Sea of Shadows

Persian Gulf region. But most of them lack the sophistication for tinkering at the genetic level. The list of countries that could pull it off is relatively short.”

“Don’t tell me,” the president said, “Siraj is at the top of that list.”

“Pretty near the top, sir,” Brenthoven said.

The president held up a hand. “I’ll get the rest of the details at the briefing. Talk to me about Germany.”

Brenthoven fished out his little leather notebook and flipped it open.

“CIA has authenticated the memo.”

“The one from Chancellor Shoernberg to his attache officer?”

“Yes, sir. It looks like Germany is going ahead with the arms-for-oil deal.”

The president’s eyebrows went up a millimeter. “You’re certain about this?”

Brenthoven nodded. “I’m afraid so, sir. Three days ago, one of the Air Force’s Oracle spy satellites imaged four submarines at the naval arsenal in Kiel, Germany. A significant portion of the satellite’s imaging footprint was blocked by cloud cover, but it’s pretty clear that the subs were on loading missiles and torpedoes.”

Doyle glanced at her watch. “Three days ago? Why are we just finding out about this now?”

Gregory Brenthoven pursed his lips and paused for a second before answering. “Three days ago, our German allies were not considered to be even a remote threat. Air Force intelligence analysts didn’t regard a routine weapons on load by an allied navy as very noteworthy. It was a reasonable decision, based on the situation as they understood it. It hardly seems fair to second-guess their judgment after the fact.”

“I agree,” the president said. “Is there more?”

Brenthoven looked back at his notes. “Yes, sir. Langley has been chasing down a few leads. It turns out that a lot of the Indian pilots that Germany has been training over the last several months might not actually be Indian.”

“Meaning they’re Siraji?”

“That’s what we’re thinking, sir. We’re running it down, but — at this stage — all we can say for certain is that a number of their immigration papers have strange inconsistencies.”

“It’s starting to sound like this deal has been cooking for a while,” the president said. “So the Germans might be ready to deliver some of the hardware right now?”

“They may have already started, sir,” Brenthoven said. “Yesterday evening, one of our destroyers in the Persian Gulf intercepted and boarded a cargo ship that was attempting to run the blockade of Siraj. The Visit, Board, Search, and Seizure teams discovered approximately three hundred German-built, over-the-shoulder missile launchers.”

Doyle shook her head. “Greg, how in the hell did we miss something this big?”

Brenthoven closed his notebook. “A lot of our intelligence assets — too many — are electronic. We’re still feeling the bite from the Clinton years; he cut our network of field operatives to ribbons. And the best electronics in the world are no substitute for good agents working on the scene. Our European network is especially thin; we’ve been concentrating most of our efforts on the Middle Eastern countries.”

The president closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He released it slowly and opened his eyes. “Where are the subs now?”

Brenthoven blinked twice and looked at the president. “Ah … we don’t know, sir. Our last satellite imagery of them is three days old. They could be through the English Channel by now.”

“They’ll have to transit the Strait of Gibraltar to get to the Mediterranean,” the president said. “What if we blockade the strait?”

Brenthoven said, “Our nearest significant asset is the Abraham Lincoln carrier strike group. They’re way down at the east end of the Med. Even at top speed, they’d never make it in time.”

“If we can’t get ships over there,” the president said, “we’ll have to find someone who can. Who are our allies in this?”

Brenthoven said, “The United Kingdom for certain, sir. Greece. Italy, maybe.”

Doyle shook her head. “Not Italy. They’re tied up too closely to France and Germany both. They’ve all got that Joint Theater Defense Missile thing going. Greece is a little shaky too.”

The president ran his right index finger up and down along the bridge of his nose. “We’ll get State to drum us up a list of possibles. In the meantime, we’ll start with the UK.” He glanced at his watch and nodded toward the door to the East Room. “I’d better get back out there before Jenny gets spoiled by so much attention.” He turned his eyes to his chief of staff. “Get me Prime Minister Irons on the phone in an hour. Britain has at least as big a stake in this as we have.” His eyes shifted to his national security advisor. “Wake some people up at Langley. You’d better call ONI as well. If I’m going to yell for help, I want some idea of what we’re up against.” He looked at his watch again. “You’ve got about fifty-seven minutes.”

CHAPTER 11

R-92:

The signal rocketed through the fiber-optic core of the gray Kevlar cable and into the torpedo’s dorsal interface module. A portion of R-92’s digital brain powered itself up and awaited further instructions.

The cable, known as an umbilical in the parlance of technicians and torpedomen, served as a digital communications conduit between the weapon and the submarine’s digital fire control computers.

In the seconds preceding a launch, the umbilical would upload programming commands and updated target information into the weapon’s on-board computer. When the launch order came, the umbilical would relay that command to the torpedo and then automatically detach itself from the weapon at the instant of firing.

But the burst of digital codes coming through the umbilical now was not a launch order or targeting data. It was a routine maintenance signal.

R-92’s on-board computer responded as ordered — transmitting power to each of its major systems in turn, running diagnostic routines to test for faults or errors — and then removing power and letting each subsystem revert to its normal at-rest condition.

The entire sequence of electronic tests took just under three seconds.

All subsystems reported themselves as fully operational. R-92’s digital computer relayed the reports back to the fire control computers via the umbilical.

This done, the torpedo waited another three hundred seconds for follow-on orders. When none were detected, R-92’s digital brain powered itself down. Secure in its firing tube, deep in the belly of Groeler’s U-307, the predator was dormant.

CHAPTER 12

STRAIT OF GIBRALTAR

SUNDAY; 13 MAY

0132 hours (1:32 AM)

TIME ZONE 0 ‘ZULU’

The bridge of HMS York was rigged for darken-ship: all unnecessary lights turned off to preserve the night vision of the watchstanders. What little illumination there was came from the soft red glow of instrument lamps, and even those feeble lights were turned down to minimal intensity to preserve the night vision of the bridge crew. As was often the case on evenings when the moon was out, it was actually darker on the bridge of the old British destroyer than it was outside under the night sky.

Second Officer of the Watch, Sub Lieutenant Michael Kensington, felt the front panel of the radar repeater until his fingers located the dimmer knob. He turned the brightness up for a few seconds, just enough to get a good look at the sweep. Still just the one contact, aft and off to port. He turned the dimmer back down. That would be HMS Chatham, the Royal Navy frigate that formed the other half of their little task force.