Virginia Class

24

"Hit!"

The sound of the distant explosion rang through Virginia's hull.

Garrett's fist came down on the arm of his command chair. "Got the bastard!"

Only much later did another thought arise.

Kazuko. …

He felt a wetness on his cheeks. Not tears, he told himself. Sweat.

And in the red-lit control room, no one would notice.

"Good shot, Captain!" Stevens said, but Garrett ignored him.

The explosion aft hammered at the hull, threw men to the deck, and plunged the submarine's interior into darkness. After a moment, emergency generators kicked in and the battle lanterns switched on, but the light was dim and uncertain.

The control room had been tipped almost ninety degrees, so that the aft bulkhead was now the deck, the forward bulkhead the ceiling. Ul Haq struggled to sit up, shoving the chart table off of a painfully injured leg. Around him, pandemonium reigned — men screaming, cursing, praying, shouting, some trying to crowd their way to an escape hatch, others sitting down where they were amid wreckage and debris and injured men and waiting to die.

I had hoped, he thought, to accomplish more. Merciful Allah… we commend ourselves into Your hands….

Khalili was at his side, eyes wide with terror. "Do something!" the man screamed, his face a hands' breadth from ul Haq's. "Do something! Save the ship! Save us!"

"There is nothing to be done, my friend. Shuhadaa is doomed, as are we." Not even their vaunted Chinese allies could help them now.

Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen was sinking slowly, tail first. A gaping hole blown into the aft machinery spaces had already flooded the shaft and motor compartments, and was swiftly flooding the engineering room. As more and more water flooded the aft compartments and the half-empty trim and ballast tanks, the Kilo's rate of descent increased.

Ul Haq could hear the water shriek as it entered the vessel somewhere beneath him. With every meter of descent, the water pressure outside grew greater. They'd been hit at one hundred meters, more or less. How deep were they now? Four hundred? Four hundred fifty? Too deep, at any rate, to attempt to use the escape trunk and make for the surface. Too deep for anything, in fact, but prayer.

His eardrums popped, the pain sharp and stabbing. With the submarine in this tail-down attitude, the air was trapped in the forward compartments by water boiling in from the open stern. As the water pressure outside increased, so, too, did the air pressure inside. The water would continue to force its way up from engineering as the air was crowded into a smaller and smaller space. The watertight doors had been secured when Shuhadaa went to action stations, but evidently the shock of the explosion had sprung enough of them badly enough that they no longer held the pressure.

It didn't matter, of course. One way or another, the immense pressure of the abyss would crush them like a titan's closing fist. Only minutes remained, if that.

The emergency generators failed, again plunging the control room into a darkness so absolute ul Haq could not see his own hand. Around him, the pleading, the cursing, the screaming seemed louder, more frantic. Somehow, the unrelieved darkness made the descent that much more horrific. It was the knowing you would never see light again….

A new sound shuddered through the straining bulkheads, high-pitched, grating, and terrible, like a woman's scream, the piercing shriek of a dying ship.

Hands grabbed ul Haq's arm with a fearful intensity. "What's that?" Khalili's voice screamed close by his ear. "What's happening?"

The PLAN officer, Hsing was there, part of the tangle of bodies. "It is the martyrdom you wished for," Hsing said quietly.

"Yes," ul Haq added. "Welcome to paradise…."

The titan's hand closed and Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen imploded.

"I'm getting breakup noises, Captain," Queensly told him over the headset. "I think he's going down fast. He must be almost past his crush depth by—"

A dull, faint pop sounded through the bulkhead.

"Okay," Queensly added. "Kill confirmed. Sierra One-zero-four has imploded."

The sea bottom here lay deep — almost three thousand feet. For some reason, Garrett thought about the crossing-the-line ceremony of a couple of weeks ago, of the COB as King Neptune, and Chief Kurzweil as Davy Jones. Gods of the Abyss…

Garrett had done some research a few months ago, curious about the origin of the ancient sailor's patron, Davy Jones. What he'd learned had surprised him.

Two thousand years and more ago, one source said, the Celts of northern Europe and the British Isles had worshiped a god of springs and water they called Dewi … a name derived from the Indo-European deu, which simply meant god. For the Welsh, at least according to the article he'd read, Dewi was the ancient Lord of the Abyss… and so popular that when Christianity came to those realms, he was reborn as St. David, the patron saint of Wales. And from Saint David, possibly, came Davy Jones, patron of sailors and fishermen and all who risked their lives on — or under — the sea.

Dewi — Lord of the Abyss — at times implacably cruel, at times demanding sacrifice.

This day, the ancient sea king had claimed another sixty souls.

"Mr. Falk," he said. "Take us to periscope depth, if you please."

Captain Jian leaned against the side of the sail's weather bridge, drinking in the glorious luxury of the sea air. The tropical summer sun, high in the sky, blazed hot, but the breeze was cool and fresh. After hours locked up beneath the surface with the nauseating stink of diesel fumes imperfectly venting through the snorkel, followed by that hour of deep, stark terror as they'd dueled with the American submarine, emerging into the open air and sunlight was a kind of rebirth.

We're alive….

Yinbi was not alone on the surface. On the northern horizon, the yacht Al Qahir wallowed in the gentle swell. Binoculars showed the American flag flying from the jackstaff, and heavily armed men in black vests on her deck. American naval commandos, no doubt. Zaki and his bid to spread terror from the sea were finished.

And finished, too, was the insanity of Operation Yangshandian. "Ocean Lightning" indeed. But the lightning had struck the wrong target.

Beijing had aligned itself with the wrong allies.

By surfacing and switching to diesel power, Jian had demonstrated his desire to end the deadly conflict below. Yinbi, pursued relentlessly by that damnable Yankee drone or whatever it had been, would not have had a chance if he'd stayed submerged and tried to slug it out. Moments after surfacing, his sonar officer had reported sounds of another battle raging in the depths… a battle ending abruptly with an explosion, followed moments later by the unmistakable sounds of a submarine hull being crushed by the relentless pressure of the deep.

Which contestant had won? Which had died? Jian had his own suspicions, based on what he'd learned about the American commander, simply by having faced him in battle twice. He might never know for sure.

"Captain! Radar! We have multiple airborne contacts approaching from the northeast! Range five kilometers!"

"Very well."

The advance guard of the American fleet, then.

If the American submarine had won the battle, as Jian expected he had, the enemy captain might very well have Yinbi in his sights already. Certainly, if Yinbi submerged now, Jian risked sending exactly the wrong message to that other commander, and Yinbi and all on board would swiftly follow that other submarine into the unrelenting abyss.

Members of al Qaeda and Maktum might welcome martyrdom. Jian, however, was a career naval officer of the naval arm of the People's Liberation Army. As an officer, he followed orders even when he disagreed with them, but he did not needlessly squander the precious assets of his vessel or of his crew. To do so was criminal foolishness.

And so, Yinbi remained on the surface, red flag of the People's Republic flying proudly from the mast abaft the periscope array.

What was the identity of the submarine just sunk? Jian believed it must have been the Maktum sub — the Shuhadaa Muqaddaseen—but there should have been other PLAN submarines in the region. It could have been another Chinese boat.

But he doubted that. He'd had no confirmation that other Chinese subs were in the region, had begun to believe, in fact, that he'd been hung out to dry, as the American idiom had it. Besides, none of his brother officers would have so intemperately attacked an American submarine. He'd attempted it two days ago only because he'd recognized at that time a perfect tactical opportunity, and a means to achieve the mission's goal. To simply charge into a battle between the Yinbi and an alerted American attack submarine was to plead for an early martyrdom.

He wondered if his superiors in Beijing would see it that way… for his family's sake, if not for his.

Minutes later, the first of the aircraft came into view, low on the horizon… great, gray bug shapes approaching with the clatter of turning rotors. Seahawks, the Americans called them — multirole helicopters arriving as the vanguard of the U.S. fleet. Through his binoculars, he saw the men on board the Al Qahir waving.

Yinbi continued motoring along the surface at a placid ten knots, heading east. His first thought had been to return to Small Dragon Island, his original destination, but this display of American air and naval power was making him reconsider. The Americans must know the part the base at Small Dragon had played in this affair, must know, or at least have guessed. It might be best to proceed with great caution, until he saw how this was going to play out.

One of the helicopters flew low across Yinbi's bow, so close he could see the helmeted and black-goggled heads of pilot and copilot in the cockpit as they looked him over. He recognized the aircraft's configuration from his recognition training — an SH-60B Sea-hawk in its primary role as an ASW helicopter. Slung beneath its gray bulk to either side were a pair of Mark 46 antisubmarine torpedoes — smaller and shorter-ranged than the big submarine-borne AD-CAPs, but deadly nonetheless. The Seahawk banked, circling the Yinbi now, making no demands or overtly hostile moves, but maintaining a disquieting presence nonetheless.

If the Americans tried to board or force Yinbi's surrender, he would fight. If they did not… all he could do was wait and watch.

"Radio room!" he said over the intercom. "Raise Small Dragon Island. Report that we have been forced to surface, and that we are in visual contact with elements of the American carrier battlegroup."

"Yes, sir!" The voice carried the sharp edge of fear.

And well it should. Yinbi was still in terrible danger.

"Captain! This is sonar! We're picking up sounds of a submarine surfacing. Close aboard — one hundred meters or less to starboard."

Jian turned, looking toward the south. Yes… perhaps seventy meters away, something was breaking the surface.

Odd. A pair of slender, rounded heads not at all like any periscope Jian had seen were rising from their wake. They were followed moments later by the submarine's sail, black and forbidding.

Jian found those periscope heads fascinating. The whole sail was of an unusual design, much farther forward on the deck, so far as he could see it, and with a sloped, curving step at the sail's foot. What was it?

Throughout this operation, Jian had assumed he was facing one of the new American Seawolf-class submarines, but this vessel — while it shared some outward features of a Seawolf — was considerably smaller, and showed some key differences. He'd read reports of a brand new American design, a sub they'd named Virginia. Intelligence reports suggested it was as stealthy as the Seawolf, not as well armed, not as capable in some respects, not able to dive as deeply… but quite probably more maneuverable and more advanced technologically.

Jian had seen evidence of that maneuverability, and the technology — that sonar-pinging drone — had ended the contest between them.

Technology and maneuverability, however, were not the whole story.

He found himself wondering about the man who commanded that vessel.

He raised his binoculars, studying the other vessel's weather bridge. A man had just appeared there, wearing a khaki shirt, a billed cap, and sunglasses. His opposite number was staring back at him now through his own set of binoculars.

Slowly, Jian lowered his own binoculars, faced the other submarine, and saluted.

Even without the binoculars, he saw the figure on the Virginia's sail return his salute.

"Open VLS tube one," Garrett said. "Stand by to fire."

"Open VLS tube one," Carpenter replied. "Tube ready to fire."

Virginia cruised at periscope depth. The control room monitor showed the view above the surface — a night-shrouded ocean brightly lit by an almost-full moon high in the sky. Moonlight sparkled and danced from a calm sea.

Not the best night for this type of operation, but it would have to do.

Garrett wasn't worried so much about Virginia as he was for the ASDS, released with its full complement of SEALs some six hours ago. SEALs, Lieutenant Hal-stead had explained, didn't like moonlight. It cramped their style.

Which was why Virginia was preparing to launch a Tomahawk.

"Confirm targeting data and GPS link," Garrett said.

"Targeting data uploaded and confirmed," Carpenter said from the CCS-2 console. "GPS link confirmed. We're ready to shoot."

"Two more minutes," he said.

The BGM-109 Tomahawk was a submarine-launched cruise missile. Twenty-one feet long and just twenty-one inches in diameter, it could be fired from a submarine's torpedo tube. The preferred launch mode, however, was vertically, through one of Virginia's sixteen Vertical Launch System tubes.

The missile now being prepared for launch was one of the new "TACTOM" birds, a "Tactical Tomahawk" designed expressly for the land-attack role, and supplementing the older TLAM, or Tomahawk Land-Attack Missile. The TACTOM had an improved loiter capability, and a new twist — an on-board camera with a satellite link back to the firing vessel.

The two minutes passed swiftly as the control room crew waited in tense silence. The first Tomahawk to be fired from a submarine during wartime had been launched from a Los Angeles boat operating in the Red Sea, the opening salvo of the 1991 air war against Iraq. Since then, they'd been used in numerous wars and military operations, a means by which a submarine's tactical reach could be extended far, far inland.

This was the first operational launch of the TACTOM variant. Satellite data links were feeding a complete picture of everything that was happening back to the Pentagon. A lot of people back there were very interested in the new weapon's performance.

"Ten seconds," Carpenter announced. "Eight… seven… six… five… four… three… two… one… "

"Fire!" Garrett said.

With a hiss and a slight shudder through the hull, the Tomahawk rose from the submerged submarine. On the control room monitor, a moonlit patch of foam exploded suddenly as the encapsulated weapon broke the surface. The protective shroud fell away, the solid-fuel boosters kicked in, and the Tomahawk rose on a dazzling flare of white light from the tortured surface of the sea.

Automatically, stubby wings deployed as the weapon's on-board brain dropped it into its flight configuration.

The booster burned out, but the missile's air-breathing turbojet engine kicked in. Flying level ten meters above the water, the Tomahawk banked right and vanished toward the southwest.

The TACTOM variant had a range of 1,500 miles, which meant the Virginia could have hit a target in Japan — or deep inside China — from its firing point off the Philippine island of Palawan. Its programmed flight path, however, was only eighty miles or so, a vast loop going southwest, then southeast, and finally east, approaching the target from the west. At Mach 7, just under 550 miles per hour, the flight would take eight minutes, thirty seconds.

Mark Halstead checked the luminous dial of his watch, then cautiously raised his head above the surface. He was in the shadows here; the ocean was bathed in moonlight, but he was clinging at the moment to one of the massive support pylons that held the Chinese naval base above the partly submerged reef of Small Dragon Island. Here, deep in the shadows beneath the south end of the elevated four-story building, he remained effectively invisible.

The base, however, was on full alert. Several small boats and one of the Hainan-class patrol craft were circling the base constantly, obviously on the alert for any incursion from the sea. He could hear voices in singsong Chinese coming from an external railed walkway some yards above his head.

Yeah, the submarine dogfight that afternoon had stirred these guys up like a stick in a hornet's nest. That didn't matter, however. In a very short while, Virginia was going to provide the SEALs with one hell of a spectacular diversion.

He checked his watch again. Eight minutes to go, if the Virginia was sticking to schedule. He submerged again to join the other SEALs, hovering in the darkness above the submerged ASDS.

Eight more minutes, and the SEALs — with some help — would demonstrate just how the United States felt about people who aided and sheltered the agents of global terror.

Carpenter had switched the monitor view to the satellite feed from the Tomahawk's on-board camera. There was nothing more to be done now, save maintaining combat vigilance. That there were other Chinese submarines in the area, Garrett had no doubt, and launching a Tomahawk was a damned noisy business.

But except for that Kilo that had surfaced earlier after the battle, there'd been no sign of them. The Kilo, dogged now by relays of ASW Seahawks off the Roosevelt, was still motoring slowly toward the north on the surface, away from the AO.

As for the cruise missile, its course was completely controlled by its programming, its on-board computer taking constant sightings off of three or more GPS satellites at a time and comparing them with stored navigational data. Steered by the GPS system, a Tomahawk had an absolute targeting precision of ten feet or less.

Moonlight flashed and sparkled below as the missile's camera relayed the scene back to Virginia—and to the Roosevelt, to Yokosuka, and to offices in the Pentagon and at General Dynamics, the TACTOM's builder.

Something, a black rectangle, was visible against the brightly lit sea, far ahead on the horizon. The object grew swiftly as the missile closed the range. The men watching in Virginia's control room and on monitors elsewhere throughout the boat had an instant's glimpse of the structure — a kind of apartment building four stories tall, raised above the sea on stubby pylons, its roof forested with antennas.

Tracer fire — like bright yellow baseballs of light— floated toward the camera as antiaircraft batteries tried to lock in on the hurtling missile. An oncoming Tomahawk, however, presented an extraordinarily difficult target.

The scene shifted slightly as the TACTOM made a final course adjustment; the objective was in two parts — the apartment building to the south, the enclosed docking area to the north topped by a helicopter landing pad. The latter was the target.

In that final instant's glimpse, the watchers saw that the sliding doors to the dock area were open, the interior brightly lit. Within, a Kilo submarine lay alongside the pier, as workers, like tiny black ants, scurried for cover along the dock.

Flying through the open doors, the Tomahawk skimmed above the moored Kilo and slammed into a stack of crated supplies in the warehouse storage beyond. Half a ton of high explosives detonated, and the camera view from the missile abruptly went dead.

Control room personnel erupted with cheers. Garrett let them yell and congratulate for a moment, before saying, "As you were!" They needed the release.

There would be time for celebrating later. Now they needed to see to Virginia's security.

He wondered about that Kilo glimpsed inside the hangar. A second Chinese boat? Probably. What had Stevens said about delivering a message to Beijing? Message delivered….

"Take us deep, Mr. Falk. Set depth at five hundred feet. Rig for ultraquiet." Until Garrett was certain that other Chinese attack subs in the area weren't going to try to find Virginia and retaliate, he was going to maintain a very low profile.

The SEALs felt the explosion more than they heard it, a solid thud transmitted through the water. Again, Halstead surfaced, raising his head above the oily water, lifting his mask so that he could better see.

The north end of the Chinese base appeared to be in flames. A siren was wailing, and he could hear the clatter of booted feet running on the walkway overhead. Out to sea, the cordon of patrol boats was moving now, circling around to the north end of the structure, presumably to conduct rescue and firefighting operations. The base had been hit hard; they would need all their assets to preserve what was left.

Submerging only long enough to signal the other members of the team, Halstead then emerged from the water, pulling himself up hand over hand along a caving ladder attached to the pylon when they'd first reached the base. A shadow among shadows, he slipped up the pylon and onto the walkway — deserted now by guards who'd rushed off toward the damaged end of the structure.

The other SEALs emerged one at a time, dripping. Rebreathers, fins, masks, and other diving equipment were abandoned. Armed now with H&K MP3 SD5 submachine guns, they moved north a few yards to a ladder set into the side of the structure, an access point discovered earlier during their preliminary reconnaissance from the ASDS.

The ladder took them up four stories, to the flat roof of the building. Two PLA guards died there without even seeing the threat, and then the SEALs were racing toward a wide set of windows set near the center of the building.

They didn't have floor plans of the base, and it was far too large for nine SEALs to conduct a random search. However, careful observation from the LRMS earlier in the evening had identified those brightly lit windows on the north end of the main building as the probable office of the base commander. Monitored signals appeared to be originating in that area of the structure, and careful observation using the zoom capability of the LMRS's Photonic mast had spotted Chinese officers moving around inside or standing at the window. Rank hath its privileges even in the PLA, and the logical conclusion was that the base commander had his office there.

Even if they were wrong, it was obviously an electronic nerve center of some sort. And that was their target.

General Han Do Liu was talking angrily on the radio telephone. "No, you fools!" he shouted. "I tell you we are under attack! The Americans are bombing us!"

Sirens wailed and swooped in the background, making it difficult to hear the reply. "We have been tracking the American fleet, General. There has been helicopter activity west of you, but we have seen no sign of an air strike. We need to confirm."

"The submarine pen is in flames! What more confirmation do you need? More bombs could be on the way! I tell you, we need—"

The broad windows overlooking the moonlit ocean exploded in a shower of glass. Some were already broken, shattered by the blast a moment ago, but the remaining panes disintegrated with a splintering crash.

At first, Han thought another bomb had gone off… but then he saw the commandos, four of them, swinging through the smashed windows on ropes.

American SEALs or Delta Force, he thought. They'd somehow reached the base's roof, rappelled down the side, and blown open the windows. Instinctively, he reached for his sidearm, then froze as the four commandos raised their weapons.

Two covered other areas of the room; the other two trained their weapons on Han. When he looked down, he saw a pair of bright red laser-aiming dots dancing on his chest.

"Drop the weapon!" one of the invaders snapped in badly accented but intelligible Mandarin.

"I speak English," he said, his voice resigned, putting the phone handset down. Could they hear what was happening in Beijing? It hardly mattered. What could they do? Carefully, using thumb and forefinger only, he drew his sidearm from its holster, then dropped it with a clatter to the floor. "Don't shoot."

"The hostages," the American demanded, still speaking Chinese. "Where?"

"The floor beneath this one. They are safe…."

"They'd better be, mister," the other SEAL covering Han growled, speaking English, like him. "Order them brought to this room. All of them. And if your people so much as give any of them a harsh look, you are dead!"

Han nodded, reaching for the intercom microphone. He paused, though, before giving the order. "I am curious," he said, "how you plan to get them off of this base. I assume you arrived by submarine, since we saw no aircraft."

"Never you mind," the SEAL said. "Give the goddamn order!"

Han nodded again and gave the order, emphasizing carefully the need not to harm the prisoners. Two more SEALs, meanwhile, were lowering themselves on ropes down the outside of the building and swinging themselves inside, landing on the glass-covered carpet. How many of them were there?

And then he heard the far-off clatter of approaching helicopters, a clatter that swelled rapidly to full-blown aerial thunder. Looking through the shattered windows toward the west, he could see a flight of bulky helicopters silhouetted against the moonlit sky, flying toward the base.

An antiaircraft gun up on the roof opened fire, the burst cut short an instant later by an answering burst from a high-speed rotary cannon on one of the helicopters.

"I suggest you tell your men to stand down," the SEAL group's leader told him. "There's no need for further loss of life."

Han hesitated, then nodded, suddenly tired. He felt… broken.

But at least he was still alive. He gave the necessary orders.

When Virginia returned to periscope depth several hours later, they learned that the brief skirmish for the Chinese base was over. Elements of the U.S. Army

Delta Force had gone in on board MH-60K Black-hawk helicopters belonging to the 160th SOAR(A), the Special Operations Aviation Regiment (Airborne), better known as the Nighthawks. They'd deployed off the Roosevelt to a loiter area above the Al Qahir in order to present themselves to Chinese radar as more Navy choppers operating around the captured yacht. As soon as the Tomahawk had struck, however, they were on their way, serving as backup and reinforcement for the SEAL element that had already boarded the Chinese base.

The hostages, according to the latest intelligence report from the Roosevelt, were safe and en route back to the carrier on a pair of Blackhawks. Delta Force personnel were swarming through the captured base, disarming prisoners and assisting with damage control. According to the last report, the fire was under control. The base commanding officer was also en route to the Roosevelt. There might well be diplomatic fallout over this raid, but a PLA general officer in custody would be a valuable playing piece in this insane game of military threat and counterthreat. Beijing would be forced to acknowledge that the hostages had been at their base. Most likely, they would be given a face-saving way out, by way of General Han. He would explain that the PLA had, in fact, rescued the hostages from terrorist forces, and that the brief skirmish between Chinese and U.S. units had actually been conducted jointly against the terrorists.

Such a shame about that accidental explosion at the Chinese base, and the loss of one of their Kilo-class attack boats….

And if Beijing didn't care to save face, well, the might of the U.S. Navy now dominated the Spratly Islands. Eventually, they would see reason.

"Okay, Nav," he said. "Set course for Small Dragon Island. We have some SEALs to pick up."

"Set course for Small Dragon Island, aye aye, sir," Lieutenant DeKalb replied. "I make our course one-one-zero."

"Ahead one-third."

"Ahead one-third, aye."

Garrett leaned back in the command chair, allowing himself a small measure of relief. Kazuko was avenged…

There was not much comfort in the fact. But the people who'd killed her and hundreds of others would not kill again.

"Quite a show, Captain," Stevens, the CIA officer, had said before boarding the helicopter. "Almost makes that swim in the ocean worth it." And he'd grinned as he'd shaken Garrett's hand.

Stevens wasn't a bad sort, Garrett decided. He'd brought in key information when he could have delegated a dangerous mission to someone else, and he hadn't been the micromanaging monster Garrett had half expected him to be.

Even so, Garrett was glad to see him leave the boat.

Just as glad, in fact, as he'd been to see the two women bundled into harnesses and hoisted aboard a hovering Blackhawk. Some among Virginia's crew had loudly mourned the departure of the "honorary Waves," as they'd called them, but even the most vocal of the complainers had swiftly settled back into blissful male-only routine.

It was a relief to have them gone. Garrett considered himself to be reasonably enlightened where feminist issues were concerned… but, whatever the words of his written apology back at New London might have said, the reality was that there would be no women on board submarines until the submarines were built with female crew members in mind… or until the mores of both the American public and of the naval community changed substantially. A couple of centuries might do it….

He'd had a brief opportunity to talk to both women about it before their departure. Katie had insisted on saying goodbye to him moments before going topside to be strapped into a harness and plucked from Virginia's afterdeck to a waiting helicopter. "Tell me the truth, Captain," she'd said, looking around the control room. "Do you think there'll ever be women on board these things?"

"Katie!" Ginger had said, shocked. "What are you saying?"

"Why?" Garrett had asked. "Are you thinking of volunteering?"

Katie had made a face. "I think I've had enough of submarines," she'd told him.

"Yeah," Ginger had added. "If we get nostalgic, we'll try locking ourselves inside a closet for a week or two! Submarines!" She'd shuddered. "Ugh!"

Ginger seemed to have recovered from her ordeal. It sounded, though, like she was going to have a lifelong hatred of small, enclosed spaces.

"Don't worry, Ginger," he'd told her. "We won't have women on submarines for a long time to come." He'd glanced at Katie. "Does that make me a male chauvinist pig?"

"No," she'd told him. "It makes you very male." She'd stood on tiptoe and given him a quick kiss. "Thank you, Captain. For everything."

"And… will you thank the SEALs, too?" Ginger had asked. "We never got a chance to talk to them."

"SEALs never hang around to talk to anyone," he told her. "They're more silent than the Silent Service."

"And… Captain," Katie said. "If you get back to Hawaii, look me up, okay? I'm in the Honolulu directory."

He studied her a moment. Katie Milford was smart, sweet, and incredibly sharp despite what she'd gone through. But he was thinking at the moment about Kazuko, and he was feeling terribly old.

"I don't think that would be a good idea, Ms. Milford. I mean… don't get me wrong. I'm flattered. But, well, it's not like a submarine captain has anything like a life, right?"

"Ms. Milford?" Jorgensen had called from the aft passageway, holding out a bright orange life jacket for her to don. "We're ready for you!"

"Thanks again," she told Garrett. "For everything."

He'd put the women out of his mind almost immediately. Kazuko. He still had some grieving to do. And some healing.

In the meantime, though, Virginia had a mission to complete.

The mission, the vessel, the plant, the crew….

And only after all of that, the captain. He'd found he was eager to get back to work.

Because, he'd found, and despite what he'd told Katie, he did have a life after all.

A life of command, of duty… and of the sea.