Phoenix Sub Zero

Donchez was tall, and although in his sixtieth year, he swore he was losing an inch of height each time he checked the mirror. In fact, the only discernible signs of age were his cueball baldness, the bushiness of his gray brows, and his slightly diminished height. But Donchez’s mind was sharper than it had ever been. He was dressed now in his service dress-blue uniform, the sleeves heavy with gleaming gold, the wide band nearest the end of the sleeve, three slim bands running up almost to his elbow, the sharp pointed star presiding over the stripes. Over his left breast pocket six rows of colored ribbons climbed toward his shoulder, the gold submarine pin above them. The pin resembled an airman’s wings, but on closer examination the wings were scaly fish with curving tails pointed outward, the odd heads facing an old-fashioned diesel submarine plowing through rough seas.

The pin was solid gold, a gift from his old Annapolis room mate’s widow, given him when he had first been promoted to flag rank.

Donchez stood before one of the plot walls of the room, the electronic plot showing the Mediterranean, the colors and lines and dots each signifying the deployment of his forces. Donchez’s right hand was shoved into his coat pocket, his left fist clutching the long Havana cigar, the end glowing, the smoke rising to the overhead where the red no smoking sign was bolted into the wall. Alongside Donchez were a group of senior officers, admirals in charge of the operational groups: Adm. Kenny Mckeigh, the commander in chief of the Atlantic naval forces; Adm. John Traeps, commander in chief of the Mediterranean naval forces; Adm.

Dee Watson, the vice C.N.O for operations. Also Donchez’s aide, a plump and rumpled captain from naval intelligence named Fred Rummel.

Donchez puffed the Havana as Rummel continued his briefing. “… about an hour after the explosion of the Javelins a Firestar fighter took off from the Sunni Air Base in Ashkha bad and headed west. Vector analysis shows it heading for the Med. Of course we’ve seen hundreds of Firestar sorties over the last few days but this particular flight, coming so soon after the attack and leaving from Ashkhabad itself, leads us to believe that it may be connected with someone in the command structure.” “How long ago?” Donchez said.

“Twenty-five minutes.”

“What are we doing about it?”

John Traeps answered for his Med forces. He gestured to the Med plot while he spoke. “Sir, the USS Reagan carrier task force is off of Tripoli, Libya. She scrambled two F-14s about ten minutes ago. They should be intercepting the Firestar in the next half hour, as long as we can keep tracking it. The task force commander has authorized shooting it down.” “No,” Donchez said quietly, still looking at the tip of his cigar.

“Excuse me, sir?”

“Don’t shoot it down. If we do we’ll never know who the hell got out of Ashkhabad.”

“Aye, aye, sir, but how can we—”

“Instead of intercepting, have the fighters tail the Firestar and force it down.”

The briefing broke up. Donchez left the room and walked rapidly to his office suite, Rummel and vice C.N.O for operations Dee Watson following. Watson was, as he himself proclaimed, the ugliest and most obnoxious admiral in the fleet; although he was hard to take, someone Donchez might not have chosen for his number-two man, he was savvy and had a penetrating grasp of tactics and a detailed understanding of special warfare. A former Aegis-class cruiser commander, Watson was the only surface-warfare officer in Donchez’s inner circle, the remainder predominantly aviation types or submariners. No one spoke until they were in the special-compartmented-information-facility portion of the office.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking, sir?” Rummel asked Donchez.

Donchez nodded, stubbing out the cigar in the ash tray.

“Sihoud.”

“Son of a bitch got past us,” Watson said.

“We’ll know in the next hour, anyway,” Donchez said, pulling out a fresh Havana and flicking his lighter at its tip.

“I think I’ll go on back to flag plot, see what’s shakin’,” Watson said in his cracker accent. “By your leave, sir.”

“I’ll be down as soon as we have something. Dee.”

Donchez smoked in silence for a moment, then looked at Rummel.

“Think I should call General Barczynski?”

“Are you coming down with something, sir?”

Donchez chuckled. “Just testing.”

“Maybe we should have shot the Firestar down after all, sir.”

“Firestars aren’t up to the task against F-14 Tomcats. The flyboys will bring Sihoud to us, now that the god damned seals screwed up.”

“Ah, hell. Admiral, maybe this Firestar is just some panicky lieutenant trying to get away from our missiles.”

“We can only hope.”

EASTERN MEDITERRANEAN