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“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, gentle men, 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-billiondollarselflicking-icecream-cone allegation.”