First Strike

FIVE

Yuri Maskiro pitched forward slightly in his seat as the Boeing 747 made its first screeching contact with the runway. The tires emitted a high-pitched yell, bounced off, then immediately settled back down. After a few seconds of rollout, the nose dropped gently and the front tire hit the runway.

There was a loud roar as the pilot immediately reversed the thrust of the engines and deployed all speed breaks. The aircraft settled in to a gentle roll.

The pilot and the flight attendants made the usual announcements about remaining seated until the aircraft came to a complete stop. Maskiro waited, excitement surging through every millimeter of his body. Close, so close — and no one even suspected he was here.

Between his contacts and those Korsov had, it has not been difficult to make his way from the Black Sea to Greece. There, he changed identities and boarded a scheduled transatlantic flight to Bermuda. He paid for a first-class ticket, on the theory that no one would suspect that as much. Besides, Andrei told him that the first-class passengers were often moved through Customs more quickly.

Customs had not proved to be a problem. Maskiro’s passport was indistinguishable from the real thing, primarily because it had been made by someone who worked in the passport department of the Greek government. No matter that he spoke no Greek. Instead, they had agreed that Maskiro would simply ignore anyone who spoke to him in Greek, insisting that he wished to practice his English. And if the accent sounded a little off to some, well, he could count on the wide range of British and American accents to help disguise him.

He passed quickly through Customs, speaking a few words of English to the functionaries, then moving with his luggage to the flight terminal itself. There, he scanned the crowd and finally located a small, dark-skinned man who matched the description he had been given.

“Sir, I’m supposed to meet you.” The man’s tone was respectful.

Maskiro nodded. “My luggage is all here.” He gestured to a suitcase.

“That’s it?”

Maskiro nodded. “Let us go.”

The man handed him a long gym bag made up in bright colors, advertising itself as belonging to a guest of the Hamilton House. “Everything you required,” he said finally, patting the matching bag on his own shoulder. “Come, follow me. You have reviewed the diagrams?”

“Yes, of course,” Maskiro said. Even in a place like Bermuda, the locals knew where to obtain weapons. This should be quite simple, really.

Quite simple in part because security at the airport was remarkably lax. He noted uniformed men and women in short pants and some sort of official-looking shirt clustered randomly about the terminal. None of them was armed with anything more than a billy club. Judging from the way they were talking and laughing, few of them had any military training and even fewer had experience for what they were about to face.

Or, maybe not. One man standing at the fringe of a group looked toward Maskiro and an uncertain look crossed his face. He studied Maskiro for a few moments, as if considering whether or not he should do anything. But then a poke in the ribs from one of his compatriots and a new round of jokes drew his attention back away from the Russian.

“Down here,” the man said, leading Maskiro down the hall. There was a door that required a pass to open. The man produced a thin, credit-card-sized security pass and swiped it through the scanner. Something clicked and he pushed the heavy door open.

“Up four flights,” he said. “There is an elevator, but we won’t use it.”

“And at the top of the stairs?” Maskiro asked.

“Just a hallway, and then a well-marked door. No security, no more locks.”

Unbelievable. Even though Maskiro had heard about the legendary slackness at this airport, he still found it difficult to understand. Control the airport and you control access to the country. The first priority of any landing force was to obtain access for aircraft.

Maskiro trotted up the stairs, not deigning to use the handrails and holding his weapon well away from his body. He paused at the very top, not even the slightest disturbance in his breathing, and glanced across at his associate. “You understand, there are to be no shots fired. For this to be successful, no one must know we’re here.”

“They will, soon enough,” the man said.

Maskiro nodded. “Soon enough gives us enough time. Remember, no shots.”

At the top of the stairs was a small foyer with one door leading off of it. On the door was a large red sign that warned, AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY — STRICTLY ENFORCED. But there was no card reader, and no other security measures.

Maskiro could have laughed out loud. Easy, far too easy. As would be the rest.

It wasn’t necessary to kick the door in or even to use any force at all. Maskiro simply turned the knob, opened the door, and walked in.

The room was dark, circular, and lined with radar screens. A low murmur of voices filled the compartment as the air traffic controllers worked their various parts of the skies. British accents of the native voices mingled with American voices and the overall impression was one of controlled chaos.

There was one loud yell from a woman, and then all the heads not covered with earphones turned toward him. A man in the middle standing on a podium, turned, scowled, and shook his head. He opened his mouth as though he were about to give an order, and stopped abruptly when he saw the weapons.

“Don’t move. Not an inch,” Maskiro ordered. He saw the supervisor’s hand inch toward a button — a security alarm of some sort, no doubt — and Maskiro lifted the barrel of his weapon ever so slightly to point directly at him. “No alarms. Do as we say and no one will be harmed.”

Without taking his eyes off Maskiro, the man said, “Everybody, just keep doing your job. Do exactly what they tell you.” He raised his hands slightly, palms facing toward Maskiro, as though to demonstrate he had no weapon. “What do you want?”

“I want you to keep doing exactly what you’re doing,” Maskiro said. His companion moved off to the side to keep an eye on the other air traffic control operators. “The only difference is there will be several unscheduled flights arriving. I expect you to give them the highest priority, and to bring them in safely. They will taxi immediately to the far end of the runway. At that point, you will hold all incoming traffic for a period of thirty minutes. After that, you may resume normal operations and we will be gone.”

“Is that all?” Now that he was over the initial shock, the supervisor seemed to be regaining his courage. Maskiro hoped he would not be foolhardy.

“That is all.”

“And when will we see these flights you’re talking about? And how many of them?” He moved two steps toward Maskiro, who shook his head warningly.

“I believe your people will be able to inform you. And I would prefer that you stay right there. Hands where I can see them, please. And, all of you,” he continued, raising his voice slightly, “just remain calm, do your jobs. If an alarm sounds or your security forces are otherwise notified, this man will die first. And she,” he said, gesturing to woman who screamed first, “will be next. It doesn’t matter what happens to us, you understand. This is a holy war.”

And that little piece of this information should keep your security forces busy for quite a while, figuring out what this means. I hope that they will assume we are Islamic. Foreign accents — they all sound alike to these people.

“Notify me immediately if you have any unidentified contacts,” the man said, raising his voice slightly to be heard by everyone in the room. A series of quiet “Rogers” acknowledged the order.

Air superiority — the most critical part of any military operation, and yet so often overlooked in civilian contexts. Security checks concentrate on passengers arriving but not those people who come in from the outside to greet them. And there are weapons available everywhere in the world — yes, even here. Especially here.

Then, Maskiro heard what he’d been waiting for.

“Unidentified air contact at…”—the air traffic controller reeled off the latitude and longitude—“at thirty-one thousand feet, speed four hundred and fifty, descending; please advise of your intentions.”

There was no answer. Maskiro motioned to the supervisor with his weapon, and he crossed over to stand behind the air traffic controller watching the area to the northeast of the island.

“Unidentified contacts, I repeat, state your intentions. I do not hold you on any flight plan or regular commercial schedule.”

The technician kept his gaze locked on the scope, but toggled a button so that his voice spoke in Maskiro’s ears. “I think this may be what you’re looking for.”

“Any IFF?” the supervisor asked.

“No,” the air traffic controller said. “Nothing.”

“That is it,” Maskiro said. “You’ll bring him in immediately, as well as the next two aircraft following.”

“What kind of aircraft is it?” the supervisor asked, and then an impatient look crossed his face as Maskiro started to raise his weapon. “Don’t give me that — I don’t care who you are or what you want. All I want is to get you out of my control room. I need to know what sort of aircraft we’re talking about to get them on the correct runway. Otherwise, he rolls off the end, smashes into a couple thousand pieces and we’re both real unhappy. So, just tell me — how big is it?”

“It is the equivalent of a very large transport aircraft, perhaps a 747. Do you understand?”

“Yeah, I got it.” He clicked over to the next circuit, and said, “Allen, bring it in on thirty-one.” Without looking at Maskiro he said, “That’s our longest runway — I don’t know how loaded down he is or how much fuel he’s carrying so I’ll give him every foot of runway I’ve got.”

“That will be acceptable,” Maskiro said. Even though he deplored their security measures, he marveled at the way they went about their business, as if a major disruption in the flight schedule occurred every day. And perhaps it did — perhaps they trained for this very possibility. If they had been Russian troops under his command, they certainly would.

Voices coming from the inbound aircraft were protesting the go-arounds they were given, pointing out that they would be behind schedule, that their passengers would not make their connections. As if that would matter — making their connections was the least of their worries at this point.

The minutes ticked by and aircraft inched closer on the scope. He and the supervisor moved from console to console, tracking the aircraft as they came in. His companion watched the rest of the room.

Finally, a monitor pointed at the runway showing the first massive transport touching down. It touched down the very farthest point of the runway, still going too fast, and seemed like it would roll out forever. For just a moment, Maskiro was afraid it would not stop in time.

Then, ever so slowly, its speed decreased, and it finally rolled to a stop with only 200 feet of runway left. It turned, cleared the end of the strip, and rolled in to the terminal area. As it did, the second transport touched down. Just as the third was touching down, the back ramp on the first transport lowered. Troops with automatic weapons poured out and vanished into the terminal building. Maskiro watched as the second, then the third, repeated the maneuver.

Moments later, they heard feet pounding up the stairs to the tower. The door slammed open and four heavily armed and fully combat-ready Spetznatz stormed in. Without speaking, they took positions around the room. One sat down at the approach controller’s console and held out his hands for the earphones. The Bermudian controller yielded them up immediately.

The three troop-transport aircraft backed away from the terminal and began taxiing toward the service area just off the ramp. Maskiro said, “Refuel them,” then turned to the lead man. “Report.”

The man saluted crisply. “All positions secured, sir. Estimate complete control of all critical facilities within one hour.” A slight expression of disdain crossed the man’s face. “They are not well prepared, sir.”

“I noticed that.” Maskiro said. “But overconfidence will kill you quickly. Do not expect it to go quite so easily at the American naval base.”

The leader stiffened at the reproach. “Of course not, sir. But we are prepared to deal with them.”

“Very well.” Maskiro felt the familiar thrill of adrenaline course through him and felt a brief flash of regret that his responsibilities required him to remain at the airport. How he would have enjoyed watching them take the base! “Keep me posted,” he said, regret in his voice. “I want to know the second that the military base is secured.”

Lab Rat was at the terminal building, waiting for his flight to be called. The senior chief would be flying back out to Jefferson tomorrow, after he completed an inventory on some additional material they were picking up for CVIC. Lab Rat felt faintly guilty about leaving the senior chief to finish that onerous task, but he had to admit that a few days away from the senior chief would be welcome.

It was evident that the senior chief had made up his mind to accept Omicron’s offer, and his enthusiasm for his new life was evident. There was a new fire in his eyes comprised of equal parts hope and expectancy. No, he had not slacked off on a standard military bearing or courtesy, but Lab Rat could sense it was chafing at him. The senior chief seemed to be yearning for his new civilian world. He would no longer be kept out of certain decision-making loops because he was only a senior chief, not an officer, even though he was far more qualified to command than many officers Lab Rat had met. Now, the senior chief would take his much-delayed and well-deserved place in the highest levels of management.

For his own part, Lab Rat felt confused. He still had two years to go before he could retire from the Navy, and the idea of wasting those eighteen years of service without staying for retirement was deeply troubling. No, not wasted — but he worked hard for it, hadn’t he?

I was never working for the retirement. And it still seems so far away — I’m here because I like what I do, because I like the people, the ships, and the deployments. And because what I do makes a difference.

But wouldn’t his work at Omicron make a difference as well? Maybe even more than staying in the Navy, if the system were truly deployable. Lab Rat leaned back, felt the hard plastic edge of the seat cutting into the back of his neck. Choices, too many choices.

Am I uncomfortable with that? To put it bluntly, do I prefer the Navy because there are fewer choices? Someone tells me when to go to work, what to wear, what time to get up — is that what it is?

It was all too much. He would get back to the ship, think it over, see if his world seemed different now that he knew he had options.

“Mr. Busby?” a voice asked. Lab Rat opened his eyes, immediately on edge but determined not to show it. It wasn’t someone in the Navy — no one in the Navy would call a full commander “mister.” Not unless he was in serious trouble.

“Yes?” Lab Rat answered.

There was a man in the seat next to him. His hair was too long for military, and he was dressed in jeans and a casual sweater. An expensive watch gleaned at his wrist. He held out his hand. “Bill Carter, from Omicron. I wanted to catch up with you and make my pitch before you headed back out to the ship.”

Lab Rat pulled himself upright in the chair, and rolled his neck. “Your people already made a pretty strong case, Bill. I’m not sure what you could add.”

“Pretty impressive stuff, wasn’t it?” Carter asked, as though Lab Rat had not spoken. “And Armstrong speaks highly of you. He asked me to take another shot at getting you on board.”

“Senior Chief Armstrong knows I’m not even eligible to retire.”

Carter nodded. “I know, he was very clear about that. But he’s really hot and heavy on getting you on the team, too. I know you’re the only person he’s considering for his number-two slot.”

That got Lab Rat’s attention. “His number two?”

Carter looked puzzled. “Yes, of course. You’d be working directly for Armstrong as his chief of staff. And I must say, we have a number of people who are very eager to take the slot — and who are very well-qualified.”

Somehow, this particular configuration of responsibilities had not occurred to Lab Rat. He just assumed that if they were both at Omicron — well, but that didn’t make sense, did it? The senior chief had extensive experience with the system, had even been involved in the development.

“I see,” Lab Rat said slowly. Does that make a difference? Am I too good to work for Armstrong because he’s just a senior chief? The possibility that that was indeed how he felt sounded ugly.

“I wanted to introduce you to what we might call a signing bonus. You can think of it as a buyout offer.” Carter extracted a sheaf of papers and handed them to him. “If you agree to come on board with Omicron, we will give you an annuity that will pay you an amount each month equivalent to what your current retirement pay would be. The payments start two years after you sign up with us, and are guaranteed whether or not you stay. In other words, you live on your Omicron salary for two years, and then start getting your Navy retirement just when you would have originally.”

Lab Rat’s jaw dropped. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m quite serious. Here, look over the details and talk to the lawyer on the ship. Armstrong can fill you in on anything you need to know. And as for living on your Omicron salary, well — how does triple your current pay sound?”

Lab Rat felt stunned. This was all moving too fast.

Just then, Lab Rat’s flight was called. He stood and slipped the papers Carter had given him into the side pocket of his suitcase. “I’ll think about it.”

“Nice to meet you, Lab Rat,” Carter said easily.

Lab Rat groaned. It was clear that the senior chief had made the nickname known to Omicron. Will I never live that down?

“Just let Armstrong know when you reach a decision,” Carter continued. “I hope to be working with you next year. I think you’ll find that it’s very gratifying to make a difference for world peace.”

“I’ve got to get going,” Lab Rat said. “Yes, I’ll let the senior chief know.”

“Officers first,” a flight technician called. Lab Rat walked numbly to the front of line, aware of just how much his way of life would disappear if he accepted Omicron’s offer. And, yet, it was still very generous — and very very tempting.

I’d be working for the senior chief.

Just as he reached the gate, a petty officer wearing headphones stopped him. “There a problem?” Lab Rat asked, suddenly anxious to be back on Jefferson, where the issues were much clearer.

“Don’t know, sir. I’m getting reports that — hold on—” And then the petty officer’s jaw dropped and his face turned pale. “Holy shit.” He turned to Lab Rat, disbelief in his eyes. “Sir, we’ve been put on hold. Three unscheduled troop transports just landed in Bermuda.”

“So?” Lab Rat said.

“They’re Russian, sir. Russian. They’re not on any flight plan and now the tower in Bermuda is not answering up. Jefferson is northeast of Bermuda, and, until they figure out what’s going on, they don’t want the COD launching.”

“Russians troop transports?”

The petty officer nodded, his eyes unfocused as he concentrated on the voice coming over his headphones. “Might as well go back into the terminal, sir. We’re cleared to launch in twenty minutes — as soon as a fighter escort arrives!”

If anything, the sunset was even more glorious than sunrise had been. Ensign Forsythe made his rounds below decks, checking each watch station, observing the general condition of the ship. He stopped by Cowlings’s stateroom and gave him a brief rundown on the status of the ship, including engineering plan configuration, depth of water in the bilges, and the status of shore power. When he was done, Cowlings nodded. “It’s been a quiet watch so far, but don’t let that fool you. Expect it to get busy after midnight. You know the procedure for picking up somebody that shore patrol has taken into custody, right?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cowlings leaned back in his chair. “How you coming on your quals?”

“A lot to study, sir. There are so many details — prototype school didn’t cover the half of it.”

“It will be that way on your next boat, too. Not quite as bad, though.”

“Sir?” Forsythe asked. “About this morning… well, I understood the point you were making. But I’m wondering, the stuff I’m learning for my qualifications is an awful lot of detail. Things like the engineering equivalent of where the flag is kept. How do you decide what you have to know and what you can look up if you need to? There’s no way I can remember everything. And I’m supposed to use my chiefs’ and my troop’s expertise, right? But I’m supposed to know every detail of their jobs as well, right?”

“Good question. I’ll see if I can explain it.” Cowlings closed his eyes for a moment, and then continued, “There’s two reasons for making you study the details, the where-is-the-flag stuff. First, anybody can have a dumb-shit attack. Even a chief can overlook something that’s just so painfully obvious that you question his sanity. You’re a safety valve for those dumb-shit moments. No, you can’t second-guess him on every detail, but you can do a sanity check. Sometimes, the chief has a solution in mind that he needs to run by you. He can’t use you as a sounding board if you don’t have a clue what he’s talking about.

“And that brings us to the second point: context. Your chief is an expert in every area of his own spaces, and knows a lot about the rest the ship as well. But his time and attention are spent in his own division. You, as an officer, have broader responsibilities, up to and including, when you get more senior, actually taking the ship into combat. Sure, you’re not ever going to know as much about engineering as a chief in engineering does — but what about when you’re talking to an operations-type chief? Then you’ll be the one who knows more about engineering, and you’ll be the one who can think across departments to come up with an answer. The sonar man might know that certain equipment can cause an artificial signal, or artifact, on his gear. But he probably won’t know that we changed bearings on the number-two reactor coolant pump two days ago. You probably will. You can think across departments because the chief knows more about the details. That makes sense?”

Forsythe nodded. “It’s an awful lot to learn.”

“No shit. But that’s why they pay you the big bucks. Have the men put up the tent, right?”

Forsythe stood and said, “Thank you, sir. I guess I understand. I’ll go check on evening colors now.”

“Oh, Ensign?” Cowling said as Forsythe started to leave. “Do you know where the flag is kept now?”

Forsythe smiled. “For evening colors, it can be found at the top of the flag pole. Sir.”

Sunset that day would be at 2018, according to the ephemeris. The chief had not only worked the calculation manually, but had also double-checked with the harbor master to make sure they were coordinated. At 2008, the evening colors detail was assembled and took their positions around the flag pole. Forsythe stood to one side, observing as the chief gave the orders.

Five minutes before sunset, the chief called the detail to attention. Forsythe waited, the evening breeze warmed against his skin, the prospect of liberty in his mind. Sure, it might be a long duty night as intoxicated sailors staggered back on board, but tomorrow it would be history. Finally, his first long-awaited liberty. And in Bermuda, paradise.

The chief lifted his portable radio to his lips, and spoke softly in it, confirming the time with his counterpart on the senior ship present in port. Forsythe marveled again at the sheer amount of planning, coordination, and precision with which both the morning and evening evolutions were conducted. You wouldn’t think it was such a big deal to everyone, getting it precisely on time.

But it was. The sharpness during colors was a reflection of the discipline and training of the crew. Every flag on every ship hauled up at precisely the same moment, precisely at the moment that the sun first broke the horizon. And around the world, as the hours passed, every other military unit executing precisely the same drill in turn.

Just then, off in the distance, Forsythe heard a chatter of gunfire. Automatic weapons? He was no expert, although he had qualified on the handguns and shotguns used in the Navy.

The local police? The Navy? Forsythe stared across at the chief, growing concern on his face. The chief stepped away from the color guard, started for the quarterdeck then hesitated. He turned to Forsythe. “Sir?”

We can’t screw up evening colors — we can’t. Just for a moment, Forsythe attempted to ignore the noise, to proceed on schedule. Nobody could fault him for doing that, could they? After all, he was supposed to observe evening colors. It was on the schedule. And if Lieutenant Commander Cowlings found out that he screwed this up, too, then…

But Lieutenant Commander Cowlings was below decks. He wouldn’t have heard the gunfire. He wasn’t present to make the decision.

More gunfire. Forsythe could hear it coming from different directions now. Then a loud siren broke out, one that took him a moment to identify. The chief, who was fifteen years older, recognized immediately.

“That’s an air-raid siren!”

“Chief, get the flag down! Now! Have the color guard standby to cast off all lines on my order.”

The deck of the submarine exploded into motion. The chief yelled, “Grab the axes,” and started hauling down colors himself as the rest broke from formation and headed for the mooring lines. The chief stood in the middle, directing them, roughly folding the flag but not taking time to do it precisely.

Forsythe ran to the forward hatch, slid down the ladder, and grabbed the microphone. “All hands, this is the Officer of the Deck. Make all preparations repel boarders. Engineers, disconnect us from shore power immediately and make all preparations for getting underway. Command Duty Officer, Control Room.”

Forsythe grabbed the getting-underway checklist and began going down it, monitoring reports from the chief over the radio. Five seconds later, Cowlings burst into the control room.

“Gunfire, sirens, and air-raid sirens. The chief has the flag and I have the color guard standing by to cast us off.”

Cowlings blinked twice, and some of the color drained out of his face. Then he nodded. “I’ll take that.” Forsythe handed him the checklist and the mike. “Get top side and sever the shore power lines and the mooring lines. Use the axes if you have to.”

“Already issued. On my way.” On his way out, Forsythe grabbed another of the portable radios, tuned it to the same channel, and ran out on the deck.

In theory at least, each duty section contained every necessary rating and necessary officer to get the ship underway in an emergency. Like every other requirement in the Navy, submariners took this one seriously. As Forsythe headed back up the ladder to the forward deck, he ran over the names on the watch section, mentally putting them in their underway duty stations. Yes, they could do it — but just barely. On paper, they had all the right qualifications. What they lacked was experience. Half of the enlisted sailors were just as junior and inexperienced as he was.

The chief had sailors staged next to each mooring line. Each one held a firefighting ax at the ready. The chief seemed to be everywhere at once, checking on the engineers, giving last minute instructions.

Amidships, engineers scrambled to disconnect the cables that provided hotel services, the potable water, sewer services, and compressed air to the ship while her own power plant was on standby. The connections had quick release fixtures, and one by one, the sailors snapped them off and tossed them back on the pier. The sewer return line, known as the CHT, dumped a couple of gallons of foul-smelling liquid into the ocean. Under normal circumstances, there would be serious civilian and military penalties for polluting the water.

Deal with that later. In fact, if we’re doing the right thing, no one will ever say a word about it.

The primary responsibility of the in-port duty section was to keep the ship safe. In this case, when it sounded like all hell was breaking loose ashore, that meant getting underway. There was nowhere in the world they were as safe as below the surface of the sea.

“Cast us off, Chief,” Forsythe shouted as he trotted up to them. “Can you turn things over to the boatswain’s mate here? We could use a hand below decks on the navigation plot.”

“Aye-aye, sir. Can do.” The chief passed the boatswains mate his radio and double-timed back to the forward access hatch.

Forsythe turned to the boatswain’s mate. “What am I forgetting?”

“Nothing, sir. Be nice if we had somebody on the pier to haul the rest of those lines so we make sure they don’t get tangled in the shafts. I’m pulling aboard the lines on this end, just for that reason.”

“Can you get someone down on the pier to do it all?”

The boatswains mate nodded. “But it’ll be tricky, sir. With a mooring lines detached, if you start the ship moving too fast, we’ll pull away from the gangway and leave him on the pier. And I don’t think any one of us wants that. All lines have been cut except for the two lines abeam, so we’re ready to go on short notice. I send one guy down to the pier and we’re disconnected from everything else.” The boatswains mate shrugged. “It’s as safe as we can make it here.”

“Do it,” Forsythe ordered. “Cast off the moment everyone is back on board.”

Things moved rather quickly from that point, and Forsythe stepped back out of the way, letting the boatswain’s mate run things. His radio crackled with a steady stream of orders as, below decks, Cowlings ran through the getting-underway checklist. For just a moment, he thought he felt the turbine come up to speed, and then sensation faded. Everything on board the submarine was shock mounted for maximum acoustic silence, and that included the main turbines.

The man on the pier hauled all the lines in out of the water, and then ran back on board. The final line was severed on board the ship, and, because of the tension it was under, it slashed back across the pier, narrowly missing the sailor. He jumped nimbly out of the way, then hauled the bitter end out of the water. The process was repeated at the forward spring line.

“Come on, Billy!” The boatswain’s mate shouted. “Move your ass!”

There was a low groan as the bolts holding the gangway to the ship took the whole stress. The submarine was not underway yet, but now it was subject to the currents and wind, and both were pushing it away from the pier.

The young sailor, a yeoman, darted up the gangway, leaping over the last six feet to land solidly on the deck.

“Now!” the boatswain’s mate said. Engineers snapped off the cotter pins and the gangway pulled away from the ship, screeching its way down the side and leaving marks on the antiechoic coating.

The boatswains mate pulled a whistle out of his pocket. He issued one sharp blast on it, then shouted, “Underway.” He repeated the announcement on his radio.

“Everybody below decks, Boats,” Forsythe heard Cowling say. “Ensign Forsythe, you take conning tower, but be ready to clear the decks on short notice. I don’t plan on staying surfaced any longer than I have to.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Forsythe said. He watched as the sailors scuttled down the forward hatch, pulled it shut behind them and secured it. Forsythe then climbed into the conning tower and took his station. The distance between the submarine and the pier increased and water roiled around the bow as the propeller and the bow thrusters began to operate.

More gunfire, closer this time. At the land end of the pier, a cluster of men with automatic weapons were assembling.

“OOD, Conning Officer. I’m under fire.”

“Secure the watch and get your ass down here,” Cowling snapped. “Now.”

Forsythe ducked down into the lockout chamber in the sail, pulled the hatch down behind him and continued down the ladder a short distance. He spun the wheel behind him, securing the hatch, then made his way into the control room to stand behind the chief of the boat, his normal underway station as conning officer.

“Green board, sir,” the chief of the boat said, indicating that the telltale indicators showed all hatches secure.

“Pressurize the submarine,” Cowlings ordered. Seconds later, Forsythe’s ears popped as blasts of compressed air increased air pressure inside the subway slightly, testing every seal.

“Pressurization set,” the chief said. “The ship is ready for sea, sir.”

“Very well. Conning officer, periscope depth. Or, just a little less than that — I want the decks awash, but not the entire sail. Be ready to dive as soon as we’re clear of the channel and commercial shipping.”

“I recommend seventy feet, at the keel, sir,” the chief said immediately.

“Very well. Make your depth seventy feet.” Cowlings turned to Forsythe. “Get the antenna deployed and get an OPREP message out to Second Fleet and COMSUBLANT. Tell them what you heard, that we’re underway, and that, unless otherwise directed, my intentions are to head for deep water. Once I’m satisfied that we’re in no immediate danger, we’ll come to communications depth for further guidance. If they’ve got a major problem with that, they can reach us on ELF.” Cowlings’s mouth quirked slightly. “Put it in a little more tactful terms, but make sure you tell them that we’re out of contact for about eight hours, other than ELF.”