America

He tried to decide what he would have done had he been the pirate captain aboard America after he launched the cruise missiles from the vertical launch tubes. Clear the area as fast as possible would be one's first instinct, he knew. However, the faster America left the area, the more likely it was that someone would hear her. Perhaps the Russian skipper had dashed a few miles, then slowed to minimize his noise signature… and listen.

Who was this Russian, Kolnikov, whom SUBLANT said stole America} An experienced submariner, obviously, but how experienced? How knowledgeable? Was he one of those Russians who knew how to think for themselves, or had he spent his life saluting and doing precisely what he was told?

After he launched the missiles, in which direction did he leave the scene? At three knots his boat would travel only a hundred yards in the minute that it took to get the three weapons airborne. One minute, a hundred yards… of course Brown had been unable to determine any change in bearing from the first launch to the last and thereby get a hint of America's course.

But afterward. . Kolnikov had launched missiles at Washington thirty-six hours ago from a position about 160 miles south. These missiles today could have been aimed at New York or Boston, maybe even Philadelphia. Did he intend to go northeast, toward Nantucket? Or east, out to sea? Perhaps south?

If he went west he would soon get into shallow water.. .

'Captain?' That was Buck Brown, on the sonar.

'Yes.'

'I'm hearing something funny. . well, sir, I just don't know. It shouldn't be there and darn if I know what it is.'

Was it possible, Junior Ryder asked himself? Have we met America leaving the area?

Junior Ryder slipped on a headset and adjusted it to fit. He pressed the earpieces to create a tight seal as he closed his eyes and concentrated. He heard… something, some kind of a gurgle maybe… nearly inaudible.

'Can you enhance it?'

'Yes, sir.' Brown twiddled a few knobs.

Now the commanding officer could hear it better. Definitely a gurgle. 'Is that us?'

'I don't think so, Skipper.'

'What is it?'

'Sir, I'd just be guessing.'

'Guess away, Buck.'

'The problem is that I can't resolve a bearing. The array seems to say it's coming from dead ahead, and the flank sensors seem to indicate it's coming from behind. Does that make sense? Could it be between us and the array?'

Junior Ryder stood very, very still. 'How long have you been hearing this noise?'

'I noticed it about three or four minutes ago, sir. But it's so faint, it may have been there for quite a while.'

'Hours?'

'Oh no, sir. Maybe fifteen or twenty minutes. Maybe less. I'm sure if it had been there longer I would have noticed it sooner.'

'So what is it? Take a guess.'

'I'm probably way off base, sir. It kinda sounds to me like water swirling around an open torpedo tube. Or a couple of them.'

The changing tone of the Cessna's engine drew Jake's attention. He put his head around the tree, looked for the plane. There it was, descending, turning, lining up on the pasture.

'Damn! They're going to land! Let's get the hell outta here.'

He turned and charged into the woods, Ilin following.

The Russian was quickly winded. As they ran through the brush and second-growth timber, slapping limbs out of the way and being slapped by them, he managed to ask, 'Who—? Who wants you dead?'

Grafton paused for a moment to let Ilin catch up. 'I thought they were after you,' he said, searching the Russian's face. At least it was no longer gray. Now it was bloodless, the color of old paper. 'Maybe the SVR has found out about your chat with DeGarmo, the CIA banana.'

Ilin leaned against a tree, trying desperately to get air. 'Oh, no… They… would never… have let me… walk out… of the embassy.' He took a huge breath and exhaled dramatically. 'They would have sent me back to Russia… or executed me in the embassy… Not this…' he waved a hand at the men behind.

Jake Grafton could no longer hear the hum of the aircraft engine. Presumably the killers had shut off the plane and were now coming through the woods, searching for their quarry.

'C'mon,' Jake said and led off.

Unless the gunmen were expert trackers, and this wasn't the Wild West, they were going to have to come slowly through the woods, looking carefully. Maybe he and Ilin had a chance.

Unfortunately they were going up a slope, which slowed them down, and Ilin was panting like a sled dog, which must be audible for a quarter mile.

After what seemed like a quarter hour, but was probably half that, they crested the ridge and found a trail along the top. Right or left?

Jake opted for right because the direction seemed to take them away from the highway. He felt like running but forced himself to walk. If he ran, Ilin would never keep up. As it was he was holding his side. Still, he too walked as quickly as he could.

They had gone a quarter mile or so when the trees ahead thinned.

A house. Jake glimpsed the brick. White trim. Big house, with chimneys.

Across the lawn, looking for signs of life.

No people, no cars in the driveway, no one visible in the windows.

He rang the doorbell on the entrance nearest the garage. He tried the knob. Locked, of course.

Felt around in the mailbox, looked under the doormat. Nothing. A flowerpot on the window ledge. He took it down, looked in.

'What are you looking for?'

'A key. Unless you want to run through the woods like a rabbit.'

Now he heard the engine of the airplane, revving… taking off.

A light fixture… no. A box for milk deliveries… And there it was, taped to the bottom of the milk box.

Please, God, no alarm! Please!

He unlocked the dead bolt, then found he had to do the doorknob too. Finally the door swung open.

No alarm.

He relocked the door behind them, then looked around. They were in the foyer of a large house, ten or twelve rooms, well furnished. The place reeked of serious money.

'Stay away from the windows. And look for guns. Any kind of guns.'

He went looking for a phone. The kitchen was to the right of the foyer, overlooking the parking area. There was a telephone there, of course. Dial tone. He punched 911.

As it rang he heard a popping outside. Muffled shots. . then the line went dead.

'Bastards.'

He threw down the telephone and charged through the house looking for a gun cabinet. He found Ilin on the second floor, in a den, trying to open the gun cabinet with a key. 'It was in the drawer.' Shelves filled with books lined the walls, soft leather chairs were arranged around a fireplace, a blowup of a thoroughbred hung over the fireplace.

Grafton picked up a book from a coffee table and broke the glass of the cabinet. 'They shot out the telephone line,' he explained. The cabinet held half a dozen shotguns, all expensive double-barrels.

Grafton grabbed two — twelve gauge — then rummaged through the drawers in the bottom half of the cabinet.

He found a box of shells. Birdshot. What the hell!

He passed Ilin a handful of shells and pocketed the rest.

Someone was working on the door downstairs. He could hear it. He could also hear the buzzing of the light