World in Flames

Norfolk.”

“What are you going to do?” asked the technician.

“Told you. Gotta sort something out first.”

* * *

Ray Brentwood was walking quickly down along the docks, turning right at one of the submarine tenders toward where he’d seen five 688 Los Angeles attack-class subs tied up. Overhead in the fast-fading twilight, gulls screeched, and the only parts of the subs that were visible were the white depth numbers painted on the rudders, which served as perches for groups of brown, dimly silhouetted pelicans. Now, thought Ray, if only Robert were here instead of flitting around the Atlantic, he’d have the answer to his question. He tried to think back to the conversation he had had with Robert about the subs, but his older brother, like most submariners, had been tight-lipped about even the most mundane matters aboard a sub, and especially about where they went and what they did, the brotherhood of submariners in a nuclear age giving new meaning to the “Silent Service.”

“Who goes there?” It was a marine guard, his M-16 looking straight at Ray Brentwood.

“Captain Ray Brentwood.”

“Check his ID!” It was another marine approaching from the dark shadow of the sub’s sail. Ray put his hand up to turn his ID tag, which had flipped over in the wind.

“Don’t move!”

Ray mumbled. A flashlight blinded him. Instinctively he turned away from it.

“Jesus—!” the guard began. Then shifted the beam to the ID tag. “IX-44E,” he called out to the other guard.

“Check the board!” said another voice, and now Ray was aware that it came from high up on the sub’s sail, from the bridge, the officer of the watch a black dot against the rapidly darkening sky.

“Sir,” called out one of the guards. “IX-44E is a sludge-removal barge — propelled. His ID number checks.”

“Very well,” said the OOD. “What do you want, Captain?”

“I want to ask a question about subs.”

“They’re very well guarded,” said the OOD.

“So I see. Look — it’s not classified as far as I know, but isn’t it true that a nuclear sub’s quieter than the old diesels — or any diesel for that matter?”

“Of course. Most of the time. Why?”

Ray answered him with a follow-up question. “What do you mean, ‘most of the time’?”

“Well, cooling pumps on a nuclear sub are going all the time — have to because of the reactor. On a diesel you can shut the engines right down. Go on batteries. No pumps at all. No noise. Then a diesel’s quieter than a nuclear.”

Ray wasn’t aware of saying thank you, though he did, but as he turned back along the pier, his pace increased. Born out of his spite, he now knew the answer to the navy’s riddle of how the Russians were getting so close to the convoys, and he was now convinced they were close in off the West Coast — no doubt the East Coast as well. He was running flat out, heart thumping. The diesel boats were the key — the diesels, which in the nuclear age had been relegated to the museums. Hell, the United States no longer had any. But they could carry missiles as well as any nuclear-powered ship. And they were cheaper. He knew that much. For every SSN or Sea Wolf like the Roosevelt, you could build half a dozen diesels, equip them with snorkels. The only difference was speed and the time they could stay submerged. But if they were on battery power and shut down the engine, they could drift and you’d never hear them. If the war went nuclear in Europe and the Russians decided to launch, having subs close in to the American coast would have an enormous advantage and—

Breathless, he arrived in the San Diego base commander’s office, sweat pouring unevenly from his mottled, burn-patch face, terrifying the Wave secretary on duty, who screamed, bringing two burly shore patrol men in from the duty room.

“I’ve — got—” Ray began, but had to stop to catch his breath. “I’ve got to see the base commander. At once—”

“Sure, buddy!” said the smaller, burlier of the two linebackers. “You just simmer down now and come with us.”

“Look!” said Ray, jerking his arms, but they were locked in the shore patrol’s grasp.

“Call the LT, will you, Sue?” said the smaller one. LT was the shore patrol’s lingo for “loony truck.” With the stress of this war, a lot of the guys and some of the women, too, just plain flipped their lids.

CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

Standing back to front with him, Alexsandra felt her hair fall softly across Sergei’s chest, her hands plying behind her, cupping him, squeezing him. He felt so hard, he could penetrate steel. Then she would relax her grip, kneading his groin with her clenched fists and turning to face him, would kiss him all over as they fell on the bed. Then suddenly she would sit upright, hair swinging back, her breasts thrusting, nipples engorged like dark cherries, her hands behind her again, pulling him slowly with mounting strength and squeezing it at the same time until he groaned and mumbled nonsensically in his pleasure. Suddenly she was off the bed, getting dressed — his favorite tease.

“Vernis!”—”Come back!”—he demanded, then pleaded.

“No!”

“Yes.”

“No!”

“Sandra.”

Slowly she advanced toward him.

“Now,” he gasped. “I can’t stand it any longer.”

“It’s long enough already,” she giggled. She didn’t love him, but he was fun. She was sure it had been his influence that had got her released from the KGB jail. If she worked on him, maybe — if God wished — her two remaining brothers, Alexander and Myshka, might be set free. It was a vain hope, she knew, but so long as there was any possibility, she must try— do anything if it would help. It meant that she had to pretend a lot: faking an orgasm for his manly pride when she had wanted to choke him. But after pretending so long, she had begun to enjoy it, and the rougher he was with her as he approached climax, the more she liked it. It helped to rationalize what she was doing. It was God’s way, she decided, of helping her get through it.

“Sit on me!” he ordered. “Quickly, quickly!”

As she slid down upon him, the storm outside seemed to grow stronger, uncontrollable, the wind smacking the bare branches of the beech tree against the ancient windowpane, making a scratching noise like a cat trying to get in. His nostrils sucked in her smell as his hands and wrist muscles tensed, his body moving up and down beneath her, her breasts rising and falling faster and faster, her loins pressed hard against his sweat-slicked thighs until she, too, began moaning with pleasure.

* * *

Ray Brentwood asked the chief petty officer in charge of cells at the San Diego base, if he, Brentwood, wrote a note, would the petty officer deliver it to either the base commander or the base’s director of naval intelligence as soon as possible.

The chief petty officer read it. “You sure about this, Captain?”

“Look, Chief, I’m not nuts. Bit too excited, I guess, when your guys picked me up. That’s all. And I hope you’re not nuts either, because if you don’t get that to someone fast, they’re gonna do a Pearl Harbor on you.”

“What d’you mean?”

“I mean in forty-one there was a message in the hopper warning Pearl of an impending Japanese attack — the day before it happened. But some jerk back in Washington decided to use Western Union instead of calling it through. I’ve got evidence here that there are at least two Russian subs close inshore,