U.S.S. Seawolf

The signal to leave had arrived direct from SUBPAC shortly before lunch: “CO USS Seawolf: Proceed immediately to Yellow Sea as authorized in orders of 170900JUN06. Observation only. Do not, repeat not, be detected.”

Junior Petty Officer Jason Colson, Judd Crocker’s writer, had already transferred a full copy of the orders into the captain’s private ledger, and now he, in company with the CO; the XO; Lt. Shawn Pearson, the Navigation Officer; Cy Rothstein; and Rich Thompson were the only personnel privy to the hair-raising nature of their mission. It was not classified as “Black,” because that involved attack, possibly combat. But this was equally secret, equally highly classified, equally dangerous.

Down in the engineering area, outside the reactor room, Lt. Commander Schulz and Tony Fontana were busy, but still in the dark about the mission. Lt. Kyle Frank, the young sonar officer from New Hampshire, had not yet been briefed. Petty Officer Andy Cannizaro still thought they were going to Taiwan, but Master Chief Brad Stockton had been at it too long to make second guesses. He was seeing the CO later that morning, when he knew he would be informed.

For one o’clock in the morning, the jetty was relatively crowded. The departure of a nuclear submarine is always something of an event in any major naval base, and Pearl was no exception. Many of the engineers and even some of their wives had come down to watch Seawolf go. The squadron commander was there, the duty officer, and the line handlers. There was no reason for tension, but there always was a tautness in the atmosphere as deep inside the ship the men finalized their entries in the next-of-kin list, which detailed every member of the ship’s company and whom the Navy should contact should the submarine fail to return. Nicole Crocker’s name, and the address of the house on Point Loma, was right at the top of that list. There was little information about Lt. Commander Clarke, certainly nothing about his blood relatives.

At 0115, Captain Crocker came on the bridge, high above the dock. He was accompanied by the officer of the deck, Lt. Andy Warren, and the navigator, Pearson. All three men wore just summer shirts in the heat. The order to “Attend Bells” was issued at 0125, and a frisson of anticipation quivered through the ship. After all the months of preparation, those two words meant one thing: We’re going, right now.

Linus Clarke ordered all lines cast off, and Andy Warren leaned into the intercom. “All back one third.” Deep inside the ship, the massive turbines began to roll. The giant propeller, churning in reverse, caused a soft wash to roll up over the stern as Seawolf came off the jetty, moving quietly backward in the wide Pearl Harbor seaway. Fifteen seconds later she was stopped in the water, and then Judd Crocker called out, “Ahead one third.” And his 9,000-ton nuclear boat moved forward over the opening few yards of her 4,600-mile journey to the forbidden waters of the Yellow Sea.

The spectators beneath the dock lights waved as Seawolf stood down the moonlit seascape, running fair down the main southerly channel.

“All ahead standard,” called Lieutenant Warren, and everyone felt the sonorous increase in speed. A glance behind showed a white wake developing behind the stern.

“Course one-seven-five,” advised Shawn Pearson.

And Seawolf slid into her surface rhythm, the flat water cascading up over her bow and parting at the great upward curve of the sail, to form the two strange vortexes of swirling water on either side, behind the bridge, a condition common to all big underwater nuclear boats.

“We should hold this southerly course for three more miles after we fetch the harbor light, sir,” said the navigator. “Then we turn to the west, course two-seven-zero, for several thousand miles.”

Judd Crocker smiled in the dark and said quietly, “Thank you, Shawn.” Adding, “Around twenty-five miles on the surface?”

“Yessir. We got one hundred and twenty feet right after the light on Barbers Point off to starboard. But twenty miles after that it goes real deep. In this flat sea, I thought we may as well stay on the surface.”

“You might find it’s not so flat after Barbers Point, Lieutenant.”

“I suppose so, sir. But I’m not trying to interfere. I’m basically here to protect the innocent.”

Judd Crocker chuckled. He liked his young navigator, but on this ship he thought Shawn might be a bit short of customers to protect.

Seawolf eventually went deep in the area Pearson had suggested, and within 15 miles she had 12,000 feet of water beneath her keel. The CO increased her speed to 30 knots and she ran smoothly 800 feet below the surface, aiming at the steep undersea mountains of the Marcus-Necker Ridge, and then on toward the sloping Mid-Pacific Mountains, which rise up to bisect the Tropic of Cancer.

At this speed Seawolf would make 700 miles a day, which would put her at the gateway to the Yellow Sea in a little under a week. God knew how long it would take to locate her quarry.

The crew were, almost to a man, unaware of their destination. On a mission such as this it was strictly a need-to-know situation. And Tony Fontana had come around to Brad Stockton’s way of thinking that this ship would turn southwest in the near future and run south of the old East Indies, avoiding the busy, shallow Strait of Malacca, and then run north up to the Arabian Gulf.

But the general consensus was that they were headed to a point somewhere on the far eastern seaboard of the continent of Asia, either China or Russia. Taiwan was the favorite, because most of the men knew there was constant trouble out there. But no one had written off the 1,500-mile-long stretch of the Kamchatka Peninsula because of the big Russian naval base on the edge of those freezing, lonely waters. One thing they all knew: Seawolf was headed due west right now. No arguments there.

But the mere fact that they had not been told their destination suggested that this was no ordinary mission. Seawolf was heading into very serious waters, of that there was no doubt.

1930. Sunday, June 18.

Home of Kathy O’Brien.

Chevy Chase, Maryland.

Admiral Arnold Morgan was lighting the barbecue grill. He was using one of those “chimneys” that require only lighted paper to start the charcoal burning. However, he had used four times more paper than was required, and he had used Match Light charcoal, which did not even require any paper. The result was a kind of controlled blaze upon which Dante himself might have roasted a few sausages.

Inferno was the word, and the admiral gazed at it with some satisfaction. “Get some goddamned power in there, right?” he told Kathy’s Labrador. “Get a little real heat going. You wanna cook lamb, you need power, right?”

Kathy, accustomed to Arnold’s unique view of how to light a barbecue, emerged from the house carrying a large platter on which was placed a large, marinated butterflied lamb, cut from an entire leg bone. She took one look at the fire and cast her eyes heavenward. “In case you hadn’t noticed, this is not a butterflied brontosaurus,” she said. “Just a regular leg of lamb, which requires nice hot gray coals, under the lid for about an hour. It does not require flames three feet high, nor will it taste any better for having been roasted in your personal version of Hiroshima.”

“I’m getting there,” he muttered, grinning. “Just gotta let the heat subside a little.”

“Oh, it should be just about perfect sometime on Tuesday evening. How about a drink while we wait?”

The admiral took the heavy plate from her and placed it on a small red table next to the inferno-grill. Then he placed his arm around her shoulder and told her he loved her as he did every evening before dinner. Then he asked her to marry him, and she said no, and he headed for the fridge to retrieve a bottle of her favorite 1997 Meursault and poured two glasses.

It was a ritual that amused them both, an affirmation that she would not become the third Mrs. Arnold Morgan until he retired from the White House, on the basis that she had no intention of sitting at home alone in Chevy Chase while he ran half the world.

The sun was setting now, somewhere out behind the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia. And they sat outside watching the dying flames — of the sun, not the grill — in the clear light blue of the evening sky.

The cool, pale gold taste of the perfect dry wine from the slopes of Burgundy relaxed them both, and they discussed the possibility of taking a break together, perhaps to go back to Europe and visit their old friend Admiral Sir Iain MacLean in Scotland.

But Kathy did not hold out much hope for that. “You’re very preoccupied this past couple of weeks,” she said. “Is it China?”

“Uh-huh,” he said. “They’re a goddamned PITA.”