Phoenix Sub Zero

“Sharef knows when to be patient and when to be aggressive, Rakish. He would make an excellent chess player. Perhaps I should challenge him when we are in open ocean.”

“I would like to see that, General.” “You asked my thoughts about the mission.”

“I would like to know what you think. General.”

“Can you make the Scorpion warheads functional?”

“The missiles will function. But I wonder about Sharef’s ability to get the weapons in the tubes and make the tubes work.”

“He will make it work, and the missiles will deliver their plutonium payloads. After that. General Ramadan will sign the peace treaty with the Coalition and the UIF will prosper for many, many years.”

“General Ramadan … but what about you. General?”

“I have my doubts that even Sharef can escape the Coalition anger once the missiles are fired.” Sihoud waved off Ahmed’s protest. “Enough of this talk of gloom. Let us fix our attention on the mission. We have much to do before the missiles can be launched. I suggest we get some sleep.”

“We’ll be passing through Gibraltar in the morning. We should be in the control room.”

“I’ll see you at change-of-watch. Sleep well. Rakish.”

As Colonel Rakish Ahmed walked down the narrow stairs to the stateroom he was borrowing, his thoughts lingered on Sihoud’s words about not surviving the mission. It occurred to him that it no longer mattered if he lived or died, as long as he could drop the weapons on the American capital to avenge the deaths of his wife and son. After that he didn’t care if he died. He recalled Sihoud’s words about his bloodthirstiness, but he pushed them aside. The westerners who now raped the United Islamic Front deserved death, lingering and painful.

SANDBRIDGE BEACH, VIRGINIA

It had been dark for hours when Pacino’s engine coughed to silence in the carport under the pilings of the beach house. He climbed the stairs, fatigue making his footsteps heavy. He dropped his briefcase and his khaki jacket in the foyer, intending to

head straight for the liquor cabinet, but his wife had beat him to it, leaning against the bar with a double on ice in her hand. He took it from her, the whiskey burning down his throat.

“Where’s our boy?”

“In bed for hours.” She ran her slim fingers across his forehead, her skin chilled from the glass. “Are you okay?”

Pacino shut his eyes.

“The ship’s a wreck. Somehow we’re going to get her to sea before midnight tomorrow.” “You never told me what the big rush was about. Another phone call from your Uncle Dick?”

“Did you see the news about the Augustat’ She sighed. He noticed the crinkle at the bridge of her nose that only came when she was disgusted or angry or confused … or deeply frightened.

“I saw it. It was awful. All those men drowned. All because of a shipyard mistake. And now you’re rushing the yard to finish up, and the same thing could happen to you.

Why are you in such a hurry?” “I can’t believe Rocket Ron is dead,” he said, ignoring the question. “God, I’ll miss him.”

“Rocket Ron? You didn’t even like him! I lived through a year of pure hell when you were his engineer. You were ready to drain his brake fluid one day, remember, you came home at noon in the middle of the week, swearing at the Rocket—”

Pacino smiled at the memory.

“Yeah. I knocked back half a fifth that day.”

“I had to put you to bed. What was it he said that set you off?”

Pacino was no longer in the room but back in his state room on the Atlanta, the ship he had been assigned to seven years before as engineer. The captain had been Rocket Ron.

A surprise reactor-board inspection team had come aboard, worked the ship over for two grueling days, then left giving the ship an “Above Average” rating, the highest mark they ever gave, a cause for a major celebration. Rocket had opened the stateroom door holding the board’s report.

Pacino had smiled in anticipation of Rocket’s congratulations.

“The board said the radioactive spill-drill team didn’t decontaminate the man in the tunnel,” Daminski said.

“He frisked out clean—the drill monitor screwed up—”

“I don’t want to hear your excuses, Pacino.” Daminski pointed his finger in Pacino’s face, an eighth of an inch from Pacino’s nose. “Your god damned team fucked up and it’s because you failed to train them. If I can’t count on you to do that what the hell can I count on you for?”

Daminski went off then, slamming the door behind him.

Pacino stared after him, astonishment giving way to fury. He found his car keys and left the ship. He sped home, went into the house and was blind drunk by the time Janice arrived home. After that he remembered nothing until the next morning, when he felt like a pile-driver hammer was smashing into his head at each heartbeat.

On the boat that morning he found Daminski in the control room talking to a chief. When he finished, Pacino started in, knowing he was taking his career into his hands.

“Captain, you were out of line yesterday. That spill team—”

Daminski interrupted, his voice quiet. “I know. Patch.