First Strike

this.”

Coyote went back to his lunch, figuring that the oldest adage of warfare still applied: Eat and sleep when you have a chance, because you won’t later on. He just polished off the last of his hamburger and contemplated a second order of french fries — his cooks, he knew, would make them, but it would take a few minutes. What if he didn’t want them by the time they were done? Was he really prepared to deal with the slightly reproachful look on the chief’s face if he wasn’t?

No, he decided, he was not. He patted his stomach, still flat and ridged. He was determined not to gain weight on this cruise. Maybe, some night when they were all tired and on edge, he would ask the chief to bring french fries for everyone. Yes, that would do it.

Outside his cabin, in the admiral’s conference room, he could hear a low murmur of voices. There was an occasional victory cry. He smiled at that. They were ready to go, had been since the news was announced. They would be polishing their plans to cope with any last-minute requirements from the president, but in his heart he felt unleashed.

USS Seawolf

1100 local (GMT-4)

Forsythe studied the crew. Red-rimmed eyes, willing but exhausted, stared back at him. After three days, the men were starting to look unkempt. Not that their appearances were a reflection of what was in their hearts. Forsythe knew that they would willingly follow him anywhere.

But should he ask it of them? For perhaps the millionth time since Cowlings had died, Forsythe wished for someone around to ask what to do.

But there was no one. Even the chief, as much insight as he had into the crew and operations, could not help him on this one.

They’re following me. Not the chief, not Cowlings, not the real captain. I’m the reason they’re awake, at their stations, and ready to fight. A sense of awe, of crushing responsibility filled his heart. To hold their lives in his hands, knowing that his decisions would either get them killed or keep them alive, was a sacred trust past all understanding. They were his crew, his.

And, I am the only one who can stand them down. They won’t take it from anyone else.

The USS Nashville was due in their area in six hours. The reasonable thing to do would be to withdraw, retreat to a safe distance away from this last submarine’s operating area, and wait for Nashville to show up. A fresh submarine, one with a fully manned and rested crew, was the weapon of choice in this instance.

They had come so far, done so much with so little — but there was a time to call it quits. That time was now.

Forsythe took a deep breath, ready to give the order. It would be a disappointment to many, coupled with a relief they dared not expressed. He would let them grumble about the order, insisting that they were ready to go on, as he knew they were.

But before his lips formed the words, a hard, shimmering ping reverberated through every scrap of metal on the ship. Once, faintly, then again, harder and louder. The tone shifted up, the beats coming closer together.

“Captain, Sonar. I classify this contact as a Soviet Yankee-class submarine. Unable at this time to determine whether she is a ballistic missile boat or one of the modified guided missile ones.”

“Make your depth twelve hundred feet,” Forsythe ordered, now moving almost automatically through the process of breaking contract, evading and setting up for the kill. “Chief, how are we doing on decoys and noisemakers?”

“Two decoys and seven noisemakers left.”

“Fine. Have a man standing by with them.” Forsythe summoned up a determined tone from some deep inner resource he didn’t know he had. “Okay, men. We’ve done this before. Let’s do it again.” For a moment, he wished he could think of some more ringing words that would echo in their minds, but what he said was evidently enough. It fired them up, their attention now focused on the task and away from the fear, and commands and reports flowed smoothly around him as though he were a boulder in the middle of a stream, observing it all, taking it in, letting it flow over and around him.

By now, the chief was accustomed to the way he worked. He took the submarine down smartly, executed two sharp turns to generate masses of bubbles, then slowed and dove quickly below the layer. The sonar pings followed them, wavered, and faded out as the warmer water above them deflected the acoustic energy toward the surface.

“Sir, recommend we kick her up to fifteen knots then circle around behind.”

“Very well. Make it so.” And why wasn’t there anyone to give him a pat on the back, to remind him of how much they accomplish, to inspire him to go on? Forsythe rubbed his hand across his eyes, which were dry and scratchy.

“Here.” The doctor appeared at his side and pressed something into his hand. “This will perk you up.”

The mug contained fresh, hot coffee, the steam still rising off its surface, the color dark and oily as only submariners can make it. Forsythe glanced up at the man in surprise, then shook his head. Maybe he had misjudged him. They had had their differences of opinion, but when it came right down to it, the doctor was a submariner, too. He understood what they were up against.

“No drinking during general quarters,” Forsythe said, reluctantly. He could almost taste the dark bite of caffeine, feel the warmth trace its way down his throat and spread through his body. But he couldn’t, not now. Not when the other men were not allowed any. He started to shove the cup away, but the doctor touched his wrist lightly. “I think you can break the rules just this one time, Captain. Consider it medicinal. Besides, I brought enough for everyone.” He held up a carafe, and stack of foam cups.

“Very well.” Forsythe could resist no longer. He lifted the cup, took a second to savor the aroma, his gaze still fixed on the sonar screen as he watched the ship maneuver. He took the first sip, held it in his mouth for a moment, and reveled in the heat. He swallowed, took another gulp, and then another. Finally, when he finished, he passed the cup back to the doctor.

“Steady on zero nine zero, speed fifteen,” the chief said. “There’s no indication that they see us, Captain. Recommend another three miles before we come above the layer.”

“Very well. Make it so.”

This doesn’t sound like me. My tone — and where did I learn those words? But, it sounds right. At least, they act like I’m saying the right words. Good thing they don’t know….

He knew a moment of panic as he remembered how quickly Cowlings had died. One second alive, studying a problem just as he was at this moment. A second later, falling against the bulkhead and passing out.

What? He reached out to steady himself against the same bulkhead, then felt a flash of surreal fear. What the hell was happening?

“Sir, are you all right?” The chief was at his side, anchoring him to navigation plot. “Captain, what’s wrong?”

“I–I don’t know. All at once my balance is off.” Cold horror ran through Forsythe as an ugly possibility came to mind. He shook the chief’s arm off, and turned to stare in disbelief at the doctor. The man was watching him, his face expressionless.

“He did this,” Forsythe said, aware now how seriously his words were slurred. “What did you put in the coffee?”

“Nothing, Captain.” The doctor studied him for a moment, then nodded. “It’s just coffee. Perhaps you’re more tired than you realize.”

Rage swept through Forsythe, sweeping away the drowsiness creeping upon him. “You fool! Don’t you realize what’s happening? Get me something to counteract this — and get it now.”

“Counteract what?” the doctor asked quietly. “All I see is an overstressed junior officer finally succumbing to the pressure.”

“Oh, yeah?” the chief asked. He picked up the coffee cup, examined it, and turned to the quartermaster serving as navigator. “Bubble wrap. Completely. I don’t want anything to evaporate.” He turned to glare at the