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  “What would you like to know?”

  “First of all,” Harrington said, “how difficult is an appendectomy? And what is the normal postoperative recovery time?”

  “The procedure is fairly straightforward,” the doctor said. “In most cases, the patient recovers very quickly and can be discharged in two or three days.”

  “I see,” Harrington said. “I’d like to discuss a hypothetical patient. Let’s assume that an otherwise healthy young man, between the ages of twenty and thirty, underwent an appendectomy on Saturday a week ago. Is it safe to assume that he would be back on his feet by now?”

  Dr. Hale laughed. “Back on his feet? By now, he’d probably be kicking footballs.”

  “Ah,” Harrington said. “But what if there were complications?”

  “These days, there are almost never complications with an appendectomy. It is, as I said, a fairly straightforward procedure, with an excellent postoperative prognosis.”

  “But suppose,” Harrington said, “that the young man in question did not seek medical attention.”

  “He would,” the doctor said. “An inflamed appendix can cause pain of the highest magnitude. The average person would be unable to ignore that sort of pain and unable to function in the face of it.”

  “But suppose our hypothetical young man has extraordinary willpower,” Harrington said. “Or assume that he was unable to seek medical attention in a timely manner, for whatever reason.”

  “Then,” Dr. Hale said, “we would be looking at an entirely different scenario. The patient’s appendix might perforate, or rupture. There could be all sorts of complications. Intraperitoneal abscess, pylephlebitis, wound infection, diffuse peritonitis, and possibly, but not likely—appendiceal fistula. Some of these conditions are potentially lethal.”

  “And how long would treatment typically take, in such a case?”

  “Perhaps three weeks,” the doctor said. “Even longer if there are surgical complications as well.”

  Harrington smiled, although no one was around to see it. “Thank you very much, Dr. Hale. You have been extremely helpful.”

  He broke the connection, waited for about three seconds, and then dialed the number for the Operations Directorate.

  It was answered on the first ring. “This is Keating.”

  Harrington cleared his throat. “Yes, George, Andrew Harrington here. I know where to find Isma’il Hamid.”

  “Where?”

  “In the hospital, recovering from his appendicitis.”

  “Andrew, my friend, you are looking down a blind alley,” Keating said. “The recovery time for an appendectomy is only two or three days. Hamid would have been treated on Sunday the sixth. He would have been released by Tuesday at the latest. No one even knew to look for him until Wednesday. He was well and truly gone by then.”

  “I thought so too,” Harrington said. “And apparently, so did everyone else, since the American police reports don’t mention a follow-up with the hospital that treated Hamid’s appendicitis.”

  “You can’t blame anyone for that,” Keating said. “With a few thousand leads to track down, that would have been at the bottom of my priority list too.”

  “Have another look at the transcript of the interview with the shift supervisor at WizardClean,” Harrington said. “Mr. Hamid tried to ignore the pain and complete his shift. The supervisor attributed Hamid’s tenacity to cultural machismo, but he was wrong. Hamid expected to be dead in a few hours from exposure to the T2 mycotoxin. And, after all, what are a few hours of agony when one is about to sit at the right hand of Allah?”

  “All right,” Keating said. “Hamid tried to tough his way through. But his body was obviously weaker than his spirit, because he collapsed. What does that tell us that we didn’t know before?”

  “Perhaps nothing,” Harrington said. “But how long did Hamid suffer before he collapsed? How long did he manage to hide his pain before it got the better of him?”

  “I have no idea,” Keating said. “Does it matter?”

  “It may. I believe that Mr. Hamid may have held out long enough for his appendix to burst. And the recovery period for that is not two or three days, but three weeks or more. If I’m right, Hamid is flat on his back in a hospital bed somewhere. It shouldn’t be terribly difficult to find out which bed and which hospital.”

  “I understand,” Keating said. “I’m on it.”

  CHAPTER 28

  TORPEDO: THE HISTORY AND EVOLUTION OF A KILLING MACHINE

  (Excerpted from an unpublished manuscript [pages 121–122] and reprinted by permission of the author, Retired Master Chief Sonar Technician David M. Hardy, USN)

  On December 7, 1941, six aircraft carriers of the Japanese Imperial Navy launched nearly 400 aircraft in a sneak-attack bombing raid against the U.S. Pacific Fleet based in Pearl Harbor, Hawaii. Twelve American warships were sunk or beached, including every battleship in the Pacific Fleet. Another nine ships were heavily damaged. Over twenty-four hundred Americans were killed. A significant portion of the damage can be attributed to conventional aerial bombs, but the real killer of the day was the air-launched torpedo. Carried beneath the fuselages of Kate bombers, the Japanese torpedoes cut through the shallow waters of the harbor like knives, leaving swaths of fire and death in their wakes. America was at war again, and again it had begun with torpedoes.

  * * *

  Twenty-three years later, in the Tonkin Gulf, off the coast of Vietnam, the American naval destroyer USS Maddox was attacked by three North Vietnamese patrol boats. The high-speed attack boats fired at least four torpedoes at the American ship, as well as several rounds from their 14.5mm deck guns. The torpedoes all missed, and USS Maddox returned fire with her own guns. Two days later, North Vietnamese patrol boats conducted torpedo attacks on another American naval destroyer, USS Turner Joy. As in the attack on USS Maddox, the Turner Joy came away from the engagement without serious damage. President Lyndon B. Johnson saw the attacks as justification for increasing U.S. military presence in Vietnam. The ensuing escalation ultimately led to what we now know as the Vietnam War.

  Critics of Johnson (and the war) accused the president of stretching the incident out of proportion and (essentially) fabricating an excuse to go to war with the North Vietnamese. The arguments over the war and President Johnson’s role in escalating it continue to this day, but two facts remain undisputed: America was at war again, and it had begun (again) with torpedoes.

  CHAPTER 29

  FIREWALKER TWO-SIX

  SOUTHERN ARABIAN GULF

  (STEAMING TOWARD THE STRAITS OF HORMUZ)

  FRIDAY; 18 MAY

  1330 hours (1:30 PM)

  TIME ZONE +4 ‘DELTA’

  Chief McPherson adjusted the four-point harness that held her in the flight seat and leaned forward far enough to see over the shoulders of the pilot and copilot. The green flight suit she wore over her khakis tugged uncomfortably at her collarbone as she craned her neck to look through the helicopter’s windshield. The helo was new, less than a year into its service life, but the Plexiglas windshield was already beginning to take on a vaguely frosted look—the inevitable product of a thousand tiny scratches born of countless collisions with the desert sand that always seemed to ride the back of the hot Middle Eastern wind.

  The chief scanned the wave tops as they slid by a thousand feet below. Their destination, USS Antietam, was down there somewhere—supposedly close now, but she couldn’t see the ship yet.

  She stole a glance to her right, where Captain Bowie sat belted into his own flight seat. He seemed lost in thought, but—from the way the muscles in his neck were bunching up—they weren’t pleasant thoughts.

  Up in the cockpit, the pilot keyed his mike. “Antietam, this is Firewalker Two-Six. I am on final approach. Request your numbers, over.”

  The reply came back a second later. “Firewalker Two-Six, this is Antietam. My numbers are as follows … Winds are thirty degrees off my port bow at twenty-seven knots. Pitch is
one degree. Roll is one degree. My SPY radar is silent aft. All HF antennas within thirty degrees of your approach vector are silent, over.”

  The pilot nodded and looked over his shoulder. “Captain, everything is looking good. We’re going to head for the barn.”

  Captain Bowie nodded. “Understood.”

  The pilot keyed the mike again. “Antietam, this is Firewalker Two-Six. Copy all. Your numbers look good. Request green deck, over.”

  “We’re going the wrong way,” Captain Bowie said. He spoke softly, and it was difficult to hear him over the wail of the twin turbine engines and the syncopated thump of the helo’s rotors.

  Chief McPherson leaned closer to him. “Sir?”

  The captain looked up. “Just thinking aloud,” he said. He jerked a thumb over his left shoulder toward the tail of the helo—toward the southern end of the Arabian Gulf. “My ship is back that way, steaming toward the bad guys at top speed.” He pointed in the direction of the helo’s nose. “Meanwhile, I’m flying this way—away from my ship and away from the threat—so that we can go drink coffee and make polite conversation with the man who’s about to snatch the rug out from under us.”

  The chief thought for a few seconds and said, “We don’t know that, sir. Captain Whiley may be planning to leave you in command of the SAU. That’s certainly the smart thing to do.”

  “He’s going to take command,” Captain Bowie said. “That’s why we’re being summoned to his ship. He wants to do this on his turf, where he is the captain, and I’m just a visiting commander.”

  That, Chief McPherson knew, was likely to be true. According to naval custom, there could only be one captain aboard any warship, and that was the commanding officer. The instant Captain Bowie’s foot touched the deck of Antietam, he would revert to his actual rank of commander and remain as such until he departed the ship.

  Captain Bowie cocked one eyebrow. “Of course, if I were in a position to do the same thing to him, this is probably how I would do it. It’s actually a half-decent piece of political maneuvering, even if it does piss me off.”

  Chief McPherson nodded once and turned back to look through the windshield again. After a few seconds, she spotted the Antietam, still steaming south toward her rendezvous with the other ships in the Search Attack Unit. From a thousand feet up, the aging Aegis guided missile cruiser looked like a bathtub toy—a trick of perspective that would soon change, the chief knew. In fact, at 566 feet, the cruiser was 37 feet longer than the Towers.

  Approaching from the cruiser’s bow, the pilot flew down the ship’s starboard side and made a tight buttonhook turn to the right, lining up with the flight deck and shedding unneeded altitude with the same neat maneuver. The toy-sized ship began to grow rapidly in the helicopter’s windshield.

  The voice of Antietam’s radio talker came over the speaker. “Firewalker Two-Six, this is Antietam. My deck is green, over.”

  The pilot keyed his mike. “Antietam, this is Firewalker Two-Six. Copy your green deck. I am making my approach, over.”

  * * *

  Less than a minute later, the helo touched down on the ship’s gently rolling deck with a thump that was barely audible over the din of the rotors. It was as smooth a landing as the chief had ever seen. Of course, it should have been; the seas were calm, and the relative winds across the deck were nearly ideal. But not all shipboard landings were so easy. Navy pilots and flight deck crews were trained to make landings under unbelievable conditions, on heavy seas, in low visibility, with the ship bucking and rolling, the winds shifting freakishly, and maybe an engine failure thrown in for good measure.

  A few seconds after they were down, a young enlisted man wearing a purple flight deck jersey and a cranial-style flight deck helmet opened the door from the outside. The roar of the helo’s rotors grew instantly louder. The Sailor threw Commander Bowie a quick salute and shouted, “Welcome aboard, Commander. Can you please follow me, sir?”

  Commander Bowie gave the man a thumbs-up and reached to unbuckle his safety harness. Being senior, the commander was first out, followed a few seconds later by the chief. They followed the purple-jerseyed Sailor across the flight deck at a quick trot, heads ducked to avoid the helicopter’s thundering rotor blades.

  The Sailor led them to a watertight door, which he opened for them. They stepped through, and the Sailor stepped in after them and dogged it closed. The noise level dropped dramatically.

  “Welcome aboard, sir,” the Sailor said again—at a more reasonable volume this time. “The captain is waiting for you in the wardroom. If you’ll follow me, please.”

  Commander Bowie nodded. “Thank you, son.”

  The Sailor led them through a series of passageways and up several ladders to officers’ country. When he came to the door of the wardroom, he knocked, opened the door, and held it for them, but he didn’t enter.

  They stepped past him into the wardroom. It was even fancier than the wardroom aboard Towers, one of the perks—no doubt—of having a senior full-bird captain as commanding officer.

  Captain Stuart Whiley stood when they entered the room and beckoned them further into his inner sanctum. He was a short, wiry man in his late forties. His crisply starched khakis were impeccably tailored, and his brush-cut hair was a shade of black so improbably deep that it was almost certainly colored. His movements were quick and adroit. He smiled, showing a mouth full of very white teeth, and extended a hand. “Welcome aboard, Commander.”

  Commander Bowie gripped the offered hand and shook it. “Thank you, Captain. You’ve got yourself a fine-looking ship here.”

  Captain Whiley nodded and released the commander’s hand. “Kind words coming from the man who drives the most advanced ship the Navy has to offer.”

  He made introductions around the table. “This is my XO, Commander Don Palmer.” A tall, blond man stood up and offered his hand. “And this is Commander Rachel Vargas, CO of the Benfold.” A trim woman with copper skin and deeply chiseled cheekbones stood up and shook Commander Bowie’s hand. She smiled. “Commander Bowie and I are old steaming buddies. I’ve been keeping him out of trouble for years.” She looked him in the eye. “Good to see you, Jim.”

  The last person at the table was a stocky redheaded man. He stood up and stretched out his hand. “This is the CO of Ingraham, Commander Mike Culkins.”

  Commander Bowie shook his hand. “Mike and I know each other too. We did our first Divo tours together on the Bunker Hill. I coached Mike on ship handling, and he taught me how to drink too much without falling down.”

  Commander Culkins grinned. “A skill that remains useful through the years.”

  “Well,” Captain Whiley said, “looks like this is old-home week for you three.” His smile was theatrical, and it didn’t fool anyone.

  His eyes lit on the chief, as though noticing her for the first time. He paused for a second. “Perhaps your chief will be more comfortable down in the CPO Mess.”

  Commander Bowie looked at his chief. “Will we be starting immediately?”

  The captain nodded. “We’re ready to begin now, unless you’d rather change out of your flight suit first.”

  Commander Bowie shook his head. “I’m fine, sir. Ready to start when you are.”

  “Good,” Captain Whiley said. He motioned to the table, which was laid out with trays of deli-style sandwiches. “I thought we’d have sandwiches and coffee while we work.” He smiled again. “Sort of a power lunch.”

  “Looks great, sir,” Commander Bowie said. “But if we’re going to get started right away, I’d prefer that Chief McPherson stay up here. With your permission, of course. I brought her along because she’s been chasing submarines for the better part of twenty years. I know that I wouldn’t want to plan a sub hunt without her input.”

  Captain Whiley’s smile narrowed perhaps a millimeter. “Fine,” he said with a quick nod. His tone of voice said that it was anything but fine. “We’d be foolish to ignore that sort of expertise.” He looked at the chief.
“Make yourself at home, Chief. Welcome to Antietam’s wardroom.” His eyes carried not the barest glimmer of the welcome that he’d just offered her.

  Chief McPherson took the nearest seat. “Thank you, sir. I hope I contribute something worthwhile.”

  “I’m certain that you will,” the captain said. “Chief petty officers are the backbone of the Navy. I’ve always said that, and I’ve always believed it. They’re the subject matter experts.”

  “Thank you, sir,” the chief said. She noticed that Captain Whiley was making no move to summon his own Chief Sonar Technician.

  Commander Bowie found a chair, and as soon as he was seated, Captain Whiley walked to the far end of the room. A projection screen hung from the ceiling. He pulled a pen-shaped laser pointer from his shirt pocket and picked up a small remote control unit from the corner of the table. He pressed a button on the remote, and the lights dimmed. He pressed another button, and a ceiling-mounted projector flared to life. A map of the Middle East appeared, extending from the northern tip of the Arabian Gulf—at the top left-hand corner of the screen, to the Gulf of Oman and Northern Arabian Sea—near the lower right corner of the screen. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “this is our playground.”

  The map, and the images that followed, were crisp, brightly colored, and had a professional edge to them. It rapidly became obvious that the briefing material had been prepared by someone who knew what they were doing, undoubtedly using slick commercial software. And Captain Whiley had studied his material well. He used the laser pointer to great advantage as he worked his way through screen after screen of images and charts.

  Chief McPherson put down the sandwich she had been nibbling on and watched the captain’s presentation with a growing sense of alarm. First off, this was not a tactical planning meeting; it was a dog and pony show. It was becoming increasingly apparent that Whiley had not invited them here to brainstorm tactics and search plans. He’d brought them here to wow them with his plan—one that he’d already formulated—meaning that it probably wasn’t up for debate. Taken by itself, that was bad enough, but it wasn’t the worst of it. Whiley’s planning was straight out of the textbook.