“Good morning, ma’am,” a voice said from her living room.
“Morning. Can’t sleep,” she answered shortly. She could have ignored him completely, she supposed. Brad had promised her that the increased security would be completely transparent to her, and part of the deal was that she could pretend that they were not around. But there was a deep streak of innate courtesy in her bones that prevented her from carrying out what she’d insisted on. “I’ll be in my office,” she concluded.
“Can I get you anything?”
“No. Thanks.”
She shut the door behind her with a firm click, then leaned back against it and sighed. First the intrusions into her private life, and now the president’s blind ambition. Didn’t he see what could happen? Didn’t he understand that short-term political expediency would do more to lose the election for him than any number of civilians killed in Bermuda?
Oh, sure, she understood his reasoning, and, on one level, she was tempted to agree with him. Among the current crop of politicians, he was indeed the best person to occupy the Oval Office. A shudder ran through her as she considered what sort of president the other party’s nominee would be.
Are you being completely honest about this? Aren’t you just covering up the fact that if he loses, you lose?
Her appointment was a political one. If the other party swept the White House, she would be asked to resign. Not in so many words, but it was an accepted fact of this life that she’d chosen that she’d be expected to tender her resignation immediately.
So what? I was a good lawyer before I took this job — I’ll be a good one after I leave the U.N. Nobody stays here forever, you know.
A pang swept through her. There was so much still left to do in the U.N., so many possibilities for peace and prosperity.
Ah. So it is about the power, isn’t it?
No, it wasn’t.
Was it?
The telephone broke into her increasingly uncomfortable musings and she trotted over to her desk to answer it, grateful for the distraction. The LCD read out indicated it was a secure call originating at the White House. She picked up the handset and simultaneously began spinning the dials on her safe, retrieving the crypto key that would enable the telephone to synchronize with the one on the other end. “Wexler,” she said, still fumbling with the dials. “Give me a moment to go secure.”
“Take your time, Sarah,” the president’s voice said. “And get comfortable. This is going to take a while.”
After the president had concluded the call, Sarah Wexler slumped back into her chair, her security key in her hand. Unbelievable, absolutely unbelievable. And it couldn’t have come at a worse time, either. It had not been so long ago that she’d discovered that the Russians had planted a listening device in her office. While she’d been able to turn the tables on them then, and had since stepped up her electronic security measures, the incident had left a residue of distrust and uneasiness between the American and the Russian delegations. Reactions from the other members of the CIS had been all over the board, with some of them quite privately gleeful over the comeuppance Russia had received while publicly protesting American policies.
Russia herself had recalled her ambassador and replaced him with a man she had yet to get to know. The few times they had met, he had been cold and distant, formally correct, but showing absolutely no inclination to develop the sort of working relationship that normally characterized the U.N.
Nevertheless, there was no getting around it. She needed to talk to him, and talk to him immediately.
She pulled out her Palm Pilot and dialed his number.
EIGHT
Cowlings came out of the captain’s cabin, bleary and pale. His eyes looked unfocused and distracted. Forsythe, who was fighting off his own fatigue, passed him a cup of coffee. Cowlings fumbled for it, then took it gratefully.
“I was just going to call you,” Forsythe said. “One of the Kilos has turned back toward us. There’s no indication she sees us yet, but she’s within twenty thousand yards.”
Cowlings yawned. “Okay. Go rack out for a while.”
Suddenly, a sharp ping cut through the control room like a knife. Forsythe felt his stomach lurch. “How can they — how did they know — we didn’t—”
“It doesn’t matter. We’ll—”
“Conn, Sonar! I’m holding air bubbles from the Kilo — classify as depth change and outer torpedo doors opening! Recommend snap shot procedures followed by—torpedo in the water! Torpedo in the water!”
Cowling swore quietly, then stepped over to the sonar shack, tripping over the rubber gasket as he did. “Ensign, you have the deck.”
“Aye-aye, sir,” Forsythe said. “I have the deck — belay your reports.”
“Hard right rudder, make your depth fifteen hundred feet,” Cowlings said sharply. “All ahead flank.”
Forsythe relayed the orders, knowing what Cowlings intended. The sudden increase in their speed, as well as the hard turn and change in depth would create massive air bubbles in the water. With any luck, the torpedo would be deceived into thinking that was the target and would detonate while the Seawolf made her escape.
But what if it is an acoustic homer? Then it will ignore the air bubbles.
“Layer depth is one thousand and fifty feet, sir,” the sonarman announced. “Estimate we’ll be there in ninety seconds.”
Suddenly, the deck pitched down hard as the Seawolf’s helmsman selected a large down bubble and steep angle of descent. It was followed by a slight shove as the propellers ramped up to flank speed and the deck tilted down to the right. It was an unusual sensation on board a submarine, normally a stable, motionless platform. Forsythe felt exposed, vulnerable, suddenly conscious of just how far below the sea they were. Fifteen hundred feet — at that depth, even the slightest leak had the force of a sledgehammer. A thin stream of water would cut through flesh and bone like superheated steam. They would never have to worry about drowning, no — they would be smashed to unrecognizable jelly by the pressures before that could ever occur.
“Cavitating, sir,” the sonarman announced.
“Maintain course and speed,” Cowlings said. “We’re heading down.” As the pressure increased, the cavitation would decrease. Cavitation was dependent on pressure, as determined by depth and propeller speed. Cavitation was normally something every submarine tried to avoid, since the bursting air bubbles dumped massive amounts of sound into the water and made them an all too attractive target.
Forsythe turned around and stared at the sonar screen to see exactly where the torpedo was in relation to the ship, as though there was something he could do about it. But there wasn’t, and his duty now was to oversee the control room team, along with the chief, and let Cowlings watch the sonar. He could almost feel the torpedo creeping across the screen behind him, felt it as a sickening itch between his shoulder blades.
Suddenly, he heard a deep, painful sigh, as though a soul were being ripped from flesh. Cowlings had one hand on the bulkhead — nothing unusual about that, he could have been steadying himself during the turn — but his face was pale.
“My head,” Cowlings said, almost conversationally, a trace of puzzlement in his voice. “It hurts.” His eyes closed and he leaned toward the bulkhead, holding out one hand to support himself. His elbow bent and his arm went limp. He slid down to the deck.
The chief sonarman caught Cowlings as he crumpled, and then looked across at Forsythe, panic on his face. “Sir?”