Джон Болл - The First Team

“All right, but keep it low-key. Major Pappas wanted this assignment very badly, but there was no way to get him off the crane except to come down the ladders, and that would have been out of the question. I could get off and into the water in something like five seconds, so that settled it in my favor.”

“Have you had some soup?”

“Not yet; I stuffed myself before I came on board, so I’m in good shape.”

“Good enough. You have the run of the ship and, while I’m in command, if you have any directives they’ll be followed.”

Wagner got to his feet. “I’ll leave all that to the admiral; you’ll be hearing from him.”

The captain stood up as well. “We already have. We didn’t transmit, but our orders stand unchanged.”

“Thank you, captain.”

“You’re more than welcome, sir.”

Colonel Gregor Rostovitch was in a mood of intense concentration. Spread out on the top of his desk was a series of charts and maps to which he was giving his undivided attention. The Magsaysay had gotten away and due to the fact that he had been inadequately staffed and poorly served, no one so far had been made to suffer for it. Accepting the fact that the submarine was loose in the Pacific, the colonel was now intent on tracking her down. One thing was greatly in his favor: by all report she had no provisions on board and she would have to put in somewhere very promptly for supplies. Canada was the likeliest choice, but there was an important treaty with Canada which the northern dominion, probably for the sake of its own hide, was adhering to scrupulously. Any services rendered to the Magsaysay would be interpreted as an act of war, and Canada would be brought under the gun just as the United States had been. Air patrols were out searching for any supply vessels, but on the surface of the Pacific that was an almost hopeless task. However! The colonel did not know the exact range of the fugitive submarine’s missiles, but he was acutely aware that if she could make her way into the Atlantic, that would put almost the whole of his country within her easy reach. Sixteen rounds of ballistic missiles, each one equipped with multiple, directable nuclear warheads, represented fearful firepower that could wipe whole nations off the map, and from underneath the ocean; she did not even need to surface in order to fire.

Bitter as the pill was, he accepted the fact that the men on board were actually an integrated submarine crew that had been assembled right under the noses of his thickheaded people. The whole thing had been carried off superbly well, which told him that it had been a professional operation all the way. That confirmed the fact that somewhere within the United States there was an organization which had just handed him the greatest defeat of his career. The underground was not an illusion, and it was not made up of weakling college students. Very well! The counter was first to find and sink the submarine. That done, he would requisition more men, have them sent over, and set up a system of terror that would destroy the underground and force the total, absolute and final surrender of the United States, not so much to his country as to himself.

There were only three rational ways that the Ramon Magsaysay could get into the Atlantic: through the Panama Canal, which was obviously impossible, around Cape Horn, or under the Arctic ice cap. The southern route would be safer and she had almost unlimited fuel — enough to take her completely around the world four times at the equator. Against it were the time required and the need to restock her larders. South America was liberally supplied with his own agents who could make any stop down there ill-advised.

Her obvious choice was to transit the ice cap; once she was safely up in the Beaufort Sea there would be no stopping her, but to get there she would have to pass through the Bering Strait. There was no alternative, and in the narrow confines of those strategic waters she would be at a great disadvantage. To stop her some very important people would have to issue orders, but that was no problem. Gregor Rostovitch usually got what he wanted.

The colonel’s immediate furious rage began to ebb away. Replacing it was the total intensity of the skilled tactician beginning the careful planning of the placement of his forces.

Senator Solomon Fitzhugh was unable to shake off the deep depression that had taken hold of him; it seemed to him that every way he turned, everything he attempted to do, reminded him of his son. For the first time he was alone in the world, there was no other human being who truly cared about him. His national image as a statesman was tarnished to the point where his sincere and deeply held convictions inspired only hatred. And the fact that his only child had been savagely murdered was unknown to the public or that he had died, even if mistakenly, for his country. He was denied even that.

In the venerable old mansion in which he lived Senator Fitzhugh kept one servant, a man who had been with him for many years to look after his various needs. Beyond that he lived by himself and, despite his former prominence in the Senate, he had received few invitations since the nation had fallen and the number of visitors who came to see him had dwindled until he found himself alone a great deal of the time. And the more he was by himself, the more acutely it came to him that at a time when he should have been in his prime, his life was closing in around him, as though he was sliding down the inside of some gigantic funnel.

He was surprised, therefore, when he heard his doorbell ring at a few minutes after eight in the evening. He was expecting no one, and even the diversion of the mystery story he was attempting to read had not revived his sunken mood. Presently his man came into the room. “There is a lady to see you, senator,” he said.

“Who?”

“Mrs. Robert Smith.”

“I don’t believe that I know her; what does she want?”

“I couldn’t say, sir, but she did indicate that you would wish to see her and that it might be to your advantage to do so.”

“I see. What sort of a person is she?”

“Very much of a lady, sir, I would say.”

“In that case show her in.”

The woman who came into the room was of uncertain age; the senator guessed at forty, but she could have been somewhat less or perhaps quite a bit more. Her grooming was subdued but perfectly executed. The suit that she wore had the simplicity that bespoke both taste and quality. She was decidedly attractive; the senator was reminded of Greer Garson when he had first seen her in Goodbye, Mr. Chips. He rose to his feet.

“Good evening, Mrs. Smith,” he welcomed her, “please sit down. What may I offer you?”

“Thank you, senator, it isn’t necessary to trouble yourself.”

“No trouble at all, what is your preference?”

“Suppose we talk first.”

“As you wish, Mrs. Smith.”

When they were alone she began the conversation. “First of all, senator, I must apologize to you for coming at this hour without an appointment. There were well-considered reasons why I could not make one.”

“Are you selling something, Mrs. Smith?”

“No, I am not.”

The senator was at a loss; he could think of no reason why this woman had come to see him. Her refinement was obvious, but he was nevertheless slightly disturbed.

“Today, senator, I believe some workmen were on your property.” “Yes, there were some people from the electric company. This is an old house and they were concerned about the wiring.” He paused. “Mrs. Smith, I don’t want to sound old-fashioned in this day and age, but I don’t want to expose you to the risk that your visit to my home might be misinterpreted.”