America

CHAPTER TEN

When the sun crept over the rim of the sea, America was still drifting fifteen hundred feet below the surface of the North Atlantic, dead in the water. Every minute or so, in response to the movement of people inside the hull, water was automatically and silently pumped into or out of the tanks to maintain the boat's trim. Kolnikov knew the pumps were working because lights flickered on and off on the control panel. Still, the way the computers kept the boat level and maintained its depth within inches seemed almost magic. The control room lights were very dim… in fact, Kolnikov concluded, they were off. The only illumination came from the sonar displays, computer screens, and LCD readouts.

Kolnikov studied the computer screen that monitored noise being manufactured within the boat. Every thump and click of metal on metal from the engineering spaces registered here, although the level of noise was far too low for a human ear to detect. Nothing else. He wondered about that oil pump. Why did it fail now? The trim pumps were oh so quiet, with new, well-lubricated bearings. The air circulation fans, the condensers… the boat was like a giant Swiss watch with a million moving parts.

Eck's face appeared green in the reflected light of his screen as he experimented with the Revelation computer. The large display screens on the bulkhead were quite dark, not because the sea was very quiet but because most of the natural noises of the sea had been filtered out. The system was waiting, listening, for a noise that should not be there. Still, an occasional flicker or momentary illumination showed ill-defined, ever-changing, fantastic shapes. They are nothing, Kolnikov decided, nothing at all. Or were they?

"This is an extraordinary system," Eck said when he realized Kolnikov was watching over his shoulder. "The computer can detect frequencies and wave patterns that are too faint to be presented optically. Ships at hundreds of miles, planes, whales calling for their mates — it's a fantastic piece of gear."

"Skip the whales. Find me a submarine."

"They are out here," Eck said with conviction. "I hear screw noises, gurgles… much too faint and momentary to get a bearing on. But they are real. I hear them. Revelation hears them. They are out there." '

"Umm," Kolnikov said. He too thought the American submarines were in these waters hunting America, and perhaps also British and French boats, but he didn't choose to discuss it with Eck. Eck, on the other hand, was not reticent. "I thank my stars," the German continued, "I am not out there in this sea in one of those noisy old East German boats with this thing hunting me. God, it gives me chills just thinking of it!"

Kolnikov was idly watching the compass and monitoring the opening and closing of trim valves when Georgi Turchak came into the control room. He took Kolnikov aside and spoke very softly so that Eck wouldn't hear. "It's the bearings in that pump. It's in a tight space and difficult to work on." So..

"It's a bigger job than I thought. Three or four more hours, at least. We must drain the oil from the housing and rig a hoist to handle the pieces when we break it apart. And if we screw up the gaskets, we're out of luck: The spare parts inventories don't show any aboard."

"So what happens if we can't get it back together?"

"We are out of luck. The pump forces oil into the main bearings. Without it—" He left the sentence unfinished.

"Can we limp along as is?"

Turchak nodded. "If you are willing to tolerate the noise. And we proceed slowly."

"An oil circulation pump…" Kolnikov tilted the stool and put his feet up on the tactical presentation. He studied his shoes.

"The men are worried," Turchak said. "They know the thing will make noise. They talked of little else while we worked."

"What do you think?" Kolnikov asked and eyed his friend.

"We have done all we can, Vladimir Ivanovich. You must weigh the risks and decide how to proceed."

"I must decide?"

"You." Turchak sat heavily in the chair in front of the helm controls. "My wife is dead, I haven't talked to my son in years — hell, I don't know where he is, and I guarantee you he doesn't know or care where I am. We are expendable, you, me, all of us. No one cares whether we live or die, whether we go back to France or Russia or wherever." He jerked his head toward the rear of the boat. "Those men back there helping me. They have no one. Oh, they want money, a chance at life. But they have nothing in this world. So you decide. Is the risk worth it?"

"What have we got to lose, eh?"

"Only our lives."

"And they are worth precisely nothing."

"Nothing at all," Turchak said heavily.

"Okay," said Vladimir Kolnikov. "Let's crack the pump housing, replace the bearings. Try not to screw up the gaskets. If we can get it all back together more or less the way the shipyard had it, we'll get under way. Slowly."

"What if we can't?"

"You are a good submariner, Georgi Alexandrovich. Do the best you can and we'll all live with it."

"And then?"

"And then," Kolnikov said, trying to sound optimistic, "we will get under way and motor merrily toward the programmed launch point. If the tactical display is correct, we are only twenty-three miles southwest of it. We will head for it at five knots. Begin a gentle ascent so we get as little hull popping as possible as the pressure comes off. We will poke our masts up, get a GPS update, shoot, then run like hell."

"It will be broad daylight. Midday."

"That's right."

"The Americans will be all over us."

"We will go deep. I think this boat might take two thousand feet. We will find out, eh? That's below the depth any Los Angeles-c\a.ss boat can reach. With a smidgen of good fortune, there will be some kind of thermal or salinity incongruity below a thousand feet. We will run awhile, clear the area, then go dead in the water and drift. They won't expect that. Deep and dead silent, we will be devilishly difficult to find. We'll drift for days if necessary. We'll outwait them. We've got plenty of time. The Americans will get impatient and eventually leave."

"Drifting…" said Turchak, thinking about it.

"I've been watching the compass. The boat has turned about eighty degrees in the last two hours as we drifted. The trim pumps have had no trouble controlling our pitch attitude, and they are brand-new, dead quiet. If necessary, we could use the screw a little to give the planes some bite. A knot of way at the most, I trfink." He thought about it a moment, then added, "I have never seen a boat so quiet. I can hear my heart pounding. Drifting like this, we almost cease to exist."

"The American subs will be looking for a quiet place in the sea," Turchak objected. "A black hole in a noisy universe. You know that as well as I."

"Old boats are too noisy, this one is too quiet — what would it take to please you, good friend?"

"What if an attack boat shows up in the neighborhood and goes active?"

Kolnikov got out his lighter and played with it. "I don't think an American skipper will take that risk. If he goes active, he's a beaconing target."

"We'd better have a couple of fish ready," Turchak advised. "And we'd better be ready to run like hell. Just in case there's an American skipper out there with a bigger set of balls than you normally see in the woods."

In Washington that morning Jake Grafton found that Flap Le Beau had sent a car and driver to pick him up. As the car carried him the two miles to the Pentagon, he scanned an intelligence summary of the previous day's events. He also glanced out the window, watching the traffic, which seemed to be almost back to normal. Most of the commuters lived in the suburbs, so their automobiles were far enough from the blast of the E-warheads to escape damage. There were no traffic signals in Washington this morning, of course, but police officers directed traffic at every major intersection. Heaven knows what the commuters would do when they reached work— perhaps add columns of figures by candlelight in buildings with windows that could not be opened.

The old mansion at the center of the White House complex had burned completely to the ground. Fortunately the East and West wings had been saved, but between them was a smoldering heap of rubble. Two people had died; one person had been critically burned.

The intelligence summary contained some specific assessments of damage caused by the two E-warheads and rough estimates of how long the repair efforts would take. And how much they would cost. The price tag was in the billions. Insurance lawyers were telling the press that the "act of war" exclusion clauses present in every insurance policy meant that none of the damage was covered. Other lawyers were disputing that conclusion, arguing that unless it could be shown that a foreign power was behind the theft of the submarine that had launched the missiles, the act of war clauses should not apply. What was obvious was that the insurance companies had no intention of paying anyone but lawyers a solitary dime unless and until they were ordered to do so by final judgments of appellate courts, a position that was certainly in the finest traditions of American business. Make the bastards sue.

Yesterday the nation's financial markets were open less than an hour before the major indexes had dropped so much that authorities suspended trading. Selling pressure, reported the nation's financial press, was strong and building. The prognosticators thought that when the markets opened later this morning, they would fall to the limit in less than twenty minutes. The authorities had appealed to the SEC to suspend trading altogether. Around the world the American dollar was taking a severe beating.

As usual, most of the items in the intelligence summary looked as if they were taken straight from the news wires, Grafton thought as he replaced the summary in its envelope.

The United States was under attack. Even though they didn't know who or why, the reality of the attack was obvious to the investing public, which had panicked. And who could blame them?

A stolen state-of-the-art attack submarine, a missile attack on the presidential mansion, E-warheads causing electrical meltdowns, apparent cover-ups by the administration, outrageous rumors thick as bees in a hive, a military powerless to catch the perps… and of course, there was the missing satellite. Everything these days seemed to exude a faint odor of incompetence.

Several senators predicted spreading anarchy and the collapse of civil government — even in this age of failed dreams, that kind of talk rated headlines. Several more prominent lawmakers had appealed to the president to declare martial law.

And yet, Jake Grafton thought, the police are directing traffic and the streets are full of people going to work.

Surrounded by his staff, General Flap Le Beau was in his E-Ring office at the Pentagon preparing for a Joint Chiefs meeting when Jake arrived. "What should we do that we haven't done?"" The commandant tossed out that question as Jake headed for an empty chair.

"Induce a four-mile error in the global positioning system," Jake Grafton promptly replied.

Flap sighed. "The White House shot that one down."

"That was yesterday. This is a new day. Let's try it again."

"Yesterday they said that the pirates might not shoot any more missiles. And they haven't. Until they do, the politicos will look like savants."

"Has any terrorist group claimed credit for kicking the imperialists?" Flap's chief of staff asked.

"Four, so far. The FBI says none of them are credible."

"What's the weather this morning?"

"Clouds over the East Coast, General, but several hundred miles at sea the clouds dissipate and the visibility is excellent. We'll know about a cruise missile launch within two minutes."

"That's one small positive," Flap Le Beau admitted. "The air force and navy will have everything they own out there looking."

"Any ransom demands, General?" Another staff officer asked this question. "Any demands to release political prisoners, anything like that?"

"Not that I know of." Flap eyed Jake. "What's the story on the FBI?"

"They are still working on the problem of identifying the last person who went aboard America, sir. We assume the fifteen members of the Blackbeard team went aboard and one Leon Roth-berg, a civilian engineer from the sub base simulator department. That leaves one more man. The FBI is working on that tape that the Boston television station shot from a chopper of the Blackbeard team stealing the sub, seeing if there is a face on there that they haven't seen before." The tape had been running almost continuously in America and on cable stations around the world. The people in Washington hadn't seen it, of course, since they had been without electrical power for almost thirty-two hours. The television withdrawal would have been merely inconvenient anywhere else in the wired world, but without the benefit of instant feedback, the Washington politicians were operating in a painful new world.

"The FBI is checking on the disclosure list for Cowbell," Jake said. "Krautkramer is supposed to get back to me this morning. He will have to interview those people."

Flap looked glum. "If there has been a leak, the FBI will need months to find it, if they ever do. Man, we don't have months."

"The pirates must have known about Cowbell, sir. Be a hell of a coincidence if they didn't. Right now that's the only lead we have."

Flap threw up his hands in frustration.

"In a few hours NSA may have something from the Brits," Jake concluded. "All over the world people are talking and the spooks are listening."

"Give me a minute alone with Admiral Grafton," Flap said to his staff. The commandant led Jake back into his office and closed the door. "I had a little oral scuffle with the national security adviser yesterday evening, told her that they had given me a fool's errand. I was tired of people not leveling with me — all the usual stuff."

"And?"

"One item. Blackbeard was canceled because the Russians found out about it. Want to know how we learned that happy fact?" Flap's eyes narrowed. "The director of the CIA was attending a reception for the Russian trade delegation when Janos Ilin dropped the bomb over a glass of Chablis."

Vladimir Kolnikov was sitting in the control room watching the sonar displays when the chief German engineer and five other men came in, following Georgi Turchak. They had been working on the oil circulation pump for seven hours. Behind them came Heydrich, lean and cadaverous as always, carrying a cup of coffee.

"We have it back together," the chief engineer said. "No oil leaking, so the gaskets appear to be all right."

"We worked as quietly as we could, used rags to try and deaden the sound," Turchak told Kolnikov.

"Well, it's fixed now."

Kolnikov studied the tactical display. "Rothberg, reprogram the missiles. We will launch in two hours. We will be two miles north of our current position. Then we will dive to two thousand feet, run at twenty knots for an hour, then go dead in the water and wait for the Americans to get tired of looking. We will not do any eating or moving around, no going to the toilet. I think this would be an excellent time for everyone not needed in the control or engine room to take a nap. Fortunately we have plenty of bunks. Everyone pick one, close your eyes, and check for light leaks."

"You're crazy," Rothberg said flatly. "The Americans will see the missiles come out of the water and come charging out here like they're going to a fire. They'll be armed to the teeth and ready for anything. Dead in the water, unable to maneuver or fight, we'll be sitting ducks."

From the look on their faces, it was obvious the others agreed with Rothberg.

"The screws of this boat are as quiet as technology allows. Still, unavoidably, they do put low-frequency noise into the water. All of you know that. That is the only noise this boat generates, so it will be the one noise the Americans will be looking for. We must do the unexpected."

"Jesus!" Rothberg exclaimed. "You think the U.S. Navy is some kind of third-world yacht club? They ain't the fucking Russian Navy, Jack! They're—"

Kolnikov backhanded him across the mouth. The slap sounded loud as a shot in the control room.

"Now all of you, listen to me," Kolnikov snarled. "You volunteered for this. Every one of you swinging dicks."

"You never said—" Steeckt began.

Kolnikov cut him off. "I won't listen to your whining. I told you the U.S. Navy would hunt us, I told you the odds were against us. Heydrich told you if we made it we would all be set for life, with three million American dollars for every man. And you bought it. Each of you. Yeah, for that much money we'll risk our lives. Yeah. And all of us fools began planning where we would go and how we would live, the women, the cars, the good life…"

He saw several smiles now and knew he had them. "Even you, Rothberg. Money for women and gambling, money to be somebody. You were tired of being a short, fat, nerdy slob working at the sub base. This was your chance. And it still is!"

He let the silence build. Heydrich's face was impassive, impossible to read. "I'm not suicidal," Kolnikov continued. "I know what I'm doing. You men do your jobs, obey orders, and I'll do my level best to get us through this alive. No guarantees, no promises. I'll do my best."

Kolnikov searched Steeckt's face. "There's no way to undo what we have done, no way to bring those dead American sailors back to life, to return their submarine and slip away into the crowd. We're halfway across the abyss on a tightrope. Our only choice is go forward."

Heydrich stood in the back of the compartment sipping silently on coffee. Steeckt turned to him. "What do you say?" he asked respectfully.

"If any of you can run this boat in Kolnikov's place, say so now."

Several of them glanced at Rothberg.

"He's a simulator man," Heydrich said dryly. "This is the first time he's ever been to sea. Turchak?"

"Not me. I trust his judgment, not mine."

Heydrich drained the coffee cup. "It seems our only alternative is to do it Kolnikov's way." Without waiting for a reply, Heydrich went down the ladder to the mess deck.

Technicians working around the clock had gotten the SuperAegis liaison office in a Crystal City office building back in business. Emergency generators had been brought in and connected to the building's main circuit breaker panel. All the circuit breakers had been replaced, as well as most of the light switches in the building. Every portable electrical device in the building had been carried away to be disposed of, and new computers had been carried in. New telephones had been installed, new typewriters, copy machines, electric staplers, new card readers for the building's security system, new switches to operate the door locks, new security cameras and smoke detectors. The liaison staff — with their small office suite — certainly didn't rate the priority, but the building was full of other major military commands, which did. The small army of technicians who had accomplished the impossible were now gone, moved on to another government building.

Jake Grafton found Toad Tarkington opening new packages of software and installing them on the new computers. After he had greeted his boss and reported all that had been done, Toad remarked, "We're almost ready for another Flashlight. If they pop another one over Washington, I thought I might take a month's leave while you folks go through this drill one more time."

"Promises, promises," Jake said. He picked up a new telephone and held it to his ear.

"The telephone system is still dead, sir."

"I knew that," Jake said with disgust as he tossed the instrument back onto its cradle. He sat on the edge of a desk and watched Toad for a moment. "They won't shoot another one at Washington," he said after a moment's thought. "New York probably, maybe Boston or Philly. A long shot would be the National Security Agency at Fort Meade."

"No pun intended."

"Umpf."

"So what are the pirates accomplishing, sir?"

"They're wrecking the American economy. Intentionally or unintentionally. The bottom has fallen out of the market, every missile causes billions of dollars in damage, the prestige and sovereignty of America are diminished with each passing day, with each warhead that explodes. And they've fired only three missiles. There are nine more on that damn boat."

"The lawyers can argue about intent," Toad said. "As far as I'm concerned, that isn't a question. It's obvious that they intend the warheads to cause damage."

"The only thing that is obvious is that the missiles were aimed and fired intentionally," Jake Grafton replied. "Each warhead that explodes sets off a chain of events, some of which are predictable, some of which aren't. Once an avalanche starts down a mountain, where it goes and what it hits are events beyond anyone's control."

"They must intend to hammer the economy," Toad insisted. "That's what's happening."

"And a great many things will flow from that," Jake said. "Fortunes will be made and lost, careers ruined, careers built… tens of millions of lives will be affected, which will cause profound reactions to these events in the years to come. My point is simply that once a missile is launched, no one can predict or control the consequences."

"Where does that train of thought take you, Admiral?"

"Damned if I know," Jake Grafton said and threw a pencil at a photo of a submarine hanging on the wall of a cubicle eight feet away.

He was staring at the submarine when Krautkramer walked in. "Since the telephones are out of whack, thought I should drop by and let you know how we're doing."

"Uh-huh." Jake threw another pencil at the sub. The point of this one went into the soft soundproof cover of the cubicle panel and stuck.

They talked about the state of affairs in Washington for a few minutes, relating stories about life without electricity. Toad and Krautkramer did most of the talking, with Jake listening. Every so often he selected a pencil from a coffee cup on the desk and threw it at the submarine on the cubicle wall. The first one that stuck in the wall was apparently a fluke. The others struck at the wrong angle and fell to the carpet.

"We've identified the unknown man, the last one, we think," Krautkramer said finally, when the rehash of the missile attack had run its course. He opened a cheap attache case and extracted a file, which he passed to Jake. The photo in the file was of the unknown man boarding the submarine, glancing up. That look straight into the videocamera had been blown up on regular film. Jake glanced at it, then consulted the other documents the file contained.

"He's an underwater salvage expert," Krautkramer explained. "Name of Heydrich. Works for the European aerospace consortium, EuroSpace. In the past he's reported to a vice president named Willi Schlegel. In addition to his salvage abilities, we think he does general smoothing work."

"Smoothing."

"Uh-huh. Whenever there is a problem he is brought in to smooth things out."

"How does he do his smoothing?" Toad asked.

"Any way at all."

"Amazing that you can identify people from pictures," Jake said as he looked at Heydrich's photo.

"The computer age is truly here. Everyone is wired up together. Sharing databases was one of the antiterrorism initiatives."

"I remember when the privacy people jumped up and down about it."

"That's why it gets zero publicity. The idea of government databases scares some people silly. But there's no way to stop it. The information is there, it's on computers, no one wants airliners or trade centers or government buildings bombed by wild-eyed maniacs with a righteous cause. Ergo, government agencies share databases."

Jake glanced at the other items in the folder, then handed it back to the FBI agent. He went to the window, stood staring out. The view here was to the north. He could see a corner of Reagan National Airport and most of the Pentagon. In the distance the Jefferson Memorial and the Washington Monument were prominent. The sky was empty.

"The Europeans," Toad mused. "Underwater salvage. They must know where the SuperAegis satellite wound up."

"We're trying to find a link between the European aerospace consortium and someone on the SuperAegis launch crew. So far we've had no luck."

"Are you checking bank accounts?" Toad asked.

"Can't do any of that foolishness until we get a warrant."

"Hmm."

"Strictly by the book."

Jake Grafton turned from the window. "I need some help on a project," he said. "Won't lead to a prosecution, so nobody will have to testify about it."

"Sounds like something immoral, unethical, and illegal," Krautkramer said with enthusiasm. "Ought to be right down my alley."

"Is there any other way?" Toad asked and sniffed self-righteously.

Twenty minutes later Jake was standing by the window looking down into the street when he saw Janos Ilin get out of a limo. At least it appeared to be Ilin — from eight stories up it was difficult to tell.

"Could the Russians have gotten another limo from someplace?"

"Probably. More than likely their UN mission drove a few down for the embassy staff to use. The French and Brits did that, I heard. Maybe they rented one from one of the services out in the suburbs."

Ilin crossed the sidewalk toward the entrance. It looked like him anyway, the way he walked.

"Is the car that picked me up this morning still downstairs?"

"Yes, sir. Driver should be there."

"I'll take that car and send the driver upstairs. Wish me luck."

"Be careless," Toad said.

Jake snagged his hat and walked for the front door. He met Ilin climbing the stairs.

"Zelda, I think you should come look at this."

Zip Vance was at the computer near her. She could see what was on his monitor, but no one else could. She and Zip had purposely arranged the office that way. "So no one can see you play FreeCell," the secretary said knowingly. Everyone laughed dutifully, but rank has its privileges, privacy among them.

She got up from her desk and went over for a good look at Zip's monitor. The display was a photo of a man, a single frame. He was in his early thirties, tall, with wide shoulders and craggy good looks. The camera was looking at him almost full face, but he appeared to be paying no attention to it.

"It's Tommy Carmellini. You asked to be notified if and when he returned to the country. This shot was taken early yesterday evening at the immigration office at Champlain, New York. He came in from Canada."

Scanners to read the numbers of passports had been installed in immigration offices all over the nation for years. Now the data from the scanner and a photo taken simultaneously was sent to the INS, which could compare the information to the info in the State Department's passport database. And photographs of known terrorists, criminals, and fugitives.

Carmellini was a sore spot. After all that work setting him up to get Jouany's file and bring it home in triumph to the CIA, he had taken a look and bolted. Disappeared. Leaving McSweeney infuriated and pounding out furious E-mails to Langley.

Zelda Hudson wouldn't have thought it possible. She had spent hours in Carmellini's company on repeated occasions. He was a nice hunk, with an A+ smile, C+ brains, and a D— character.

Back at her desk, she logged on to one of her computer terminals. In minutes she was looking at rental car records. Yesterday, the Montreal airport… There he was! Carmellini, Tommy A. Virginia driver's license.

While she was at it, she typed in another string of numbers. Up popped a face of a man she had never met. She recognized his name, however: Heydrich. The FBI had identified him from the television video taken during the hijacking.

He should not have boarded America in New London. The presence of a television helicopter was predictable. He would be photographed, the FBI would eventually identify him… and like prophecy, the event had come to pass.

So Jake Grafton and Tom Krautkramer knew Heydrich was aboard. From Heydrich the trail would lead to France, to EuroSpace. Willi Schlegel just didn't understand the cyberage.

What would Grafton and Krautkramer's next move be?

The sea was empty. Nothing visible on sonar in any direction. The towed array was stowed, so the range and definition of the Revelation system were degraded, but even so, it was better than any sonar Vladimir Kolnikov had ever dreamed of. Yes, the American navy was hunting its lost submarine, but the North Atlantic was vast indeed.

With the boat stable and trimmed and making three knots, Kolnikov raised the electronic support measures, or ESM, mast, studied the frequencies of the energy detected by the WLQ-4 gear that processed the signals. He knew only enough about the gear to get the most basic frequency readouts. At least there didn't seem to be a P-3 twenty miles away. He then raised the communications mast to get a GPS update. When he had that, he raised the photonics mast a few feet above the wave tops for a ten-second look around. With all the masts retracted he studied the photonics image on a bulkhead-mounted screen. A fair day, some high cirrus clouds, not much wind. He had known that the swells weren't breaking before he raised the mast.

"How much do the positions differ?" Kolnikov asked Boldt, who was studying the GPS input.

Boldt made another input into the computer before he answered. "Twenty-five feet, the system says."

"You always check that before you update, don't you?"

"Aah…"

"Our lives are the wager, Boldt. Don't do anything without thinking."

"Aye, Captain."

"We are ready to shoot," Rothberg announced.

"Whenever you wish," Kolnikov said.

At a nod from Rothberg, Eck turned off the sonar so the noise of the launch wouldn't destroy the system… or his eardrums.

"Number six," Rothberg said. "Open the outer door."

When the door had been opened hydraulically, Rothberg pushed the firing button. The missile was ejected upward with a roar that was loud even with the sonar off. The rush of incoming water helped balance the loss of the weight of the departing missile, but still the bow bucked upward a little, almost like hitting a speed bump.

"Open the outer door on number seven."

A minute later he fired the missile.

The Tomahawk in tube ten went a minute after that.

"Close the outer doors," Kolnikov said. When the panel showed green, Turchak pushed the power lever to all ahead two-thirds and pushed the joystick forward a quarter inch. Kolnikov opened the valves to the ballast tanks, began letting water into the boat. Tur-chak's control input rotated the bow planes down and the stern planes up. As the submarine accelerated and gained weight and dropped her nose from the horizontal, the thrust of her screw drove her down into the dark, silent sea.

Sonny Killbuck was standing in the main SOSUS processing center when a North Atlantic operator called, "Missile launch." In seconds the computer triangulated data from three different sets of sensors and displayed a probable launch position on the graphic of the North Atlantic.

The duty officer was already busy, issuing orders to navy P-3s and

ASW hunter-killer task groups already at sea. Contacting the attack submarines hunting for America was more difficult. Only radio signals with very long wavelengths could be detected underwater. To communicate with the submarines, a signal had to be transmitted on an extremely low frequency (ELF) array that the submarines could receive on an antenna wire that trailed behind their sail. The signal told the submarines to come to periscope depth, where they could raise their communications antenna and receive an encrypted burst transmission on a UHF radio frequency. This process took time. Still, Killbuck noticed, the display depicted a Los Angeles-cXzss submarine, La Jolla, only forty-five miles from the launch position. Of course, it could be dozens of miles from that position. Still, he thought, La Jolla might have heard the missile launch on its sonar.

USS La Jolla's senior sonar operator was Petty Officer First Class Robert "Buck" Brown. He recognized the unmistakable sound of a missile launch. He had called it to the OOD's attention and notified the commanding officer. He knew from message traffic that America had fired three Tomahawks thirty-six hours ago, so he had been listening for another one, just in case. He punched the buttons to put the raw sonar audio on the control room loudspeaker. Everyone in the room heard the second launch. The rumble silenced conversation. The sailors stood frozen, listening, silently speculating, when the noise of the third missile being ejected from America's vertical launch tubes arrived through the water.

The bearing to the launch noises was plain enough. What wasn't plain was the distance that separated La Jolla from the launch site.

"Whatd'ya think, Buck?" the skipper asked. His name was Jimmy Ryder, Jr. He was several inches over six feet and had unusually large hands. Behind his back the sailors liked to call him Junior.

"At least thirty miles, Skipper. Maybe twice that."

"Okay," said Jimmy Ryder, who glanced at the screen to get the bearing. "Let's go find this guy. Chief of the Boat, steer three zero five. Let's try to get there quick. Flank speed."

Flank speed in La Jolla was thirty-two knots. Of course they couldn't hear anything at that speed, but they could dash toward the launch site, then slow down and begin listening.

When they heard the order, several eyes widened in the control room. The name of this game was finding the other fellow before he found you. Rushing to the scene of the crime was a risk. A calculated risk, but a risk nonetheless. Everything depended on how long Ryder was willing to keep the boat at speed before he slowed.

Buck Brown wondered about that as he tried to concentrate on the sonar. He could feel the boat accelerating, knew that he wouldn't hear much, but he wanted to stay busy. America was out there, the quietest, stealthiest submarine in the world, and it was manned by a group of ex — Russian submariners. According to the scuttlebutt, those guys knew their shit.

Anyway you cut it, Buck Brown thought, we're in for a gunfight with real bullets.

He wiped his forehead, then wiped his hands on his trousers.

The skipper seemed to read his thoughts. He leaned over, whispered, "I want you to stay on the panel. If you need to take a head break, do it now, before things get interesting. Do your job, tell us what's out there, and let me do the rest."

"Yes, sir."

Ryder slapped one of those big hands on Brown's shoulder, then went to the back of the compartment where a sailor kept a manual running plot on a maneuvering board. Like America, La Jolla had a computerized tactical presentation, but Ryder merely used it to back up the manual plot. The computer could crap out — and when it was desperately needed, probably would — but the manual plot could be kept with dead reckoning, if nothing else, and would be there when all else failed.

Ryder was well aware that he was rushing to a position that would be more than an hour old when he arrived. Worse, he was just following a bearing, not going to a known location. In all likelihood, America was leaving the launch site at a good clip right now. But where was she going?

He was thinking that problem through when the com officer brought him a flimsy of an ELF message. It consisted of a single letter of the alphabet. Without consulting the code book, Ryder knew what it meant. The message was an order to ascend to periscope depth to receive an encrypted UHF message transmitted via satellite.

He was tempted. The UHF message would probably give him the exact location of the missile launch. Yet he would have to slow to rise and receive it, and even if he knew the exact location, the basic problem remained: He was rushing to a position where America had been, not where she would be when he arrived. So where was the stolen submarine?