Ashes of Victory

— 21 —

Seaman Dwight Hagan, along with a dozen sailors from the EMALS team, had been sitting in the Air Department lobby for nearly two hours. Hagan was part of the technical group testing the brand-new Electromagnetic Aircraft Launch System in the Ford-class carrier that had replaced traditional steam catapults.

A man wearing faded jeans and a tight blue T-shirt stepped through the bulkhead leading to the office area.

The twenty-one-year-old navy technician noticed two things about him. First, the large white letters spelling NCIS stenciled across his blue T-shirt. And second, the black firearm holstered on his right hip. Word around the ship was that an army of NCIS agents had arrived earlier in the day aboard two Sea King helicopters. No one quite knew what they were doing there, but nearly everyone on the ship had been given a time to be interviewed.

“Seaman Hagan… Dwight Hagan?” he said, reading from a clipboard.

“That’ll be me,” he replied, standing.

“Good afternoon,” the man said in a pleasant voice. “I’m Senior Field Agent Bob Vanmeter, NCIS. Please come this way.”

They walked to one of the small staterooms in officers’ country.

“Have a seat and relax,” Vanmeter advised as he shut the joiner door. “This is an informal interview in regard to security measures aboard the Ford.”

Hagan folded his hands in his lap as he sat across a small table from the agent, who began with a few pleasantries, asking about Hagan’s family and where he had been born and raised. Then, after a few minutes, Vanmeter paused, looked at his folder, and then found Hagan’s gaze. “So, how you like the navy so far?”

Hagan felt more comfortable with the agent. “I like it fine, sir. I’ve always been mechanically inclined, so working in EMALS is awesome. Plus, I like to travel. Looking forward to our first deployment after we wrap up the trials.”

“How are we looking so far?”

He gave him a thumbs-up. “Great ship, sir. First-class.”

“It sounds like you know where you’re going,” Vanmeter said in a friendly voice. “And I see you have a security clearance. Secret, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Does anyone ever try to get you to divulge information you shouldn’t?” Vanmeter asked, the tone of his voice almost conspiratorial, before he leaned closer and lowered his voice. “You know, we’ve all been there. Mom wants to know if we’ll be home for Thanksgiving. High-school buddy wants to know if we’re going to the reunion. Or a guy at a bar asks about something he saw on TV and wants the inside scoop. That sort of thing.”

Drawing a blank, Hagan slowly shook his head. “Not that I recall.”

The agent paused a moment, glancing at Hagan’s enlisted service record. “I see from your files that you’re single.”

“Yes, sir,” Hagan said flatly, his eyes shifting to his service folder.

“Has anyone ever asked you about the ship’s movement?” Vanmeter suddenly asked in a different, emotionless tone of voice.

“Sir?” Hagan replied, blinking.

“Has anyone asked questions about the carrier’s schedule, when it’s departing or returning to port? Where it’s going?”

Hagan shook his head… and then he thought of his girlfriend.

“Carol,” he finally said. “She’s asked me a number of times, but just because she wants to make plans.”

Vanmeter paused, leafing through a few sheets of paper, then back at Hagan. “Who’s Carol?”

“My girlfriend. She just wanted to know if I was going to be home for the weekend. Again, so she could make plans.”

“What did you say?”

Hagan shrugged. “Everyone aboard knows we’re wrapping the trials today and will be back at port tomorrow night, sir.”

“So, you told her yes? You would be back in time for the weekend?”

Suddenly feeling a touch of guilt, he said, “Yes, sir. Three days ago. She’s picking me up at the pier.”

Vanmeter’s gaze narrowed. “I see. What’s her last name?”

“Carol, ah Carol Cline,” Hagan answered.

The agent’s friendly smile vanished. “Does she have email?”

“Um,” Hagan started, then realized they only communicated via text, so he told Vanmeter that.

“Okay. Got your phone?”

Hagan handed over his phone, which Vanmeter set aside.

“Where does Carol live?” Vanmeter asked with casual curiosity. “Does she have an apartment, or a home?”

“Home.”

The agent stared at Hagan for a long moment. “Do you spend a lot of time there?”

“Actually… no,” he replied, suddenly feeling concerned. “I’ve never been to her home.”

“How long have you known her?”

“About five months.”

Vanmeter raised an eyebrow. “And you’ve never seen her place?”

Hagan shrugged, embarrassed. He then explained, in torturous fashion, about the husband, the separation, and the ban on Carol having men in their home.

“You live in navy housing, yes? Barracks?”

Hagan nodded.

“And you’ve never seen her place? So, what did you do when you wanted some alone time?” Vanmeter smiled. “I mean, I’m assuming a red-blooded American guy like you closed the deal, right? You haven’t been saving yourself for marriage, have you?”

Hagan laughed also. “No, sir. Not saving myself. We just got a motel room for date nights.”

“Dwight, did you use different motels or hotels?”

“No, sir. We always used the Newport News Inn on Jefferson Avenue. They have free HBO and Starz.”

The agent nodded, wrote down the name of the motel, and asked a number of follow-up questions. In short order, Hagan gave him the description of Carol’s yellow Mustang convertible and the number for her cell phone.

“Do you have any recent photographs of her?” Vanmeter asked without looking up. “Any selfies of the two of you?”

“Well, I know this sounds weird, but she’s hated having her picture taken since she was a child.”

“Okay,” Vanmeter continued, as though he heard that sort of thing every day. “So, what does she look like? Pretty?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” Hagan replied enthusiastically. “Very pretty. She’s on the shorter side, maybe five-four, with long, dark hair, brown eyes. In great shape. She likes to run.”

“Nice ass?” Vanmeter asked, grinning.

“Hell, yes. Bounce a quarter off that, I tell you,” Hagan answered enthusiastically. Suddenly they were buddies, talking about women.

“So, where’s she from? Do you know how old she is?”

“Um, I think she’s from Saint Louis. She said her family moved a lot when she was a kid. She’s twenty-eight,” Hagan said, relieved he knew some of the answers.

“So, seven years older than you,” the agent pointed out. “What about family? Does she have any children?”

“The only thing I know is that she was born in Louisiana. She never mentioned anything about her family, other than her husband. She didn’t want to talk about him.”

Vanmeter rose from his chair, placed a reassuring hand on Hagan’s shoulder, and looked him in the eye. “Dwight, you stay here. Be back in a few.”

“Yes, sir,” Hagan said with growing concern.

Vanmeter picked up Hagan’s cell phone and stopped himself as he was headed out. “Dwight, what’s the access code?”

Hagan could feel his heart beating. The minutes passed slowly as he waited. His hands trembled before he clamped his left hand over his right.

Maybe it’s all a misunderstanding and we can laugh about it later this evening.

It took almost a half hour before Vanmeter returned to the stateroom, his jaw set.

“Dwight, I want you to tell me everything you know about Carol, every single detail.”

Hagan shook his head. “I don’t understand. I’ve told you everything. Can I have my phone back? I can call her.”

The agent didn’t hesitate. “No, Dwight, you cannot have your phone back. Right now, a couple of technical guys we borrowed from the FBI are downloading everything that’s on your phone and giving the thing a thorough strip search.”

Hagan was stunned. “I–I don’t understand. The FBI?”

“Dwight, I checked with the FBI and there isn’t a Carol Cline with a C or a K in the Newport News area. In fact, there isn’t one in Virginia. You said she has a home, but the assessor’s office has no record of a Carol Cline, C or K, owning a home. We also checked the DMV records for the Mustang you mentioned. There is none registered under her name.”

Hagan froze.

“Our people checked the Inn on Jefferson,” Vanmeter continued in a staid voice. “There are video cameras around that place. They found the yellow Mustang on one.”

Sensing a disaster in the making, Hagan nervously glanced around the stateroom.

“We just ran the tag,” Vanmeter said with a sigh, and then studied Hagan for a moment. “It’s a stolen plate.”

Hagan’s head drooped. “I don’t understand…” He trailed off.

“Dwight, listen to me,” Vanmeter asserted. “Look at me,” he ordered in a commanding voice.

Hagan slowly lifted his gaze, feeling his throat tightening at the thought of his career ending and a life in prison.

“Relax. We know you’re one of the good guys,” Vanmeter said in a sincere voice. “We don’t think you were an accomplice,” Vanmeter encouraged. “However, we need your help.”

Hagan sat up. He wasn’t in trouble, it seemed. He just had to help.

“We have our folks searching for the Mustang. Anything you can tell us would be helpful.”

Elated to be off the hook, Hagan spent the following hour providing anything he could remember, and as he did, he couldn’t help but wonder how he’d been so easily taken in by the woman.

Another NCIS agent came in and whispered in Vanmeter’s ear. Vanmeter responded, but all Hagan heard was “classic honey trap.” He’d heard the term in movies and read it in books. He knew it was when a foreign country sent a beautiful spy to trick a man into giving her information. He just couldn’t believe he’d been that stupid.

Commander Briana Sasso, formerly of USCGC Morgenthau, wasn’t easily impressed, but as she stood on the ultramodern bridge of the Zumwalt-class guided-missile destroyer drinking a hot cup of coffee, she wondered if this vessel represented the future of naval warfare. It had an amazing stealth capability with a radar cross-section akin to that of a small fishing boat, despite being six hundred feet in length and displacing fourteen thousand tons. But besides that, the vessel just looked space-age, especially when compared to Morgenthau.

Resembling more a submarine than a surface ship, the first in its class, Zumwalt could achieve a flank speed in excess of thirty knots, which her skipper, Commander Ronald Cartwright, had ordered after rescuing Morgenthau’s crew just four hours earlier.

“Are you sure you don’t want to take a break, Commander?” he asked. “You’re welcome to use my cabin.”

Briana smiled but shook her head. “Very thoughtful of you, but I can’t rest now. Not until we bag the bastards who sank my ship, and the first step is intercepting that.” She stretched a finger at the vessel on the horizon.

An HC-130H Hercules from Subic Bay had located it two hours before and continued to circle it. Cartwright had maneuvered Zumwalt to a position three thousand yards from the Nuovoh Arana when it made a sudden twenty-degree turn away from the destroyer.

Briana scanned the vessel with a pair of binoculars as Cartwright brought the destroyer up the port side of the freighter, adjusting speed to remain even with its bridge.

“They’re dumping cargo,” Briana said, passing the binoculars to Cartwright, who peered through them before turning to his XO. “Launch the helo.”

A couple of minutes later, a large white-and-blue Sikorsky SH-60 Seahawk helicopter took off from the deck helipad and flew around the freighter once and then stabilized in a hover on the starboard side of the bridge.

“Disney Zero-Five,” the Seahawk’s pilot reported. “They’re shoving cargo over the side with what I would describe as intense enthusiasm.”

Cartwright caught his XO’s eye standing by the fire station. “Fire a few rounds close to the waterline.”

Aboard the Seahawk, a sailor sprayed .50-caliber gun rounds from its side-mounted Browning machine gun, the report reverberating across the destroyer. The gunner paused a few moments and fired more rounds closer to the ship, but Nuovoh Arana’s crew members continued their dumping, reminding Briana of her encounters with ships hauling drugs or arms in the Gulf of Mexico in a prior life.

“Maybe it’s just me, but I don’t think they’re getting the message,” she commented.

“Dammit.” Cartwright frowned. “Why is it always so difficult?”

“Time for the big stick,” she said.

“Fire a round across the bow,” Cartwright ordered, “and make it close.”

The fully automated, remotely controlled 155 mm Advanced Gun System shifted into action, blasting a single projectile.

Accompanied by a huge, circular plume of grayish smoke, the round made a spectacular splash thirty yards in front of the freighter, enveloping the bow in white foam and mist. The obstinate captain, however, elected to ignore the warning shot while the cargo continued to be jettisoned.

“Seriously?” Cartwright mumbled. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Just like those damn drug lords in the Gulf of Mexico,” she said. “Hit them hard, Commander. It’s the only language they know.”

Cartwright gave the order to disable the ship.

Fired in a water-skimming trajectory, the second AGS round ripped a gaping hole in the stern of the cargo ship in a burst of fire and shrapnel that made everyone aboard hit the deck.

The vessel immediately began taking on water, and shortly thereafter, M/V Nuovoh Arana came to a stop.

A well-armed party boarded the cargo ship less than fifteen minutes later. Though the crew had worked feverishly to dispose of the evidence, it was apparent the freighter had resupplied another ship, presumably a submarine, given the two DM2A4 Black Shark torpedoes discovered under green tarps belowdecks.

After the captain and crew members were taken into custody and transferred to Zumwalt, Commander Cartwright contacted the Pentagon. He reported the condition of the ship and was instructed to have his crew gather all computers and any documents with potential intelligence value and to scuttle the ship.

Briana found some solace in the freighter vanishing in a whirlpool of bubbles and surf, but she felt even better when a Seahawk from Subic Bay arrived packed with men in civilian clothes that hit the deck running, turning a dozen cabins into interrogation rooms. Leading the effort was Art Gomez, a native of Manila with leathery golden-brown skin and strong Asian features. He identified himself to Cartwright and Briana as “a civilian contractor for the US Government” and handed a letter signed by the commander, US Pacific Fleet, ordering the captain to provide him and his team with their full cooperation.

Gomez went to work on the captain, a man named Orlov.

Ignoring the occasional scream belowdecks, Briana remained on the bridge with Cartwright. Just beyond the ship’s bow, the Seahawk rose in the sky on its way to Subic Bay along with Zumwalt’s own helo to take her crew ashore.

“Sure you don’t want to go with them?” Cartwright asked as the two helicopters headed out. “We might be out here a while.”

In order to avoid legal wrangling over the status of the freighter’s crew — plus to cover whatever methods Gomez and his operatives were employing in those cabins — the ship would remain in international waters until the contingent of contractors were through questioning the Nuovoh Arana detainees.

“Got no place to go,” she said. “My ship’s on the bottom. So, if you don’t mind the company, I’d rather see this through.”

Before Cartwright could reply, Gomez walked onto the bridge, his light-blue shirt spotted with small red stains.

As another muted cry crept through the ship, the Filipino tilted his head toward the open hatch and said, “Dirty business.” Then he added, “I need to contact Washington.”

An aide ushered Secretary of State Brad Austin into the office of Ambassador Chang Yu-shan. Like Austin, he was also a former military officer, having retired as a full colonel with the PLA.

A bit shorter and much thinner than Austin, he advanced a few steps toward his guest and then extended a hand, wincing at Austin’s firm grip.

“Please, Mr. Secretary,” the ambassador said with a motion in the direction of a chair opposite a wall displaying four large photos from the ambassador’s military days with the PLA’s 2nd Division in North Vietnam. “Please, have a seat.”

Austin nodded and sat down.

“Would you care for a cup of tea or coffee?” Yu-shan asked as he also sat down, noticing Austin taking the bait. The eyes of the former Marine Corps aviator inexorably drifted to the collage in matching silver frames. Captain Yu-shan had been among the 320,000 Chinese soldiers and pilots operating in the so-called Chinese buffer zones in North Vietnam along the border with China, where the PLA armed the North Vietnamese Army with radar stations, airfields packed with MiGs, anti-aircraft batteries, and ammunition depots — all officially off-limits to American retaliation. The buffer zones were enforced by Chinese officials and also — ironically enough — by Lockheed EC-121 Warning Stars, the predecessor of the Boeing E-3 Sentry AWACS, who monitored the zones to make sure their own American fighters or bombers did not violate them. By 1967, the NVA was firing a combined twenty-five thousand tons of anti-aircraft ammunition and missiles each month at American jets “going downtown,” running Route Pack 6 sorties into the heart of Hanoi. A good portion of those munitions and equipment had been brought in through these buffer zones.

Yu-shan smiled inwardly as Austin recognized the North Vietnamese Army soldiers posing next to him and other PLA officers. He used the historical photos as his subtle way of reminding American visitors, especially those with military backgrounds, such as Austin, that the American military wasn’t infallible.

Austin pointed at one of the photos. “You know, Mr. Ambassador, we used to shut off our IFFs so the Willie Victors couldn’t see us running sorties inside your buffer zones,” he said, referring to the Identification Friendly or Foe system aboard American jets and also using the US Navy nickname for the Warning Star. “We just loved catching those little NVA bastards with their pants down, thinking they were safe.”

This time it was Yu-shan who blinked, but unlike the Chinese diplomat, Austin didn’t hold back a leer.

Deciding that was probably enough sparring, the ambassador took a deep breath and just said, “We have water, if you prefer.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Ambassador,” replied Austin. “And while I’d love to chat more about that ancient conflict, I’m here to address a more recent one: the provocative and dangerous aerial encounter your pilots initiated in international airspace less than twelve hours ago over the Taiwan Strait. They flagrantly endangered our flight crews and almost had a midair collision with one of our Advanced Hawkeye command-and-control aircraft.”

Yu-shan felt the hard stare from the former Marine Corps fighter pilot, and he glared right back at him. “Secretary Austin, I deeply regret the incident happened, and I can assure you that every step is being made to correct the—”

“Spare me the double-talk,” Austin cut him off. “We were under the impression that Beijing had corrected this kind of problem after the disastrous collision in April 2001. And now we have more Chinese fighter pilots endangering our flight crews.” Austin shook his head in disgust. “That kind of behavior demonstrates intentional malice with a total lack of discipline and poor leadership.”

The ambassador held Austin’s gaze, then said, “I do not have the authority to directly deal with these matters.”

“You’re the Chinese ambassador, our direct link to Beijing,” Austin countered with a disappointed voice. “Otherwise what’s the point of you being here? To attend state dinners?”

Yu-shan tightened his jaw and fists but quickly relaxed them. Before he could come up with a reply, Austin added, “This dangerous and deliberate provocation is going to further isolate China from the international community. This unprofessional stunt has caused escalating tensions between our administration and Beijing. One miscalculation by your pilots could lead to a shooting war. Does that possibility concern you? Does it bother you in the least?”

“Yes, of course it bothers me,” the ambassador replied, tension showing in his voice. “I will make some inquiries and see if we can correct the—”

“Mr. Ambassador,” Austin again interrupted, “I don’t think you understand the gravity of the situation. Your fighters were armed, and they locked on to our aircraft with their target acquisition radars. One mistake — just one errant electrical malfunction — and it could have been disastrous for both countries.”

Unaccustomed to being talked to in such a harsh tone, Yu-shan lost face. “Mr. Secretary,” he stammered. “If we had an aircraft carrier off the coast of California, the White House would not be pleased.”

“But see, Mr. Ambassador, you wouldn’t have a reason to be there. You don’t have a defense pact with Canada or Mexico, do you? We are pledged to defend Taiwan, and that’s why we keep a military presence in that part of the world.”

Feeling color coming to his cheeks, and angrier than he could remember, Yu-shan remained silent. He wanted to speak his mind, but he had strict orders to remain professional under any circumstance.

“I can assure you of two things,” Austin said bluntly. “We will continue flying legal missions over international airspace. And we will not be intimidated; that is a direct warning. Your president needs to know that we are not bluffing, and the world community knows your record.”

Yu-shan silently nodded, his jaw clenched tight in anger. These arrogant Americans need to learn their place again, just as we taught them in Vietnam.

“Item number two,” Austin said firmly. “I’m going to personally push congressional members to initiate legislation to impose much tighter controls on technical transfers from the United States to China. Your country has a booming global economy, and China is rapidly modernizing. You have many initial public offerings on our stock exchanges on Wall Street, and your economy will surpass the US economy in the foreseeable future.”

The secretary paused a moment, and then spoke slowly and deliberately. “Do you and your government leaders in Beijing want to jeopardize the future of China with foolish stunts?”

Chang Yu-shan suddenly found his voice. “It is not in your best interests to threaten us, to treat us with disrespect. The Chinese government controls over a trillion dollars in US debt, and our military is the largest in the world.”

“That’s true,” Austin replied, clearly angry, “but the US has nearly as much invested in China, and if US manufacturers were to start pulling out, China’s economy would collapse. As for your military, you have one aircraft carrier — and it’s not even combat-ready — an insufficient transport system, and an army that hasn’t been in combat since the seventies. The US, on the other hand, has eleven aircraft carriers, the majority of which are still capable of being deployed, and has been in constant combat since nine-eleven. Your leaders had best not be thinking your military can defeat ours, because short of a nuclear war — which we will also win — China can barely touch us.

“So, listen carefully,” Austin said in a steely voice. “We did not initiate this provocation. China did. I recommend you contact Beijing and make our position very clear.”

Austin rose from his seat. “This is an extremely serious matter. I trust you will give it your immediate attention.”

After Austin left, Yu-shan asked that a secure phone call be placed to China. But rather than calling President Jiechi’s office, he contacted the man who’d gotten him this post: General Deng Xiangsui.

Sitting in the rear of the sedan that would drive him back to the White House, Austin hit the speed dial on his encrypted phone.

“Brad, how did it go?” President Macklin asked.

“Message delivered, sir. And in the appropriate wording,” he replied, before providing his commander in chief with a full briefing, including the photos that the ambassador had hanging from his wall.

“Brad, is it just me, or does it also feel to you that we’re playing their game, just like we did back then with all of those stupid fucking restrictions?”

“You’re reading my mind, sir. We can’t win this war on terror by following the damn playbook. I really think it’s time we turn off our IFFs… and go downtown.”

Followed by Keith Okimoto and his team of Secret Service agents, President Cord Macklin and Hartwell Prost strolled around the South Lawn at midnight, under a yellow quarter moon, smoking cigars.

The DNI paused when the phone in his coat pocket dinged twice. Pulling it out, he stared at it for several seconds.

“Hart?”

But Prost seemed in a trance reading the message, then mumbled, “Wow.”

“Hart!”

Turning to face his commander in chief, Prost said, “Just got confirmation via my people in the South Pacific that the same ghost submarine that damaged Stennis and sunk North Dakota also sunk Morgenthau.”

“The same sub?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We know this how?”

“Apparently when the sub made the emergency dive from the side of the freighter, a crew member was inadvertently left on the cargo ship.”

“And how did our folks figure this out so quickly? It’s been, like, just a few hours since we intercepted it?” Macklin asked, remembering an earlier brief from the chief of naval operations, Admiral Denny Blevins.

Prost shook his head. “That’s, ah… CIA business, sir. You don’t want to know the details.”

“Oh.”

“The sub crew is Russian, and the commander is a former Soviet submarine captain by the name of Yuri Sergeyev. My people are pulling together a dossier on the man. According to intelligence extracted independently from the stranded crew member and also from the freighter’s captain, also a former Soviet naval officer, named Boris Orlov, the sub is headed for the Taiwan Strait to hunt Vinson as its primary target or Roosevelt as its secondary.”

Macklin pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache mounting.

“There’s something else, sir,” he added. “According to this Orlov, both he and Sergeyev were hired by our missing Saudi prince.”

“Whom we let get away.”

Prost frowned.

“Hart,” Macklin added. “Needless to say, we can’t afford to lose another carrier. And given Chalmers’s last briefing on the noise China’s making in the region, if Vinson is out of the picture, I think the PLA will make a move on Taiwan.”

“Admiral Blevins is already aware, sir,” Prost said, pointing at his phone. “And so is the crew of Vinson and its escorts — as is the Roosevelt carrier group. They’re on the lookout with all of their ASW assets. And we have also ordered Zumwalt to the strait for insurance.

“Also, the attack submarine Missouri is out there. Her skipper is the one who picked up the ghost sub a couple of times on his sonar. He fought tooth and nail with COMSUBPAC to remain in the area to hunt it, rather than escort Stennis to Honolulu.”

Macklin blew smoke out, feeling damn glad the military still had independent thinkers.

At the president’s silence, Prost added, “And since Missouri seems to be the only boat who can pick up the scent of this ghost sub, we’ve also dispatched it to the strait to keep hunting for it.”

Macklin stared at the glowing end of his cigar and frowned. “Hart, I want to go back to Ford for a moment. What’s the status of the NCIS investigation?”

“They identified the spy,” he said with some trepidation. “However, they… ah, missed her when they went to arrest her.”

“Missed her?”

Prost explained about the sailor, the girlfriend with the phony name, and the dragnet the NCIS and other law enforcement officials had thrown over the Newport News area, looking for the missing yellow Mustang convertible.

“A patrol car from the Newport News Police Department, working off the NCIS BOLO, located the Mustang at a home overlooking the bay. They cordoned off the neighborhood and executed a no-knock warrant.”

With a shake of his head, Prost carried on. “Her clothes were still in the closet and to add insult to injury, a still-warm cup of coffee was sitting on the kitchen table. But she was gone.”

Macklin exhaled heavily as he sat down on a nearby bench. “If the Mustang was still in the driveway, and the neighborhood had been surrounded, how did she disappear?”

Prost sat down on a facing bench and eyed his commander in chief. “They also found a police radio scanner. She heard the chatter and ran.”

“We just can’t catch a break, can we?” the president said angrily, chewing on his cigar instead of smoking it.

“Not all hope is lost, sir. The fact that the spy ran away isn’t necessarily all bad.”

“What are you talking about?”

“One of our space-based assets picked up another satellite phone message four hours ago, originating from the Virginia Beach area to a receiver about a hundred and twenty miles from our coast. We think our runaway spy sent it before going dark.”

“Oh,” Macklin said. “What does it say?”

“The content of the message isn’t that important. It says that her cover’s blown and she’s going underground. But we can now concentrate our assets on that area, from Coast Guard cutters and patrol boats to drones.”

“Anything you need,” Macklin said. “Just catch the bastard before he gets any closer.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And how’s your special team?”

“Still searching for the elusive prince. We now have tabs on all of his usual hideouts, from yachts and jets to mansions and villas. Now that we have a name, it’s just a matter of time.”

“That’s comforting,” Macklin said. “Considering it only took us ten years to nail bin Laden.”

Prost stopped and said, “Mac, may I be candid?”

Surprised, the president responded, “Sure, what’s on your mind?”

“You need a day off or your head’s gonna explode. Some downtime to relax and enjoy a few pleasant moments in life. You’ve become consumed by the magnitude of the attacks, and the aftereffects. You’re five minutes from being Jimmy Carter during the Iran hostage crisis.”

“Hart, I don’t have time to take a fucking day off. We can’t just pretend these problems will go away. There’s a damned ghost sub at large in the South China Sea going after my carriers, plus some mystery boat heading toward Norfolk with the intent of attacking Ford, and now we’ve blown both leads by spooking the spy in Norfolk and the Saudi prince. Do we even have an inkling as to how they might try to hit Ford?”

“We’re working some scenarios now, sir, but just to be on the safe side, Blevins is extending Ford’s sea trials for another week, plus deploying a half dozen escort ships to shield her. They’re going to pretend they’re in the Gulf.”

Macklin barely acknowledged his DNI as he swirled smoke in his mouth. “See, Hart, that’s exactly what worries me.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“That everything you’ve described so far is still… well, playing defense, which to me means the bastards got us precisely where they want us.”