America

Yesterday the nation's financial markets were open less than an hour before the major indexes had dropped so much that authorities suspended trading. Selling pressure, reported the nation's financial press, was strong and building. The prognosticators thought that when the markets opened later this morning, they would fall to the limit in less than twenty minutes. The authorities had appealed to the SEC to suspend trading altogether. Around the world the American dollar was taking a severe beating.

As usual, most of the items in the intelligence summary looked as if they were taken straight from the news wires, Grafton thought as he replaced the summary in its envelope.

The United States was under attack. Even though they didn't know who or why, the reality of the attack was obvious to the investing public, which had panicked. And who could blame them?

A stolen state-of-the-art attack submarine, a missile attack on the presidential mansion, E-warheads causing electrical meltdowns, apparent cover-ups by the administration, outrageous rumors thick as bees in a hive, a military powerless to catch the perps… and of course, there was the missing satellite. Everything these days seemed to exude a faint odor of incompetence.

Several senators predicted spreading anarchy and the collapse of civil government — even in this age of failed dreams, that kind of talk rated headlines. Several more prominent lawmakers had appealed to the president to declare martial law.

And yet, Jake Grafton thought, the police are directing traffic and the streets are full of people going to work.

Surrounded by his staff, General Flap Le Beau was in his E-Ring office at the Pentagon preparing for a Joint Chiefs meeting when Jake arrived. 'What should we do that we haven't done?'' The commandant tossed out that question as Jake headed for an empty chair.

'Induce a four-mile error in the global positioning system,' Jake Grafton promptly replied.

Flap sighed. 'The White House shot that one down.'

'That was yesterday. This is a new day. Let's try it again.'

'Yesterday they said that the pirates might not shoot any more missiles. And they haven't. Until they do, the politicos will look like savants.'

'Has any terrorist group claimed credit for kicking the imperialists?' Flap's chief of staff asked.

'Four, so far. The FBI says none of them are credible.'

'What's the weather this morning?'

'Clouds over the East Coast, General, but several hundred miles at sea the clouds dissipate and the visibility is excellent. We'll know about a cruise missile launch within two minutes.'

'That's one small positive,' Flap Le Beau admitted. 'The air force and navy will have everything they own out there looking.'

'Any ransom demands, General?' Another staff officer asked this question. 'Any demands to release political prisoners, anything like that?'

'Not that I know of.' Flap eyed Jake. 'What's the story on the FBI?'

'They are still working on the problem of identifying the last person who went aboard America, sir. We assume the fifteen members of the Blackbeard team went aboard and one Leon Roth-berg, a civilian engineer from the sub base simulator department. That leaves one more man. The FBI is working on that tape that the Boston television station shot from a chopper of the Blackbeard team stealing the sub, seeing if there is a face on there that they haven't seen before.' The tape had been running almost continuously in America and on cable stations around the world. The people in Washington hadn't seen it, of course, since they had been without electrical power for almost thirty-two hours. The television withdrawal would have been merely inconvenient anywhere else in the wired world, but without the benefit of instant feedback, the Washington politicians were operating in a painful new world.

'The FBI is checking on the disclosure list for Cowbell,' Jake said. 'Krautkramer is supposed to get back to me this morning. He will have to interview those people.'

Flap looked glum. 'If there has been a leak, the FBI will need months to find it, if they ever do. Man, we don't have months.'

'The pirates must have known about Cowbell, sir. Be a hell of a coincidence if they didn't. Right now that's the only lead we have.'

Flap threw up his hands in frustration.

'In a few hours NSA may have something from the Brits,' Jake concluded. 'All over the world people are talking and the spooks are listening.'

'Give me a minute alone with Admiral Grafton,' Flap said to his staff. The commandant led Jake back into his office and closed the door. 'I had a little oral scuffle with the national security adviser yesterday evening, told her that they had given me a fool's errand. I was tired of people not leveling with me — all the usual stuff.'

'And?'

'One item. Blackbeard was canceled because the Russians found out about it. Want to know how we learned that happy fact?' Flap's eyes narrowed. 'The director of the CIA was attending a reception for the Russian trade delegation when Janos Ilin dropped the bomb over a glass of Chablis.'

Vladimir Kolnikov was sitting in the control room watching the sonar displays when the chief German engineer and five other men came in, following Georgi Turchak. They had been working on the oil circulation pump for seven hours. Behind them came Heydrich, lean and cadaverous as always, carrying a cup of coffee.

'We have it back together,' the chief engineer said. 'No oil leaking, so the gaskets appear to be all right.'

'We worked as quietly as we could, used rags to try and deaden the sound,' Turchak told Kolnikov.

'Well, it's fixed now.'

Kolnikov studied the tactical display. 'Rothberg, reprogram the missiles. We will launch in two hours. We will be two miles north of our current position. Then we will dive to two thousand feet, run at twenty knots for an hour, then go dead in the water and wait for the Americans to get tired of looking. We will not do any eating or moving around, no going to the toilet. I think this would be an excellent time for everyone not needed in the control or engine room to take a nap. Fortunately we have plenty of bunks. Everyone pick one, close your eyes, and check for light leaks.'

'You're crazy,' Rothberg said flatly. 'The Americans will see the missiles come out of the water and come charging out here like they're going to a fire. They'll be armed to the teeth and ready for anything. Dead in the water, unable to maneuver or fight, we'll be sitting ducks.'

From the look on their faces, it was obvious the others agreed with Rothberg.

'The screws of this boat are as quiet as technology allows. Still, unavoidably, they do put low-frequency noise into the water. All of you know that. That is the only noise this boat generates, so it will be the one noise the Americans will be looking for. We must do the unexpected.'

'Jesus!' Rothberg exclaimed. 'You think the U.S. Navy is some kind of third-world yacht club? They ain't the fucking Russian Navy, Jack! They're—'

Kolnikov backhanded him across the mouth. The slap sounded loud as a shot in the control room.

'Now all of you, listen to me,' Kolnikov snarled. 'You volunteered for this. Every one of you swinging dicks.'

'You never said—' Steeckt began.

Kolnikov cut him off. 'I won't listen to your whining. I told you the U.S. Navy would hunt us, I told you the odds were against us. Heydrich told you if we made it we would all be set for life, with three million American dollars for every man. And you bought it. Each of you. Yeah, for that much money we'll risk our lives. Yeah. And all of us fools began planning where we would go and how we would live, the women, the cars, the good life…'

He saw several smiles now and knew he had them. 'Even you, Rothberg. Money for women and gambling, money to be somebody. You were tired of being a short, fat, nerdy slob working at the sub base. This was your chance. And it still is!'

He let the silence build. Heydrich's face was impassive, impossible to read. 'I'm not suicidal,' Kolnikov continued. 'I know what I'm doing. You men do your jobs, obey orders, and I'll do my level best to get us through this alive. No guarantees, no promises. I'll do my best.'

Kolnikov searched Steeckt's face. 'There's no way to undo what we have done, no way to bring those dead American sailors back to life, to return their submarine and slip away into the crowd. We're halfway across the abyss on a tightrope. Our only choice is go forward.'