access hatch.
Forsythe turned to the boatswain’s mate. “What am I forgetting?”
“Nothing, sir. Be nice if we had somebody on the pier to haul the rest of those lines so we make sure they don’t get tangled in the shafts. I’m pulling aboard the lines on this end, just for that reason.”
“Can you get someone down on the pier to do it all?”
The boatswains mate nodded. “But it’ll be tricky, sir. With a mooring lines detached, if you start the ship moving too fast, we’ll pull away from the gangway and leave him on the pier. And I don’t think any one of us wants that. All lines have been cut except for the two lines abeam, so we’re ready to go on short notice. I send one guy down to the pier and we’re disconnected from everything else.” The boatswains mate shrugged. “It’s as safe as we can make it here.”
“Do it,” Forsythe ordered. “Cast off the moment everyone is back on board.”
Things moved rather quickly from that point, and Forsythe stepped back out of the way, letting the boatswain’s mate run things. His radio crackled with a steady stream of orders as, below decks, Cowlings ran through the getting-underway checklist. For just a moment, he thought he felt the turbine come up to speed, and then sensation faded. Everything on board the submarine was shock mounted for maximum acoustic silence, and that included the main turbines.
The man on the pier hauled all the lines in out of the water, and then ran back on board. The final line was severed on board the ship, and, because of the tension it was under, it slashed back across the pier, narrowly missing the sailor. He jumped nimbly out of the way, then hauled the bitter end out of the water. The process was repeated at the forward spring line.
“Come on, Billy!” The boatswain’s mate shouted. “Move your ass!”
There was a low groan as the bolts holding the gangway to the ship took the whole stress. The submarine was not underway yet, but now it was subject to the currents and wind, and both were pushing it away from the pier.
The young sailor, a yeoman, darted up the gangway, leaping over the last six feet to land solidly on the deck.
“Now!” the boatswain’s mate said. Engineers snapped off the cotter pins and the gangway pulled away from the ship, screeching its way down the side and leaving marks on the antiechoic coating.
The boatswains mate pulled a whistle out of his pocket. He issued one sharp blast on it, then shouted, “Underway.” He repeated the announcement on his radio.
“Everybody below decks, Boats,” Forsythe heard Cowling say. “Ensign Forsythe, you take conning tower, but be ready to clear the decks on short notice. I don’t plan on staying surfaced any longer than I have to.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Forsythe said. He watched as the sailors scuttled down the forward hatch, pulled it shut behind them and secured it. Forsythe then climbed into the conning tower and took his station. The distance between the submarine and the pier increased and water roiled around the bow as the propeller and the bow thrusters began to operate.
More gunfire, closer this time. At the land end of the pier, a cluster of men with automatic weapons were assembling.
“OOD, Conning Officer. I’m under fire.”
“Secure the watch and get your ass down here,” Cowling snapped. “Now.”
Forsythe ducked down into the lockout chamber in the sail, pulled the hatch down behind him and continued down the ladder a short distance. He spun the wheel behind him, securing the hatch, then made his way into the control room to stand behind the chief of the boat, his normal underway station as conning officer.
“Green board, sir,” the chief of the boat said, indicating that the telltale indicators showed all hatches secure.
“Pressurize the submarine,” Cowlings ordered. Seconds later, Forsythe’s ears popped as blasts of compressed air increased air pressure inside the subway slightly, testing every seal.
“Pressurization set,” the chief said. “The ship is ready for sea, sir.”
“Very well. Conning officer, periscope depth. Or, just a little less than that — I want the decks awash, but not the entire sail. Be ready to dive as soon as we’re clear of the channel and commercial shipping.”
“I recommend seventy feet, at the keel, sir,” the chief said immediately.
“Very well. Make your depth seventy feet.” Cowlings turned to Forsythe. “Get the antenna deployed and get an OPREP message out to Second Fleet and COMSUBLANT. Tell them what you heard, that we’re underway, and that, unless otherwise directed, my intentions are to head for deep water. Once I’m satisfied that we’re in no immediate danger, we’ll come to communications depth for further guidance. If they’ve got a major problem with that, they can reach us on ELF.” Cowlings’s mouth quirked slightly. “Put it in a little more tactful terms, but make sure you tell them that we’re out of contact for about eight hours, other than ELF.”
SIX
To an outsider, Advanced Solutions looked like any one of a number of small defense contractors known as the Beltway Bandits that lived and died off defense industry contracts. They sprang up overnight like mushrooms, flourished briefly on one or two contracts, and disappeared just as suddenly, either through insolvency if unsuccessful, or being absorbed into larger corporation if they were so lucky as to actually make a profit. Indeed, the exterior office had the requisite mauve and blue furnishings, metallic veneered name plates, and other accoutrements of prosperity that tried to give the impression of solvency without actually achieving it. The receptionist could spout knowledgeably about Advanced Solutions’s prospects, the current and anticipated contracts, and their hiring requirements. Unemployed aerospace professionals provided a steady flow of remarkably similar resumes, but Advanced Solutions never seemed to have any openings. And this, too, was typical of most Beltway Bandits.
But behind the facade, a highly professional and skilled team was at work. The two recruiters, nephew and uncle, were funded as a black operations project, so far off the books that their budget never even raised an eyebrow in defense oversight circles. Indeed, their expenditures were so small compared to most of their ilk that no one would have noticed anyway. They drew primarily on military personnel on detached assignment, and, with Uncle Thomas doing the brainstorming and Tombstone the mission planning, they were able to do far more with far less than any other covert organization. Their skills were specialized, not used in every conflict, but called in to play whenever the United States needed small, sensitive aviation missions executed with the utmost secrecy.
At present, the staff of Advanced Solutions consisted of only four people — the two Magruders, Greta, the receptionist, and Tombstone’s backseater, Navy Lieutenant Jeremy Greene, also a Tomcat pilot. On this particular morning, all except Greta were gathered in the conference room, a secure, carefully shielded space that was cleared for the most sensitive information in defense circles. They were reading the message traffic coming in from the fleet and getting their updates from CNN, just like the rest of the world, and most especially the military establishment.
Tombstone swore quietly as he saw yet another Russian transport land heavily on the airfield. One part of his mind, the part that didn’t give a damn about national security or anything else except flying, noted that the landing was a clumsy one. The transport bounced three times before it finally decided to settle down, and the Bear’s initial taxi had almost run her off the strip.
Beside him, his backseater seethed. An excellent pilot in his own right, he was increasingly proficient as a RIO, although the assignment often annoyed him. Still, all of their aircraft were configured for two pilots, and having him aboard assured him that someone could get them home even if Tombstone were incapacitated.
Of the three, his uncle was the quietest. His gaze was fixed on the screen, his fingers drumming monotonously on the fake-wood table. A deepening scowl framed his eyebrows and strong features.
“Damn, I should have stayed with my squadron,” the younger aviator said. He shot up out of his chair as
