America (26 page)

The government declared a state of emergency and announced that it would use the army to feed the populace of the affected area, which had no way to prepare or store food. Mobile generators were flown in from all over America to provide emergency power to hospitals and police radios. People who needed urgent medical treatment were being flown from the affected area by military helicopters.

All of this was expensive inconvenience salted with occasional personal tragedies, such as the folks wearing defibrillators and pacemakers who went into cardiac arrest or died when the warheads detonated. However, the crashes of the two airliners and two business jets on their way into Reagan National gave the incident a horrifying, visceral dimension. In an age when air travel was an unavoidable, unenjoyed part of life, the specter of being a passenger in a doomed airliner plummeting to earth out of control gave most people the cold sweats. The FAA quickly canceled airline service in the danger area, which the bureaucrats decreed was anywhere east of the Mississippi River. Aircraft on emergency missions or not carrying paying passengers for hire and private aircraft could fly—at their own risk, the bureaucrats said—but few did. Cautious CEOs called their attorneys, who told the executives bluntly that they could not afford to pay the judgments that would be rendered against them if they ignored the FAA's warning and lives were subsequently lost.

When Kolnikov brought
America
up from the depths well after dark and raised the communications mast, he picked up a few of those commercial radio broadcasts and soon had the gist of it. The first Tomahawk, the one with the conventional warhead, had struck the White House. The other two had played havoc with the Washington, D.C., electrical system, inconveniencing millions and killing 439 persons, at last count.

After updating the GPS, Kolnikov lowered the mast. Rothberg was eyeing him. Kolnikov nodded matter-of-factly. “Three hits,” he said.

“I told you they were good birds,” Leon asserted, jutting out his chin.

“Get busy on the next three.”

“When do you propose to launch them?”

“I don't know. I'll have to think about that.”

“What should I use as the starting position?”

Kolnikov thought before he answered. He studied the tactical presentation on the horizontally mounted display, looked at the map of the North Atlantic, took the time to rub his eyes. He had slept for three hours this afternoon, but he was still tired.

Finally he made a small mark on the chart and showed it to Rothberg. “Here. That position is as good as any. Just leave the time open.”

The sea seemed noisy this evening. Kolnikov had Eck deploy the towed array so he could see and hear better. When it was out he listened to the computer enhancement of the raw audio and watched the presentations on the big wall screens. “Let's go back down to five hundred feet, below the surface layer,” he told Turchak, who was back from his bunk and the head.

At one point Kolnikov thought he heard pinging, or echo ranging, but the sound was from a long way away, very attenuated. On the screen the noise was converted to light, of course, but the flashes were so dim he wasn't sure they were really there. The computer, which could discern a pattern that the ear could not hear or the eye detect, verified the sound and gave a bearing.

They are looking, he thought. They are looking hard.

Well, let them look. We are safely hidden below the thermal layer and too quiet for the SOSUS. As long as we don't have a close encounter with an American
Seawolf
submarine, all will be well.

*   *   *

Jake Grafton had just taken a cold-water shower and lain down on his couch when he heard someone knocking on the apartment door. He was wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, so he answered it.

A marine corporal was standing there. “Admiral Grafton? General Le Beau sends his compliments, sir, and asks if you would accompany me back to the Pentagon.”

“Are you on a horse?”

“No, sir. The marines at Quantico sent every vehicle on the base.”

“Give me five minutes to get on a clean uniform. Come on in.”

Callie talked to the corporal while Jake dressed. Of course the young marine stood tongue-tied, unable to think up a single comment in the rarefied air of a flag officer's powerless apartment. He was from Tennessee, was a fan of the Titans, thought the marines were a lot of fun, a comment that drew a grin from Jake Grafton in the next room.

As Jake puckered up to kiss his wife, she handed him a handful of candles.

“Use these to put a little light on the subject.”

“Very funny,” he said. “Ha, ha, and ha.” But he took the candles.

He kissed her and followed the corporal out the door.

In the Pentagon war room, Sonny Killbuck and Vice-Admiral Val Navarre were the center of attention. The Joint Chiefs were in their usual chairs and tossing questions. Behind them sat the senior members of the staff. The session had just started, apparently, Jake thought as he dropped into an empty chair in back.

Sonny was in the front of the room holding a pointer, using it on the map that was projected on the screen. He pointed out where the U.S. Navy submarines and antisubmarine patrols were located. Now he overlaid the patrol plane tracks on the screen. The navy had indeed been busy. Still, none of the searchers had found
America.

Space Command was on full alert, watching for cruise missile launches in the North Atlantic, the air force had AWACS planes aloft, looking for incoming missiles, and fighters on five-minute alert all along the Atlantic seaboard, ready to attempt to intercept incoming cruise missiles. Two carriers were at sea, using their aircraft to search areas that the antisubmarine patrol planes were not covering. There was no doubt—the United States military was exerting itself to the maximum. Everything that could be done was being done.

When Sonny finished his canned brief, the Joint Chiefs began discussing the military's worldwide response to the new defense condition set a few hours ago by the president, DEFCON ONE, war alert. The senior officers of the Joint Staff fielded questions as fast as they were tossed. Some of them made notes.

No one mentioned Cowbell.

Or the fact the
America
's Cowbell wasn't working. Was that an unfortunate coincidence, or did Kolnikov and company know about Cowbell and disable it? And if they knew, where did they acquire the knowledge?

Well, Jake Grafton thought, Cowbell was history. If he had not already done so, the CNO would have to order that all the Cowbell beacons be disabled and removed from the submarines they were installed on. To do otherwise was to risk the entire submarine force, all of them, in the event of war. Or, Jake thought, in the event that the submarines are
America
's primary target now.

What if
America
was hunting them?

When the brief was over Sonny came back and sat down beside Jake Grafton.

“I have a question for you.” Jake spoke so softly Sonny had to tilt his head to catch the words. “Can
America
detect a Cowbell beacon?”

Surprised, Killbuck glanced furtively around to see who was listening, then eyed the admiral. “Yes, sir,” he acknowledged. “All our submarines can detect the beacons. It would be a high-pitched noise, very loud.”

“Have you tried to trigger
America
's beacon?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why isn't it working?”

“I don't know, sir. It could be a software problem. Or a problem with the transmitter. Or the satellite.”

“Or it could be,” Jake Grafton said, “that someone somewhere told Kolnikov about the beacon and he disabled it. We'd better find out which it is. The answer to that question might be the key that opens a lot of doors. Has the FBI been briefed about Cowbell?”

Killbuck squirmed in his seat. “Not to the best of my knowledge.”

“Hadn't we better find out?”

“Sir, you are trespassing on Vice-Admiral Navarre's turf.”

“Like hell!” Jake Grafton snarled. “That stolen submarine is
my
turf, shipmate. We've got subs manned by American sailors at sea right now with those beacons on board. And the news may be out! Worry about
that,
mister!”

Killbuck looked ill. “You're right, sir. I apologize.”

“When the crowd clears out, let's talk to the heavies. The FBI needs to be told about this, and now.”

Flap Le Beau listened to Jake without comment, without a question. He glanced at Sonny Killbuck, who tried to keep his stomach from flip-flopping. A tip-top secret, and he had spilled it to Jake Grafton in violation of every reg in the book. And General Le Beau didn't even ask Grafton where he got his information! He merely crooked a finger at Stuffy Stalnaker and said, “We've got a big problem.”

After Stuffy listened to Jake's explanation again, he said, “I wondered why those clowns at the White House didn't order that thing sunk. I guess Cowbell just slipped my mind.”

When Jake looked mildly surprised, Admiral Stalnaker added, “The politicians demanded Cowbell years ago and we installed it. And promptly forgot about it. Captain,” he said, addressing Sonny Killbuck, “if Cowbell isn't working we certainly need to know why. Let's get the FBI working on this. Then have the system disabled in every sub we have as soon as possible. Draft an Op Immediate message for my signature. The course of human events seems to have handed us an excellent rationale to rid ourselves of this albatross. Let's take advantage of this gift from heaven.”

The chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Alt, nodded his concurrence. He had tossed out his share of questions this evening, but as he had listened to Jake explain Cowbell earlier, he had seemed in a pensive mood. No doubt, Jake thought, he is as horrified by this mess as everyone else. More so, probably. It happened on his watch, and the ax is probably already falling.

Jake looked around the room at the four-stars there. The chairman, CNO, Navarre—those three at least would get the chop. And soon.

He was under no illusions: If the submarine wasn't found soon, Flap Le Beau was going to soon be playing golf every day. With Jake Grafton.

*   *   *

Vladimir Kolnikov was eating a piece of apple pie and drinking a cup of excellent coffee in the submarine's control room when the faintest flicker of light caught his eye on the big sonar displays. He froze in midbite, staring at the display … and saw nothing. Kolnikov swallowed the last bite of pie and put down the dish.

As he sipped coffee he glanced from display to display. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. And yet …

There. He saw it again. A momentary flash. He picked it up from the corner of his eye. Yes, he could pick up the flash with his peripheral vision, yet when he looked straight at the screen he saw nothing.

Now he checked the computer display of the tactical situation.

“Eck.”

The German was drinking coffee and munching a roll. He came over to where Kolnikov was sitting, his cup in his hand.

“Out of the corner of your eye, watch the display. No, look at me. Just be aware of the display.”

“A flash,” he said. “I see it.”

“What is it?”

Eck went to work on the computer, his coffee forgotten.

“It's a sound from within the boat,” he said after a bit.

“Internal?”

“Yes. A knocking, sounds like to me. Listen.” He put the sound that he had distilled from the hydrophones onto the loudspeaker.

Now Kolnikov heard it, an irregular clicking. Something metallic.

“Okay, Eck. Go find out what in the hell that is and let's get it fixed. Start back aft.”

Eck went, striding purposefully.

Kolnikov sipped coffee as he listened to the sound on the sonar speaker. Finally he turned off the speaker, the net effect of which was to magnify the sound for transmission away from the submarine. He wondered how close the nearest SOSUS hydrophone was.

He finished his coffee, forcing himself to sip slowly and leisurely for Turchak's benefit, because he was watching.

“You are a fake, you know,” Turchak said finally. “You are going to break that cup if you squeeze it any harder.”

“Go aft with Eck, will you, Turchak? Check on him. Tell me about that noise.”

Turchak touched Kolnikov's arm lightly, then nodded and went.

Twenty minutes passed before Turchak returned. He was wiping oil or grease from his hands on a rag, which he disposed of in the trash. “I think a bearing has gone out in an oil recirculation pump. It's clicking irregularly.”

Vladimir Kolnikov took a deep breath. He waited for Turchak to continue.

“I recommend that we go dead in the water and repair the bearing.”

“The towed array is out,” Kolnikov objected. The array was trailing along twenty-five hundred feet behind the sub. If the sub went dead in the water, the array would slowly sink until it was hanging straight down at the end of its cable. Automatically Kolnikov glanced at the tactical display to check the depth of the water. More than ten thousand feet.

“Reel it in. Then we'll go DIW.”

Kolnikov unconsciously tapped a finger on the tactical display. “Any idea how long this will take?”

“I looked at the bolts in the housing. Perhaps three or four hours if we have a replacement on board. They're checking that now. But it could be longer.”

“Okay,” Kolnikov said. He shrugged. The good news was that the submarine would generate almost no noise as it lay drifting fifteen hundred feet below the surface. Working on the machinery would cause some noise, of course, but not much, and anyway, there was no one close to hear it. They would be safe enough.

*   *   *

Tom Krautkramer of the FBI looked alert but tired when he sat down in Jake's office in Crystal City. The hour was past midnight. Jake had lit his candles from home. They flickered bravely in the small office and reflected their tiny glow in the black windows.