America

CHAPTER SEVEN

Jake Grafton walked from the Pentagon to the SuperAegis liaison spaces on the eighth floor of a Crystal City office tower. He paid little attention to traffic or anything else — he had too much on his mind. Tom Krautkramer, the FBI agent, was waiting in his office with Toad Tarkington.

"I've been talking to General Alt, Admiral Stalnaker, and Vice-Admiral Navarre," he said. "I thought I might as well drop by and fill you in on what we have." Krautkramer looked as if he hadn't gotten any sleep last night.

"We've got a number of leads to check. We are working with the phone company to get the long-distance records for the telephones where these people stayed, we're talking to neighbors, going over the apartments with forensic teams, basically pulling out all the stops."

"Cut to the chase. What have you got right now?"

"A civilian technician who worked on the holographic simulator is missing, guy named Leon Rothberg. His supervisor says Rothberg has been asking for lots of unpaid time off — apparently his private life is a mess. The supervisor said that sometimes bill collectors call wanting to talk to him. Anyway, his landlord says he hasn't been around for several days." He produced a photo and passed it to Jake, who glanced at it and handed it back. "He may be one of the two men who wasn't on the Blackbeard team."

"This guy know the America's system?"

"According to his supervisor, Rothberg was a computer Ph.D. candidate who dropped out of MIT before turning in his dissertation. We're checking that out. The supervisor says he is a certified genius who knows every line of software code in America."

"Bullshit," said Jake Grafton.

"I'm quoting the supervisor," Krautkramer replied.

"Sorry." Jake felt like a jerk. Krautkramer was probably as tired as he was.

"One of the missing Americans is a petty officer named Callahan. The general opinion of the others is that he is dead, but no one knows for a fact. Callahan could be alive and well and on that ship. He was a reactor specialist."

"The man who prevented the SCRAM."

"Perhaps," Krautkramer admitted. "It is possible. Callahan is or was in the midst of a nasty divorce and had a pregnant girlfriend. He was an above-average petty officer, but he may have been tempted. Or he may have been as honest as the day is long and killed by the hijackers because he didn't jump fast enough. We don't know."

"Okay."

"The leader of the Blackbeard team was Vladimir Kolnikov. Here is a copy of his file." The FBI special agent passed a red folder to Jake, who glanced through it. Most of this stuff he had already seen. "We're doing our best here and in Paris," Krautkramer continued, "to come up with more information on this guy, who his friends are, where and how he lived, what he drinks, what he reads, essentially the works. It's going to take a few days."

"Who knew him best in Connecticut?"

"The simulator training officer. He spent up to eight hours a day with him for several weeks."

"Let's fly him to Washington. I want to learn everything he knows about Kolnikov. Toad, see what you can do." Yes, sir.

"When you get more, Mr. Krautkramer, day or night, call me. Commander Tarkington will give you some phone numbers."

When the FBI man was gone, Jake said to Toad, "Okay. How is it going in the office today?"

"If anyone here knew that the submarine was going to be stolen,

I didn't get a hint of it," Toad said gloomily. "They've talked of nothing else today. The general assumption is that the sub will attack the Goddard launch platform with a Tomahawk."

"Ilin and the other spies?"

"The only time they've been outside is to go to lunch in the Crystal City mall. We went as a group. I stuck with Ilin like chewing gum on his shoe. He was not out of my sight. I even went to the men's room with him. We talked about submarines, baseball and football, politics, economics, the euro…" Toad shrugged.

"Any chance Ilin did a drop?" In other words, was Ilin given enough rope to leave something — anything — somewhere for a Russian courier to retrieve?

"The FBI had three agents watching us every second. They even bused the table after we left. I don't see how he could have. They had a video camera and directional mike aimed at us every minute. I felt like I was surrounded by the Secret Service, but they were so unobtrusive I don't think anyone else noticed."

"Bet they all did," Jake muttered and glanced at the stuff in his in-basket. "And tonight?"

"A covert surveillance team for each of them. The agent I talked to said there are fifty people involved. No one will tail these people, yet they will be under surveillance every minute. They've bugged their hotel rooms and installed video cameras in the lobbies, hallways, stairwells, and bars. The FBI has been damned busy. I don't know what priority you asked for, Admiral, but you got the highest one they have."

After the war room session that evening, the foreign liaison people would undoubtedly go straight to their embassies to report to their governments. And yet, why was Ilin wearing a mike in his belt? He could go to his embassy and talk face-to-face with his colleagues any time he wished. Was he dirty?

Waiting for Flap Le Beau to call was difficult. Jake thumbed unenthusiastically through the paper in his in-basket. He signed several letters that Toad placed before him, then stared out the window at the jets coming and going at Reagan National Airport. He was lost in thought when the intercom buzzed. The secretary said, "General Le Beau, sir."

"The White House bought it," Flap said. "The Joint Chiefs will be there. We'll get a complete briefing on the efforts being made to find America. If anyone asks a question that I think is out of line or not germane, I'll stop the show."

"Thank you, sir."

When Jake hung up, Toad dashed through the door. "Bring in the spies," the admiral told him.

He greeted them by name: Jadot, the Frenchman; Mayer, the German; and, of course, Barrington-Lee, English as strong tea. All of them had spent a large portion of their careers in military intelligence, as they freely admitted.

All except the Russian, Janos Ilin, tall, reserved, taciturn. He was a bureaucrat, according to his cover story, even though he made no pretense of knowing anything about missiles or defense systems. Jadot had asked him which directorate he worked for and had received a blank stare to reward his curiosity.

When everyone was seated, Jake brought them up to date on the stolen submarine. For the first time he told them the identities and nationalities of the thieves and the fact that they were being trained to operate a submarine with a minimum manning level.

"Trained by whom?" asked Barrington-Lee.

"The United States Navy."

"Guess you Yanks are really getting serious about shrinking your navy," Barrington-Lee commented when he realized Jake was not going to give an explanation for the team's training. "And then the blighters swiped your submarine. First you lose the killer satellite, now this. The press will eat you alive."

"Typical British understatement," Toad Tarkington remarked.

"So difficult to find honest people these days," Helmut Mayer said with a straight face.

"Certainly it is," agreed Maurice Jadot, who flashed a quick grin at Jake. "I am still waiting to meet my first one."

Jake continued with the briefing, detailing the salient facts as he had learned them that day. Jadot asked about Americas weapons load out. "A dozen Tomahawks and six torpedoes."

"What kind of warheads, please?" asked Mayer.

"All conventional. That is all I can tell you at this time."

Hyphen knew a thing or two about Tomahawk, which was a mainstay of the Royal Navy. "Certainly these people can't properly target this weapon, can they? Do the mission profiles and all that?"

"It would be extremely difficult. One suspects that they couldn't do it without help."

"Do they have help?"

"They might. Several Americans are missing and may be on the boat with these people. One of them is a simulator instructor, a software engineer, highly knowledgeable about the ship's systems. On the other hand, he might not be there. We just don't know yet."

"This missing engineer — does he know enough to program and fire the weapons?"

"According to the FBI, yes."

"It gets worser and worser," was Hyphen's benediction.

They sat silently for several seconds, thinking about that, trying to control their faces. Actually they did a good job of it — they were ready for the poker tables of Vegas, Jake thought ruefully.

Finally one of them, Mayer, asked the obvious question: "What is the United States doing to find this submarine?"

"Everything we can," Jake replied. "A briefing is scheduled for the Joint Chiefs of Staff in the Pentagon war room two hours from now. We are invited. I am sure all of you will be making reports to your governments about this matter, but I ask you to inform them firmly that the United States government does not want the information you learn here disclosed to the press."

"Speaking for myself, I can give you no guarantees on what my minister will choose to do," Barrington-Lee said. The others nodded their concurrence.

"I understand the realities of the situation," Jake replied. "All I ask is that you inform your governments of our wishes. The U.S. wants to keep a lid on the identities of the hijackers for a few more days."

On their way to the Pentagon, Toad Tarkington walked alongside the admiral. He spoke softly so that only his boss could hear. "It's the Frenchies. I got this feeling."

"Right."

"Everyone talks about the French, but no one does anything about them. After all, those people eat snails."

"A black mark against the whole race, I'll admit."

"Just wait. You'll see I'm right."

"There's been a change of plans," Kolnikov told his crew. He spoke loudly, so everyone could hear. With the exception of Heydrich, they were crowded into America's control room and surrounding spaces. Kolnikov didn't want to use the ship's loudspeaker system for fear that the sound would be picked up by the American SOSUS system, a fear ingrained in him from his days at sea in the Soviet, then Russian, Navy.

"We are going to fire three Tomahawks tonight, probably three tomorrow night, then three the following night. After that we are going to lay low for a while, as planned."

The men were surly. They were submerged in a stolen American submarine, surrounded by technology they didn't understand, with the entire American navy hunting for them. And Kolnikov had shot Steinhoff and locked up Heydrich. Why they didn't know. They were frightened and Kolnikov could see it in their faces.

"Our primary mission has not changed," Vladimir Kolnikov said now, keeping his voice as matter-of-fact as possible. "All of you will still be paid the agreed amount. However, since we are launching nine Tomahawks, you will each be paid an additional one hundred thousand dollars American per weapon as compensation for the additional risk."

"What are the targets?" One of the East Germans asked that question.

"You are from?"

"Berlin."

"The targets are not in Berlin."

A chuckle swept the crowded compartment. The promise of more money was working on their misgivings. All of them could multiply by nine.

"What about Heydrich? Why is he locked up?"

"I do not trust him."

No one said anything to that. They looked at each other, at the overhead, at the large computer displays, the windows on the sea. Finally Boldt asked, "How long are you going to keep him locked up?"

"Until he learns to behave himself."

"I think you should tell us more," Steeckt said flatly. "You are asking us to risk our lives on faith and a bald, unsupported promise to be paid later. That isn't much."

"Precisely how much is your life worth, Steeckt? What were you going back to when this little adventure was suggested?"

"You should level with us," the East German insisted.

"What you do not know you cannot tell later. You will be paid. You have my guarantee. If you get money, do you care where it's been, eh? As long as it spends."

That remark seemed to break the tension. Some of them chuckled.

"Steinhoff died about an hour ago." Gordin spoke flatly, without inflection, as if he were reporting a temperature or depth reading.

"He pulled a pistol on me," Kolnikov explained. "I had to shoot him. Shipmates must trust each other and defer to their captain, who looks out for all of them. Steinhoff failed to do that. He thought his primary loyalty was to Heydrich, a great mistake, and made it him or me. Perhaps he thought Turchak could sail the sub without me." And Turchak could, probably. "Perhaps he realized how easy this submarine is to operate and thought he could handle it himself." That ridiculous remark drew several smiles. Kolnikov continued: "Perhaps Steinhoff hadn't thought that far ahead. Whatever. He made a very stupid mistake and paid the price."

"What shall we do with his corpse, Captain?"

"Wrap it in a sheet and put it in the cold-storage locker. We will dispose of it when the time comes. Not now."

When they had filed back to their stations, Turchak whispered to Kolnikov, "They are scared. They don't know what to think."

"In this day and age, who does?"

"Will they obey, do you think?"

"If the Americans leave us alone, we will be okay."

Yes, as long as everything went all right, they would be fine.

As he waited at Dulles Airport for his flight to London to board, Tommy Carmellini reread a copy of the letter of resignation from the CIA that he had submitted that afternoon. He went in to see his boss after he drafted his composition.

"I gather that your meeting with Watring went badly."

"He's a shit. What can I tell you?"

The supervisor frowned. His name was Pulzelli, and he was a bureaucrat to his fingertips. "I find the use of foul language at the office offensive," he intoned primly.

"Yes, sir," said Tommy Carmellini. After all, Pulzelli had rec-

ommended him for a performance bonus. "It just slipped out. Somehow that word seemed a perfect fit."

"He didn't think you were entitled to compensation for the invention?"

"He says the patent office screwed up and I'm a crook. Wouldn't approve it."

Pulzelli had sighed. He knew who and what Watring was and had made the recommendation on Carmellini's behalf anyway, which would no doubt cost him some grief in the near future. Carmellini felt sorry for the man.

"I've decided to resign," Carmellini said, handing Pulzelli his essay. As Pulzelli read it, Carmellini said, "I've given the standard two weeks' notice. It's time to get on with my life. I've done my time with the government. I want out."

"Do you have any plans?"

"I was thinking of the British crown jewels and maybe the czar's jewels in the Kremlin museum."

Although Pulzelli didn't often allow himself to smile, a hint of amusement crept across his features.

"I know what you're thinking," Carmellini said breezily. "You think I should start in the minor leagues, which is probably true. Perhaps I'll do some jewelry stores and museums as a warm-up."

"I'll pass your letter along. While you are still on the government payroll, however, less lucrative chores await. Here are your round-trip tickets to London and the itinerary." He glanced at his watch. "If you get a move on you can catch the van to Dulles."

Sitting now in the waiting area on the international concourse at Dulles Airport, Tommy Carmellini carefully folded the copy of the resignation letter and put it back in his attache case. A ball game was playing on the television mounted high in a corner of the area, a scout troop was seated against a wall sharing music CDs and snacks, and two rows over a couple sat necking amid a group of dressed-for-success businessmen and — women who were studiously ignoring them. He automatically scanned the crowd to see if anyone was paying any attention to him. Apparently not.

He probably shouldn't have made that crack to Pulzelli about the British crown jewels or jewelry stores, he thought. He'll probably just laugh it off and forget it. Still, if and when, Pulzelli might remember and feel duty bound to call the police.

Oh, well. He couldn't take back the words. He would have to cross that bridge when he came to it.

In the Pentagon war room the overstuffed chairs of the Joint Chiefs were arranged in a semicircle facing a large multimedia screen that formed the wall of the room. A podium stood off to one side so it wouldn't obstruct the view of the screen. Jake's group of liaison officers seated themselves in empty chairs two rows back, behind a cadre of senior captains and one-, two-, and three-star flag officers. The briefing officer was at the podium consulting her notes when a staff officer called the room to attention and the four-stars walked in. As they dropped into their seats the chairman, General Alt of the army, grunted something and everyone sat back down.

The briefing officer, an army colonel, didn't waste time. Immediately a graphic of the North Atlantic appeared on the screen at the front of the room. "America has not been located," she said. "Here is a semicircle depicting where she might be if she had made good a twenty-knot speed of advance since she submerged alongside John Paul Jones sixty hours ago." The semicircle appeared, twelve hundred miles in diameter, centered near Martha's Vineyard. It covered a huge chunk of the North Atlantic. "And here is the ten-knot circle." That too appeared, in a different color, a fourth the size of the first one.

The briefer listed the U.S. Navy's available antisubmarine assets, including attack submarines, and showed their locations, whether or not they were ready for sea, how long it would be before they sailed. She discussed SOSUS arrays, P-3 patrol plane antisubmarine patrols, then national assets such as satellites with radar and infrared sensors, etc.

Finally the briefer showed the location of all known submarines of other nations, including two Russians. Seated beside Jake Grafton, Janos Ilin didn't turn a hair when his nation's submarines were pinpointed as if the coordinates had been published in the morning newspaper.

The Joint Chiefs interrupted the briefer to hold a discussion among themselves about a destroyer about to enter the Norfolk Naval Shipyard. Could the maintenance be postponed and the ship sent to sea to join a task group?

"Can the satellites see a mast if America sticks it up above the surface?" Flap Le Beau asked.

"Yes, sir. If a mast is run up with the submarine at speed in daylight, with no cloud cover."

"At night? Under a squall?"

"Yes and no, sir. Sea surveillance radars would be more likely to pick it up from space in real time."

"Stuffy, don't they have to stick that thing up occasionally to update the inertial?" General Alt asked that question.

"For ordinary navigation, no," Stalnaker replied. "A wise man would want an update before he launched Tomahawks, so he would run up the communications mast. An update might take from one to two minutes. Most of the time would be taken up with the system locating the satellites."

"If they do launch a Tomahawk, will we pick the missile up on radar as it comes out of the water?"

"Uh, no, sir. Not unless a task group is close."

"Airborne surface search? Will they see it?"

"Perhaps."

"A satellite?"

"Sir, it would depend on the sensor and the satellite location. Perhaps is the only possible answer."

"How long until we hear of it?"

"After a launch is detected, a few minutes, sir."

"Okay, with a Tomahawk in the air, flying toward the Goddard launch platform or Yankee Stadium, what are our options?"

The air force was not sanguine. Although Tomahawk was subsonic, it was small and flew low. It would be difficult to intercept and difficult to kill.

"We need to get some destroyers around the Goddard platform, with orders to shoot down anything incoming." The Joint Chiefs discussed that, how long it would take for three destroyers to get into position. Twenty-two hours, they were told.

"How about antimissile defense of Washington, New York, Philly? Can we get Patriot batteries into position to provide some protection?" The chairman asked that.

"Won't do any good," the army chief of staff said disgustedly. "Patriot can't engage a target that flies that low."

The four-stars discussed it. There was a PR issue here-the public needed to see the military doing something. It turned out that staff had already given the order. The first batteries around Washington would be in place within six hours. Everything available would be in position within twenty-four hours, but there weren't enough batteries to cover all possible approach directions. Staff was assessing where the batteries could be placed to have the greatest likelihood of intercepting.

And so the briefing went, detail by detail, for over an hour.

When it was over, Jake Grafton huddled with Flap Le Beau while Toad escorted the liaison officers back across the parking lot toward Crystal City.

After Jake had told Flap all he had learned since he had seen him last, he remarked, "I would still like to know why the Paul Jones was not authorized to sink America while she was still on the surface in Long Island Sound."

"That decision was reached at the White House, not here in the Pentagon."

"Were any of the Joint Chiefs there?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Sir, I'd like to see the transcript. I know it will be classified to the hilt, but I would like to see it before Congress gets involved and lays their hot little hands on it. And that is going to happen. There is no way on earth that the White House can cork this volcano."

"You want to go look at that transcript this evening?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll call over there, see what I can do. Keep me advised." Aye aye, sir.

The submarine rose slowly from the depths. Almost all of the small crew were in the control room, watching silently as Turchak conned the boat and Kolnikov walked back and forth, taking it all in. They were drinking coffee and the U.S. Navy's orange bug juice — Kool-Aid. They had earned the drinks — that afternoon ten of them had loaded all four of the torpedo tubes and run all the electronic checks to ensure that the weapons were ready. Just in case.

Now Eck was on the sonar, and Leon Rothberg, the American, was at the weapons control console. As usual, Boldt was at the main systems panel. Kolnikov was pacing and smoking, slowly and deliberately.

Eck had streamed the towed array over an hour ago to help clarify the sonar picture as the submarine rose through the thermal layers. The computer-derived pictures of the world on the other side of the steel bulkheads and ballast tanks mesmerized the crew, whose eyes were drawn to that hazy, indistinct horizon. If there were a ship out there that is where it would be, at the sonar horizon or just beyond.

Kolnikov ignored the horizon. He looked below it, into the depths, trying to see into the constantly changing, swirling darkness. He was looking for submarines. If an American attack boat was hunting America, it would be hidden in the depths, listening.

Nothing. He saw nothing.

"Airplanes, Eck?"

"There is a jet running high and fading. Nothing close."

After dark, with the ship running at three knots and stabilized just below the surface, Turchak raised the electronic support measures (ESM) mast. The antennas on the mast were designed to detect radar energy across a wide spectrum of frequencies. Kolnikov and Turchak studied the signals detected by the ESM computer, looked at the relative strengths of the signals, warily eyed the computer's estimate of ranges. Nothing seemed close.

Kolnikov pulled down the ESM mast and ran up the com one. A receiver on this mast would update the global positioning system, or GPS, which would in turn update the ship's inertial navigation system, or SINS, and the inertial navigation systems in the Tomahawks waiting in their vertical launching tubes.

An accurate position was essential for firing the Tomahawk missiles, which lacked terminal homing guidance. As originally designed, the missile flew to a point in space guided by its onboard inertial system, which used terrain-following radar to provide updates from prominent landmarks on the missile's flight path. The latest versions of Tomahawk, which were carried in America, also used GPS to update the onboard inertial, if GPS signals were available, but still the missiles lacked terminal homing systems, which were in the research phase but had been delayed in the 1990s for budgetary reasons. While the missiles still could not be guided into perfect bull's-eyes, neither could they be jammed or defeated by decoys in the final stages of their flight.

Rothberg had spent hours at the universal targeting console planning the route of flight of each of the three missiles Kolnikov wished to launch, looking for prominent way points that the missile's sensors would be in place within six hours. Everything available would be in position within twenty-four hours, but there weren't enough batteries to cover all possible approach directions. Staff was assessing where the batteries could be placed to have the greatest likelihood of intercepting.

And so the briefing went, detail by detail, for over an hour.

When it was over, Jake Grafton huddled with Flap Le Beau while Toad escorted the liaison officers back across the parking lot toward Crystal City.

After Jake had told Flap all he had learned since he had seen him last, he remarked, "I would still like to know why the Paul Jones was not authorized to sink America while she was still on the surface in Long Island Sound."

"That decision was reached at the White House, not here in the Pentagon."

"Were any of the Joint Chiefs there?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"Sir, I'd like to see the transcript. I know it will be classified to the hilt, but I would like to see it before Congress gets involved and lays their hot little hands on it. And that is going to happen. There is no way on earth that the White House can cork this volcano."

"You want to go look at that transcript this evening?"

"Yes, sir."

"I'll call over there, see what I can do. Keep me advised."

"Aye aye, sir."

The submarine rose slowly from the depths. Almost all of the small crew were in the control room, watching silently as Turchak conned the boat and Kolnikov walked back and forth, taking it all in. They were drinking coffee and the U.S. Navy's orange bug juice — Kool-Aid. They had earned the drinks — that afternoon ten of them had loaded all four of the torpedo tubes and run all the electronic checks to ensure that the weapons were ready. Just in case.

Now Eck was on the sonar, and Leon Rothberg, the American, was at the weapons control console. As usual, Boldt was at the main systems panel. Kolnikov was pacing and smoking, slowly and deliberately.

Eck had streamed the towed array over an hour ago to help clarify the sonar picture as the submarine rose through the thermal layers. The computer-derived pictures of the world on the other side of the steel bulkheads and ballast tanks mesmerized the crew, whose eyes were drawn to that hazy, indistinct horizon. If there were a ship out there that is where it would be, at the sonar horizon or just beyond.

Kolnikov ignored the horizon. He looked below it, into the depths, trying to see into the constantly changing, swirling darkness. He was looking for submarines. If an American attack boat was hunting America, it would be hidden in the depths, listening.

Nothing. He saw nothing.

"Airplanes, Eck?"

"There is a jet running high and fading. Nothing close."

After dark, with the ship running at three knots and stabilized just below the surface, Turchak raised the electronic support measures (ESM) mast. The antennas on the mast were designed to detect radar energy across a wide spectrum of frequencies. Kolnikov and Turchak studied the signals detected by the ESM computer, looked at the relative strengths of the signals, warily eyed the computer's estimate of ranges. Nothing seemed close.

Kolnikov pulled down the ESM mast and ran up the com one. A receiver on this mast would update the global positioning system, or GPS, which would in turn update the ship's inertial navigation system, or SINS, and the inertial navigation systems in the Tomahawks waiting in their vertical launching tubes.

An accurate position was essential for firing the Tomahawk missiles, which lacked terminal homing guidance. As originally designed, the missile flew to a point in space guided by its onboard inertial system, which used terrain-following radar to provide updates from prominent landmarks on the missile's flight path. The latest versions of Tomahawk, which were carried in America, also used GPS to update the onboard inertial, if GPS signals were available, but still the missiles lacked terminal homing systems, which were in the research phase but had been delayed in the 1990s for budgetary reasons. While the missiles still could not be guided into perfect bull's-eyes, neither could they be jammed or defeated by decoys in the final stages of their flight.

Rothberg had spent hours at the universal targeting console planning the route of flight of each of the three missiles Kolnikov wished to launch, looking for prominent way points that the missile's sensors could detect and use to update the inertial. The seven-hundred-fifty-pound warheads of conventional high explosives would be totally wasted if the missiles missed their targets by more than fifty feet. Incredibly, the missiles usually flew to within ten feet of the designated aiming position, the target, after flights of up to one thousand nautical miles.

This level of accuracy was absolutely extraordinary, Kolnikov thought as he savored the smoke of his unfiltered Pall Mall cigarette. The quality control and precision manufacturing required to achieve those tolerances in a mass-production weapons system would never have been attempted in Russia. Only in America, he thought. Only there.

The sea and sky were empty in every direction.

"Have you got your GPS update?" Kolnikov growled at Turchak.

"Yes, sir." At least he sounded professional.

"Rothberg?"

"I am ready. Anytime."

"Depth of water?"

"About seventeen thousand feet, Captain," Turchak said.

"Eck, reel in the towed array. Report it stowed."

"Aye, Captain."

"We will launch our three missiles one at a time, one after another, expeditiously. Then we shall turn to a heading of one two zero magnetic and dive to fifteen hundred feet. We shall proceed at twelve knots on that course until just before dawn, when we will slow and rise so that we can raise the mast, receive some American commercial broadcasts. Any questions?"

"What if we encounter American antisubmarine forces? Will we defend ourselves?"

"We will evade. Any more questions?"

There were none.

"Let's run up the photonics mast for a quick squint, just for the fun of it."

The sensor head was raised above the surface of the sea for about ten seconds, just long enough for the visual light sensor to make one complete circuit of the horizon and the sky, then it was lowered.

Now Kolnikov and his crew began the leisurely study of the images projected by the computer on one of the bulkhead-mounted flat displays. They found themselves staring at what appeared to be a television picture of the ocean's surface. With the camera in low-light operating mode, the picture looked as if it were daylight above their heads. Boldt slowly rotated the image in a 360-degree circle, then tilted it so the control room watchers could see straight up. No stars visible under the overcast, Kolnikov noted, then told Boldt to again run the image by, only this time much slower. "Enhance it, let us see if there are any boats or ships on the horizon," he added.

Nothing. The surface of the sea was empty, just as Revelation said.

Thirty-five minutes passed before Eck reported the array in and stowed. During that time the men drank coffee, water, and the U.S. Navy's ubiquitous orange bug juice and whispered among themselves. The tension grew with each passing minute.

And was released when Kolnikov said, "Let us begin. Rothberg, the countdown checklist, if you please." He eyed the clock and the ship's position on the tactical display. The old technology in Tomahawk required that the time of flight to each navigation checkpoint on the route be programmed in before launch, which meant that the missiles had to be launched from precise prechosen locations, so the distance and time would work out properly.

As Rothberg worked the checklist aloud, Kolnikov told Turchak to slow one knot.

Fifteen minutes later the outer door of the first vertical launching tube selected was opened hydraulically. A cap over the missile kept the seawater from reaching it. Seconds later, the encapsulated missile was ejected from its launch tube in a welter of compressed air that generated a subsurface noise that could be heard for a thousand miles. As the missile reached the surface, the booster rocket fired. Seconds later, when the missile's velocity was well over a hundred knots, the turbojet engine lit off, and the first Tomahawk was on its way.

A minute later America launched a second missile, and a minute after that, a third. When all three birds were in the air, Kolnikov had Turchak turn the submarine to the 120-degree heading and began a descent. The power lever by the helmsman was full forward now, asking the engineering plant computer for full power. The submarine accelerated with surprising rapidity. When it reached fifteen hundred feet below the surface, Kolnikov would push the boat hard for a half hour to clear the area, then decelerate to twelve knots. He would like to go faster, but the Americans would be closing and he worried about the noise.

After he shooed the spectators from the control room, Kolnikov checked his watch, carefully scanned the sonar displays, then lit another cigarette.

The secure telephone rang in the Pentagon E-Ring office of the chief of naval operations, Admiral Stalnaker. Despite the hour, he was still there, working on a summary of the weekend's events that the president had requested. He picked up the telephone.

"Sir, Space Command reports that a satellite picked up the launch of a missile in the North Atlantic about one minute ago. Apparently a cruise missile."

"Where?"

"From the coordinates, the location appears to be about four hundred miles east of Ocean City, Maryland."

"What are our nearest assets?"

"A patrol plane can be over the area in fifteen minutes. We have an attack submarine two hours away and an ASW destroyer four hours away."

"Keep me advised."

"Aye aye, sir."

The telephone rang twice more, at two-minute intervals. After the third missile launching, the telephone stopped ringing, but Stalnaker couldn't concentrate on his writing. As he waited for the telephone to ring again he went to the window and looked at the lights of Washington glittering in the velvet night.

His days as CNO were numbered, Stalnaker reflected. Within a few days, a week or two at the most, the president would ask him to file retirement papers, and of course he would have to do it. A stolen submarine, missiles raining down on America… It was conceivable that a board of inquiry might someday say he was derelict in his duties. No wonder captains often elected to go down with their ships.

He shouldn't be thinking of himself and his career at a moment like this, but hell — he was only human. Damnation! That all those years of work and sweat and achievement should have to come to this I

The silence was oppressive.

Stuffy Stalnaker grabbed his hat and walked out of the office, headed for the war room.

Aboard America, Eck heard the throb of the P-3 Orion's engines as it approached the area and reported it to Kolnikov, who looked at his watch. Fourteen minutes had passed since the last missile was launched. Maybe the crew of the Orion saw the missiles come out of the water. Or a satellite did. Or maybe they were just flying by.

"Sonobuoy," Eck said when he heard the splash.

Okay, the patrol plane wasn't just flying by.

Kolnikov checked the tactical display. The computers displayed the sonobuoys, which went in on a general search pattern.

The sub was descending through twelve hundred feet, making twenty-two knots.

The patrol plane would put buoys in a circle around the launch site, hoping to pick up the sub as it went under one of them. Well, we will find out just how quiet this boat is, Kolnikov thought.

"All ahead one-third," he told Turchak, who adjusted the power lever.

"Level at fifteen hundred feet," Kolnikov added. "I want to motor straight out of the area. If they hear us they'll tell us all about it. Rothberg, be ready to launch decoys if they put a weapon in the water, but don't do anything until I tell you. They may drop something to panic us."

"Like a fake torpedo," Boldt suggested.

"That would panic me," said Turchak.

"No, it wouldn't," Kolnikov replied. "You're tough, like the steel of a Soviet hammer. All the men of the submarine forces are tough. Isn't that what the politicians always said?"

"Those assholes who had never even been out on a park pond in a rowboat?"

"Those are the ones," Kolnikov agreed.

The foreign liaison officers were gone when Jake got back to the office. Toad Tarkington was there, waiting for him.

"They went out of here like their underwear was on fire," Toad told him. "I think Ilin ran for the subway."

"I've got a car and driver waiting outside," the admiral told the commander. "The commandant has called the White House for me. They'll let us through the gate over there if we go now."

In the car on the way over, Jake didn't say anything of importance. The driver, a navy petty officer, didn't need to hear any of this.

At the White House the gate guard examined their ID cards and Pentagon building passes and waved them through. A military aide met them in the driveway and led them to a small office in the basement. The walls were painted government puke green. It could have been an office in the basement of any government building in the country. Fifteen minutes after they arrived, Jake was handed a classified transcript.

He signed the disclosure sheet and passed it to Toad, who also signed his name. The transcript was so highly classified that the aide sat in the room and watched them read it, to be sure they didn't make notes or steal pages.

Jake opened the file and began reading. It took him twenty minutes to read the entire transcript, which covered the events of Saturday morning, from the notification that intruders were boarding America until she submerged two hours and forty-one minutes later. When he finished he passed the transcript to Toad and sat lost in thought while Toad read the pages.

"What is Cowbell?" Toad asked when he finished the transcript.

"I don't know," Jake replied. He opened the transcript to a page he had dog-eared and read it again. After he had studied the page, he returned the transcript to its classified folder and handed it to the aide. He glanced at his watch. Nearly ten o'clock. God, what a long day!

When they were in the driveway behind the White House waiting for the navy sedan to be brought around, Toad said, "Admiral, it seems to me that the national security adviser recommended that the submarine not be destroyed because it had Cowbell and he thought we could find the thing later."

"Umm," Jake Grafton grunted.

"The fact that there were an unknown number of Americans still aboard was certainly a factor in the decision not to tell Jones's skipper to shoot, but as I read that transcript, the critical factor was Cowbell. They thought they could find that boat anytime."

" 'Anytime.' He used that word, didn't he."

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Cowbell or no Cowbell, it seems to be lost now."

"Apparently," Toad said slowly.

"Oh, it's lost, all right. If the chairman of the Joint Chiefs, the chief of naval operations, and the commandant of the Marine Corps don't know where that pigboat is, believe me, nobody in uniform does."

"So what is Cowbell?"

"Beats the hell outta me."

"Whatever it is, it's probably so classified no one will tell us squat."

Toad stood silently for several seconds, letting the sound of the airplanes going into Reagan National wash over him, before he spoke again. "If they hadn't thought they could find that boat again, what do you think the president would have done? After all, he knew there were Americans still aboard."

"Would have been a hell of a dilemma. Sometimes all your options are bad."

"Ignoring Cowbell — because we have no idea what it is — if you had been on the hot seat and had to decide, you would have ordered Jones's skipper to shoot, wouldn't you?"

Jake Grafton nodded. "Bad options and all, I thought that was what the president should have done. I wondered why he didn't."

The navy car pulled to a stop in the driveway, and Jake Grafton walked behind it to get in on the other side. That was when he heard a small jet engine running hard. The noise was higher pitched than the rumble of the airliners in the Reagan National Airport traffic pattern over the Potomac, which was the only reason he noticed it, because while the volume was increasing, it was not loud.

Instinctively Jake Grafton knew what it was. Without conscious thought he looked up into the darkness, although of course there was nothing there that he could see.

Now the pitch of the engine changed dramatically.

"Incoming!" he roared and threw himself forward onto the concrete of the driveway.

He heard a whoosh, then the concussion of an explosion rocked the car and pummeled his back. He felt heat.

As pieces of burning wood and a snowstorm of masonry and plaster and other debris cascaded down, Jake turned and looked. The air was filled with flying debris and dirt. Many of the lights in the building were out. Still, he could see that the missile had smashed into the topmost story of the White House, blowing out a huge hole and tearing off a major chunk of roof. An inferno of hot yellow fire burned in the hole now, so bright it was almost impossible to look at.

"Holy shit!" shouted Toad Tarkington.

The hot fire cast a flickering, ghastly light upon the lawn and the two naval officers, who were still crouched beside the car, frozen in place, staring at the shattered building. The guard by the door was on the ground, apparently unconscious. As pieces rained down, Jake glanced at the car. At least the glass of the windows was still intact.

"A Tomahawk!" Toad whispered in the silence that followed the blast.

"Quick," Jake said to the petty officer behind the wheel as a fire alarm began sounding. "Haul ass! Get that thing out of here before the fire trucks arrive. We'll meet you down the street. Step on it!"

As the car sped away, Jake stripped off his blouse and hat and tossed them on the grass. The guard by the door had a bump on his head — apparently he had been knocked down by the concussion and hit his head on the concrete.

Jake sat the man against the wall, then ran into the White House. Toad Tarkington was right behind.