First Strike

EIGHT

Cowlings came out of the captain’s cabin, bleary and pale. His eyes looked unfocused and distracted. Forsythe, who was fighting off his own fatigue, passed him a cup of coffee. Cowlings fumbled for it, then took it gratefully.

“I was just going to call you,” Forsythe said. “One of the Kilos has turned back toward us. There’s no indication she sees us yet, but she’s within twenty thousand yards.”

Cowlings yawned. “Okay. Go rack out for a while.”

Suddenly, a sharp ping cut through the control room like a knife. Forsythe felt his stomach lurch. “How can they — how did they know — we didn’t—”

“It doesn’t matter. We’ll—”

“Conn, Sonar! I’m holding air bubbles from the Kilo — classify as depth change and outer torpedo doors opening! Recommend snap shot procedures followed by—torpedo in the water! Torpedo in the water!”

Cowling swore quietly, then stepped over to the sonar shack, tripping over the rubber gasket as he did. “Ensign, you have the deck.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Forsythe said. “I have the deck — belay your reports.”

“Hard right rudder, make your depth fifteen hundred feet,” Cowlings said sharply. “All ahead flank.”

Forsythe relayed the orders, knowing what Cowlings intended. The sudden increase in their speed, as well as the hard turn and change in depth would create massive air bubbles in the water. With any luck, the torpedo would be deceived into thinking that was the target and would detonate while the Seawolf made her escape.

But what if it is an acoustic homer? Then it will ignore the air bubbles.

“Layer depth is one thousand and fifty feet, sir,” the sonarman announced. “Estimate we’ll be there in ninety seconds.”

Suddenly, the deck pitched down hard as the Seawolf’s helmsman selected a large down bubble and steep angle of descent. It was followed by a slight shove as the propellers ramped up to flank speed and the deck tilted down to the right. It was an unusual sensation on board a submarine, normally a stable, motionless platform. Forsythe felt exposed, vulnerable, suddenly conscious of just how far below the sea they were. Fifteen hundred feet — at that depth, even the slightest leak had the force of a sledgehammer. A thin stream of water would cut through flesh and bone like superheated steam. They would never have to worry about drowning, no — they would be smashed to unrecognizable jelly by the pressures before that could ever occur.

“Cavitating, sir,” the sonarman announced.

“Maintain course and speed,” Cowlings said. “We’re heading down.” As the pressure increased, the cavitation would decrease. Cavitation was dependent on pressure, as determined by depth and propeller speed. Cavitation was normally something every submarine tried to avoid, since the bursting air bubbles dumped massive amounts of sound into the water and made them an all too attractive target.

Forsythe turned around and stared at the sonar screen to see exactly where the torpedo was in relation to the ship, as though there was something he could do about it. But there wasn’t, and his duty now was to oversee the control room team, along with the chief, and let Cowlings watch the sonar. He could almost feel the torpedo creeping across the screen behind him, felt it as a sickening itch between his shoulder blades.

Suddenly, he heard a deep, painful sigh, as though a soul were being ripped from flesh. Cowlings had one hand on the bulkhead — nothing unusual about that, he could have been steadying himself during the turn — but his face was pale.

“My head,” Cowlings said, almost conversationally, a trace of puzzlement in his voice. “It hurts.” His eyes closed and he leaned toward the bulkhead, holding out one hand to support himself. His elbow bent and his arm went limp. He slid down to the deck.

The chief sonarman caught Cowlings as he crumpled, and then looked across at Forsythe, panic on his face. “Sir?”

“Maintain course and speed,” Forsythe said, staring at Cowlings. “Chief, get the doc to sonar.”

“Passing eight hundred feet,” the planesman announced.

“Very well.” Forsythe answered automatically, still staring aghast at Cowlings.

What did you mean to do once we got below the layer? Were you going to lay another knuckle in the water? Cut speed just before we went through the layer, change course below the layer — yes, that’s it. That’s what he would have done. I know that’s what he was going to do, it just seemed to make a lot more sense when it was him doing it, not me.

The doctor came running into Maneuvering, a black medical kit in his hands. He dropped down on his knees beside Cowlings and began making his assessment as he said, “What happened?”

“Passing one thousand feet,” the planesman said.

I know what you were going to do. Don’t I?

“I said, what happened?” the doctor snapped. “Come on, somebody. Anybody.”

“Passing one thousand one hundred feet.”

“Conn, Sonar. Layer is at one thousand five hundred feet.” Petty Officer Pencehaven’s voice was pointed. “Sir, what are your intentions?”

“Sir,” the chief said quietly, “priorities. You can’t help him if we’re all dead.”

The torpedo noise was now clearly audible inside the submarine. Forsythe saw the doctor turn his face up to stare at the overhead.

“Sir,” the chief said, his voice urgent.

“Continue to one thousand two hundred feet,” Forsythe said, his voice not nearly as confident as Cowlings’s had been. “Then, hard port rudder and steady up one hundred and eighty degrees off our former course.” He glanced over at the chief and saw him nod almost imperceptibly. “Navigator, deal with the doctor. Sonar, notify me if there’s any change in the layer depth and stand by for snap-shot firing-point procedures.” A snap shot would be blindly firing a torpedo down the bearing of the attacker without refined targeting to throw the other submarine on the defensive and buy time for a deliberate attack.

A chorus of acknowledgements, and Forsythe could feel the crew’s confidence return.

“Get him to sick bay,” the doctor ordered. “He’s not—”

“No,” Forsythe said. “Not until we’re clear of the torpedo. No unnecessary movements. And put that down,” he continued, indicating the sailor that was already unstrapping a transport frame from the bulkhead. “We’re at quiet ship.”

“I need him in sick bay,” the doctor said, his voice louder. He took a step toward Forsythe, who had turned his attention back to the sonar screen. The chief stepped forward and caught the doctor by his arm, a look of foreboding on his face. The doctor started to protest, then thought better of it.

Overhead, the noise of the torpedo gradually faded. There was one last hard ping from the Kilo’s sonar, then silence.

Pencehaven breathed a sigh of relief. “We’ve lost them, sir. Recommend we clear the area and then return for a deliberate attack. Better than playing tag around the layer. I don’t know if she can make this depth — I’m pretty sure we can go deeper — but there’s nothing to stop her from getting close and letting her tail drift below the layer. We’d never see her before another attack.”

“Concur.” Forsythe shut his eyes for a moment, considering course and speed.

“Sir, the navigator has a recommendation for evasive maneuvers.” The chief’s voice was quiet and polite. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “You’re doing okay. We’ll walk you through this, Ensign. Just pay attention.”

Forsythe nodded. Chief, put the tent up. “Navigator, recommendations?”

Thirty minutes later, when they’d cleared the area with no further contact on the Kilo, Forsythe drew the chief aside into the passageway just outside of maneuvering. “Listen, Chief, I don’t know what else is going to come up, but — well — you know — I just want to say—”

The chief cut him off. “You’re welcome, sir.”

The duty staff at the Russian Embassy did not appear overly eager to connect Wexler with her counterpart. Whether it was from simple slovenliness or on direct order from the ambassador, she wasn’t certain. Whatever the reason, the Russian ambassador was not answering his cell phone nor was he returning her phone calls. Just when she was close to calling the president and reporting that the situation was far more serious than they’d thought, the Russian ambassador finally returned her call.

“Sir, I need to ask you about—”

“I know what this is about,” he said gruffly. “Bermuda, yes?”

“Of course. Is there an explanation for what appears to be a highly irregular deployment”—read invasion, my friend; you know what I’m saying—“of your troops? Of course, this is not U.S. soil, but an island nation so close off our eastern seaboard naturally has a rather special status in our view.”

There was a long silence broken only by electronic hum on the line. Wexler’s pulse was pounding, her breathing starting to quicken. Was this the start of another Cuban crisis?

Finally, the ambassador said, “As soon as we have an explanation, I will contact you.”

“What do you mean? What is your government’s position on all this? I must tell you, sir, that the president is prepared to increase the alert level of our military forces worldwide within the next hour. It was only with the greatest difficulty that I was able to persuade him to hold off long enough for me to contact you.” A small lie, but an expected one. “I’m afraid I can’t be responsible for what has been happening, given the delay in reaching you.”

“We have no position,” the ambassador said bluntly. “This is not a government operation.”

“What?”

“I thought my command of the English language was sufficient. This is not a government operation.”

“Then who—? Oh, dear God,” she said, her heart sinking. The ambassador and his country might be duplicitous idiots, but at least she could deal with them.

“It appears that Russian military assets are involved. They were, as you know, on peaceful operations”—spying on the carrier, she translated mentally—“in international waters. They have received no orders to approach Bermuda and no orders to disembark troops. The squadron of MiGs, as well as the three heavy transports, are similarly acting contrary to orders.”

“I see,” she said, her mind racing. “Are you in contact with any of the forces in Bermuda?”

“No. But we intend to be.” There was the slightest trace of embarrassment in the ambassador’s voice. “I will not tender an apology, since neither your government nor mine is directly involved. However, be assured that Russia solves her own internal problems. It will take some time to arrange, given the distance and logistics involved, but be absolutely assured that Russia will deal with this. We will notify you when direct action is contemplated in order to avoid any confusion or interference.”

The line went dead. She stared at the receiver for a moment, then dialed the number she knew by heart. When the president answered, she said, “We’ve got a problem.”

Half of sick bay was occupied by an examination table, but the compartment beyond that was for isolating contagious cases. The hatch between sick bay and the isolation chamber had a small thick window in it.

The doctor stood beside the examination table. The sheets on it were slightly rumpled and there were a few spots of blood on it. “There was nothing we could do. It will take a full autopsy to determine the cause, but I suspect an aneurysm. Based on his comment about his head, followed by his sudden collapse — yes, an aneurysm.”

“He can’t be dead,” Forsythe said, still stunned by the turn of events. “He can’t be.”

“There’s also the question of his medical history,” the doctor said, continuing as though Forsythe had not spoken. “Lieutenant Commander Cowlings had orders to see a specialist while we were in port. He was having headaches — severe headaches, migraine type. They became so severe that he was temporarily blinded. At times. Not constantly, of course.”

“That’s impossible — I never heard anything about that,” Forsythe snapped. “If he was that sick, the captain wouldn’t have let him deploy with us.”

The doctor shook his head sadly. “He didn’t tell anyone. He found ways to cover it up. The spells didn’t last long and, so far, he had not been on watch when they happened. I think he believed that if he could figure out what caused them, he could stop them without ever having to tell anyone. Because, as you well know, it would have ended his career immediately.”

“He took a terrible chance — a completely unacceptable one. That’s not like Lieutenant Commander Cowlings,” Forsythe said. “I can’t believe it.”

“I know. But just before we pulled in, he must have realized how serious it was. He came to me and admitted what was happening. I took him off the watch bill, of course, and talked to the captain. He would have been transferred out immediately. Any routine medical workup would have caught the aneurysm. It’s possible it was operable, and if so, they could have saved him.”

“He knew that?” Forsythe asked.

The doctor nodded. “He knew everything I’m telling you now. And still he came back on board. I think the captain figured there was no harm in letting him stand watch in port.”

He knew it could kill him. Knew it, and got underway anyway. Because he knew I couldn’t handle it on my own, not the way I was acting.

A deep sense of shame rolled through him, followed shortly by an icy cold determination. In that moment, Forsythe knew that he would not obey Cowlings’s last order. The Seawolf would not turn tail and run, he would not surface the ship and radio for help. Although the torpedo had missed the submarine, it had scored one casualty. And Forsythe would make her pay for it.

“What’s the procedure?” Forsythe asked. He pointed at the isolation chamber. “With—?” He caught himself as he almost said, “with the captain.”

“Body bag and stored in the reefer,” the doctor said. “If you think it’s a health hazard, you can order him buried at sea.”

Using the garbage chute. No, I don’t think so — he deserved better than that. And, even though it gives me the willies to think of his body in the refrigerator, I owe him that much.

“I want to see him,” Forsythe said abruptly. I don’t, but I feel like I have to. It’s what the captain would have done — what Cowlings would have done, too.

The doctor nodded, as though expecting that. “There’s a hole in his throat — I was putting in a trach tube, trying to find a way to keep him breathing. It’s all stitched up, of course.”

The doctor led the way, opened the hatch to the isolation chamber, and stepped aside. “We will have to inventory the contents of his pockets and his stateroom,” the doctor said. “That requires both of us.”

“Eventually — probably when we get back to port,” Forsythe said.

He stared down at Cowlings’s body, trying to see exactly what it was that made the difference between being alive and being dead. He had never seen a dead body before, not outside of medical programs on television. It was an eerie sensation, looking down at someone he knew well, seeing Cowlings’s familiar features, the short clipped brown hair. He tried not to look at the jagged hole in Cowlings’s neck, but his eyes were drawn to it. It was a clean incision about an inch long. Blood had run down the side of it, creating a circle around Cowlings’s neck. Some of it had been cleaned up, but there were a few traces of smeared blood still there.

Had Cowlings felt the doctor cutting into his neck? Or, had he been dead by then? Forsythe touched his own neck, imagining how it would feel to have a knife slice through his skin just above his Adam’s apple, and hoped Cowlings had already been gone. There was a sense of stillness about the body, a sense of, well, lifelessness. You’re a rocket scientist, he thought, then realized he had really never understood what lifeless meant. Not until he saw Cowlings’s body, flesh deprived of spirit.

And what am I supposed to? I’m not particularly religious — was Cowlings? Maybe. I should find out.

Forsythe reached out and laid one hand on Cowlings’s forehead. The flesh under his fingers was still warm, but starting to cool, a few degrees below what you’d expect to feel. The skin was still resilient.

Father, into your hands, I commend his spirit.

Forsythe tried to think of what else he should say, some prayer — there was probably a Navy-issue prayer book somewhere around, but right now he didn’t have time to look for it. Cowlings would understand, and by now would have been chiding him for being away from Maneuvering.

Where do they keep the flag? Where do they keep the prayer book? There’s so much I don’t know.

Out loud, Forsythe stumbled through the Lord’s Prayer, then took his hand off Cowlings’s head. It’s the best I can do, sir. And I’ll do the best for the ship, too.

Forsythe straightened, then turned to the doctor. “Go ahead with what you need to do. I’ll be in the control room if you need me.”

Forsythe started out of sick bay, but the doctor, a full commander, caught his elbow as he walked by. “What are you planning on doing?”

“What he would have done,” Forsythe said, jerking his thumb back toward the isolation compartment.

“You’re not ready for this, Ensign. What we need to do is get out of here and call for help. Look at the ship. It’s practically empty. You don’t have enough people to maintain safe watches, you don’t even have any other officers on board now, except for me. I’m afraid I must insist—”

“Refer to your copy of Navy Regulations,” Forsythe said, his voice hard and cold. “You are not a line officer — you’re not in line for succession to command. I am.”

“You don’t know what the hell you’re doing,” the doctor shouted. “You’ll get everyone on this ship killed.”

Forsythe stared him, letting his anger build. “I intend to carry out our mission, Doctor.”

“You’re just an ensign. I’m a commander. You have to listen to me!”

Forsythe shook his head. “No. You are the doctor. I am the senior line officer present on board. And the Seawolf has a job to do.”

Finally, just after dawn, the last detail was nailed down. It was essential that it appear that Russia herself was solving the problem, but the current president of Russia was adamantly opposed to anyone finding out that Tombstone would be flying a MiG. It was an awkward position for him, since he supported the American plan. He simply wanted complete deniability, and that meant he was neither willing to provide Tombstone with a MiG nor participate in any training.

Fortunately, not every member of the CIS felt the same way. In the end, Armenia agreed to provide both training and hardware. Covering Russia’s butt appeared to serve some political purpose for her, and she had been quite eager to cooperate. In exchange, the United States agreed to attempt to behead the snake immediately before Maskiro’s command element could reach the island. That would make the mop-up operation all the easier. There was even some speculation that the forces on the island would simply surrender once they knew Maskiro had been eliminated. Current intelligence reported that the rebel leader had sought sanctuary in Chechnya, to the irritation of the Russians and the amusement of the Armenian government. This was the quid pro quo — Korsov would be eliminated in Chechnya. After countless international phone calls, the plan was ready.

Since the plan was not being channeled through normal Defense Department command, getting accurate intelligence proved to be the most difficult part. Sure, there was overhead imagery of Bermuda, of Chechnya, and probably of Korsov himself. But getting it meant telling someone that they wanted it, and, more importantly, telling them exactly why they wanted it. That was not acceptable. But U.N. Ambassador Sarah Wexler, one of the few people who knew the details, provided an unexpected answer. Captain Hemingway from JCS, Wexler said, understood the challenge of working under unusual circumstances.

Tombstone and his uncle, retired Admiral Thomas Magruder, formerly Chief of Naval Operations, both stared at Captain Hemingway. For the past fifteen minutes, she’d been filling them in on various concerns having to do with the Commonwealth of Independent States. As she detailed Ambassador Wexler’s concerns and correlated them with available military intelligence, Tombstone’s expression and his uncle’s expression grew somber.

Finally, she finished. “Well, that’s that. What do you think?”

Neither Tombstone nor his uncle spoke for a moment. Each was occupied with his own thoughts. His uncle, a Cold War veteran, knew all too well what the Russians were capable of. And Tombstone had seen first the Soviet Union and then Russia and the CIS intervening in international conflicts whenever the opportunity presented itself. Russia had always been a player, always, if not on the front lines, then certainly behind the scenes.

“It would solve a lot of their problems,” his uncle said finally. “Particularly if they retake Ukraine — food and oil are in critical shortage in Russia, and Ukraine has more of both. With modern technology, some of those oil sites around the Black Sea could be productive again.”

“It makes sense,” Tombstone added. “Ukraine has always believed that she is the birthplace of modern-day Russia. Culturally and politically, Russia and Ukraine are quite compatible. And if those two merge, Armenia, Georgia, and most of the states with predominately Muslim populations will go along with it.”

“Aren’t we going to have to worry about the Pan-Arabic coalition?” the senior Magruder asked. “Seems like we’ve had trouble out of them from time to time.”

Both Tombstone and Hemingway shook their heads. There was something about his uncle’s mindset that had been formed during the Cold War that tended to see strong alliances in every situation.

“No,” Hemingway said, after Tombstone deferred to her. “From what we’ve seen in the past, the Middle East nations have been able to form short-term working alliances, when it was in their economic interest to do so. But as far as long-term allies, no. The deep divisions within Muslim society supports that conclusion. Additionally, Russia and Ukraine are used to working in tandem. Especially in military matters. We know that they can work in concert long-term.”

“So.” The senior Magruder stood. “We have contingency plans, of course, and we remain at JCS’s disposal. But, until we know the exact nature of any planned Russian aggression, we can’t realistically assess our chances of operational success. But thank you for the heads-up.” He made a move as though to show her to the door.

Hemingway didn’t move, and something in her expression made his uncle pause. “There’s more,” she said finally, and looked away from them both as she reached into her briefcase. She pulled out a red file folder, and without looking at Tombstone, held it out to him.

Tombstone opened the folder. It contained one grainy, slightly blurred picture. Two men, one woman, the woman in the center.

Tombstone felt as though he’d been sucker punched. His breathing stopped and the blood drained from his face. The edges of his vision grayed, and for a moment he was confused, because he wasn’t in a Tomcat pulling max G forces and losing oxygen to his brain, but that’s what it felt like.

“Stoney? You okay?” His uncle moved around to stare over his shoulder at the picture and sucked in a hard, sharp breath. “Sweet Jesus, it can’t be.”

Tombstone still could not speak. The fragile world he’d built around him shattered, the dams he’d constructed against the overwhelming pain collapsed.

The figure in the photo, the woman staring directly up at the sky, had petite delicate features over a strong, forceful jaw, and topped by a halo of ragged red hair, was undoubtedly his wife.

“When? Where?” Tombstone managed to say finally. Hemingway handed him the analysis that went with the photograph.

“Siberia,” Tombstone moaned. “That explains the snow.” Neither his uncle nor Hemingway reacted to his attempted humor. Tombstone felt cold horror grip his heart. “We can — you can — we have to do something.” He looked wildly from his uncle to Captain Hemingway, searching for their acknowledgement of what must be so obvious. “Now that we know where she is, we can get her out!”

Hemingway stared at a corner of the room, apparently completely engrossed by a dusty plastic plant on top of a file cabinet. When she spoke, it was with a distant tone of voice, as though trying to distance herself from his pain. “There was a great deal of debate over whether to show you this,” she said finally. “Most people said it would be cruel, since the photo isn’t that clear. Better to go ahead and let you believe that she died when her Tomcat was shot down.”

“It’s her. I’m certain of it,” Tombstone said.

“That’s not what they were worried about, Stony,” his uncle said, a note of infinite sadness in his voice. “Was it?” he asked Hemingway.

She shook her head. His uncle nodded. “I’ve been on the other side of these discussions. Once or twice. Not often.”

“What discussion?” Tombstone said, not able to believe what he was hearing. He couldn’t sit there any longer, he couldn’t. They should be on the airstrip, preflighting, loading up bombs, moving ships into position, and getting ready to bomb the hell out of anyone or anything that got in their way. Tomboy was alive—what was there to discuss?

One part of his mind knew. Knew, and refused to shut up.

They won’t go in after her. The intelligence sources they’ll compromise, the political ramifications — they won’t. Because Russia has no excuse for having kept this a secret, none at all. And whatever’s going down over there, we’re not going to push them over the edge with this. They’re not going to.

“They can’t get her out, Stony. They won’t even try,” his uncle said gently. Then he looked over at Hemingway, a new respect in his eyes. “And you lost. You were ordered not to tell him about her, weren’t you?”

Hemingway didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.

Tombstone felt as though he was being flayed alive. He stared up at her, tears starting in his eyes, agony coursing through his soul. “Thank you,” he said, his voice thick. “I know you’re risking your career telling me this. ‘Thank you’ isn’t enough.” He took a deep breath, then continued. “But you understand, don’t you? You know that I can’t leave her there. You knew I couldn’t when you decided to tell me.”

Hemingway nodded, infinite sadness in her eyes. “And if things ran the way they were supposed to in this country, no one else could, either.”

His uncle spoke quietly. “If you solve the Bermuda problem for the Russians and we can find a way to convince them that no international recriminations will follow, we may be able to convince them to let her go.” He held up a cautioning hand. “I’m not saying it’s even a probability. Just a possibility. Say what you will about them, the Russians do have a streak of fairness. Their loyalty is to people, not nations. It may make a difference.”

“Have they put it in those terms? Bail them out and they’ll give me my wife back?” Anger started in the pit of his stomach and flashed through his entire being, so strong and hard that it threatened to consume him.

Hemingway shook her head. “No. But your uncle is right. All politics is personal. And if they’re holding the wife of someone that’s bailed them out of trouble instead of holding just another American aviator… No promise, you understand.”

“Why are they holding her, anyway?” Tombstone asked. “We’re not at war with them. This isn’t Vietnam. There’s no reason for them to keep her.”

“We don’t know,” Hemingway admitted. “It may be that they’re hoping to use her as a bargaining chip some time in the future. Maybe turning her loose would reveal something about their intelligence sources. Or maybe some junior officer just screwed up holding her in the first place and there’s no way to back out of it now without international consequences.”

“That’s not right!” Tombstone said, his voice breaking. “It’s not right.”

“Of course not,” Hemingway said briskly. “Neither is our failure to get her out. But it is what it is. Do you want to bitch about it, or do you want to fly this mission and see if it makes a difference?” She paused and shot him a considering look. “And if you think you can just go public and cause enough outrage to force them to release her, think again. I can tell you this for certain: The only thing you would accomplish would be to ensure that they start covering their tracks as fast as they can. Starting with getting rid of her. Are you really prepared to take that risk?”

“I’ll leave today,” Tombstone said, avoiding her question. “Tell the Armenians to expect me.”