Terminal Run

“If she were in a hurry, she wouldn’t have been at the Azores, which was out of her way from the North Atlantic if she were on the way to the IO. And we don’t even know she’s going to the Indian Ocean.”

“She’s reportedly heading due south from the Azores, Admiral. Where else would she be going?”

“It doesn’t make sense,” McKee muttered. “Where’s the Piranha?”

“Her last sitrep put her here, but that was two days ago.”

McKee cursed. If the battle network had been operational, the Piranha would have been popping out a message buoy every twenty-four hours with a situation report, but the SLOT buoys didn’t work well with the Internet E-mail communications bypass. And he couldn’t use extremely low frequency ELF transmissions to call Piranha to periscope depth, since the transmissions had been considered compromised. Their last use had been the calling of the Leopard up to PD so she could be boarded. Which reminded him — Leopard was overdue for a sitrep on the Red Chinese battle group

“I’ll be in the V.I.P stateroom for the next half hour,” McKee said to Captain Judison. “Keep flanking it, but be ready to come to periscope depth at the top of the hour.”

At 0455 local time, Admiral Egon “The Viking” Ericcson snoozed in his working khaki uniform on top of the bedclothes of his stateroom’s spacious rack. His pad computer lay on his chest next to his reading glasses, both rising and falling with his breathing, the room quiet except for his snoring.

The messenger of the watch knocked quietly once, then twice, then a third time. With no answer, she glanced at the Marine Corps guards, who opened the mahogany door silently. The nineteen-year-old third-class petty officer radioman’s mate crept to the admiral’s bedside and leaned over the grizzled senior officer, wincing as if leaning over a high-voltage wire. She touched the admiral’s shoulder and shook him gently, and when nothing happened, shook him hard.

Ericcson bolted upright, the pad computer and his glasses falling to the deck, the admiral roaring, “I wasn’t asleep, goddammit! I was just resting my god damned eyes. Who are you and what the hell do you want?”

The messenger gulped and handed the admiral a pad computer from flag plot. “Sir, the captain sends his respects at zero five hundred and wishes to inform you of flash traffic.” She bent over and retrieved the reading glasses, the admiral glaring at her before putting them on and squinting at the computer.

“Turn on the damned light,” he said, his eyebrows rising at the message.

“By your leave, sir,” the messenger said, hoping to be dismissed. The admiral said nothing, the words of the first message telling the story of the Leopard sinking the Red surface task force.

“By your leave, sir?”

“Get the hell out!” Ericcson shouted. As the youth bolted to the door the admiral yelled, “Hold it right there, messenger. Get Pulaski and Hendricks to flag plot. I want them there in two god damned minutes!”

“Yes, sir. I mean, aye aye, sir!” The messenger collided with the doorjamb, then ran down the passageway.

Ericcson read the second message about the Snare, then turned back to the Leopard sitrep. The destruction of the first battle group had powerful implications. He hurried to flag plot, the battle group operations officer and the ship’s captain waiting for him, a mug of coffee already steaming on the chart table for him.

“You realize what this means?” Ericcson asked Captain Pulaski, whose eyes were red with dark circles beneath. “It means the first battle group is on the bottom. Which means the Reds are thinking hard right now, and the second and third groups much farther north in the Yellow Sea and the northern East China Sea may even turn around, or proceed much slower on an antisubmarine warfare zigzag. We’ve won the first bat tie, and the Reds are reeling from the psychological impact. We’ve kicked their asses in the first quarter, gentlemen. They might not even return after halftime.” Ericcson pulled a Parta gas out of his pocket, clipped it with a gold cutter, and put a flame to it with his Jolly Roger squadron lighter.

“Uh, sir,” Pulaski said, “may I remind you we don’t have a satellite photo of the first battle group yet to assess the damage, or any telemetry of the attack? Leopard’s torpedoes may all have missed.”

“Number one, Pulaski, no way she missed, and number two, why the hell don’t we have an overhead shot by now? Get on the horn and get me some fucking intel.”

Pulaski turned and walked brusquely out of the room. Ericcson puffed the cigar, waiting for him to return. By the time he did, the cigar was half smoked.

“The resolution on our end is crappy,” Pulaski said, spreading the color printout on the chart table. “If our battle network were up and running, this would have been in real time, and it would have been sharp enough to see the cigarettes the surface ship crews were smoking.”