Gunnar watches from the bow as the rabble return to line the pier, several protesters firing pistols into the air. Captain Botchin wishes the general luck as he departs aboard one of the Coast Guard vessels.
A half mile out to sea the sub’s crew grows silent. Faslane Naval Base smokes in the distance. A few smug smiles crease the submariners’ faces as they observe several dozen protesters being forced to leap into the sea—the flames, set by their own hands, engulfing the pier beneath their feet.
Norwegian Sea
Aboard the USS Scranton
Captain Tom Cubit slumps in his command chair, the hypnotic sounds of machinery pushing him deeper toward unconsciousness, his eyelids growing heavy from lack of sleep. After several minutes his eyes close, his head leaning back …
Cubit’s neck snaps back against the too-short headrest, jolting him awake. He wipes sweat beads from his forehead, then slips off his chair and staggers toward the galley to grab another cup of coffee. Halfway there, he changes his mind, turns back, and heads forward to the sonar room.
Sonar technician Michael Flynn is anything but refreshed from the seventy minutes of sleep he barely grabbed last night, on the floor by his station. Only his full bladder keeps him from falling back into dreamland. He looks up as the captain approaches.
“Anything?”
“Sorry, Skipper. It’s like searching for a needle in a haystack the size of New Jersey.”
“When was your last break?”
“Twelve hundred hours, but I’m fine—”
“You’re relieved. Ensign Wismer, take over at sonar.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Skipper, really—”
“Hot-bunk it, Michael-Jack. That’s an order.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Conn, radio, incoming message on the VLF.”
“Radio, Captain, on my way.”
Communications Officer Drew Laird hands his CO the folded message. Cubit rubs his eyes, trying to get them to focus as Commander Dennis joins him.
“New orders from COMSUBLANT?”
Cubit nods. “We’re being ordered to abandon our search and head to Spain, to the naval base in Rota.”
“A Med run?”
“Yeah.” Cubit hands the message to his second-in-command.
Dennis scans the orders. “They want us to join up with the Sixth Fleet’s Task Force 69. They must think the Goliath is heading for the Mediterranean.”
“We’ll never find that sub in the Med,” Cubit states. “Sonar conditions are terrible, warm water impinging on cold, salt water with fresh.”
“Naval Intelligence obviously thinks this Covah character may launch a nuke at Yugoslavia.”
Cubit thinks for a moment, then pulls his XO aside. “Plot a course to the Mediterranean, but don’t take us in. Before joining up with the fleet, I want to camp out a bit in the Strait of Gibraltar and give Flynnie another shot at finding that sub. The Strait’s pretty narrow. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Aboard the HMS Vengeance
Commander Paul Whitehouse is a no-nonsense veteran of the Royal Navy’s submarine force. In seventeen years, he has never questioned authority—until now.
The British officer leads his four guests into his ready room, mentally preparing his verbal assault. Stay composed, Whitehouse. The Yankee general’s ego won’t take kindly to questioning his judgment.
“Well then, hope you enjoyed that little send-off. Captain Botchin will issue a statement later today announcing how the nuclear demonstration forced the Royal Navy to assign Vengeance to the Mediterranean. That should play well with what you’re intending to do.”
“Agreed.” General Jackson removes his cap, running his fingers through his short-cropped, auburn Afro. “The SEAL sub is ready to go?”
“Aye, sir, as per your orders.”
“Good. Now, if it’s all right with you, Commander, my team needs to get some rest.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve got you and your daughter in the XO’s stateroom across the passageway. Mr. Paniagua can bunk with my XO. As for Mr. Wolfe, I’m afraid the only open bunk we could find is in the torpedo room.” Whitehouse offers a false smile. “Sorry, best we could do.”
Gunnar looks at the Bear, but says nothing.
“General, before you go, if I could have a word with you in private?”
Jackson nods to Gunnar. “Wait for me in sick bay.”
Whitehouse closes the door after him. “Permission to speak freely, sir?”
“Go on.”
“With all due respect, General, I don’t like this assignment, don’t like it one bit. Using the Vengeance as bait recklessly endangers my ship and my crew.”
“Duly noted, Commander. Is that all?”
Whitehouse’s face flushes red. “No, sir. I take it as a personal insult that Mr. Wolfe has been brought aboard my vessel. As far as the officers and crew of the Royal Navy are concerned, this man is a traitor to every sailor in the Western fleet, and should have been hanged for treason six years ago.”
The Bear exhales deeply, then eyeballs the British officer. “Commander, Gunnar Wolfe served his country under my command for the better part of a decade. Special Ops missions placed his life in jeopardy no less than a dozen times. His Ranger extraction team saved the lives of thirty men in Somalia, at which time he was wounded in battle. To this day, I firmly believe that he was and is innocent of all charges, and his presence on this mission is critical to its success.” Jackson stares hard into the man’s eyes. “As such, I highly suggest that you and your men allow Captain Wolfe to carry out his assignment without prejudice. Is that clear, Commander?”
“Perfectly clear … sir.”
Gunnar is waiting in sick bay, watching the ship’s medical officer stow plastic bottles of pharmaceuticals into cabinets.
General Jackson enters. “You ready?”
“I suppose.” Gunnar stands, then drops his trousers to his knees and climbs on the table. “Does Rocky or David know about this?”
“No, and let’s keep it that way.” Jackson hands the medical officer a wafer-thin dime-shaped piece of hard plastic. “Insert it in the quad, just below the hip.”
The medical officer swabs the spot with alcohol, then makes a small incision with his scalpel. Several minutes and five stitches later, the homing device is set into position.
The medical officer leaves.
“The device is designed to relay signals at predetermined intervals, making it more difficult for Sorceress to detect, assuming the computer is active,” Jackson says. “Have you selected a code name?”
Gunnar finishes dressing. “Joe-Pa.”
Jackson nods. “Coach Paterno would be proud.”
The former Penn State tight end shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
The designers of a nuclear submarine must optimize every cubic foot of space, often at the expense of the crew’s comfort. Sleeping racks, affording spaces no larger than small coffins, are stacked three high, and are often time-shared by several crewmen, one man sleeping while the other is on duty. As a result, the bedclothes are always kept warm, giving meaning to the phrase “hot-bunking.”
Seniority plays a large part in where submariners bunk. The worst sleeping assignment aboard a sub can usually be found in the torpedo room, where claustrophobia-inducing shelves are stacked beneath racks of explosives.
Gunnar enters the torpedo room, favoring his right leg. His commando sense jumps into overdrive as members of the crew gather behind him. The Chief Petty Officer looks up, offering a Cheshire cat smile.