Phoenix Sub Zero

Rummel hesitated. “I’m not so sure the thinking on that is very clear yet.”

“Go ahead anyway.”

“One theory holds him going around the horn of Africa all the way to Ethiopia, landing there and surprising us on the opposite flank.”

“But Destiny was headed northwest after the torpedo hit her.”

“The crew might just have been clearing datum away from the direction they originally meant to go, like they did after they first picked up Sihoud — the ship initially went east instead of west.”

“What else?”

“Sihoud might get off sooner along the Atlantic coast of Morocco. He might just be trying to shake our tail.”

“Maybe. But the track positions I see on the chart still don’t support circumnavigating Africa. Perhaps it’s a feint, but let’s suppose for a minute that they are really heading away from Africa and deep into the Atlantic. Why would they do that?” Donchez scanned the room. He thought about the nightmare every submariner used to have, that a ballistic-missile submarine would be hijacked or taken over by its own crew and cruise to the U.S. coast and launch a missile. The elimination of sea-launched ballistic missiles had ended those fears in some quarters, but the refinement of cruise missiles made the scenario worse. Ballistic missiles were detectable on launch, giving the victim a few minutes’ warning. Cruise missiles skimmed the earth below treetop level, arriving with no warning. Hiroshima missiles reportedly flew supersonic at very high altitudes, maintaining stealth with a radar-evasion device. Just as bad. But then, he reminded himself, he was probably just being paranoid. Too many years spent fighting the damned Cold War.

“Well, Admiral,” Rummel said, “maybe Sihoud and the Destiny have some new kind of offensive-weapon system, something they could lob at us, something they think will take away our stomach to fight.”

“What do you think. Dee?”

“Sir, like my grandmother used to say,“Maybe so, sonny, but I kinda fuckin’ doubt it.’ “

“It does seem far-fetched but, gentlemen, there is some thing here that bothers the hell out of me.” Donchez paused and glared at the staff from under his heavy brows. “Dee, I want you to put together a package of SEAL-commando operations. Get Intelligence to give us the probable locations of all UIF weapons-test facilities. Then put in a plan to raid every one of them with the objective of bringing back classified documents and weapon scientists who might know anything about a new kind of offensive weapon or missile or chemical or germ warfare. Or evidence of a UIF nuclear warhead.”

“Sir, there might be a hundred facilities including bio labs. And what about the joint directives? Army Special Forces will want a piece of the action.”

“I don’t care who does it as long as you trust them to get the data. I need an answer in two days. To me that means call the Specwar guys at seal Team Seven and drop them into the weps labs.”

“Two days, aye. I hope the answer will be more than a shrug.”

“Get on it. Dee.”

“Yes sir.”

“John, tell me, what have we got searching for the Destiny and the Phoenix?’ Traeps spoke from his screen, the connection to Naples making an irritating echo. On the plot, Traeps’s pointer moved over the western Atlantic to illustrate his prolonged monologue on the ASW effort to find the Destiny. As Donchez listened, he wondered if he should go down to Norfolk and talk to Pacino one last time before Seawolf sailed on a mission impossible.

WESTERN ATLANTIC

USS PHOENIX

Kane sat in the attack-center console seat feeling his head throb when the overhead lights flashed for just an instant and went back again, then flashed once more, the effect an eerie strobe light in the dead submarine. Finally the lights held.

The return of illumination to the control room made things worse rather than better, Kane thought, seeing the jumble of bodies. He unwrapped the awkward air hose and crawled on his knees to the men, finding several bodies that were cold, dimly noting that the deck was slick with blood. Some of the men were breathing, wheezing in the ship’s dirty atmosphere.

Kane decided to get the ones breathing into air masks. The fact that the lights came on meant someone aft was bringing power back up. He thought about calling maneuvering on the phone but figured the nukes would be too busy restoring the reactor to want to talk. He found the air masks and began strapping them on the faces on the deck, wondering if unconscious men would be able to breathe in the masks since the regulators didn’t deliver air unless the user sucked hard. Still, he’d experimented on a few and they seemed to keep breathing so he went on with it.

When he finished he glanced at his watch — smashed and dead. It had been some time since the lights flashed on.

Kane grabbed his hose, unplugged the end, and headed aft.