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The president stood erect, helplessly watching the seconds disappear from the digital mission clock on the wall. Until he took Leviathan off the table, his hands were tied. The long knives were out. The Pacific Fleet and the Chinese fleet were at each other’s throats, waiting for him to make the next move. How fascinating it was to be held to account by history. To realize that a wrong word, even a wrong gesture, had enormous consequences. It took every ounce of concerted effort he could muster to keep his true feelings out of his voice when he spoke.

“John?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Twenty minutes. Somebody has to blink. Talk to me.”

“Everything’s up for grabs, sir.”

“Granted. What do they want?”

“They want us out of Iraq.”

“Tell them to get out of Oman. What else?”

“Commander Fraser reports he has closed to within twenty-one miles of the target area.”

“And the target?”

“We’ve got an SH-60 Seahawk helo en route now, sir. That chopper should have visual contact with the liner shortly. If she maintains her current speed, Leviathan will arrive at the ‘Wall’ eight minutes from now at 3:47 A.M.”

“Range of Seawolf’s torpedoes?”

“Mark 48ADCAPs, sir. Heavyweight torpedoes. Range six miles.”

“Tell Commander Fraser to launch two torpedoes the second he closes to within ten miles of the target. Knock her wheels off right over the canyon.”

“Sir? Ten miles is pushing the—”

“You heard me.”

“With all due respect, sir, we’ve got three good men on that boat, Mr. President, and I think—”

“You think I don’t know that! Damn it, man. Do all you can to warn Hawke. Keep trying to get him. But I can’t risk the lives of hundreds of thousands for—just do as I say.”

“Yes, sir!”

Gooch watched the man scurry away and then caught the president’s eye.

“We’re looking at rapidly evolving time and distance calculations here, Mr. President. Leviathan will have barely reached the ‘Wall’ at that point. If we miscalculate even slightly and she goes down on the lip, or in shallow water, the nuclear explosion will trigger a wall of dirty water fifty feet high. People will be swimming down Fifth Avenue. And glowing in the dark.”

“We’ll just have to take that chance, John. I need that vessel on the bottom.”

3:47 A.M., EST

“What’s his bloody problem?” Hawke asked Mariucci. Hawke had sounded the recorded “Abandon Ship” alarm repeatedly throughout the ship beginning at 3:30 A.M. Word of the impending nuclear disaster had spread throughout the ship rapidly. Chinese nuclear reactor technicians, reluctant kamikazes all, had been ordered to remain hidden aboard by their superiors in Beijing. Now they came crawling out of the woodwork—and made a mad dash for the promenade deck. Bright orange-topped, motorized lifeboats, thirty on each side of the ship, hung fifty feet above the water.

Two full lifeboats had already been dispatched and disappeared over the horizon. The third and last one was ready to be lowered away. Captain Dechevereux, who had originally stated he was staying with his ship, had understandably changed his mind. He was now seated in the bow of the lifeboat smoking furiously and cursing the name Bonaparte. Von Draxis had gone missing. Hawke thought perhaps the man had done the only sensible thing and jumped overboard.

Hawke had the controller in his hand, ready to push the button that would lower away the lifeboat. The last to board, an over-wrought Chinese technician, was bouncing up and down on the deck, screaming.

Mariucci, climbing into the boat, said, “He says he’s not getting in the lifeboat without the rest of his colleagues.”

Hawke looked at the man. “You’ve got one second. In or out.”

The man turned on his heel and ran off toward the stern. Hawke looked at his watch and said, “Twelve minutes.”

“Okay. That’s it,” Mariucci said. “Climb in and let’s get the fuck out of Dodge.” Hawke didn’t move. He was looking at him funny. Something was wrong.

“Where’s Tynan?” Hawke said.

“Hell, I don’t know,” Mariucci said. “I figured he was coming.”

“Where did you last see him?”

“In that bar, directing the Chinese to the lifeboats.”

“Which bar? There are about thirty.”

“Where we first met von Draxis.”

“Normandie? How quickly we forget.”

“Alex. We got to go. Now.”

Hawke pushed the button and the lifeboat jolted into movement, rapidly dropping away down the side.

“Jump in!” Mariucci cried.

“No man left behind, John. I’ll catch the next boat.” Hawke ran up the nearest stairway, taking them three at a time. He remembered the Normandie bar as being one deck up, overlooking the bow. He had less than ten minutes now, to find that young Coast Guardsman and get the bloody hell off this ship.

Chapter Sixty-four

The North Atlantic

3:48 A.M., EST

“MR. PRESIDENT,” JOHN GOOCH SAID, “ SEAWOLF IS AT TEN miles and closing. Leviathan is one mile from the ‘Wall,’ proceeding on autopilot at thirty knots. ETA two minutes.”

“Is everyone off that boat?”

“We can’t get hold of anybody on board. Coast Guard Search and Rescue helo approaching the target area from the north reports two lifeboats in the water. Riding low. Full.”

“Full?”

“That’s what the Yankee Victor pilot said, sir.”

“So they’re probably all off. Inform Seawolf. Launch torpedoes.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is the Chinese premier on the line?”

“They’re getting him now, Mr. President.”

“Good. Get Hawke on the radio. Make sure he’s safely away.”

“Trying every twenty seconds. He’s not responding, sir.”

“Probably a little busy. Keep trying.”

3:50 A.M., EST

Hawke burst into the Normandie bar, his eyes scanning the large room for any sign of movement. Deserted. Tynan could be anywhere. He had nine minutes. Less. His mobile rang again. It was incessant. What the hell did they want now? He had nothing to report except his imminent demise. He heard a soft moan coming from a banquette to his left and sprinted through the sea of empty tables. He saw Tynan spread-eagled on the floor. He was on his back, staring upward, his eyes unfocused, his chest heaving rapidly. His shirtfront was a bloody mess.

Hawke bent down and spoke softly to him.

“Tynan. If you can hear me, clench your fist.”

His right hand opened slowly and closed tightly.

“Von Draxis,” Tynan croaked. “He…had a knife and he…I didn’t see him, he just—”

“Hold on, Tynan. I’m going to get you out of here,” Hawke said, getting his arms under the big man.

“Ready? Here we go.”

It took every bit of Hawke’s strength to stagger to his feet with the dying man in his arms. He ran for the door, knocking over any tables and chairs that got in his way, stumbling, almost going down twice. He stayed on his feet. Ten yards and he’d be back on deck. A shadowy figure appeared in the doorway, lurching toward him with his head down and his heavily muscled shoulders bunched.

Von Draxis. How had he escaped? An enraged bull, his white dinner jacket spattered with Tynan’s blood. Hawke kept moving forward, somehow heaving Tynan up on his right shoulder to free his left hand. The German still had the knife. A big one, and it was coming up in his hand as he recognized the man coming at him.

“My Lord Hawke!” von Draxis said, sputtering furiously, his eyes dancing, “I’ve finally figured out who you are. General Moon told me. You’re not George Moran. You’re that bastard Hawke, aren’t you? You’re the one who—”