Sea of Shadows

side of the long conference table and back up the other. The seven men and five women gathered around the table ranged in age from thirty-four to sixty-eight. Some were in military uniform, and some were not. A few wore suits, but most were dressed casually, in whatever they’d been wearing when the call had gone out for an emergency meeting. The single visible characteristic common to all of them was the grim expression they shared.

Seated directly across the table, Vice President Dalton Wainright nodded once when the president’s eye caught his.

Veronica Doyle sat to the president’s immediate left, in the spot traditionally reserved for the White House chief of staff. She leaned over next to him and whispered. “SecState is still shuttling back and forth between Beijing and Taipei, trying to nip the China situation in the bud. She’s got Undersecretary Mitchell covering for her.”

The president nodded and said quietly, “I don’t see SecNav either.”

“Secretary Larribee called from his car,” Doyle said. “He’s stuck in traffic on the beltway. I’ve got police escorts in route, trying to make a big enough hole to get him out of there, but it’ll probably be at least an hour.”

She nodded toward the Chief of Naval Operations. “In the meantime, the CNO is ready to cover the Navy angle.”

“Good enough,” the president said. He looked at the CNO and said in a louder voice, “Bob, I understand that your boss probably isn’t going to make it. Are you ready to proceed?”

Admiral Robert Casey stood up and nodded toward his commander in chief. “Yes, Mr. President.” He picked up a small remote control and ran his thumb across a dial. The room lights dimmed and, at the far end of the conference table, a large projection screen scrolled down from a recess in the ceiling.

The admiral’s summer-white uniform fairly glowed in the semi-darkened room. The contrast between the immaculate twill fabric and his tanned, weather-beaten face made his skin seem the color of old leather.

He pressed another button and an image filled the screen. It appeared to be an aerial view of a large industrial seaport. A good deal of the picture was obscured by cloud cover, but — judging from the clarity of the image — the shot appeared to have been taken from low altitude with a very good camera.

“This photograph was taken on the seventh of this month by a U.S. Air Force Oracle III series surveillance satellite, during a covert medium-altitude orbital pass over Western Europe. The area under surveillance, in this case, was the Deutsche Marine Naval Arsenal in Kiel, Germany.”

The admiral pressed a button on the remote, and the image was replaced by an enlargement of a section of the photo. The picture was somewhat grainier than the first image had been, but the clarity was still very good. Several dark cylindrical shapes could be seen in the waters adjacent to a series of parallel docks, each attended by a large yellow crane. Workmen were clearly visible on the docks and on and around the dark cylinders.

“These are satellite photos?” asked Undersecretary of State Mitchell.

“From the quality, I would’ve thought they were shot from an airplane.”

Admiral Casey smiled briefly. “Yes, sir, they’re satellite shots. I have to give those Zoomies credit; their equipment is top-notch.”

“It certainly is,” Mitchell said in a nearly reverent tone.

The admiral pressed a button. Four bright red ovals appeared on the screen, each of them enclosing one of the dark cylindrical shapes. “These are German Type 212B diesel submarines. The Office of Naval Intelligence believes that they are hull numbers U-304 through U-307.

Barring the new German Type 214s, which are not operational yet, these are the most sophisticated and deadly diesel submarines on planet Earth.

Intelligence analysts at ONI and the Central Intelligence Agency have examined these photographs in detail and are confident that we are witnessing a complete missile and torpedo load-out for all four submarines.”

The admiral looked around the room. “Under ordinary circumstances, we wouldn’t be even slightly concerned by this. Our allied nations are entitled to arm their submarines, and we wouldn’t expect them to do otherwise. But we believe that these particular submarines have been earmarked for delivery to the government of Siraj.”

Eyebrows went up around the table, and a few people sat up straighter in their seats.

Undersecretary of State Mitchell said, “Obviously, any such delivery is in clear violation of standing United Nations resolutions.”

“Obviously,” Admiral Casey said.

“The repercussions would be staggering,” the vice president said. “The government of Germany wouldn’t dare …”

The admiral keyed the remote. “I’m afraid they already have dared, sir.” The image changed to a split-screen picture of two warships. “The ship on the left is — or rather was—HMS York, a destroyer belonging to the British Royal Navy. The ship on the right is her escort, HMS Chatham, a Royal Navy frigate. Approximately twenty-two hours ago, while attempting to blockade the Strait of Gibraltar, these ships gained sonar contact on what they believed to be the four German submarines. While HMS York and HMS Chatham were attempting to divert the submarines, a flight of approximately six German warplanes appeared. Based upon their performance characteristics, we believe they were the German Air Force variant of the EF-2000S EuroStrike-Fighter. We don’t know who pulled the trigger first, but the encounter escalated into a missile shoot. HMS York went down with a loss of nearly all hands. HMS Chatham was severely damaged and is currently being rigged for tow back into port.

According to their reports, the British shot down four of the jets and may have damaged a fifth.”

The admiral looked directly at Vice President Wainright. “The Royal Navy has search and rescue helicopters out combing the water for survivors, but as of their last situation report, two hundred ninety-four British Sailors are either dead or missing.” He paused for a second. “Sir, I humbly submit that our German allies have already dared one hell of a lot.”

“Where does that put us now, Bob?” the president asked.

The admiral looked at the screen and pressed the button again. The ships were replaced by a color map of the Mediterranean Sea. “The German subs are somewhere in the Med by now. Assuming that they are moving at their maximum possible speed, they should still be west of this line.” He pressed another button, and a curved red line appeared on the map. “In all probability, they are somewhere between the Spanish island of Balearic and Sardinia — off the Italian coast.” He turned to look at the president. “It’s a big stretch of water, Mr. President. But not so big as to be unmanageable. I’ve got the Abraham Lincoln strike group steaming west at top speed, and a half-dozen P-3s in the air as we speak.” He keyed the remote again, and a series of small black silhouettes appeared on the map: six ships at the eastern end of the Mediterranean Sea and six airplanes at the western end.

“Excuse me,” Undersecretary Mitchell said. “P-3s? Those would be some sort of aircraft?”

“Yes, sir,” the admiral said. “Lockheed Martin P-3 Orions. Long-range, prop-driven planes. Specially designed for Undersea Warfare, or what we call USW.”

Mitchell nodded.

The admiral continued. “The plan is to blanket the western end of the Med with sonobuoys. By the time the P-3s have the subs localized, the carrier and her escorts should be on station.”

Army General Horace Gilmore, the chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, cleared his throat. He was a mild- looking man, with a rounded face and black-rimmed glasses that would have been at home on the nose of a librarian. The rack of ribbons on the left breast of his uniform jacket hadn’t come from shelving books, though. He leaned his head forward and stared over the tops of his glasses with eyes that were nearly predatory in their intensity. “And then what, Admiral Casey?”

The admiral sat down and pulled his seat up next to the table. “I believe that’s what we’re here to discuss, General.”

Secretary of Defense Rebecca Kilpatrick leaned back in her chair. “I get the feeling that you already have a plan of action.”

“I do, Madam Secretary. I think we should hunt those bastards down and sink every one of them.”

Secretary Kilpatrick smiled. “It has the virtue of being simple. And a simple plan is often the best plan.” She looked around the table. “But I think we need to consider this situation carefully before we start shooting at people. Things may not be as cut-and-dried as we think.”