Donchez wasted no time. He stared through the cloud of cigar smoke at vice C.N.O Watson and commander Mediterranean forces Traeps.
“What is it?” he asked curtly.
“Firestar fighter, Admiral.” Watson’s jowls sagged almost all the way to his dirty collar, which was soaked with sweat despite the chill of the room. “Son of a bitch swatted away the escort F-14s like they were flies. Both crashed into the sea. We’ve got no idea why. One crew was recovered. The pilot reported he lost all power and thinks it was something the Firestar did. The SOB kept flying to the west. And that ain’t all. Show him, John.”
Traeps pulled a satellite photograph off the table. His gray hair was in place, his uniform looking like it came from the photo in the Navy Uniform Regulations manual. Traeps’s appearance always annoyed Donchez, he looked like one of those absurdly handsome older men that graced the casts of women’s soap operas or vitamin-supplement commercials.
“Sir, we got a sniff of something odd with the KH-17 spy platform making a Mediterranean pass at dawn over Cyprus.
As soon as we had it the Air Force sent out an RF-4 recon jet to take a closer look.” Traeps laid a second photo on the table next to the first.
Donchez puffed while studying the first photo. The high-altitude satellite shot was a grainy God’s-eye view of the sea taken shortly after sunrise, judging by the elongated shadow of the object shown in the center of the shot. That object was cigar-shaped, bulbous at one end, tapered on the other. The more telling information was the shadow, which formed the shape of a vertical surface. A fin. A submarine conning tower. Donchez dropped the satellite shot and picked up the second photo, a highly enlarged glossy. The black-and-white shot revealed much more detail than the first photo, this one clearly showing in a sidelooking view the shape in the water — the unmistakable shape of a submarine, every detail clear, including the window set into the conning tower, even the men standing in the cubbyhole at the top of the sloping fin. Donchez looked up, anger creasing his features.
“This submarine. Is it the UIF’s acquisition from the Japanese?” “Yes sir,” Rummel said. “Destiny-class, type-two nuclear.”
“Wasn’t this submarine on the target list a week ago? It should have been sunk next to its pier.”
“That’s right, sir, but there was a spot of bad weather and some higher priority targets. The sub was rescheduled to be hit tomorrow. Bad timing, I’m afraid. She … she got underway yesterday.”
“Nice catch for naval intelligence,” Donchez said bitterly.
“I want a report why that little fact escaped our attention yesterday. So what’s this got to do with the Firestar?”
Rummel answered. “The jet crashed into the sea about a mile from the submarine. We’re assuming a connection between the two events. The submarine was probably detailed to pick up the pilots of the Firestar.”
Donchez stared at Rummel. “And who were the men flying in the Firestar?”
“We don’t know, sir.”
“But you have a pretty good guess for me.”
“Conjecture, Admiral.”
“Let me in on it, if you would, Fred.”
“Sihoud, sir.”
“Where did the sub go?”
“Continued heading east toward Kassab, then submerged. We have more photographs if you want to see”
Donchez shook his head. “What you’re telling me, gentlemen, is that for the last twenty-four hours I’ve been doing my level best to knock out General Sihoud, and the result of the fleet’s effort is his escape to a submarine that is now god-knows-where, and Sihoud is not only gone but we can’t find him. Is that your conclusion?”
“Afraid that’s it. Admiral,” Watson said, “but we’ve got a plan”
“I’m sure you do. Dee. I’d just love to hear it.”
Watson gestured to the wall chart.
“We’ve got two well-positioned units in the Med to track this Destiny. The carrier air group Reagan off Tripoli is escorted by the Improved Los Angeles-class submarine Phoenix. We can use her to plug the gap at Gibraltar and make sure the Destiny doesn’t make a run for open ocean. Then we’ve got the Augusta off Cyprus in the east. She can scour the Med from east to west. Between the two units we’ll pick up the Destiny. I’m expecting her to make port in Kassab or somewhere in North Africa to unload Sihoud to a field command where he can get back to his ground campaign.”
“Taking Phoenix away from the Reagan is risky,” Donchez said. “Leaves the whole battle group vulnerable in case the Destiny tries something. Let’s not forget, the Destiny may be a third-world export submarine, but it’s built by first-rate designers. Some folks think it’s as good or better than a Centurion. Besides, why the hell would Sihoud run for the Atlantic? That would do nothing for his war effort. He needs to get back into action. Let’s leave Phoenix where she is.”
“Good point, sir,” Traeps said. Donchez glared at him, not liking the ass-kissing.
The vice C.N.O for operations. Admiral Dee Watson, shook his jowls in disagreement. “Admiral, I’m only a skimmer puke,” he said, referring to his own operational days as a surface-warfare officer, the surface ships known derisively as “skimmers” by the submarine force. “But if we keep Phoenix with the battle group, Barczynski’s gonna have more evidence for his ten-billion-dollar-self-licking-ice-cream-cone allegation.”
Donchez thought it over. The chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Gen. Rod Barczyinski, was a vigorous opponent of aircraft-carrier battle groups, noting how often carrier aircraft and carrier group ships seemingly had little purpose except to protect the carrier itself, hence the self-licking-ice-cream-cone epithet. It was a distortion, of course, but in the battle for defense dollars plenty of nasty tricks had been played by one service against another. Watson was on-target in bringing up the political result of a tactical decision, yet to hell with politics when there was a war to win. Except there was more here. Sihoud had escaped in a submarine that nobody knew anything about. Its capabilities were matters of conjecture. There was the priority of killing Sihoud, and the possibility of his escape was unacceptable. When weighing the idea of Sihoud’s escape against any danger to the aircraft-carrier battle group, it seemed clear that the risk was worth the insurance.
Donchez changed his mind. Sihoud must be caught. “Dee, we’ll do it your way. Get Phoenix to patrol the far western basin at Gibraltar. Get every antisubmarine warfare aircraft in the Med in the air, the P-3s out of Sigonella and the Reagan’s Vikings.”
“For now, sir, that leaves most of the Med in the hands of the Augusta. Augusta’s closest by far to the position of the Destiny class. If we catch it, Augusta will be the one to do it.” Watson looked unhappy, as if he wanted more firepower.
“Who’s in command of Augusta?” Donchez asked.
“Rocket Ron Daminski,” Watson said, a smirk making an appearance on his face.
“Jesus, that Destiny doesn’t stand a chance,” Donchez said. “Rocket Ron Daminski … is he still the terror of Squadron Seven?”
“The same,” Traeps said.
“He’s a blunt instrument.” Watson said. “I recommend we use him. Daminski’s orders should tell him to sink the Destiny submarine on initial contact.”
“Tell him to give us a situation report before he puts her on the bottom, just in case. I guess that’s it, gentlemen. Get Augusta and Daminski in trail of the Destiny. If Rocket can find that sub, it’ll be on the bottom fifteen minutes later. Give him some help, John, and get those P-3s and Vikings up in the air looking for the Destiny. Let’s detach one of Reagan’s ASW frigates. I don’t care what it takes, but sink that submarine. Daminski’s authorized all force necessary. And have the watch officer call me at home the minute we’ve got something. You two should get some rest yourselves. You’re no good to me dead on your feet.”