, but the NSA cafeteria gossip usually covered harmless stuff like this. Intelligence types talked shop as much as any others.
Lowe shook his head slightly. "Nope, and that's a little odd. It's something they should announce. The papers would call that another sure sign of the 'liberalization trend' we've been seeing."
"Just this one farm, maybe?"
"As a matter of fact, they've seen the same thing at five other places. But we don't generally use our reconsats for this sort of thing. They got this on a slow news day, I suppose. The important stuff must have been covered by clouds." Toland nodded agreement. The reconnaissance satellites were used to evaluate Soviet grain crops, but that happened later in the year. The Russians knew it also, since it had been in the open press for over a decade, explaining why there was a team of agronomists in the U.S. Department of Agriculture with Special Intelligence-Compartmented security clearance."
"Kind of late in the season to do that, isn't it? I mean, will it do any good to give 'em this land this time of year?"
"I got these a week ago. I think they're a little older than that. This is about the time most of their farms start planting. It stays cold there quite a long time, remember, but the high latitudes make up for it with longer summer days. Assume that this is a nationwide move on their part. Evaluate that for me, Bob." The colonel's eyes narrowed briefly.
"Smart move on their part, obviously. It could solve a lot of their food supply problems, particularly for—truck-farm stuff, I guess, tomatoes, onions, that sort of thing."
"Maybe. You might also note that this sort of farming is manpower-intensive but not machinery-intensive. What about the demographic aspect of the move?"
Toland blinked. There was a tendency in the U.S. Navy to assume that since they made their living by charging into machine-gun fire, Marines were dumb. "Most of the kokolzniki are relatively old folks. The median age is in the late forties, early fifties. So most of the private plots are managed by the older people, while the mechanized work, like driving the combines and trucks—"
"Which pays a hell of a lot better."
"—is done by the younger workers. You're telling me that this way they can increase some food production without the younger men ... of military service age."
"One way to look at it," Lowe said. "Politically it's dynamite. You can't take away things people already have. Back in the early sixties, a rumor—wasn't even true—got started to the effect that Khrushchev was going to reduce or eliminate the private plots those poor bastards get. There was hell to pay! I was in the language school at Monterey then, and I remember the Russian papers that came through the language school. They spent weeks denying the story. Those private plots are the most productive sector of their agricultural system. Less than two percent of their arable land, it produces about half of their fruit and potatoes, more than a third of their eggs, vegetables, and meat. Hell, it's the only part of the damned agricultural system that works. The bigshots over there have known for years that by doing this they could solve their food shortage problems, and still they haven't done it for political reasons. They couldn't run the risk of State sponsorship for a whole new generation of kulaks. Until now. But it appears they've done it without making a formal announcement. And it just so happens that they're increasing their military readiness at the same time. I never believe in coincidences, even when I'm a dumb line officer running across a beach."
Lowe's uniform blouse hung in the corner. Toland sipped at his coffee and surveyed its four rows of decorations. There were three repeat pips on his Vietnam service ribbon. And a Navy Cross. Dressed in the olive-green sweater affected by Marine officers, Lowe was not a big man, and his Midwest accent gave evidence of a relaxed, almost bored outlook on life. But his brown eyes said something else entirely. Colonel Lowe was thinking along Toland's lines already, and he was not the least happy about it.
"Chuck, if they are really preparing for some action—action on a large scale, they just can't mess with a few colonels. Something else will start showing up. They'll have to do some work at the bottom, too."
"Yeah, that's the next thing we have to look for. I sent a request into DIA yesterday. From now on, when Red Star comes out, the attache in Moscow will send a photo-facsimile to us via satellite. If they start doing that, it'll sure as hell turn up in Kraznaya Zvesda. Bob, I think you've opened a very interesting can of worms, and you're not going to be alone examining it."
Toland finished his coffee. The Soviets had taken an entire class of fleet ballistic missile submarines out of service. They were conducting arms talks in Vienna. They were buying grain from America and Canada under surprisingly favorable terms, even allowing American hulls to handle 20 percent of the cargo. How did this jibe with the signs he had seen? Logically it didn't, except in one specific case—and that wasn't possible. Was it?
SHPOLA, THE UKRAINE
The crashing sound of the 125mm tank gun was enough to strip the hair off your head, Alekseyev thought, but after five hours of running this exercise, it came through his ear protectors as a dull ringing sound. This morning the ground had been covered with grass and dotted with new saplings, but now it was a uniform wasteland of mud, marked only with the tread marks of T-80 main battle tanks and BMP armored infantry fighting vehicles. Three times the regiment had run this exercise, simulating a frontal assault of tanks and mounted infantry against an enemy of equal strength. Ninety mobile guns had supplied fire support, along with a battery of rocket launchers. Three times.
Alekseyev turned, removing his helmet and earmuffs to look at the regimental commander. "A Guards regiment, eh, Comrade Colonel? Elite soldiers of the Red Army? These tit-sucking children couldn't guard a Turkish whorehouse, much less do anything worthwhile inside of it! And what have you been doing for the past four years commanding this rolling circus, Comrade Colonel? You have learned to kill your whole command three times! Your artillery observers are not located properly. Your tanks and infantry carriers still can't coordinate their movements, and your tank gunners can't find targets three meters high! If that had been a NATO force holding that ridge, you and your command would be dead!" Alekseyev examined the colonel's face. His demeanor was changing from red-fear to white-anger. Good. "The loss of these people is no great penalty for the State, but that is valuable equipment, burning valuable fuel, shooting valuable ordnance, and taking up my valuable time! Comrade Colonel, I must leave you now. First I will throw up. Then I will fly to my command post. I will be back. When I come back, we will run this exercise again. Your men will perform properly, Comrade Colonel, or you will spend the rest of your miserable life counting trees!"
Alekseyev stomped off, not even acknowledging the colonel's salute. His adjutant, a full colonel of tank troops, held open the door and got in behind his boss.
"Shaping up rather well, eh?" Alekseyev asked.
"Not well enough, but there has been progress," the colonel allowed. "They have only another six weeks before they have to start moving west."
It was the wrong thing to say. Alekseyev had spent two weeks chivvying this division toward combat readiness, only to learn the day before that it had been allocated to Germany instead of toward his own as-yet incomplete plan to descend into Iraq and Iran. Already four divisions—all of his elite Guards tank units—had been taken away, and each change in CINC-Southwest's order of battle forced him to restructure his own plan for the Gulf. An endless circle. He was being forced to select less-ready units, forcing Alekseyev to devote more time to unit training and less time to the plan that had to be completed in another two weeks.
"Those men are going to have a very busy six weeks. What about the commander?" the colonel asked.
Alekseyev shrugged. "He's been in this job too long. Forty-five is too old for this kind of command, and he reads his fucking parade manuals too much instead of going out in the field. But a good man. Too good to be sent counting trees." Alekseyev chuckled heavily. It was a Russian saying that dated back to the czars. People exiled to Siberia were said to have nothing to do but count trees. Another of the things Lenin had changed. Now people in the Gulag had plenty to do. "The last two times they did well enough to succeed, I think. This regiment will be ready, along with the whole division."
Vienna. Federal Imperial State of Ostmark.
Janna Leskovar groaned in despair.
Her office was a mess. She'd just learned the basics of how to work on a computer terminal ad as a result, had gotten a boxy PC installed, but now she wished she hadn't. She was getting swamped.
I swear the other nations have it easier than us. She thought tiredly. Fuso, Brittania, Liberion, Soumus, Hell even Romagna and Venezia got integrated within Italy. Then and again, I'm kind of thankful we aren't facing problems like Karlsland and Orussia with their "new world" counterparts.
A former tank witch whose magic had expired. She'd been relegated to logistics following that. Now, she was facing what was in literal sense, a nightmare for even the RAF's rations and logistics department.
Ostmark had found itself merged onto the territories and areas 4 different independent states. The Republic of Austria, the Czechoslovak People's Republic, Socialist Republic of Hungary, and Slovenia (part of SFR Yugoslavia) and bits of Romania.
What made it such a mess aside from the tense integration (it had cost a lot to remove the socialist governments) was the unification of the armies.
The Ostmarkian Imperial Armed forces found it's equipment out of date and obsolete (except for the Striker Units witches used.) but outnumbered the armed forces of all four states. Now they had to catalogue every modern piece of equipment they'd inherited.
Take the former Austrian Bundesheer for example. It now formed the key spearhead of Ostmark's defense, regardless of what the Imperial Army Generals thought. Already, AOK High Command was making and negotiating contracts for a license to produce Leopard 2 tanks. The Ostmarkian units on Austria's territory were being re-equipped with modern Steyr AUG rifles and G3s while the military-industrial complex tried to familiarize itself with the now large amounts of demand.
Janna's screen displayed a sea of data—endless lists of equipment, personnel files, training schedules, and integration plans. But even with their expertise, they were struggling to bring order to the chaos. Most of the inherited equipment from the other states was outdated, barely serviceable, and incompatible with what little modern gear Ostmark had.
Statistics flashed on the screen:
· Austrian Bundesheer: 45,000 troops, with the most modern equipment, yet still lacking in several key areas.
· Czechoslovak People's Republic Army: 80,000 troops, with a mix of Soviet-era tanks, artillery, and small arms, most of which were high quality made by the excellent Skoda works in Prague.
· Socialist Republic of Hungary's Armed Forces: 70,000 troops, with similarly outdated Soviet equipment, much of it incompatible with the Czechoslovak gear.
· Slovenian Territorial Defense: 25,000 troops, the smallest and least equipped of the forces, with a mishmash of Yugoslav and Italian weapons.
The numbers were daunting. Even more so were the challenges of integrating command structures, training regimens, and even basic communication. The languages and military cultures differed greatly, making it difficult to create a unified chain of command.
Janna's thoughts drifted to the other nations she had mentioned earlier. Fuso, Britannia, Liberion, and Soumus—countries that, while not without their own challenges, seemed to have a much smoother path forward. Even Romagna and Venezia, with their internal political struggles, didn't face the sheer logistical nightmare that Ostmark was grappling with.
And then there was Karlsland and Orussia. She shuddered, thankful that Ostmark wasn't in their shoes. The merging of their worlds with their "new world" counterparts was a disaster of epic proportions, a mess that made Ostmark's challenges seem almost trivial by comparison. Almost.
Janna sighed deeply and turned back to the screen. The task was immense, but she couldn't afford to falter. The future of Ostmark's defense rested on her shoulders, and she was determined to see it through. The integration had to succeed; failure was not an option.
"We're not in 1945 anymore," she whispered to herself. "It's time we learned how to live in 1989."
Berlin. Near the Palace of the Republic/Stadtschloss
The staff car halted directly next to the horrible modern glass monstrosity across the Unter den Linden. Generaloberst Wilhelm Viktor von Franks strode out of his Mercedes tourer before slamming the door shut. He then set off in a brisk walk toward the ugly place.
Walking on the Unter Der Linden, he chose to forgo entering the Palace of the Republic, the location of the former East German Volkshammer, and chose to go by another route to the palace behind it.
When the merging occurred, the Berlin Palace had been transported behind the PDR. Franks saw it as a very tacky building. It had no culture in it, just like the traitors of the East German communist bootlicker government who had financed its creation. He gave a disdainful look at some denim-clad young delinquents, smoking and listening to their loud music. How he wished to walk over and give these young whippersnappers a piece of his mind.
Patience, he calmed himself. Trust the plan and the process. Within two months, the Karlslandic Empire shall stretch again from the Rhineland to East Prussia.
Once he had calmed himself down, he continued his brisk march down to the entrance of the palace, where the guards, who knew him by sight, saluted him and let him through.
Entering the Palace corridors, he submitted himself to a security check at a checkpoint where the guards manned one of those new X-ray machines. Marvelous things, the only negative being that it was East German make. He put the case onto the conveyor belt and let himself be patted by a uniformed member of the 1st Life Guards Regiment. He then surrendered his Luger pistol over to the security guards, as was the custom before being given his briefcase back to continue his journey inwards.
Entering the careworn rooms and corridors where thousands of secretaries and support staff clattered away at typewriters or the rare new computer terminal. Franks halted in the doorway and let his eyes appraise the entire room marveling at the impressiveness of it all.
Also in the room were witches, both former and on duty. Franks stiffened. While a conservative, he had to acknowledge the invaluable support the witches had given the world, even if he saw women's places to be at home or in the kitchen. While he had a grudging respect for the girls, they were all pro-integration with the two Germanies, because they had the delusional ideas that just because this wasn't Karlsland's old reality, then they should let themselves unite with the Germans, liberal democrats and communists who would see traditions and military prowess thrown in the gutter and the power of the aristocrats and parliament shattered.
I would rather die, than see a reunification with those filth. Franks thought. He gave the room one last look before stiffly turning and walking away.
Presently, he bumped into Air Marshall Adolfine Galland of the Imperial Luftwaffe. She looked like she'd seen better days. Her long black hair was messy, but barely combed into place. Her dark brown, fur-lined leather flight jacket was unzipped, revealing her white undershirt. The only thing neat were her skintight pants and longboots.
"Good morning, Air Marshall." He took off his crusher cap and saluted, a gesture returned with lethargic slowness. It was funny, that this girl, barely tall as he, should be his superior, but she was a witch, and that made her special enough, he thought with a sarcastically dark tone.
"Morning Franks, you seem chipper today. Something with your little clique in meeting room 33?" Galland pushed her bangs away with the back of her hand, blue eyes narrowed in suspicion.
"And what if it is?" he countered. "What would you do about it? Meetings like this are normal."
"Not with you and the faction you're part of they're not," Adolfine muttered darkly.
Franks let out a disarming, loud belly laugh. "Oh my! You look like you need some good strong coffee,"
"Don't change the subject, Franks." Galland crossed her arms. "Why."
Franks ignored her query. "I beg your pardon?"
"You heard me correctly Franks, why are the Conservatives blocking our attempts to unify with both Germanies?"
Clever girl. Franks thought with grudging approval. Straight to the point, I see.
"Whatever do you mean Galland?" Franks lied smoothly. "The negotiations are Friedrich-Werner Graf von der Schulenburgs job."
"Don't lie Franks, Rommel, me and the rest of the moderate factions of the armed forces and government know you are secretly ordering poor old Herr Friedrich Warner to stall for time. I want to know why. Why can't we integrate with our counterparts here like the others have done?"
Franks relaxed his posture. If he could recruit Adolfine and the Witches in the Heer and Luftwaffe, the conservative faction would be unstoppable! "Because those two "Germanies" are not our counterparts. One is the fat delinquent puppet of those freedom-loving fools of the US, and the East is nothing more but a submissive bootlicking communist lapdog. Neither have any real culture to begin with."
"So?" she shot back defensively. "May I remind you Franks that this isn't our reality? We've been merged into a new one. One with far more powerful technology and tactics. So please, enlighten me. Why in god's name would the conservatives sabotage our attempts."
Franks merely sighed theatrically. "Galland, because unlike our allies, whose national counterparts here are similar and mostly intact. The two Germanies you and the moderates are so fond of integrating and unifying with are uncultured puppets. They have no martial culture, no military power, and worst, they aren't even whole."
"That doesn't mean we ca—"
"It damn well does!" Franks cut her off, having trouble keeping his voice steady. "If we reunify with those two, and I know there aren't even two of them, we're looking at the loss of Karlsland's cultural identity. It will be overwritten by the latest "fads" and fashions from the US the West and East Berliners practice."
"This isn't going to be like the Neuroi! Have you ever studied modern war!" Galland hissed.
Franks squared his shoulders with another smile. "I may have dabbled in it." Adolfine gave a huff.
"And what about the Soviets?"
"What about them?"
"Franks, you do realize that the government in East Berlin is a coalition of moderate SED and the Bloc parties. The Soviets and the hardliners have been retaking control, and though they've ignored Berlin entirely, what will Karlsland do about them?"
"The USSR and its Warsaw Pact are a crumbling nation and its broken puppets respectively," Franks said, his voice dripping with contempt and derision. "Already, the USSR is hanging on for dear life as Orussia, currently in control of St Petersburg and Chelyabinsk are slowly taking up more of Russia. They're another problem for another day We crushed the forces of the Polish People's Army at Goldap! Would you believe it! Karlsland, beating a modern army with modern equipment." His smile returned.
"That was a skirmish." Galland countered testily.
"But it showed them, the world that despite the technological differences, we won. And even better, now the Karlsland Ministery of Technology will be able to inspect some modern gear for us to reverse engineer and use."
"You can't be serious, Franks," she said, crossing her arms defensively. "The world has changed, and so must we. The old Karlsland we knew is gone. This isn't about holding onto some outdated notion of cultural purity; it's about survival in a new era. You know as well as I do that unifying with the Germanies, flawed as they are, is our best chance."
Franks kept his smile steady, though it barely touched his eyes. "Adolfine, my dear, you're missing the bigger picture. Yes, the world has changed, but that doesn't mean we should throw away everything that made Karlsland great. Our culture, our traditions—they're worth preserving. If we integrate with those two pathetic excuses for nations, we risk losing everything that makes us who we are."
Galland huffed, pushing off the wall. "Preserving culture isn't the same as stagnating in the past. Look around you, Franks. The other nations have adapted and grown stronger by embracing their counterparts here. They've gained new technology, new tactics—new life. We can't afford to be left behind because of some romanticized idea of what Karlsland used to be."
Franks chuckled softly, his smile widening. "And yet, those nations you mention... they don't have the burden of dealing with a fractured identity. The two Germanies? They're not even a shadow of what we were. The West is a puppet to Liberion, and the East is a crumbling remnant of Soviet control. We'd be shackling ourselves to dead weights."
"And what do you propose?" Galland shot back. "That we stay isolated? That we refuse to change while the world moves on without us? The Soviets are still a threat, even if they're weakened. The Americans and the British have troops on our soil. We can't afford to play games with our future."
Franks spread his arms in a gesture of calm, his voice almost soothing. "Adolfine, we don't need to rush into anything. We can bide our time, strengthen our position, and ensure that when we do make a move, it's on our terms. We need people like you, people who understand the importance of Karlsland's legacy. Together, we can ensure that our culture isn't just preserved but revitalized. We can shape the future, not just react to it."
Galland's expression softened, but only slightly. "And what if that future requires us to let go of the past? What if adapting means changing everything you're so determined to protect?"
Franks' smile didn't falter. "Then we adapt on our terms, not theirs. We don't have to surrender our identity to survive. We can evolve without losing ourselves. Join us, Adolfine. Help us steer Karlsland in the right direction, the direction that honors our history while securing our future."
Galland remained silent for a moment, her mind racing. Franks was persuasive, and she couldn't deny that his vision had a certain appeal. But something in her still resisted, still believed that Karlsland's future lay in embracing the new world, not clinging to the old one.
"Think about it," Franks added, his tone almost fatherly. "We can achieve greatness again, but only if we're united in our purpose. The choice is yours, but I know you'll make the right one."
With that, Franks turned and walked away, leaving Galland standing in the corridor, the weight of his words heavy on her shoulders.
USS PHARRIS
"Bridge, sonar: we have a contact bearing zero-nine-four!" announced a voice on the bulkhead-mounted speaker. Commander Morris turned in his elevated swivel chair to watch his officer of the deck respond.
The OOD trained his binoculars to the direction of the contact. There was nothing there: "Bearing is clear."
Morris got up from his chair. "Set Condition 1-AS."
"Aye aye. Battle Stations," the OOD acknowledged the order. The boatswain's-mate-of-the-watch walked to the announcing system, and blew a three-note whistle on his bosun's pipe into the speaker. "General Quarters, General Quarters, all hands man your battle stations for antisubmarine warfare." The alarm gong came next, and a quiet forenoon watch ended.
Morris went aft, down the ladder to the Combat Information Center, or CIC. His executive officer would take the conn at the bridge, allowing the captain to control the ship's weapons and sensors from her tactical nerve center. All over the ship, men were running to stations. Watertight doors and hatches were dropped into place and dogged down to give the ship full watertight integrity. Damage-control parties donned emergency equipment. It took just over four minutes. Getting better, Morris noted as the "manned and ready" calls were relayed to him by the CIC talker. Since leaving Norfolk four days before, Pharris was averaging three GQ calls per day, as ordered by Commander, Naval Surface Forces, Atlantic. No one had confirmed it, but Morris figured that his friend's information had kicked over an anthill. His training routines had been doubled, and the orders for the increase of activity were classified as high as anything he had ever seen. More remarkably, the increased training tempos would interfere with maintenance scheduling, something not lightly set aside.
"All stations report manned and ready!" the talker finally announced. "Condition Zebra set throughout the ship."
"Very well," the tactical action officer acknowledged.
"Report, mister," Morris ordered.
"Sir, the navigation and air-search radars are in stand-by and the sonar is in passive mode," replied the TAO. "Contact looks like a snorkeling submarine. Came in clear all at once. We've got a target-motion-analysis track going. His bearing is changing fore-to-aft, and pretty fast, too. A little soon to be sure, but it's shaping up like he's on a reciprocal heading, probably no more than ten miles out."
"Contact report off to Norfolk yet?"
"Waiting for your say-so.
"Very well. Let's see how well we can run a hold-down exercise, mister." Within fifteen minutes, Pharris's helicopter was dropping sonobuoys on the submarine, and the frigate was lashing it with her powerful active sonar. They wouldn't stop until the Soviet submarine admitted defeat by coming back to schnorkeling depth—or until he evaded the frigate, which would put a large black mark in Morris's copybook. The objective of this nonlethal exercise was nasty enough: to break the submarine captain's confidence in his vessel, his crew, and himself.
USS CHICAGO
They were a thousand miles offshore, heading northeast at twenty-five knots. The crew was decidedly unhappy, though they'd all been through this before. What should have been a three-week layover at Norfolk had been cut short at eight days, a bitter pill after a long first cruise. Trips and vacations had been interrupted, and some minor maintenance work supposed to have been done by shoreside technicians was now being done round the clock by her own crew. McCafferty had announced his sealed orders to the crew two hours after diving: conduct two weeks of intensive tracking and torpedo drills, then proceed to the Barents Sea for further intelligence gathering. It was important, he told them. They'd heard that one before, too.