When Donchez was done remembering, he turned his thoughts to what he had to do. Somewhere in the Med the UIF Destiny submarine lurked, a ship quiet enough to escape the detection of an Improved-Los Angeles-class sub’s BSY-1 sonar system, so quiet when its reactor was shut down that it didn’t register over the own-ship noise of the LA-class. The Destiny had the acoustic advantage, a nasty situation in which the opposition sub was quieter than the U.S. boat. That situation had never arisen in the old days, even with the Russians — American subs had always been quieter, stealthier — undl the Russians had built the Omega-class attack submarine, the one Donchez had spent so many nights worrying about until he had sent Devilfish to find it.

And its then commander Pacino hadn’t been able to hear the Omega until he was directly beneath it, the Omega surfaced at the polar icecap.

There was only one American submarine quieter than an Improved-Los Angeles-class, and that was the Seawolf.

And there was perhaps only one submarine captain who was in the same league as Rocket Ron Daminski, and that was Captain Michael Pacino, Seawolf’s captain. Pacino was due to rotate off, accept his first star and replace Roy Steinman as COMSUBLANT. And Seawolf lay in a shipyard drydock as the Vortex tube installation finished, the yard just now getting a high-priced work order to reverse course and rip the tubes out after the failure of the system in the Bahamas.

“Fred, get me Pacino on scrambled satellite voice. He should be home in Sandbridge Beach. Then get me Stevens.”

“Stevens, the NNSY shipyard commander?”

“Yes.” He waited.

“Pacino.” Pacino’s voice was distorted through the scrambled voice circuit.

“Mikey? It’s Dick. I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

BOOK II

ATLANTIC BREAKOUT

Chapter 14

Saturday, 28 December

PORTSMOUTH, VIRGINIA

NORFOLK NAVAL SHIPYARD

GRAVING DOCK 4

Captain Michael Pacino stood at the railing of the dock and stared down at the mess.

Several tons of ugly scaffolding hid most of the wide hull of the Seawolf. The mass of equipment staged at the ship’s starboard flank obscured most of that side of the ship. A platform with handrails had been placed on top of the conning tower. Forward, the plastic sonar dome had been removed, the large sphere of the BSY-2 Advanced batears sonar looking bare and exposed. Scaffolding had been erected around the equator of the sphere. The deck of the ship that was visible was a bright green, the color of the inorganic zinc primer put on the sandblasted hull. Hoses and temporary ducts snaked into the hatches. A large hole, a hull cut, gaped forward starboard, part of the work for the Vortex tubes.

Although the ship had been committed to the drydock solely for the insertion of the Vortex tubes, a drydock availability came around so seldom that the shipyard had not been able to resist taking advantage of the opportunity to invade the ship for other projects. The sonar hydrophone changeout project was an example, an alteration not scheduled for another two years but put into motion now since it might be difficult to schedule later. And as usual, once the main work was complete it would probably be some minor target-of-opportunity alteration that would delay the vessel from leaving the dock.

Pacino’s mouth was set in a tight grimace. Seeing his ship in the dock filled him with a kind of gut pain. The ship be longed at sea, not under the hands of a thousand uncaring shipyard workers. The sun had risen above the surrounding buildings, the dirty old brick of them still dark on this Saturday morning, the morning after Augusta went down, the morning after Rocket Ron went down. Pacino tried to push back the thought even as he began to think it. After seven, and no sign of shipyard activity. Pacino glanced at his watch, saw the approaching shadow and looked up to see Captain Emmitt Stevens, the shipyard commander, turned out in starched khakis, gleaming white hardhat, spit-shined shoes. Pacino turned and gave him a halfhearted salute.

Stevens looked ready to take a bite out of Pacino.

“Captain,” Stevens said, “another dock availability ruined by the ops guys.”

“Excuse me?”

“Once again one of my schedules is blown to hell by COMSUBLANT. I got a call from Admiral Steinman last night.

The brass wants your boat out pronto. Immediately if not sooner, I think Steinman’s words were. I’ll be damned, Patch. We had a lot to do on this work order, and now we’re just doing a hurry-up-button-it-up-and-get-her-to-sea for some god damned exercise for Steinman. All I hear are complaints from you guys that your ships don’t work. Well, dammit, this is why.”