"Ladies and gentlemen, this has already been accomplished. Naval engineers at Newport News cut a compartment into the lower hull of the Russian freighter Volga River, which has been in port at Norfolk."

"What happened to her crew?" the vice president asked.

"Let's just say that her crew is enjoying an unexpected but extended visit to the United States."

"I don't even want to hear it, " the president said.

That comment brought chuckles from the group.

"Anyway, " the secretary of defense continued, "the ship is being manned by a U.S. Navy crew, posing as civilians. They all speak Russian. The Volga River is now in the Mediterranean, awaiting orders to rendezvous with the U.S. submarine.

"A Los Angeles – class submarine, the USS Honolulu, manned by a volunteer crew of submarine veterans, is on standby in La Maddalena, Italy, awaiting your orders, Mr. President. That crew understands that if they are called upon to carry out this mission, they may never return."

Silence again, except for the grandfather clock ticking and tocking. The secretaries of state and defense seemed to have run out of gas. All eyes returned to the president.

"Okay, here's what I'm ordering, " the president declared. "Deploy the Honolulu out of La Maddalena. Send her out to the rendezvous point to link up with the Volga River. I've not made a final decision on this attack. Not yet anyway. But I want our sub ready to go if and when I give the order."

"Yes, sir, Mr. President."

"We are adjourned."

CHAPTER 6

United States Nuclear Submarine Base La Maddalena, Italy

3 p.m. local time

The Alfa Romeo coupe jolted along the narrow cobblestone streets, headed to the main gate of the U.S. submarine base.

From the passenger's seat of the sports car, Commander Pete Miranda took in the vibrant colors of the picturesque Mediterranean-style buildings in the center of town. A few minutes later, the car cleared the last small building, opening a spacious view of the blue waters of the Straits of Bonifacio. Sparkling wavelets glistened in the afternoon sun, creating the illusion of a crystal-blue carpet separating the Italian island of La Maddalena from the French island of Corsica, just a few miles to the north.

The pristine beauty of the sight masked the reality that these were some of the rockiest and thus most dangerous waters anywhere in the world for navigating a submarine in close quarters around a sub base.

La Maddalena had been home to a small U.S. nuclear submarine base since 1973. Pete had grown to love this, his favorite Mediterranean port-of-call. Unfortunately, the Sardinians and the Greenpeace activists had carped about the presence of U.S. nuclear boats at La Maddalena ever since USS Hartford scraped bottom and ran aground in 2003.

As a result of all that, the gorgeous base at the northern tip of this tiny island would soon be closed. How fitting that one of the last missions launched from this place would be the most dangerous, and most significant to the defense of the America he so loved.

Stogie clamped between his molars, Pete exchanged salutes with the petty officer at the main gate of the U.S. submarine base.

Change was happening all too fast, Pete Miranda thought, as the car rolled through the gate and onto the base. There was the unwelcome change in his personal life – separation and divorce, alienation from his family. And in the wider world, the years following the end of the Cold War had brought closure to many of the great U.S. naval bases around the world: Charleston, Long Beach, Treasure Island, Subic Bay.

And now… this.

The closing of these great ports-of-call was disturbing to him. Was the Navy losing its significance around the world? Which begged the question, was he losing his own? After all, the Navy was in him, wasn't it?

That thought led him often to the thought of retirement. But his love of the Navy, his love of the sea, his love for submarines would not let him retire. Not yet, anyway. Not voluntarily.

Somewhere, it was still out there. He knew it in his gut. The mission that would define his significance as a naval officer. This was why he couldn't retire. Not yet. The mission that would define his legacy might cost him his life. So be it. He would face the mission bravely, and perform it to the best of his abilities.

Pete looked over to his left. The chief petty officer in the driver's seat pulled the Alfa Romeo into a parking space. Across the street a Los Angeles – class submarine was moored alongside the pier. A group of naval officers and enlisted men milled about on the pier.

"Let me check on things, Skipper, " the chief said. "I'll come get you just as soon as the crew is ready."

"Sure thing, Chief." Pete puffed his stogie as the chief got out of the car.

The chief returned from across the street and opened the passenger door of the Alfa Romeo.

"Ready, Chief?"

"Aye, aye, Skipper."

"Very well, " Pete said. "Let's do it."

Pete stepped out of the car, crossed the street to the end of the pier where the submarine was moored to his right. A crew of one hundred officers and enlisted men were lined on the pier in four rows to his left.

"Attention on deck!" a lieutenant commander called from atop the aluminum platform erected just in front of the four rows of men.

The crew came to sharp attention as Pete, followed by the chief, stepped up four aluminum steps and joined the lieutenant commander on the platform. He dropped the stogie on the platform and stamped it out.

"Afternoon, Frank, " Pete said to the lieutenant commander, accepting and returning the salute of his new executive officer.

"Afternoon, sir." The executive officer sharply held his salute. "Sir, I present to you the officers and crew of the USS Honolulu."

"Very well." Pete dropped his salute, and the XO crisply followed. Pete stepped to the podium, turned, and faced the brand-new crew.

"Gentlemen, at ease!"

Pete looked out and saw one hundred of the Navy's finest kick from strict attention to parade rest. Beyond them in the background, the adjoining concrete piers were empty of ships and empty of men. Other than circling seagulls, not another soul, beyond Pete and these men, was anywhere within earshot. The Navy had cordoned off a five-hundred-yard guarded perimeter around the ship to maintain secrecy.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen. I'm Commander Pete Miranda. Up until one hour ago, I was commanding officer of the USS Chicago.

"Some of you I know. Many of you I don't. Here's what I know about all of you. You have been in the Navy at least twenty years. You're all within one year of retirement or have retired within the last year.

"You've all volunteered for this mission. And although a hundred others also volunteered, you were screened, selected, and flown here because your records as submariners are exemplary. And you've all been apprised of the danger in what we may be called on to do.

"I want you to take this moment to look at the man on each side of you."

Men looked to their left and their right.

"If the president of the United States gives the order that is being contemplated in Washington even as we speak, there's a better than even chance, that thirty days from now, either you, or the man next to you, or both of you… will be dead."

Pete's words reverberated off the concrete pier.

Wind whipped off the water, and the chorus of wheeling gulls provided the only background to the moment of icy silence.

"You may, even at this hour, gentlemen, step away from this mission. And if you step away, there will be no shame, no disgrace, and your naval personnel records, which will never confirm your participation in this mission should you go, will in no way be adversely affected.