“If you’re elected president, are you just going to let the terrorists do whatever they want?” another one asked. John heard the note of accusation in his tone.
“If you’re elected tomorrow, will you declare war on whoever is behind this?”
The crowd seemed to be growing in size. There was the same kind of borderline hysteria in the air that he remembered seeing in September 2001, right after the planes had crashed into the Twin Towers and into the Pentagon. But John had no clue what had happened this morning. Electric Boat made nuclear submarines. Had there been an attack on the shipyard?
For the first time in his career, the senator from Rhode Island found himself speechless.
“How about your platform of peace?” someone else shouted.
“Are there any nuclear warheads on that submarine?”
Penn saw Greg fighting his way through the reporters to get to him, motioning to him to retreat.
John Penn heard himself saying the one thing that he despised whenever he heard other politicians say it.
“I can’t comment at this time,” he said, backing toward the gate. “But I’ll be communicating with the media as soon as I have something constructive to convey.”
As he and his small entourage hurried back down the drive, the shouts of the reporters filling the morning gloom, he felt the cold, uncomfortable sensation that he was being set up somehow. What he had to do now, however, was find out what the hell was happening.
Chapter 12
Clearing the security checkpoint, Lieutenant Sarah Connelly hoped that she wouldn’t be the last one arriving at the conference room on the fourth deck of the E-Ring. She’d received the call only thirty minutes ago from her superior, Admiral Meisner, the head of Naval Intelligence. Ready in ten, she’d had to put her fate in getting here on time in the hands of the driver they’d sent to get her. The car had barely touched the ground on the way to the Pentagon.
As an attorney and a senior naval intelligence officer, Sarah was regularly directed to sit in on hearings or emergency briefings beyond the full caseload of assignments that she and her staff were assigned. Nothing out of the ordinary there.
Today was totally different. The Admiral’s news of a submarine hijacking had her scurrying to get ready. When he mentioned Darius McCann’s name, she’d come running.
In the car she considered how odd it was to hear the Admiral refer to Darius. As she thought about it, Sarah had felt a sense of relief almost that her superiors didn’t see a conflict in calling on her with this specific situation. She and Darius had known each other for thirteen years. For two of those years, they’d been lovers. For ten of those years, they’d been good friends. During the past year, however, their only communication had been a birthday card that she’d put in the mail for him. That was just last week. He hadn’t bothered to remember hers.
To everyone who knew them, the relationship had run its course for both of them. They each had adjusted well to the breakup and had gone their separate ways. But Sarah couldn’t ignore how she felt this morning when she’d heard he was in the middle of a naval investigation — in the middle of a potential nightmare. It was just another reminder of those invisible wires that still connected them.
She ran the last few steps to the elevator, just as the doors were closing. Someone near the door put a hand out, holding it open for her.
“Thanks,” she said, stepping into the crowded elevator.
Wanting to keep her mind focused, she did not look at any of the faces around her. Instead, she stared at the panel displaying the floors. The elevator nearly emptied on the third floor. Stepping out on the fourth floor, she nodded thanks to a navy commander who motioned for her to go ahead of him. He was the same person who’d held the elevator door open for her.
After signing in at the security desk, Sarah started toward the large conference room where she’d been told the meeting would take place. Her companion from the elevator was right behind her, and they both stopped at a reception desk just outside of the conference room.
The young man behind the partition looked up from his computer screen, reading their badges. “Lieutenant Connelly. Commander Dunn. They’re waiting for you inside.”
“I guess that’s as good as any introduction,” the commander told her, extending a hand as they headed toward the conference room door. “Bruce Dunn.”
“Sarah Connelly.” Surprised at his lack of formality, she moved her briefcase from one hand to the other and shook his hand. Clear green eyes, strong chin, Dunn was definitely easy on the eyes. A nose that looked like it had been broken once or twice only added character to his face.
“How much time did they give you to get here?”
“Half an hour,” she said. “How about you?”
“About the same.”
“I live twenty minutes away,” she added. Sarah noticed the tiny bit of tissue still attached to a cut right under his chin. She pointed to it. “Your stitches are showing.”
He wiped a hand down his throat, brushing the tissue away. “Better?”
“Much.”
He reached to open the door of the conference room. “They better have some cinnamon donuts in there.”
She liked his sense of humor, but her thoughts about him were cut short the moment they walked in. Seeing the gathered brass, Sarah felt her stress level go to about a thousand RPMs. This was not the standard briefing. The tension inside the room was crisp, and the subdued conversations stopped as the Admiral entered with the Head of the Joint Chiefs. About two-dozen uniformed and civilian-dressed personnel crowded around a huge conference table. She immediately recognized some of them, but her attention was immediately drawn to a large TV screen at the far end of the room. The volume was turned up as a reporter described the live footage of New London Harbor. The man’s voice bordered on frantic. A large electronic map on the wall next to the TV screen highlighted the location of Hartford.
“… can see where the unmanned New London Ledge lighthouse has sustained damage. The landmark, a brick building that sat by itself in the water at the mouth of the harbor, appears to be totally destroyed. Smoke is rising from the ruin. From here, we can see smoke from the… get a shot of the Coast Guard cutter,” the reporter said to his cameraman, “there, you can see it now. Smoke is engulfing the Coast Guard cutter that the submarine clearly fired on. It’s hard to believe that this is taking place right here on the Thames River.”
The network anchor cut in as the camera zoomed closer. It appeared that they were filming from the top of a building in downtown New London, overlooking the harbor. Groton was visible across the river. Just then, the screen split into two images and an aerial shot of the scene appeared. Sarah could see the submarine gliding through the dark water.
“The submarine looks to be heading for Fisher’s Island or what locals call ‘the Race’, the opening that leads to the Atlantic from New London harbor. But, of course, we can’t tell for certain,” the reporter said to the network anchorman.
The anchor cut in. “We’re getting unofficial word that the submarine we’re looking at from our New London affiliate’s helicopter is the USS Hartford, one of the navy’s improved Los Angeles-class submarines.”
“What the hell is that news helicopter doing up there?” one of the generals barked.
A member of the Admiral’s staff picked up a telephone and spoke into it briefly.
“We’ve just been told that there will be a press conference at the navy submarine base in Groton any minute, now,” the anchorman added. The image shifted to an empty podium in a briefing room. A number of officers were standing behind it, and others were coming in an out of the picture. “For those viewers who’re just joining us…”