NORTHWEST PACIFIC USS RONALD REAGAN

“Well, Patch, it’s time,” Donner said, staring out to sea with his binoculars.

The sun had set an hour before, the last traces of twilight fading now. The carrier was closer to Japan, but there had been no time to coordinate or set up the blockade.

“The interdiction effort begins in the Sea of Japan,” Donner said. “There’s a Russian supertanker coming in from South Korea loaded with oil and heading for the oil terminal at Niigata on the western coast of Japan.

We’re scrambling four F-14s to fly out to her and keep her from crossing into the Japan Oparea.”

“Mac, you really think that supertanker’s going to pull back because of some F14s?”

“If he doesn’t he’s going to get a hull full of torpedoes.

And Japan is going to get a very nasty oil slick.”

“You’d better tell the captain of the supertanker that.

What about the men aboard?”

“Don’t worry about that. Patch. There’s no way that supertanker is going to run that blockade. No way.”

“Admiral, I’ve told you this before, but we need surface ships. We need a cruiser to fire shots over the guy’s bow and pull up alongside with deck guns pointed at the bridge and board the ship, physically take the helm if you have to and turn that ship around. Otherwise the whole crew is going to buy it.”

“Patch, he’ll turn around.”

“Admiral, god damnit, you’re not listening to me.”

Mac Donner’s tone was icy as he stared at Pacino.

“I’m listening, Admiral. Now what the hell do you want to say?”

“If that supertanker doesn’t turn around, we have to shoot him. If we let him through the blockade fails. So you put my men in the position of firing torpedoes at a civilian ship. My men will want to surface and rescue survivors.”

“No. That would give away their position. The satellites will see that and lead the Japanese submarines there.”

“First, Admiral, we should have blown those god damned satellites away days ago. Second, if that supertanker gets torpedoed, every ship in the Pacific will know where at least one submarine is, it’s where the supertanker went down. Third, I don’t want my men killing civilians.”

“Get off it. Patch. They have lifeboats. The Japanese can rescue them. Now quit being an old lady and—”

“I still say a destroyer or cruiser with guns is the way to do this. Let this god damned tanker in. Admiral. When we have some surface ships over there, we’ll stop the next merchant ship.”

“No. My orders are specific. The blockade begins now.

Don’t make me request to relieve you. Admiral Pacino.”

Pacino took a breath and let it out. “Aye, aye, sir. I’ll send the order. On your command, if the tanker doesn’t turn around, we’ll shoot it. And no rescue of the survivors.”

“Very well.”

“I don’t think so. Sir.”

ATLANTIC OCEAN

USS PIRANHA

Bruce Phillips stood smoking his cigar while standing on the conn looking down on the diving-control station. The control room was rigged for black, all lights out, only the glow of the instruments at the ship-control panel illuminated. The screens of the firecontrol consoles of the attack center were dark, the rig for reduced electrical not allowing them to be powered up. The ship rolled gently in the waves, still at periscope depth at the mouth of Block Island Sound, now legitimately in the Atlantic, the sea beneath them still perilously shallow. Behind him Peter Meritson was dancing with the fat lady, rotating the periscope through endless circles, searching for the lights of close surface ships, fishing boats, anything that could collide with them.

The ship had no power to get deep if something came by, some ferry ship or misdirected container ship, and not only was there no power, there was nowhere to go; there was barely enough water beneath their keel to allow them to be submerged. They were in sixty fathoms of water, and if Phillips had gone by the book he would not have submerged until he had a minimum of 600 fathoms.

But then, submerging without a reactor up and running, snorkeling on the diesel, with only bare steerage way for power, was in gross violation of the standard operating procedures as well.

“Offsa’deck, you hear anything from the Eng?”

“Sir,” Meritson said, his voice muffled by the periscope module, “his last report was four minutes ago. He had turbines warmed and was shifting the electric plant.”

“conn, maneuvering,” Walt Hornick’s voice blasted from a speaker in the overhead, “electric plant is in A NORMAL FULL POWER LINEUP. RECOMMEND COOLING THE DIESEL.” “Maneuvering, Conn,” Meritson said into his boom microphone, still rotating the periscope through his surface search, “cool the diesel.”

“COOL THE DIESEL, CONN, MANEUVERING, AYE. ESTIMATE MAIN PROPULSION CAPABILITY IN TWO MINUTES.”

“Maneuvering, Conn, aye.” “Let’s go, Eng,” Phillips said. “Hey, O.O.D, let’s pull the plug on cooling the diesel. I don’t want that damned satellite upstairs seeing the exhaust.”