Phoenix Sub Zero

Commander Ron Daminski leaned over the chart table aft of the periscope stand in the control room. A pencil was clutched between his teeth, his broken fingers stabbing the buttons of a calculator, missing several times, causing the captain to curse under his breath. Above him on the periscope stand Lt. Kevin Skinnard leaned on the handrails and watched. The captain took the dividers, measured out a distance on the nautical mile scale, and walked them across the chart, drawing several pencil marks at the narrowed water between Sicily and Tunisia. Finally Daminski stood erect and squinted at the chart.

“What do you think. Skipper?” Skinnard asked.

“I’m half-tempted to set up a barrier search in the strait.

I have the feeling he’ll be coming through it.”

“I don’t know. Why does anyone think this guy is transiting from the east basin through the strait? What’s there for him in the west basin? I’m beginning to think we humped the pooch coming this far west.”

Daminski looked up at Skinnard and grinned. When he’d come aboard, Skinnard had been a shy quiet officer, almost a yes-man. After a few months of Rocket Ron he had developed the same intimidating style Rocket employed, whether learned by imitation or more likely from knowing the captain would accept no yes-men.

“Okay. You’re the Khalib. What do you do?”

“Submerge here off Crete, wander east, maybe hang out in the southern seas of the eastern basin, and when the heat’s off, come ashore in Egypt or eastern Libya.”

“You’re thinking he’s going back to the Cairo front.”

Skinnard nodded.

“I don’t think so,” Daminski said. “This guy’s headed for the western front in Morocco. If he were headed for Cairo he’d be there by now. Plus the jet wouldn’t have gone so far into the Med to find the sub. So he gets his butt to Morocco, hoping by the time he gets there we’ve forgotten about him.”

“I still wonder why he’s in a sub in the first place. He knows we’re out here.”

“He’s hiding. Biding his time. He’d pop up in Marrakech and surprise the hell out of everyone if we weren’t on his tail.”

“So why the Strait of Sicily? This boy can go forty-seven knots.” Skinnard took up a time-distance circular slide rule.

“That’s twenty-six hours’ transit from his dive point, which put him in the strait at lunchtime today. That was six hours ago. If he was going through the strait, he’s long gone.”

“Skinnard, you’re a sub skipper hiding a V.I.P government official aboard, with orders to hide and make your way to Morocco. What speed do you order up so you don’t get caught, you don’t make too much noise? Flank speed, forty-seven knots?”

“Um, no, sir. Probably ten or fifteen knots, take it easy and keep the noise down.”

“Right. Which means we’ll get to the strait at least a few hours before the Destiny.”

“But, sir … you never mentioned this in your briefing.”

Daminski paused, knowing he was caught but not betraying it. “No, Skinnard,” he said, acid in his voice. “Do I have to tell you my every thought?”

“No, sir.” Skinnard smiled, knowing Daminski was putting him on. “So, sir, you want a barrier search?”

“Damn straight. Southwest to northwest bowtie pattern right here.” Daminski sketched a bowtie shape on the chart straddling the deep channel of the Strait of Sicily. “In another hour slow down to four knots, rig ship for ultraquiet, and stream the thinwire towed array. And station the section tracking team a half-hour before you’re there. We’ll set a nice trap for this son of a bitch.” “Yes sir,” Skinnard said, watching as the captain half-limped out of the control room, wondering how the hell they would catch a lone submarine in the wide Mediterranean if the boat chose to stay in the eastern basin. If Daminski was wrong it would be a long dry patrol. And if he was right, and the Destiny-class was as good as the intelligence seemed to suggest, it would be a short patrol. A very short patrol.

Skinnard took the microphone hanging above the periscope platform by its spiral wound cord.

“Sonar, Conn,” he barked, “report all contacts.”

PENTAGON E-RING

SUITE OF THE CHIEF OF NAVAL OPERATIONS

Since Pacino could remember. Admiral Donchez’s offices had always been fairly ornate but the splendor of the C.N.O suite was too much to take in with a glance, especially since the admiral had been all over him since he walked in, plastering him with questions about his health, his ship, his family, everything except the reason he had summoned him to Washington. Pacino puffed on the Havana cigar Donchez had pulled from the humidor, the smoke filling the room with a mellow haze. An aide brought steaming coffee.

“Like the coffee, Mikey? It’s imported special from Colombia.” “It’s great. Admiral,” Pacino said, looking at Donchez, noticing that age had finally seemed to be catching up to his father’s old Academy roommate although his enthusiasm seemed undampened.

“How’s it feel to be Admiral Pacino?”

“I’m still a captain, sir. I’ve got a few months before I’m confirmed. Ifvm confirmed.”