At her barrier search point. Phoenix was sailing slowly east at two knots, bare steerage way. The Flight I Los Angeles-class submarine was quite similar to Augusta, so much so that a civilian might wander the ship for hours without being able to tell the difference. But Phoenix, commissioned back in 1981, was thirteen years older than the Improved-Los Angeles-class submarine Augusta, and since she was from the original flight of SSNS in the 688 class, she had no vertical launching tubes up forward for the Javelin cruise missiles and her depth-control planes were mounted on the sail while Augusta’s had been installed for ward as bowplanes. With her older BQQ-5D sonar system and outdated CCS Mark II firecontrol system. Phoenix was practically in a different class than the Augusta with her BSY-1 coordinated combat system. In addition, Augusta had had advanced technology-quieting, making her noise signature a small fraction of Phoenix’s. But even though Phoenix was an old girl, she was still, in the hands of Kane’s crew, capable and formidable, as long as she would never be called on to fight an Improved-L.A.-class.
As dawn broke over the western basin. Phoenix continued her barrier search, turning to the south in the box pattern, the ship rigged for ultraquiet, the section tracking team manned and waiting in the control room, two torpedo tube doors open, two torpedoes powered up and ready.
Somewhere ahead of them the Destiny submarine hid, its weapons responsible for the death of over 120 men, their graves at the sea bottom fresh.
In the control room the watch had just been relieved, the ship smelling of eggs and bacon and coffee being served on the deck below. At the starboard chart table aft of the periscope stand Commander David Kane leaned over the chart, his submarine coveralls pressed, the American flag patches brand new, the embroidered gold thread of his submarine dolphins shining in the bright lights of the space. Kane walked a set of dividers across the chart and did a mental calculation. He looked as fresh as if he’d had twelve hours of sleep, but he had been awake over thirty hours, the only sign of his fatigue in his eyes — he blinked frequently when he was tired, and at the moment he was blinking rapidly.
Kane, forty, looked a vigorous thirty-five, tall and dark, his face tanned, his chin and cheekbones sculpted, his eyes penetrating and deep blue. He was lean and muscled from hours of working out at the pier gym in port, from running in place between the main engines at sea. Kane was an officer predestined for success, marked from his first year as a midshipman at the Academy. He was a three-striper, the company commander, the first semester of his senior year.
The second semester he had worn six stripes as brigade commander, the highest midshipman rank at Annapolis. Every formation he had stood before the tourist crowds, his gleaming sword drawn, his modelworthy looks giving the formations a surreal recruiting-poster quality.
His midshipman room for three years had had a large sign nailed to the wall, the sign stolen by his classmates from a mall boutique and presented with mock fanfare. It read not just another pretty face. But deep inside Kane sometimes had his doubts, wondering if he had made his achievements honestly. He had never taken his success for granted, had always gone the extra mile for the Navy, always pushing himself.
When he was thirty-seven he had been the youngest submarine captain on the Squadron Seven pier and on the entire east coast. To earn that job he’d given up shore duty between his navigator tour and his XO job, a decision that had nearly cost him his marriage. He had gone to great lengths to placate his wife, Rebecca, because he genuinely loved her but also because she was a large factor in his success. Becky was blonde and beautiful, had even posed for Playboy when Kane was a first-class midshipman. At a late-night bull session, the copy of the magazine dogeared from the examination of the midshipmen, Kane was found staring at the photo spread. One of his classmates suggested he write the woman, and he had, enclosing not only photographs of himself as the six-striper, the brigade commander, but the beery and excessive testimonials of his friends. Amazingly she had written back, telling him she was a student at Hood College north of D.C. A year later they were married in the Academy chapel; a year after that they had their first child, the second on the way two years later. Through it all Becky had remained gorgeous, able to charm the most hardened admiral at the Navy functions. Kane thought about her often, missing her when he went to sea. And whenever the stress at sea rose to a high level, Kane reacted by thinking more and more about Becky; the act of thinking about her had become his own barometer of tension. The more he saw her face, the deeper the shit he was in. And he was thinking about her now almost nonstop.
Kane’s reflection was interrupted by the appearance of his executive officer, Commander Carl B. “CB” Mcdonne.
Mcdonne was a huge man, his blue coveralls stretching over a huge stomach; the crew joked behind his back that every single body part of Mcdonne was fat. His bulk was impressive; his head balding, his features rough and mismatched, his voice loud and caustic. Mcdonne noted with perverse pride that he was the “absolute ugliest officer in the Silent Service.” He filled every room he walked into with his nearly spherical body and his razor-sharp intelligence. CB Mcdonne was acknowledged by the crew to be “heavy,” the respectful submarine term for knowledgeable, but he could be arrogant too, with a sarcastic style. He might have been hated throughout the ship if not for his saving grace: his sense of humor was explosive and hilarious and irreverent.
When he felt the mood he could convulse a roomful of officers.
There were times when Kane was certain that the admiral in charge at navperscom who had sent him Mcdonne was a comedian — Kane could have searched the fleet for ten years and not found a worse match for his XO than CB Mcdonne.
Still, the XO had his moments, thanks to his encyclopedic knowledge of the boat and tactics. He was excellent at training, drilling the lessons into the officers. And strangely, Mcdonne was almost as good working a crowd as was Kane himself, his profane manner checked at the door of formal Navy functions. Kane had photos of Mcdonne at ship’s parties, his menacing look gone, a pleasing and jolly smile beaming out at the junior officers. Mcdonne was fundamentally different outside a nuclear submarine. If he could just manage to leave Becky Kane alone at their parties he would be redeemed in Kane’s eyes, but Mcdonne had a thing for Becky’s still impressive blonde beauty, and he just couldn’t quit.
All things considered, Kane and the ship functioned adequately with CB aboard, and Kane had heard from on high that he had amassed points with the brass for taking CB on without complaint. Kane looked up now at Mcdonne as the XO pushed in the forward door, his sides touching the port and starboard doorjambs as he stuffed himself in.
“I just got out of radio,” Mcdonne said. “You’d better see this.”
Mcdonne passed Kane the metal clipboard with the last message from the Augusta, the printout straight from the computer buffer after Phoenix had ascended to periscope depth ten minutes before on a routine trip to retrieve her message traffic from the commsat. Kane read the message and staring at the chart to the Strait of Sicily, his suspicions of the previous evening correct — the Destiny had sunk Augusta and might be coming their way.
Mcdonne looked disappointed in Kane’s reaction.
“What do you think about that?”
Kane looked at Mcdonne, his expression flat.
“I think, sorry to say, Rocket Ron made a mistake and paid for it.”
“Do you think the Destiny will come this far west?”
Kane shook his head. “No. He’s got to be going to the Atlas Front. That sub’ll broach its sail close in to the Algerian coastline, drop off Sihoud, then fade back to its port at Kassab. Two hours after he ties up to the pier a squadron of Stealth bombers will blow him to scrap metal. No, I doubt we’ll even catch a sniff of him.”
“That’d be a damned shame,” Mcdonne said. “I’d like to put a Mark 50 right down his throat.”
Kane nodded, thinking that he had trained for this tactical situation his entire adult life, and now it might happen for real, outside of
the sterile world of exercises. The sub had put Rocket Ron’s Augusta on the bottom of the Med, and no mere amateur could ever hope to do that. The Destiny-class submarine must be good, good enough to blow apart an Improved-688. Kane couldn’t help worrying about the chance an old Flight I 688 boat had against the Destiny.
“You know, XO, Augusta was damn near brand-new. She had all the latest stuff. Almost as good as a Seawolf-class for acoustic detection range. And the Destiny plowed through her like she was a World War II diesel boat.”
Mcdonne nodded.
“Skipper, we know their tactics. He puts out a decoy, shuts down and hides. And when we attack the decoy he comes out of the baffles and shoots a volley.”
“So, CB, how the hell do we know if we’re following the decoy?”
“I guess the contact that shoots the torpedoes is the real submarine.”
“So we don’t know where he is until he puts weapons in the water, and if he’s shut down we still might not hear anything but the torpedoes — and by then it’s too late. Still think we’ve got an advantage?”
“We’re in trouble.”
“All we can hope for is that the Destiny makes a mistake or puts out a machinery rattle.”
“Wait a minute, sir. Ron fired off a volley of torpedoes at the Destiny. Maybe one of them hit him.”
“Did sonar have any explosions?”
“No … listen, Captain, if you think the Destiny will drop Sihoud off at the Algerian coast, maybe we should head east along the shoreline.”
“Can’t. CINCNAVFORCEMED was specific — guard Gibraltar. Kill the Destiny if he tries to come through. If he’s farther west, the P-3s or the Burke-class destroyers or the Vikings will nail him with sonobuoys, maybe force him our way. Maybe put a hole in him with a Mark 52.”
“I think I’ll stop by sonar on the way to my stateroom, make sure the senior chief knows what we’re up against. I’d just as soon not die in my sleep.”
“Get some rack, XO.”
“Good night, sir.”
For a long time after Mcdonne ducked into sonar, Kane stared at the chart, wondering where the Destiny was hiding. And what his mission was.
WESTERN MEDITERRANEAN
The Hegira had passed Minorca and was approaching the invisible line linking Barcelona, Spain and Algiers. As the ship got closer to Gibraltar the sea began to narrow from 300 kilometers to 150 kilometers. It sounded broad but it was beginning to feel like a bathtub — land to the north and south, enemy fleets east and west.
Sharef walked from the chart table to the sensor consoles.
The sea around them was filled with sound, bad news. The electronic chart table was taking feeds from the sensor consoles as the sensor officer. Lieutenant Jadi, identified the source of the noise and its bearing and range. From the analysis of the Second Captain the sounds to the north and south were the screws of destroyers of the American Arieigh Burke-class, capable of pulling deeply submerged towed array sonar systems — ships to stay away from. Farther to the west were ominous splashes and high-pitched wailing noises, most likely sonobuoys dropped from antisubmarine patrol aircraft. Again, an area to avoid. Sharef had maintained a serpentine course on the approach to Gibraltar, assuming that the Coalition forces knew he was there after the sinking of the American 688-class submarine. The westerners would be very angry and ready to sink him.
He wondered if they suspected he was bound for the Atlantic.
If they knew Sihoud was aboard — and how could they not, with the endless time on the surface recovering him and Ahmed? — they might postulate that he would be dropping the general off in the North African campaign raging in Algeria.
Sharef looked around at the humming control room manned with the A-crew of extended combat stations watchstanders. Half the ship’s complement was on watch, the B-crew sleeping, waiting for their turn to take over the watch. Next to full combat stations it was the ship’s maximum state of readiness. Once Sharef had ordered the manning of the extended combat stations, the watches had stood, twelve hours on, twelve off. It was well into Sharef’s second watch, and he was exhausted. He returned to the chart table, thinking that he was probably wearing a path on the deck tiles between the sensor consoles and the table.
The plot table showed the tracks of the destroyers, which seemed to be driving along a north-south barrier search, and the approximate locations of the sonobuoy drops farther to the west. The worst of the ASW search looked like it was behind them. All that was between them and open ocean was the Strait of Gibraltar. Of course, that was a narrow choke point ideal for catching a transiting sub, but could they guess Hegira was bound for the Atlantic?
He should have felt complacent but he didn’t. Something would be waiting for them. He drummed his fingers on the chart table’s glass surface, noting that his entire last watch there had been no sign of Sihoud or Ahmed.
“Commander Tawkidi, what are Sihoud and Ahmed doing?”
Tawkidi checked his watch; it read 2035 hours, Greenwich mean time.
“When we came on watch at 1900 they were playing chess in the first officer’s stateroom. Should I check on them, sir?”
“No. But I wonder, do you think Ahmed ever wins? And if he does, what does that say about the general?”
Tawkidi smiled.
“I doubt Colonel Ahmed is stupid enough to win. Losing at chess with the general would be the best chess.”
Sharef nodded and turned back to the sensor consoles.
* * *
Ten meters forward, through the doorway to the central passageway past radio and the computer room, Sihoud and Ahmed both hunched over a chessboard spread out on the first officer’s desk. Ahmed bit the inside of his cheek as Sihoud advanced his queen to striking distance of Ahmed’s king. Ahmed let out a breath and looked at the general.
“I resign. General.”
On the chessboard, Ahmed had lost all but a knight, a rook and the king. Sihoud retained nearly all his own men.
“Let’s switch sides. Rakish, and continue playing.”
“If you say so. General, but it is hopeless.”
It took Sihoud thirty moves, but an hour later Ahmed found himself boxed in by Sihoud’s few pieces.
“Check and mate. Rakish. See, you could have turned it around.”
“No, General, only you could have,” Ahmed replied. “I don’t know how you do it.”
“You are too bloodthirsty, my friend,” Sihoud said, his resonant voice still commanding when hushed in the gloom of the stateroom. “You willingly trade a bishop for a knight, a queen for a queen, fighting a war of attrition. You’ll never see me do that. If under threat, I withdraw and wait. There is a time for aggression, a time for patience. You should ask Allah for patience. Rakish.”
Ahmed had already put the game away, his mind far from chess. “General, what do you think of this mission, the sinking of the American submarine? You never said a word to Sharef, nothing about risking our lives by turning off the power. Those U.S. torpedoes could have ripped us to pieces. I wonder about Sharef’s competence.”
“Commodore Sharef has been doing this for a long time, Rakish. What would you think if he told you how to fly a supersonic fighter?”
“Point taken, sir, but still … he does not seem aggressive enough. He let that sub get close enough to hear us and shoot at us before he let off the decoy. Then he ran out of power and had to run that diesel ― my ears still ring from the noise ― and practically begged to be shot at.”
“Sharef knows when to be patient and when to be aggressive, Rakish. He would make an excellent chess player. Perhaps I should challenge him when we are in open ocean.”
“I would like to see that, General.”
“You asked my thoughts about the mission.”
“I would like to know what you think. General.”
“Can you make the Scorpion warheads functional?”
“The missiles will function. But I wonder about Sharef’s ability to get the weapons in the tubes
and make the tubes work.”
“He will make it work, and the missiles will deliver their plutonium payloads. After that, General Ramadan will sign the peace treaty with the Coalition and the UIF will prosper for many, many years.”
“General Ramadan … but what about you. General?”
“I have my doubts that even Sharef can escape the Coalition anger once the missiles are fired.” Sihoud waved off Ahmed’s protest. “Enough of this talk of gloom. Let us fix our attention on the mission. We have much to do before the missiles can be launched. I suggest we get some sleep.”
“We’ll be passing through Gibraltar in the morning. We should be in the control room.”
“I’ll see you at change-of-watch. Sleep well. Rakish.”
As Colonel Rakish Ahmed walked down the narrow stairs to the stateroom he was borrowing, his thoughts lingered on Sihoud’s words about not surviving the mission. It occurred to him that it no longer mattered if he lived or died, as long as he could drop the weapons on the American capital to avenge the deaths of his wife and son. After that he didn’t care if he died. He recalled Sihoud’s words about his bloodthirstiness, but he pushed them aside. The westerners who now raped the United Islamic Front deserved death, lingering and painful.
SANDBRIDGE BEACH, VIRGINIA
It had been dark for hours when Pacino’s engine coughed to silence in the carport under the pilings of the beach house. He climbed the stairs, fatigue making his footsteps heavy. He dropped his briefcase and his khaki jacket in the foyer, intending to head straight for the liquor cabinet, but his wife had beat him to it, leaning against the bar with a double on ice in her hand. He took it from her, the whiskey burning down his throat.
“Where’s our boy?”
“In bed for hours.” She ran her slim fingers across his forehead, her skin chilled from the glass. “Are you okay?”
Pacino shut his eyes.
“The ship’s a wreck. Somehow we’re going to get her to sea before midnight tomorrow.”
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