Ziyax was on the bridge with him, scanning the horizon with binoculars. The late afternoon was chilly, even invigorating after the stuffiness below.
Graham took one last deep breath, then keyed the ship’s intercom. “Con, bridge. Prepare to dive the boat.”
“Aye, sir, prepare to dive the boat,” al-Abbas replied after only a slight hesitation. The crew had not understood his orders to run on the surface, but now that the boat was well ventilated, and all of them, by fours, had been allowed briefly on deck, they didn’t want to submerge.
“What has this afternoon been about?” Ziyax asked respectfully.
Graham glanced at him. The man wasn’t a bad officer, limited by his lack of good training. But he wanted to be home with his family, not out here for any cause. Especially not for the Islamic jihad. “Insurance.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I wanted to be spotted running on the surface, on this course, by an American satellite.”
Ziyax was startled. “They know about us?”
“It’s possible.”
“Then they’ll be waiting for us,” Ziyax said. “For the sake of reason, for the sake of Allah we must turn back before we’re all killed.”
Graham had no real idea why he was bothering to explain anything to the Libyan, especially something so obvious. But he wanted someone to know and appreciate the ruse.
“You’re right about one thing, Captain. The Americans will be waiting for us. But we’ve been on the same heading since we cleared Gibraltar. Southwest, toward Central America. Toward the Panama Canal, which I … probed last month. They’ll believe that we’re trying to hit the canal again.” He looked into the Libyan’s eyes to see if the man understood the logic. But there was no one home.
Ziyax merely stared at him.
“Insurance,” Graham said. He keyed the phone again. “Bridge, con. Dive the boat.”
“Aye, Cap’n, dive the boat.”
Graham let Ziyax clear the bridge first, then, after one last look at the setting sun, dropped through the hatch, securing it above his head, and descended into the control room.
“I have an all-green board,” Ziyax reported.
“All compartments ready in all respects,” al-Abbas said.
“Very well, dive the boat,” Graham said. “Make your depth four hundred meters.”
Everyone in the control room looked up from their duty stations. That depth was well below the safety limits for a boat this age, and everyone knew it.
Graham waited for just a moment. “Captain, if you please.”
“Aye, Captain,” Ziyax said. “Diving Officer, make your depth four hundred meters.”
Al-Abbas repeated the order, and went about the task of submerging the boat.
Graham walked over to the chart table, on which a small-scale chart of the western Atlantic from twenty degrees north to forty degrees north was laid out. As the bow of the submarine began to cant downward, he plotted a great circle course to the mouth of the Chesapeake still two thousand miles away. Five days.
He looked up. “I’m going to the wardroom to have my dinner,” he told his crew conversationally. “When we level off — but not before we level off — come right to new course three-zero-five, and make your speed All Ahead Flank.”
Graham waited until Ziyax had repeated the order then headed aft to the wardroom. “Mr. Ziyax, you have the con,” he called nonchalantly over his shoulder.
SIXTY-TWO
Noon traffic was in full swing along Embassy Row when McGarvey pulled up in front of the Cosmos Club on Massachusetts Avenue and let the valet take his Range Rover. Only a few people in the entire city knew about the threat they were facing, and he figured that they were the lucky ones. At least for now.
He had given a lot of thought to how a missile attack on Washington might unfold, and what could be done to stop it. But although he had what he thought was a fair understanding of Graham, he was going to need a sub driver to lay out the tactics of a strike using a Foxtrot, and he was going to have to keep his ideas outside official military channels.
Graham would know U.S. Navy tactics, and how to sidestep them, so they needed to throw him a curveball. Something he would not expect.
The club, which was housed in an elegant three-story Victorian brownstone, had been in existence since the late 1800s, and was the gathering place for movers and shakers; the Nobel prizewinners, the presidents and CEOs of major corporations, the most powerful lawyers and politicians. Merely being wealthy didn’t guarantee acceptance, its members had to be people who were doing significant things.
Just inside the elegant entrance, McGarvey gave his name to the receptionist and was directed to the lavishly decorated Smith Dining Room. The tuxedoed maître d’ brought him to a corner table where two men, both dressed in civilian clothes, were seated.
McGarvey recognized the older, slightly built man with thinning white hair and pale blue eyes. “Admiral, thanks for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.”
Admiral Joseph Puckett, Jr., glanced up, but didn’t offer his hand. “The president said I was to cooperate with you, McGarvey. Sit down.”
Puckett had the reputation of being one of the toughest officers ever to chair the Joint Chiefs. McGarvey had never dealt with the man before, but the admiral was also widely known as being a fair, if no-nonsense, man, which meant he was a military officer first and a politician a distant second.
“Fair enough,” McGarvey said, taking a seat.
Their waiter came immediately and when he’d left with McGarvey’s drink order, Puckett introduced the other man as Navy Captain Frank Dillon, a former Seawolf submarine commander, and now boss of his own squadron in Honolulu. He was a lean, well-muscled man with sandy hair, a thick mustache, and a pleasant, almost handsome face.
He and McGarvey shook hands. “Weren’t you the director of the CIA a couple years ago?” he asked.
McGarvey nodded. “I didn’t like dealing with politicians so I got out while I still had my hide intact.”
Puckett nodded, then put his napkin on the table and pushed away. “I’ll leave you gentlemen to it,” he said. “Whatever Mr. McGarvey wants, within reason, you’re to comply, Captain,” he told Dillon.
“Yes, sir,” Dillon said, obviously not at all sure what he was getting into.
Puckett turned back to McGarvey. “You may know that I’ve sent a carrier battle group to screen the canal. Should get down there within the next forty-eight hours. What you might not know is that a couple hours ago a satellite spotted your boy on the surface in the mid-Atlantic, still heading southwest.”
“Isn’t that unusual?” McGarvey asked. “Running on the surface in broad daylight. He’d have to know he’d be spotted.”
“May have had trouble with his snorkel,” Puckett said. He gave McGarvey a hard stare. “I know enough about you to know that you’re a good man to have around in a pinch. But I also know enough about you to know that whenever you get involved in something, a lot of people, some of them ours, get hurt.”
“I don’t invent the bad guys, Admiral.”
Puckett nodded, turned on his heel, and stalked off.
“I probably could have handled that a little better,” McGarvey said wryly. He turned to Dillon. “Captain, have you been told why you’re here today?”
“No, sir. Just that you’re working on an assignment for the CIA, with the blessing of the White House, and you need someone who knows submarine tactics.”