Asad grabbed a flashlight from a bulkhead frame and opened breech doors one by one. After he inspected all ten tubes, the loaded weapon tally included four heavyweight torpedoes, two Harpoon anti-ship missiles, and, in the larger tubes, four Popeye land-attack cruise missiles.
“I’ll need translations to verify,” Asad said. “But I think we can assume that the outer tubes hold land-attack cruise missiles. The inner tubes hold a basic anti-shipping load out.”
“How far are we from launch range of Damascus?”
“If these are indeed Popeyes,” Asad said, “then we may already be in range. We’re not launching anything, are we?”
The concept intrigued Salem. An Israeli submarine conducting an unprovoked launch of cruise missiles on his homeland could create positive outcomes, but the endgame variables were too unpredictable and the immediate lives lost too great, he determined.
“No, but we can familiarize ourselves with the system and continue the charade of behaving like an Israeli submarine. We’ll get the team down here to—”
“Look!” Asad said.
He slid his thin frame between breech doors and reload racks and reached for a rectangular block of equipment that was perched under a red and yellow radiation symbol.
“It’s heavy,” he said as he snapped it from a cradle.
“What is it?”
“I believe it’s a radiation monitoring device.”
“Nuclear weapons,” Salem said. “The cruise missiles?”
“Yousif has a lot of instruction manuals to pour through. We’d better get him down here.”
Flint woke from a brief nap and felt freshened, but he knew that he’d need deeper sleep to recharge.
“Captain,” a sailor said after opening the door to his stateroom. “The executive officer says the Leviathan just opened an outer door.”
“On my way,” Flint said.
He wiggled his arm into his jumpsuit as he climbed to the control room. Baines sat in front of a sonar monitor.
“Thought you’d want to see this, sir,” Baines said.
“We’re recording?”
“They surprised us with the opening of the door, but we’re recording now. If this is a launch exercise, they’ll probably open more.”
Minutes later, the Annapolis’ sonar system recorded the Leviathan opening the outer door to a second torpedo tube. Then it recorded the closing of both.
“What do you think, XO? Did the Israelis just conduct a cruise missile launch rehearsal?”
“Yes, sir. Damascus, Beirut, or maybe one missile each. Not very effective if you have alerted air defenses, but a big deal if you don’t know the missile’s coming. This can count as a deterrent patrol for the Israelis.”
“This is an important discovery,” Flint said. “Let’s draft a message and get to periscope depth.”
“Aye, aye, sir. You may want to add that they’re done, and off to their next big thing, too.”
“What?”
“They just sped up and turned.”
Flint studied the frequency data of the Leviathan’s propeller blades.
“Okay, XO, hold on. Let’s figure out their new course. They may just be repositioning for another exercise volley.”
Thirty minutes of tracking the Leviathan led to a new discovery.
“Holy cow, XO,” Flint said. “They’re heading almost due west.”
“Not repositioning for another exercise volley,” Baines said. “They’re pushing into new territory for Israeli patrols.”
“Okay, we know what direction they’re going,” Flint said. “Let’s go shallow and share the news with squadron.”
CHAPTER 4
Jake Slate scratched his beard as a CIA intern who appeared too eager to impress led him down a hallway into the organization’s headquarters building in Langley, Virginia.
The intern stopped at a door with a keypad that he made no attempt to decipher. He knocked.
The door opened, and Jake saw a thin smile spread across the fair-skinned face of CIA officer, Olivia McDonald. A dark suit muted her athletic curves, but Jake noticed that office policy permitted her straightened auburn hair to caress her collar.
“Thank you, Mister Johnson. I’ll escort Mister Jones from here,” she said.
The intern mumbled something nervous and nearly tripped as he excused himself. Unsure of protocol, Jake awaited Olivia’s guidance. She extended her hand.
“Olivia McDonald,” she said.
Jake recalled the name he would forever use on American soil as he shook hands with the woman who had seduced him years earlier.
“Jacob Jones,” he said. “Pleased to meet you.”
She led him into a room that smelled stale and reflected bright, sterile lighting. As Olivia closed the door with a click, Jake glanced at absorbent, egg carton foam-like walls.
“This reminds me of the rooms we had in the navy for reading special—”
Olivia appeared in his face, and he felt her lips against his. Tasting of mint, her warm tongue probed his mouth, and her deceptively strong arms drew him in.
“Hi,” she said as she stepped back and released an honest smile. “I missed you.”
“I missed you, too,” he said.
“These soundproofed rooms are secure. You can tell the truth about anything, as long as doors are closed and everyone in the room is cleared for it.”
“I realized that when you just tried to swallow me.”
“It’s been four months,” she said. “I’m just excited. I mean, this is your first time back on American soil, and you must be excited to see your brothers, too.”
“It’s all a lot to deal with. I wasn’t exactly tight with those screwballs, you know.”
“I know. I just thought it would be nice to give you back a piece of your life.”
Jake shrugged. He had been struggling for an identity since he was a naval officer derailed by foul play during a blood transfusion. Unstable and lost, he still carried the anger from the malicious HIV infection and its ensuing cover up, the anger that had compelled him to steal a Trident missile submarine.
Eking out a transatlantic relationship with the CIA officer who had operated against him before befriending him felt awkward. To invigorate him, Olivia had earned permission for him to return to America, provided he followed basic identity concealing protocols.
After months of growth, his bushy hair touched his collar, and his beard grew thick. He wore contact lenses that changed his blue eyes to brown, and he had already purchased a new, thinner nose before meeting Olivia.
“I appreciate the effort,” he said. “You’ve been great, and I love you as much as I always have. You just have to give me time to adapt to being home — if that’s where I am. Plus I want to get this reunion with the chumps done before we focus on us.”
“Sure. Follow me.”
She led him through another door into an equally sterile but larger room. Behind a desk sat two men. The first wore a leather jacket and sunglasses and appeared dehydrated, irritated, and hung over. His features were smooth but pronounced — less rugged than Jake’s — and his skin was olive.
“Holy shit,” he said.
“Joe?” Jake asked. “It’s good to see you’re alive.”
“Really? You care?” Joe Slate asked.
The second man looked older, thinner, and wiser than Joe Slate. He wore loose-fitting garments of hemp.
“We all care about each other,” he said.
Jake snorted.
“Shit, Nick,” he said. “You’re always the peacemaker. I’ll never get you, but at least I know you mean well.”
“What the fuck’s that supposed to mean?” Joe asked, pushing his chair back as he stood.