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"Very well, Dive," Wilson said. "Sonar, where's the layer?"

"One seven five feet, sir."

"I plan to stay above the thermocline till we take a better look around. Stream the port towed array."

"Aye, sir," Jeffrey said. "Chief of the Watch, stream the port towed array." Jeffrey saw COB's hand was poised, anticipating the order. He acknowledged and flicked the switch.

Jeffrey pictured the half-mile-long TB-29 thin-line array streaming out astern. The starboard towed array, the fat-line TB-16D, gave a shorter aperture and wasn't as good at catching the very-low-frequency five-or ten-hertz noises of a diesel sub.

"Make your depth one five five feet," Wilson said.

"Make my depth one five five feet, aye," Jeffrey said. "Five degrees down bubble." Meltzer acknowledged, and with no sense of motion or vibrations the deck tilted down once more.

One thing Jeffrey liked when he was diving officer was its position facing forward. It let him feel more at one with the ship, sneaking or charging through the ocean. Since a submarine was just a long and narrow tube, and virtually every compartment doubled as passageway fore and aft, almost every station or console fronted a port or starboard bulkhead. Almost all the crew rode sideways, and some of them slept that way. Jeffrey played many roles in the course of a day, a week, a month at sea, and sometimes felt like he was going sideways too.

"Photonic mast's under," Jeffrey said, watching the monitor again. He took a quick look around underwater — no threatening shadows. "Chief of the Watch, lower the photonic mast and all antennas."

"Lower the mast and all antennas, aye," COB said. "Passing one hundred feet, sir," Meltzer said. "Passing one hundred feet," Jeffrey repeated to Wilson.

"Dive, we're under time pressure," Wilson said. "Make normal one-third turns." Again Jeffrey palmed the 7MC. Again Maneuvering acknowledged. Again he relayed this to the captain.

"XO," Wilson said, "once we clear our baffles and do a thorough check for sound shorts, I intend to make the transit south by sprint-and-drift at fifteen hundred feet … We'll slow up when we're closer to our target."

"Understood, sir," Jeffrey said, knowing Wilson would always share his plans as navy regs required. Jeffrey would be the CO's sounding board and punching bag, constantly preparing for the job.

"XO," Wilson said, "send the messenger of the watch to invite our guests to the CACC."

* * *

Ilse Reebeck sat alone in the tiny state-room they'd given her. It took just a minute to unpack, and now she was looking at a picture of her family. These little lulls were the worst, the times like this with nothing else to do.

She held the photo to her chest, rocking gently back and forth. She tried again to lock in all the memories, knowing they'd fade inevitably with the hopeless years. Images flashed through her mind, and the sounds of voices now forever gone. Echoes, of everything she'd lost and of things she'd never had.

Someone knocked. With all her self-control she said, "Come in." The messenger was very young, polite, and shy. Ilse rose to follow him and took her first good look around. The corridor was clogged with boxes now, mostly food. The walls had fake wood wainscoting, a pleasant touch, she thought. Certainly the decor in other ways was stark — a big fire ax and extinguisher gave the only real touch of color. Then she spotted the foot-sized Velcro-like red triangles on the deck, marking thin pipes with small nozzles labeled RESPIRATOR AIR LINE. Ilse and the messenger squeezed down the short corridor past various crewmen: enlisted, officers, chiefs. Most of them seemed friendly and surprised. Give them five more minutes, she told herself, and everyone aboard will know I'm here, if they don't already. Ilse passed other state-rooms, marked XO and CO, and then she was in the control room. To her right were two closed doors, RADIO and ESM, posted with security warnings.

"Why is it so dark?"

"Ma'am," the messenger said, "we usually rig for red like this. It makes the screens and instruments easier on watch standers' eyes … Some boats use blue." Ilse looked at the ceiling, which was low. Excuse me, she told herself, that's the overhead. Pipes and cables ran everywhere — between them hung the coiled black cords for mikes. There were rows of computer consoles along both side bulkheads, mostly occupied, most with two large screens, one above the other. There was a digital navigation plotting table near the back. Every bit of available wall space was clogged with junction boxes, other gadgets, countless dials and switches, knobs and handles in every possible shape and size.

Keyboards clicked. Men seated or standing watched their screens or touched them or spoke in confident hushed voices. Occasionally someone called out, orders or information. Ilse smelled warm electronics and ripe male bodies. Where were the periscopes?

Captain Wilson and the executive officer came over.

"Miss Reebeck," Wilson said with a smile Ilse already knew was rare for him. "We have a few minutes till we're in firing position. We'll do a SEAL mission briefing with you once our present task's complete. We can use the wardroom later."

"Good," Ilse said.

"In the meantime Commander Fuller can get you started. He's in charge of training in the boat."

"How about this one?" Ilse said, claiming an empty position at a row of what were obviously sonar consoles along the port bulkhead.

The XO nodded. "Just what do you have in mind?"

"Commander, I'm an oceanographer. While I'm here, Captain Wilson wants me to help upgrade your ship's modeling of underwater sound propagation. I've got better data on the local seas."

"A-hah," Jeffrey said, as if things were starting to make sense to him.

"You should never have scaled back NOAA's research budget," Ilse said. "If your country hadn't cut defense spending so much, we might not all be in this mess. Think of the American lives it's cost already, to save some dollars."

Jeffrey winced, opened his mouth to retort, then seemed to think better of it. Ilse pulled three rewritable three-inch CD-RWs from her blouse pocket. "Bottom geology and currents, salinity, water temperatures, and tides. Volcanic vents and their effects. Seasonal biologics at different depths and times of day."

"Super," Jeffrey said.

"I have a lot of experience in these waters and where we're going next."

"And where might that be?" Jeffrey said.

"Durban."

"The main South African sub base?"

"Not exactly."

"So what's the plan?"

"The usual commando op. Stab, kill, blow up things."

"You make it sound too glib."

"Commander, there's nothing glib about this. The Putsch hanged my brother, okay? He was one of the ones they showed on television."

"Jesus … I'm sorry"

"I'm not interested in apologies."

"Urn, how did you get out?"

"I was in the U.S. when it happened. At a marine biology conference."

Jeffrey cleared his throat. "You know how to use this thing?"

"It's a Virginia-class ARCI terminal, part of the onboard fiber-optic LAN. Each console can handle sonar, target tracking, or weapons control, depending how you set it up."

"Yup."

"It replaces the older systems in Los Angeles-and Seawolf-class SSNs."

"You're well informed."

"Challenger's the fourth fast-attack sub built since Virginia," Ilse said, "a bit of a hybrid though with commonalities to Seawolf, seen by some as an unnecessary step backwards. Challenger has a Seawolf-sized hull envelope, a big propulsion plant, eight extra-wide torpedo tubes, all quite expensive."

Jeffrey nodded.

"She's got all-electric drive by Westinghouse," Ilse said, "with no reduction gears — that part's new, extremely quiet. Third-generation pump-turbine propulsor, like an underwater jet engine, extremely fast."

"Hull number 778," Jeffrey said.

"I know. They've been painted over for the war."

"Exactly what else do you know about Challenger?"

"I've been through SUBSCHOL in New London," Ilse said. "Flooding drills, fire fighting, escape tank swim, the works."

"What did they say about this boat?"

"Just that she's different, and controversial."

"That puts it mildly."

"I suppose I'll find out soon."

Jeffrey glanced away for a moment, then looked back. "You speak American English very well."

"I spent four years in San Diego. I got my Ph.D. from Scripps."

"Impressive."

"So I've been on lots of research ships. Diving is a hobby. And I dated a few navy guys, out of Coronado … No, they didn't blab about your precious submarine. I've been briefed, on the way out here. Only up to a point, apparently, but by COMSUBPAC himself."

"Really?" Jeffrey sounded almost jealous.

"He said this boat's assigned to DEVRON TWELVE, as if that explained everything."

"It would, to a submariner. Development Squadron Twelve. "

"And if you're wondering why they picked a woman, I wasn't their first choice. The other three they tried were men, but none of them had the guts for it." Ilse wriggled her bottom to get more comfortable in the seat. She put the first CD-RW into the drive, worked the console's keyboard, and massaged the trackball with her palm. She called up a menu she knew by heart, then leaned over to talk to the sonar officer, a slightly plump lieutenant sitting to her right. Step one, she presumed, would be to enhance his ocean models, used to compute sonar detection and target counterdetection zones. That should keep her busy for a while.

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