Phoenix Sub Zero

Donchez thought it over. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Gen. Rod Barczyinski, was a vigorous opponent of aircraft-carrier battle groups, noting how often carrier aircraft and carrier group ships seemingly had little purpose except to protect the carrier itself, hence the self-lickingicecream-cone epithet. It was a distortion, of course, but in the battle for defense dollars plenty of nasty tricks had been played by one service against another. Watson was on-target in bringing up the political result of a tactical decision, yet to hell with politics when there was a war to win. Except there was more here. Sihoud had escaped in a submarine that nobody knew anything about. Its capabilities were matters of conjecture. There was the priority of killing Sihoud, and the possibility of his escape was unacceptable. When weighing the idea of Sihoud’s escape against any danger to the aircraft-carrier battle group, it seemed clear that the risk was worth the insurance.

Donchez changed his mind. Sihoud must be caught. “Dee, we’ll do it your way. Get Phoenix to patrol the far western basin at Gibraltar. Get every antisubmarine warfare aircraft in the Med in the air, the P-3s out of Sigonella and the Reagan’s Vikings.”

“For now, sir, that leaves most of the Med in the hands of the Augusta. Augusta’s closest by far to the position of the Destiny class. If we catch it, Augusta will be the one to do it.” Watson looked unhappy, as if he wanted more firepower.

“Who’s in command of Augustat’ Donchez asked.

“Rocket Ron Daminski,” Watson said, a smirk making an appearance on his face.

“Jesus, that Destiny doesn’t stand a chance,” Donchez said. “Rocket Ron Daminski … is he still the terror of Squadron Seven?” “The same,” Traeps said.

“He’s a blunt instrument.” Watson said. “I recommend we use him. Daminski’s orders should tell him to sink the Destiny submarine on initial contact.”

“Tell him to give us a situation report before he puts her on the bottom, just in case. I guess that’s it, gentlemen. Get Augusta and Daminski in trail of the Destiny. If Rocket can find that sub, it’ll be on the bottom fifteen minutes later. Give him some help, John, and get those P-3s and Vikings up in the air looking for the Destiny. Let’s detach one of Reagan’s ASW frigates. I don’t care what it takes, but sink that submarine. Daminski’s authorized all force necessary. And have the watch officer call me at home the minute we’ve got something. You two should get some rest yourselves. You’re no good to me dead on your feet.”

CENTRAL MEDITERRANEAN

Commodore Sharef frowned down at the deck from the surface-control space on top of the fin, ten meters above the curving hull. Perhaps under different circumstances he would have been less agitated — it was shaping up into a beautiful morning, the sun rising higher in the winter sky, the deep blue water of the Mediterranean so clear that Sharef could see the hull shape underwater from the elliptical bow forward to the X-tail aft. And the air smelled so clean after being locked inside the Hegira for the last twenty-four hours. There was something invigorating about being on the surface, even though the surface was the submariner’s enemy.

As if to remind him of the danger, the sound of distant aircraft engines came whining into his ears. He looked up and saw nothing. Even the binoculars were unable to locate the jet — it must have been a high-altitude transport … he hoped.

Sharef shouted down to the deck, his voice unhurried but clipped.

“On deck! Get those men below! Now!”

The rescue team had just pulled the second man in from the raft. One of the men was younger and healthy, the second bent and weak, needing help just to stay on his feet on the curving deck. The deckhands and the survivors pushed into the hatch set into the port side of the fin and went down the ladder to the control room below. Sharer leaned over and saw that the last man had secured the hatch fairing in the side of the fin. The only men left in the surface-control space were deck officer Omar Tawkidi and Sharef. Sharef glanced at his watch and ordered Tawkidi below. Sharef lifted the panel doors, the cubbyhole at the top of the fin vanishing, the fin again streamlined and continuous. He checked for loose items, binoculars or flashlights, anything that could bounce or rattle around to cause noise, and finding nothing, lowered himself down into the hatchway and shut it. Twenty steps down at the joining of the fin to the outer hull there was a wide space in the vertical tunnel.

Sharef checked the hatch set in the side of the fin and, satisfied it was secure, lowered himself into the command-module access-hatch. When his head was clear he pulled down the hatch to the fin tunnel and spun the hatch wheel, engaging the heavy dogs. He continued down the ladder all the way to the deckplates and operated a hydraulic control lever.