Standing back to front with him, Alexsandra felt her hair fall softly across Sergei’s chest, her hands plying behind her, cupping him, squeezing him. He felt so hard, he could penetrate steel. Then she would relax her grip, kneading his groin with her clenched fists and turning to face him, would kiss him all over as they fell on the bed. Then suddenly she would sit upright, hair swinging back, her breasts thrusting, nipples engorged like dark cherries, her hands behind her again, pulling him slowly with mounting strength and squeezing it at the same time until he groaned and mumbled nonsensically in his pleasure. Suddenly she was off the bed, getting dressed — his favorite tease.
“Vernis!”—”Come back!”—he demanded, then pleaded.
“No!”
“Yes.”
“No!”
“Sandra.”
Slowly she advanced toward him.
“Now,” he gasped. “I can’t stand it any longer.”
“It’s long enough already,” she giggled. She didn’t love him, but he was fun. She was sure it had been his influence that had got her released from the KGB jail. If she worked on him, maybe — if God wished — her two remaining brothers, Alexander and Myshka, might be set free. It was a vain hope, she knew, but so long as there was any possibility, she must try— do anything if it would help. It meant that she had to pretend a lot: faking an orgasm for his manly pride when she had wanted to choke him. But after pretending so long, she had begun to enjoy it, and the rougher he was with her as he approached climax, the more she liked it. It helped to rationalize what she was doing. It was God’s way, she decided, of helping her get through it.
“Sit on me!” he ordered. “Quickly, quickly!”
As she slid down upon him, the storm outside seemed to grow stronger, uncontrollable, the wind smacking the bare branches of the beech tree against the ancient windowpane, making a scratching noise like a cat trying to get in. His nostrils sucked in her smell as his hands and wrist muscles tensed, his body moving up and down beneath her, her breasts rising and falling faster and faster, her loins pressed hard against his sweat-slicked thighs until she, too, began moaning with pleasure.
Ray Brentwood asked the chief petty officer in charge of cells at the San Diego base, if he, Brentwood, wrote a note, would the petty officer deliver it to either the base commander or the base’s director of naval intelligence as soon as possible.
The chief petty officer read it. “You sure about this, Captain?”
“Look, Chief, I’m not nuts. Bit too excited, I guess, when your guys picked me up. That’s all. And I hope you’re not nuts either, because if you don’t get that to someone fast, they’re gonna do a Pearl Harbor on you.”
“What d’you mean?”
“I mean in forty-one there was a message in the hopper warning Pearl of an impending Japanese attack — the day before it happened. But some jerk back in Washington decided to use Western Union instead of calling it through. I’ve got evidence here that there are at least two Russian subs close inshore, and I mean close in. Closer than anyone believed possible, because all we could think of was nuclear and—” He paused as the CPO, his jaw clenched, looking like he was grinding his molars, read Brentwood’s message again. “Chief!” said Brentwood. “You deliver that now and you’re going to be part of history. A hero. You don’t deliver it and your name’ll be shit in every textbook ever written about this war. Course, if you don’t do anything about it, we’ll all be dead, so there won’t be any history for you to worry about anyway.”
The chief looked at Brentwood, and then staggered him. “Hell, I can’t take it anywhere. I can’t leave my post. Hey — I’ll use a walkie-talkie link to patrol. Get ‘em down here to run it up for us.”
Brentwood sat back on the hard cell mattress, letting his head roll against the cold brick. “You keep this up, Chief, and they’ll make you an admiral.”
The chief of naval intelligence for San Diego base was down in the cells fifteen minutes later. He listened to Brentwood and told the shore patrol to get the lab technician out of bed to verify it. “Drag him here if you have to.”
When the patrol knocked on the technician’s door, he had just convinced his wife to give him some “relief.” He swore a lot when they barged in on him and told him he’d have to go back with them.
“Right now?” he asked incredulously. “Damn near midnight.”
“My God!” said his wife. “What’s he done?”
“Can’t say, ma’am.”
“Then you can’t take him — if there’s no charge.”
“It’s all right, Norma. I know what it’s about.”
“What? Tell me.”
“Can’t tell you, hon,” said the technician, struggling to get into his pants and nearly falling. “It’s classified.”
“What’s her name?” called Norma.
When they got him out to the Humvee, it was ten after midnight, and Norma was sure he was mixed up with some other woman. An admiral’s wife. He was always telling her he needed “it” more than most men. Maybe she should have let him have his way more often. Lord — maybe it was drugs! She phoned her mother.
“What’d I tell you, Norma? I told you. He’s a bum. But oh no — you knew better. He’s a bum, Norma!”
On the other side of the world, Frank Shirer was flying as left wingman in a finger-four formation of four F-14 Tomcats out of Kapsan Air Base, thirty miles south of the Yalu. He was regretting he had broken one of the cardinal rules for combat pilots in not having a substantial breakfast before going up on the border patrol, but the problem was he had never been a breakfast man — early mornings not his forte. But normally he would have grabbed at least a continental: juice, toast, and coffee. It wasn’t enough for a pilot who might have to go into a sustained high G-turn, and he hadn’t slept well.
During the night he’d had dreams of the Russian fighters out of Vladivostok attacking the 747 in which he had flown Freeman to Korea. He was also a little nervous and almost regretted — heresy for a pilot — having accepted Freeman’s offer of a few days of combat patrol to keep his hand in before flying the repaired 747 back to the States tomorrow. The skills of the fighter pilot never left you, but the sudden switch from the big 747 to a Tomcat was like going from a bus to a sports car, and the morning before, he’d been a little slow as the Tomcat leader’s left wingman. He’d been only a fraction of a second late in a breakaway, but a fraction of a second could mean you were dead when you were flying over the “fence”— the Yalu. More and more MiG 29A’s had been seen in Manchurian air space — riding range on the other side. And sometimes they looked identical to U.S. planes on the radar. Two F-15 Eagles and an F-16 had been “splashed” off the coast by fellow U.S. Navy fighters because IFF — identification friend or foe — had been made on radar alone.
As a result, the American rules of engagement now stated that all U.S. pilots could not engage before IFF had been established by “visual fix”—a radar blip insufficient to assume a Bogey, or unidentified aircraft, was in fact a “Judy”—an enemy plane. Even the normally swashbuckling Freeman, before he’d disappeared across the Yalu, had endorsed the rule, but the necessity of having to make a visual fix imposed a serious tactical disadvantage on the American pilots. It meant that the long-range missiles, such as the nine-mile-range infrared homing Sidewinder, which needed time — even though this was measured in milliseconds — to lock on to an enemy’s exhaust or side heat patch, couldn’t be used to anywhere near their full effectiveness. At shorter ranges, the missile could be evaded by the tight-turning MiGs before the Sidewinder had time to “lock on.”
For this reason, the Sparrow missile was preferred. Ironically it had a longer range at twenty-four miles than the Sidewinder, but did not require heat exhaust to lock on and could be fired from any angle. But at 514 pounds, it was more than twice as heavy as the Sidewinder, and this meant fewer missiles could be carried.
“Bogeys two o’clock high!” It was the wingman — right side of the finger-four formation of Tomcats — the four blips coming out of the northwest behind and to the right as the Tomcats headed southwest over the Yalu. The blips were fourteen miles away. The Tomcats’ leader had a choice to either break left, south, away from the Yalu into the U.S.- and-South-Korean-held North Korea, or to go north for a visible fix, with the possibility of engagement if the Bogeys turned out to be Judys. The Tomcats had already consumed half their fuel.
“Go for IFF,” announced the Tomcat leader, and the F-14s turned tightly, pulling seven Gs, Shirer already feeling the effect of his heart literally distending under the pull of the G forces, wishing now more than ever that he’d had the toast. Behind him, his radar intercept officer had gone to “warning yellow, weapons hold” status, his active radar frantically hipping and the Northrop TCS — long-range television camera set — unable to identify the blips because of heavy cumulus, which the blips were now entering.
The four Tomcats had split into two combat pairs, Shirer still on his leader’s left and back, covering him, the Tomcats’ wings now coming in from the extended, fuel-conserving position to the tight V for greater speed at the cost of increasing fuel consumption. Shirer heard the Pratt and Whitney turbofans screaming as he and the leader went to afterburner.
“Bandits!” It was the leader’s radar intercept officer, and now Shirer’s RIO was telling him that from the computer-enhanced radar cross-section image, the Bogeys were in fact Russian fighters. “Fulcrums,” he advised Shirer, “A’s.”
Shirer, still close to his leader, saw a puff of smoke, and the two Tomcats broke, leader to the right, Shirer to the left, the Soviet missile passing between them. The next instant Shirer’s RIO was yelling, “Tally-ho one! Behind us, behind us!” telling Shirer a Fulcrum had been sighted penetrating their cone of vulnerability. Shirer went into a knife-edged turn and dropped, the Fulcrum passing over him and down, Shirer slowing, trying to go into a “scissors,” trying to reverse fee situation, putting his Tomcat behind the Fulcrum.
“Master arm on,” said Shirer, readying to fire a Sparrow.
“We’re behind him, we’re behind him!” called the RIO.
“Centering up the T! Centering up the dot!” said Shirer.
The Fulcrum, on afterburner, was already two miles ahead, still on the Tomcat’s radar, the other Tomcats having broken up into individual dogfights with the remaining three Fulcrums.
“Fox One! Fox One!” Shirer announced, then felt the tug on the plane as the Sparrow missile streaked ahead, the Fulcrum now only 1.6 miles away.
“He’s climbing!” said the RIO. Then suddenly, “He’s gone.” The RIO’s voice was incredulous. “Shit! He’s gone!” His tone was one of utter astonishment.
“Can’t be!” said Shirer. “We had a lock on.”
“Yeah — but he’s gone, man.”
Sergei Marchenko was in a near-vertical, eighty-two-degree climb, going “up the wall” on afterburner in the plane that even Western experts acknowledged had “no unnatural positions.” After two seconds, he had climbed another two thousand feet.
Suddenly he reduced thrust to idle on the two eighteen-thousand-pound-thrust Tumanskys, bleeding off speed, the plane’s attitude a hammerhead stall/slide in the vertical plane — the effect of this on the enemy’s Doppler radar calculated to be one of utter confusion, for without relative speed measurement, no target would appear on the enemy plane’s screen.
Shirer remembered the Russian maneuver, reduced thrust, went into a climb, broke cloud, and glimpsed the Fulcrum still above him sliding backward into his HUD sight. It was only for a fraction of a second. Shirer’s thumb pushed the Vulcan button — the burst only a half second, but in that time, twenty-five of the machine gun’s twenty-millimeter bullets hit the Fulcrum’s spine, the burst finishing its run in the cockpit, the Fulcrum’s Perspex exploding in whitish-green fragments. The Fulcrum kept sliding, tail first, its number nine in front of the box jet intake and the slogan “Ubiytsa Yanki”—”Yankee Killer”—seen only briefly before the fighter quickly went into an uncontrolled spin, the big slab tail fins a gray blur, obscured momentarily by the sudden opening of the cruciform braking chute. But now the plane was burning, and in another second the chute was a black smudge against the snow of the Yalu’s foothills, the explosion as the Fulcrum hit, a silent orange blossom.
“Good kill! Good kill!” the RIO was shouting.
“Any pilot chute?” asked Shirer.
“Negative,” confirmed his RIO. “No chute!”
“Great! Now I can go back to the Bus. By this time tomorrow night, I’ll be heading back to Andrews.”
The RIO was perplexed; the only “Bus” he knew about was the reentry-vehicle dispenser used on intercontinental ballistic missiles.
By now the four Tomcats were too far apart and their fuel too low after the afterburners’ greedy consumption to regroup, and so they made their way individually back to Kapsan field south of the Yalu.
In Washington, President Mayne was sitting quietly behind the Oval Office desk as he and the four chiefs of staff, Security Adviser Schuman, and Press Secretary Trainor listened to the chief of naval operations.
“So, gentlemen,” Mayne asked, the migrane that had threatened him thwarted not only by medication but by sheer will. “What to do?”
“Tell the Russians,” said the CNO, Admiral Horton, “if they go nuclear, we’ll fire everything we’ve got.”
“Don’t by silly!” said Mayne.
The admiral was stunned, as were the other chiefs of staff and press aide Paul Trainor, though Trainor, with long experience in front of the press, did not betray his surprise. Adviser Schuman, however, was not surprised and sat holding his cane, calmly gazing down at the plush carpet, observing the intricate design of the new great seal of the United States at war, the eagle’s clutch of arrows in the right rather than the left claws.
“The president’s correct,” said Schuman. “You people were telling us only the other day, Admiral, that whatever their deficiencies, the Russians are infinitely better equipped to have at least a quarter of the population avail themselves of extensive nuclear shelters. We, however, are out to lunch as far as that’s concerned, because, as you correctly pointed out, gentlemen, my learned colleagues in Congress have long accepted Mr. Sagan’s view that a nuclear war is unwinnable. Never mind the limited radiation yield, for example, on our atomic shells, et cetera. Mr. ‘Billions and Billions’ and his disciples convinced us that civil defense was futile. Now we’re paying the price for our gullibility on that score. And because of that, the only thing we can really threaten them with is our submarine-launched missiles. We have a few ICBMs operational in the Midwest, but communications are so generally fouled up because of continuing sabotage, we cannot depend on any realistic coordinated or widespread missile offense from our land-based silos or from SAC.”
“Sir, I think—” began Allet.
“Oh, yes, yes,” said Schuman, “you may get a few planes off — providing the SPETS cells in this country, who we already know have used surface-to-air Stinger missiles, don’t bring them down as they take off. Besides, it will take only one or two air bursts and the resulting electromagnetic pulse would scramble whatever networks we have remaining. There’s not enough sheathed wire in the country to prevent a wholesale screw-up.”
Mayne had never heard Schuman use anything approaching foul language.
“No,” continued Schuman morosely yet emphatically, using the tip of his cane like an exclamation point. “In the last analysis, we can really rely only on our submarines.” He turned to the CNO. “Can we get a message to them about the Korean situation vis-à-vis the use of Chinese nerve gas and U.S.A.-shell retaliation, perhaps tempting the Soviets to go nuclear in Europe?”
Admiral Horton pointed out it would be difficult to raise all of the submarines — as even in the best of circumstances, there were problems with thermal inversions, atmospheric conditions, et cetera, though he conceded submarines would certainly be alert to any massive “nuclear engagement in progress.” Air bursts above most targets, especially those on the seaboard such as New York and Boston, and in Europe above such vital ports as Portsmouth and Hamburg, would be picked up all over the world by some sub via the sound channel.
“Then,” concluded a somber Schuman, “seeing as our civilian population is without shelters of any kind against an all-out exchange, the only option we’ll have if things become unraveled is tit for tat. Instant retaliation — target for target.
The president nodded. They could hear the clock on the mantel above the fireplace. Finally it was Mayne who broke the silence. “Of course, if ‘Merlin’ succeeds, we might be off the hook — prevent Europe from turning into another Yalu.”
The chiefs were split on this. The army thought that if the SAS could eliminate the Moscow leadership, it would certainly buy time. The navy and air force, however, were still worried about the IAL—”independent launch authority”—of Soviet submarines.
“Surely to God,” said Mayne, “we must know where most of their subs are and so be ready to intercept any—”
“Most of their nukes, yes, sir,” answered Horton. “That is, we can pretty well tell you the general areas where all the nuclear subs are but, the problem is that if this—” Exhausted, the admiral tried to think of the man’s name, but the more he tried, the more it receded.
“Captain Ray Brentwood,” said Trainor.
“Yes. Well, the problem is, if his hypothesis about two diesel-electrics being close in somewhere on the West Coast is correct, we could be in a lot of trouble. Now that we’ve managed to repair the severed hydrophone arrays on the East Coast, we’ve got the situation in hand in the Atlantic. Of course, that’s where we’ve had our greatest concentration of ASW forces because of the NATO convoys. The problem in the Pacific is that they don’t have to go through anything like the Greenland-Iceland-UK Gap, where we managed to sink a lot of the Russian subs early on. -
“The assumption made by this Ray Brentwood, and I think he’s correct, is that the two diesel-electrics unaccounted for probably came out of Vladivostok, snorkeling in bad weather, when it’s hard to spot them, even by satellite, and when prop noise is difficult to pick up. Coming down from the Japanese Current into the southbound Californian Current, they’d be able to drift a ways and come in close on battery power. Their silent running, unlike that of the nukes, is really silent. At least with their nukes, our hydrophones can pick up the sound of the pumps.”
“How big are these diesel-electrics?” asked the president.
“Assuming these are the ones whose signatures we had prewar but cannot account for now, we’d say they’re probably converted Golf V-class diesel-electrics. Around twenty-seven hundred tons — three hundred and twenty-eight feet long. Carrying either one SS-N-20 or two SS-N-8 ICBMs and ten torpedoes. This Brentwood thinks they’re probably carrying the two SS-N-8s — each warhead a reentry vehicle with seven hundred and fifty kilotons. Not very fast subs, compared to the nuclear boats — seventeen knots surface, twelve to fourteen submerged.”
“But they can fire intercontinental ballistic missiles?”
“Yes, sir. This Brentwood in San Diego thought at first that the oil was accidentally discharged, as an enemy sub wouldn’t deliberately leak oil. But now he seems to think it’s the old Russian problem. Good at quantity — they made at least thirteen Golf-class subs that we know of. But they’re not good at quality. That is, the leaks were probably from either poor design or lines squeezed by the pressure on the hull.”
“You think we can find them, Admiral?”
The CNO exhaled slowly. “We can put everything in the area — saturate the coast with ASW. Drop hundreds of active sonar buoys, which will send out pulses, unlike our SOSUS arrays on the bottom. Should be able to get echoes. But we need it carefully coordinated, Mr. President. If we don’t know exactly where all our ASW ships are at any moment, one of our ships could mistake an echo from one of our own for one of the Russian subs. One thing I would recommend, Mr. President, is that we shift as many mobile surface-to-air missiles from the midwestern states to the West Coast as possible. Fly them in if necessary on Galaxy transports.”
“So that,” interjected the president, “if either of these Soviet diesels, wherever they are, do fire, we stand a chance of intercepting them?”
“That’s the general idea, sir, yes. But hopefully we can corner them before they get off any shots. If we find them, I’m sure we can sink them — their speed can’t outrun us. I’ve already ordered a cluster of surface-to-air mobiles around San Diego, Bangor, Washington State, and Norfolk sub pens. Brentwood believes San Diego is the target, and I’d go for that. I mean, with their slow speed and limited battery power, they’d have to start up engines if they were to go further north to attack targets up there.”
“If these diesel-electrics fire from close in, what’s our response time? I mean how long would we have to intercept?”
“Response time would be just about zero, Mr. President — if they’re going for targets like San Diego right on the seaboard.”
“Has this Brentwood any suggestions?”
“Yes, sir. He wants overlapping Airborne patrols up and down the coast looking for diesel oil patches.”
“Have you done it? Sounds like a good idea.”
“They’re on patrol now, sir,” reported Air Force General Allet.
“Will they be able to spot anything at night?”
“Yes, sir — infrared and patch color distinguishers are aboard as well as MAD — magnetic anomaly detectors — and sonar buoys. We’ve also got the satellites on the job, but unless the subs are near the surface, emitting heat for thermal patches, the satellites are only of limited use in this case.”
“Now, gentlemen,” said Mayne, “I don’t want any foul-ups here. From what you’ve told me, we need first-rate coordination between the navy, airborne ASW, and—”
“We’re already working on that now, Mr. President.”
“What?” Mayne’s outburst was so sharp that Trainor thought the migraine must be winning the battle. But it was plain anger, straight from the heart. “Now, don’t you boys go jurisdictional on me. There isn’t time to play bureaucratic parlor games about who’s going to be cock of the walk. I would think this Brentwood is the man for the job. Seems to me he’s made some pretty sound deductions so far. He’s been in on the ground floor. What say we appoint him?”
There was an awkward silence, ended by Trainor. “Ah, Mr. President? Captain Brentwood was the commander of the USS Blaine.”
Mayne nodded, readily remembering the ship, for it was the attack on her as well as the NKA forces pouring over the DMZ in Korea that had been the flash point that had started the whole war.
“Yes, yes, I know,” he answered. “Fished him out when some of his men were still aboard, as I recall. Suspected cowardice.”
“We can’t say that for certain, Mr. President,” began Admiral Horton, “but I would advise against appointing someone who has been named ‘an interested party’ in the inquiry that followed.”
“But as I understood it, the evidence was circumstantial,” replied Mayne. “That is, he could have been helped, pushed overboard or whatever, by a member of the crew who had every right to do so if he felt the ship was going down.”
“Yes, sir — it could bear that interpretation.”
“Benefit of doubt, gentlemen,” said Mayne. “Besides, he followed this oil business with some diligence. I say give him a boat.”
The CNO flushed. Mayne’s persistent use of “boat” instead of “ship” annoyed him intensely, particularly as he suspected that Mayne deliberately used it whenever he was being particularly dismissive of naval tradition.
“Give him a boat and put him in charge,” said Mayne. “He’s Johnny-on-the-spot.”
The admiral wasn’t agreeing or disagreeing, keeping his options open. “I should point out, Mr. President, that if we were to do this, Brentwood couldn’t retain his present rank, and it might send out an ambiguous message to—”
“Admiral!” The change in Mayne’s tone was ice-cold. “As your commander in chief, I order you to assign coordination of this operation on the West Coast to Captain Brentwood and to assign him, without delay, command of the fastest, most up-to-date ASW ship afloat. Do you read me?”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“I want to know — by dispatch rider, if AT and T can’t get this goddamn phone service back in shape — within fifteen minutes the name of the ship to which this Brentwood has been assigned. It’s vital he have no bureaucratic hindrance whatsoever — so he’ll have to be put in overall command of West Coast naval defense as well. Now, if this means slapping a few more gold rings on his sleeve, do it, and do so without delay. Make him an admiral if you have to.” The president turned to Trainor. “Paul!”
“Yes, sir?”
“Have an executive order typed up to this effect immediately. I’ll sign so the admiral here can take it with him. And I want it done in five minutes. Get Rosey onto it. She’s the fastest.”
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“Then get me San Diego on the short-wave relay if you have to, and the admiral can inform the base commander there verbally.”
“I can’t use plain language on the phone, Mr. President,” interjected the CNO. “I mean, if the Russians know what we’re up to—”
“Have you a verbal code?” asked the president.
“Yes, sir. I can read out a letter-for-word code. Have you a Bible?”
“My glory, Admiral. Isn’t that the most logical book the Russians would expect for a letter-to-word code?”
“We don’t use the King James version, Mr. President. We use one of the modernized versions.”
“Oh, all right,” said Mayne. “In that case you’re quite safe. No one’ll understand it.”
While they were waiting for typed authorization, Mayne told the chiefs, “One thing the British won’t do is promote quickly in the field. Class system, you see.” He paused. “By God, I hope we haven’t lost Doug Freeman. Now, there’s a general who’d promote in the field. Made a private a captain once in the Dortmund-Bielefeld pocket to get the job done.”
The base commander’s office in San Diego was in a flap. “Frankenstein”—he of IX-44E — had suddenly been propelled to no less than admiral.
“Bullshit!” roared the base commander, Adm. Roger D. Rutgers the Second. “Must be a code screw-up,” he informed the Wave secretary.
“No, sir. We’ve had it confirmed.”
“Well, I’ll be—”
“Sir!” It was the Wave, trying frantically to signal with her eyes that someone was right behind her. “Ah, Admiral…” she spluttered. “Sir, this is Captain — I mean—”
“It’s all right, Sue, calm yourself,” said Rutgers as he saluted and, coming around from his desk, offered his congratulations to Ray Brentwood. Brentwood returned the salute, shook hands, relished it, and wasted no time with small talk. He had a list, a short one, which he presented to Rutgers. Point one — he wanted all commanders of ASW ships in port to report to his office immediately. Two — all ASW ships in port that were seaworthy were to be fully loaded and ready for sea by 0700, only a few hours away.
The base commander pointed out, “with all due respect,” which Brentwood knew was without any respect at all, that the large number of civilian longshoremen involved in the loading of stores would have, by union regulations, to be given at least forty-eight hours written advance notice of any such change in the agreed-upon working hours.
“Admiral Rutgers,” said Ray Brentwood, “under the power invested in me through the president’s executive emergency war order 1347D-5, any longshoreman refusing to load American warships at any time will be shot under the conditions which apply to all alien and/or indigenous saboteurs. And if you don’t have the ships loaded, I’ll shoot you!”
The Wave was speechless.
“In all my years—” began Rutgers.
“Admiral Rutgers, if you don’t do what I tell you and get those commanders to my office right now — none of us will have any years left.”
“Where,” thundered Rutgers, barely under control, “is your office?”
It was the only time that Ray Brentwood had smiled since arriving in San Diego. “IX-44E.”
“What the hell’s IX—?” Rutgers asked Sue, so incensed, he could barely speak. The Wave ran her finger quickly down the long list of auxiliary vessels. “It’s — it’s a barge, sir.”
“A what?”
“Barge, sir. Sludge removal.” she replied, frightened, adding timidly, “propelled.”
“Propelled!”
They said Rutgers sounded like a sea lion bull in the San Diego Zoo.