“Inspiration? Did we succeed?”
“Did you not hear the explosion? One of our Harpoons hit near enough the waterline for us to hear with naked ears. The Bainbridge is damaged and slowed, and our torpedoes will finish the job.”
Bazzi’s voice carried relief.
“Thank you, Hana.”
Salem hung up while Yousif raised a plump finger.
“Stand back. I’m firing the weapon!” he said.
Salem covered his ears while a torpedo tube whined and spat out its payload.
Asad stood by the breech door awaiting a command to cut the guidance wire. Salem moved toward Yousif to verify that the torpedo had ignited its engine and headed toward the Bainbridge.
As he walked, time stopped.
Meters away, Hamdan convulsed and collapsed.
Before his lifeless head smacked the deck, a man dressed in desert-like camouflage leapt down the hole.
In midair, he twisted his torso, scanned the room with his rifle, and sent two rounds into the linguist whose fatal optimism had driven him to raise a pistol in anger.
Salem raised his palms as his attacker straddled Hamdan’s corpse.
The assailant walked his rifle barrel across the room and squeezed out three rounds. Each round landed in lower torsos. Asad fell to the ground first, followed by Yousif, who fell back against two tubes.
A second assailant landed behind the first, and both men approached with smoking but quiet weapons. He feared they would kill him if he lowered his hands, but instinct compelled him to clasp his belly.
He felt sticky goo and a sharp jab of pain consume him. Numbness supplanted pain, and the cold, hard deck of the torpedo room slapped his face.
“Silence!” Stephenson said.
Chatter in the Bainbridge’s combat information center fell to a murmur.
“We have no more inbound weapons,” he said. “We’ve taken one hit to the starboard side of the engine room and one in the bridge. We’ve lost friends and shipmates. Honor them now by doing your job. We have fifteen ballistic missiles to deal with. Carry on.”
His watch officer appeared before him.
“The engineer officer reports that we’re still capable of twenty-two knots, sir.”
“Very well.”
“Sir? The captain is gone. Nobody on the bridge survived. You’re in command.”
“Yes. I know,” Stephenson said. “But call me the executive officer. Calling me the commanding officer would remind the crew that we’ve lost our captain.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Where are the ballistic missiles going?”
“We’re seeing the trajectories now. They’re all heading over America, and we’re identifying them as hostile.”
Again scenarios flashed in Stephenson’s mind. None pleased him.
“We only have twelve anti-ballistic missiles,” he said. “Can we reach any of these hostiles with our conventional missiles?”
“Negative, sir. Out of range.”
“How long until we need to launch?”
“Two minutes, but the sooner the better.”
“Very well. Overlay the Patriot missile coverage of the entire United States over the trajectory of the fifteen hostiles. Figure out which three of the fifteen come closest to Patriots — whether they’re within range of the Patriots or not. Target the other twelve.”
The officer walked away and exchanged words with a sailor at a console whose fingers flew into a rhythmic tap dance over a touch screen. He came back to Stephenson.
“Twelve missiles targeted, sir.”
“Take twelve hostiles with anti-ballistic birds.”
Stephenson heard the rippling drone and hiss of the Bainbridge’s vertical launch tubes.
“This isn’t adding up,” he said. “Only major states have this many ballistic warheads in their arsenal.”
“Sir?”
“Some of these are decoys. They used decoys in their attack against us, and they’re using decoys now.”
“They can’t all be decoys. That would be pointless.”
“That’s what’s bothering me.”
An agitated sailor at a console beckoned for the watch officer. Stephenson dismissed him and awaited his return.
“Sir, one more ballistic missile,” the officer said.
“Going where?”
“Almost straight up and down. It’ll land in the water.”
“Say again.”
“Straight up and down, sir.”
“Is it in range of our conventional weapons?”
“No, sir.”
“Well then,” Stephenson said, “Let’s make sure our twelve anti-ballistic birds do their job. And make sure fleet command is alerting every Patriot battery that has a prayer of helping us protect the country.”
“The second weapon from the Leviathan has just shut down,” Antoine Remy said.
“What about the first?” Jake asked.
Remy shook his toad-shaped head.
“It’s a trailing shot headed for their wake. The damaged ship might outrun it if they make full speed.”
“You’ve identified the ship?”
“Yes. Burke-class destroyer.”
“They took two Harpoons. Their speed may be limited. How fast are they going now?”
“Ten knots.”
“They’re probably slowing to prevent fanning flames. They don’t know there’s a torpedo coming at them.”
Jake heard his brother’s warning in his head about death, accepted it, and released a sardonic smile.
“All ahead flank,” he said.
The Mercer trembled with power.
“I think I know what you’re doing, Jake,” Henri said. “And I don’t like it.”
“We’re going to broach and warn them, ask them to turn to us, and then sprint at them.”
“How can this work?” Henri asked. “You’re pushing our luck. When we did this in Hawaii, I had no intent of a repeat performance.”
“Not a repeat performance,” Jake said. “We’ll drive straight at them, get in their wake, and absorb the torpedo. Simple.”
“Jake,” Henri said. “This is suicide.”
Stephenson received confirmation from fleet command that Patriot missile batteries would assist in the defense. A crew in Maine would attempt to engage two of the other three, pushing the limit of their system’s range, and a crew in Virginia would do the same for the fifteenth inbound ballistic missile.
Probabilities plagued his mind, telling him to expect four missiles to hit their targets on American soil.
The phone beside him chirped.
“XO,” he said.
“Sir, it’s Wilson.”
“Are you okay up there?”
“Barely, but yeah. Listen, sir, there’s a guy on HF voice. Says he’s on a submarine to the south.”
“Patch him through.”
As Stephenson stood and reached for a transceiver in the overhead, his watch officer moved to him.
“Sir, surfaced submarine on radar and visual, bearing one-nine-five. Eight miles. There’s a minisub on the back of it.”
“They shot at us?”
“Probably. There’s nothing else out there.”
“Target him with two Harpoon missiles, one torpedo, and the cannon. Get our helicopter in the air and move it over him.”
The watch officer indicated his understanding and turned away. Ire rose in Stephenson as he spoke into the microphone.
“Surfaced submarine, this is the naval unit to your north. Identify yourself.”
“Naval unit, this is the Israeli Naval Ship, Leviathan. This ship was hijacked and used against you, but the ship has been retaken by friendly forces.”
“How do you expect me to react to that?”