Nimitz Class

the admiral and Bill alone.

“Let me ask you something, sir. Would you have done it, if you had known in advance what it was going to be like?”

“No, Bill. I would not. I understood the risks, but I did not think we would run out of luck quite so often! We were nearly killed twice in ten minutes. That first freighter that nearly hit us was closer than I have ever been to death. I actually thought the second one was going right through us.”

“If it hadn’t been for you, sir, she might have.”

“Oh, I expect Jeremy would have thought of something in time.”

“Well, I was pretty glad we did not have to hang around and find that out, sir. You saved us. So did Jeremy. And all you have to show for it is a bit of history. Senior officer in the first submarine ever to transit the Bosporus underwater.”

“Not even that, Bill. We were the second.”

Admiral Arnold Morgan received the signal with delight. “Home run.” They’re through. He called Scott Dunsmore to break the news. In turn the CNO called General Josh Paul, who informed him the President awaited his call, and that the admiral should make it personally. One minute later, the President stepped out of a formal dinner to speak on the telephone to his Chief of Naval Operations.

“They did it?…Good…Yes, you have my full authorization to commit resources to find and destroy the Russian Kilo, using whatever means you must…I’ll leave that entirely to you…”

Admiral Dunsmore replied, “Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Go get ’em, Scott,” said the Chief Executive.

13

2200 Monday, September 9.

The evening of September 9 was one of toe-curling anxiety for Arnold Morgan. Trapped in his office, still awaiting the satellite signal from the south end of Istanbul Harbor, he had rampaged through his beef sandwich, spilled coffee on his diary, and growled at everyone still working in the building. Happily there were not many, but his general mood of tightly wound exasperation was sufficient to encourage the late-night staffers to stay the hell out of his way, if possible.

The “home-run” signal had restored the rueful grin to his face. And in the following four minutes he had passed on the information to Admiral Dunsmore, and then burned rubber on the driveway en route to a rendezvous with General David Gavron, in the cool privacy of the Israeli embassy.

The general had made the telephone call to Fort Meade personally, and the admiral found himself worried about the edgy demeanor of the urbane and gracious Israeli officer. He always enjoyed their talks, but tonight General Gavron had not been relaxed, and the admiral sensed tension and worry in the Israeli’s words. And whatever that worry was, it was plainly something to do with Benjamin Adnam. Otherwise David would not have requested this meeting.

Inside the gates of the embassy, he was joined by an Israeli guard who escorted him to the upstairs room with the big burgundy-colored chairs, where he and the general had first come to terms. General Gavron was sitting back, holding a glass of white wine, and smoking a rare cigarette.

“Hi, David,” the admiral said. “Sorry to be so late. It seems to get harder rather than easier to get out of my factory these days.”

“Welcome, Arnold,” replied the general. “Let me pour you a glass of that dessert wine you liked so much. I have things to tell you.”

“What’s on your mind?” said the admiral.

“As I expect you have guessed, it’s about Commander Benjamin Adnam. I am afraid, Arnold, that circumstances may have overtaken us. Let me backtrack for a moment. You remember you told me a couple of weeks ago that your man Jeff Zepeda was working on the outskirts of a major Iraqi Intelligence cell in Cairo?”

“Sure I do.”

“Well, we have been onto that for several years. In fact we have had a man working deep inside it, in place since 1998. He’s an Iraqi, with Jewish grandparents. We established this cell right after the Gulf War, with some of our top guys operating on the outside. It has been an invaluable source of intelligence on the inner workings of the Iraqi Government. I do not need to elaborate upon the extreme danger our case officer is permanently in.”

“You do not.”

“Arnold, he has disappeared. We have heard nothing from him for nine days. He has always operated on a one-week contact cycle. He’s never missed his Saturday check-in. Even when he has nothing to say.”

“What can I do?”

“Nothing really. It’s just that two weeks ago I gave an instruction to him, that if he came up with anything about Commander Adnam, or indeed the missing Kilo, I wanted to know ASAP.

“He never uses electronic equipment for obvious reasons. And I’m wondering whether you have received anything, anonymous of course, from Cairo. Because if you have, it might just be a last-ditch effort from our man.”

“No. I have not received anything. And I’ll let you know if I do. Do you think his disappearance has something to do with the Jefferson incident?”

“Yes. Mainly because I imagine that everything is heightened in Iraqi Intelligence right now. I am sure they have guessed that you hit the Iranian submarines in retaliation. They must know they might be next. I think anyone asking questions about the Jefferson operation would be in a high degree of danger. The Iraqis may seem irrational. But they are quite ruthless.”

“Yes. I agree with all that.”

“If our agent did find something, and somehow managed to tip the Americans off, he might already have been fingered. Anyway, he did not even have time to call for help from us. But he knows how urgently we want Adnam back. The man is a deserter and a senior officer of the Israeli Navy with access to highly sensitive information. We’d like him alive, to find out how badly we have been betrayed. Then we’ll know what to change.”

“He may be a deserter to you, General. But he’s an international terrorist to me. And I want him first. Dead or alive.”

“We do not care who finally kills him, but we’d most certainly like to pick him apart first.”

It was long after midnight when Arnold Morgan left the Israeli embassy. He drove home slowly, slept for three and a half hours, then showered, dressed, and drove to his office, where his daily special delivery mail package was waiting for him.

At 0515, he found it.

Admiral Scott Dunsmore thought he was ready for anything. He had four Los Angeles — Class nuclear attack submarines on warning for special ops in Norfolk, Virginia. And he had one at Diego Garcia and two more at Pearl. In tenuous anticipation of the Kilo making a break across the South Atlantic en route to South America, satellite observation points had been adjusted, on the off-chance that one might betray the sudden surface appearance of a Russian Kilo in strange waters.

What the admiral was not ready for was a phone call at 0520. Not even from Arnold Morgan, whose careless disregard for time was fabled, even among submariners. The CNO reached out of his bed for the phone, and was unsure whether to be furious at the sharp, daytime tones of the Director of National Security, or merely appreciative of the sheer devotion to duty of the senior U.S. Navy Intelligence officer.

Admiral Morgan, as ever, wasted no time. “Sir,” he said, “we may have found the Kilo. Tip-off. I’m leaving now for your office. See you there.” The line went dead.

Admiral Dunsmore’s feet had hit the carpet even before the line cut off. He opened the bedroom door and yelled downstairs for someone to have his car outside and ready to exit the Navy Yard in eight minutes.

Morgan beat him into the Pentagon by minutes, having knocked twenty-three seconds off his own all-time record from Fort Meade to the military headquarters of the United States. It was a little after 0600.

He had already organized coffee — black with buckshot — for both of them. And in his hand he held a sheet