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  “Does that give us time for that briefing you promised me?”

  The pilot nodded.

  “The Avalon was in Sydney when I received my current orders. The Aussie Navy is thinking about building a couple of DSRVs of their own, and they’d like to use Avalon as a prototype. Since I was ordered up here ASAP, MATS sent in a C5-A that subsequently carried Avalon to the airstrip at Kwajalein.

  From here we were mounted on the back of the Billfish.

  “The Avalon’s primary mission was to search the waters surrounding the atoll for any recently deposited debris.

  It seems that the Air Force lost some sort of warhead in the area after a successful test launch from Vandenberg, and it was hoped that we would be the ones to sniff it out for them.

  “After scouring the lagoon and finding not a trace of the warhead, we expanded the search to the surrounding ocean. It was while examining the waters directly south of the lagoon’s entrance that our bottom scanning sonar registered a minor irregularity on the seafloor, at a depth of six-hundred and seventy-eight feet. I decided to bring the Avalon down to eyeball this anomaly, and that’s when I made the initial discovery.”

  A soft electronic tone began sounding in the background, and the pilot excused himself to begin the disengagement process. He utilized the underwater telephone to coordinate this process with the USS Billfish, and soon afterward the Avalon was free from its mother vessel and totally on its own.

  With the assistance of an airplane-type steering column, the pilot guided the DSRV downward. At a depth of five hundred feet he hit a clear plastic button on the sonar console. Almost immediately a repetitious, soft warbling ping began sounding from the elevated intercom speakers.

  “That sound that you’re hearing is from a set of homing beacons we placed at the site. It will lead us straight to the area in question.”

  Mac sat forward excitedly. His pulse quickened as they passed below six hundred feet and the pilot activated the Avalon’s powerful bow-mounted spotlights and its video camera. Now all Mac had to do was gaze up at the monitor screen to see for himself what secrets the ocean had in store for them.

  A startled grouper darted into the blackness beyond, while a curious gray shark stared into the camera as if it was considering it as a possible food source. After adjusting the monitor’s fine-tuning knob, the pilot continued.

  “I don’t really know what I was expecting to find down here. But I’ll tell you this much, in my ten years of work on DSRVs, I haven’t ever seen anything like what you’re about to see with your very own eyes. Why, it just doesn’t make any rational sense!”

  Mac’s mouth was bone dry as they dropped below six hundred and fifty feet. On the monitor screen, the gray shark was no longer visible. In its place was a faint blue beacon whose strobe seemed to be synchronized with the pinging tone that was still emanating from the Avalon’s intercom.

  “That’s the homing beacon,” observed the pilot.

  “The site is only a few meters from its base.”

  It seemed to take forever for the DSRV to cover this distance. As they passed the strobe, the pilot took manual control of the video camera and aimed its lens straight at the seafloor.

  An expanse of smooth golden sand filled the monitor screen. Yet as they sped over a nesting starfish, the character of the sand abruptly changed. Its previously glossy surface was now pockmarked by a set of alien tracks. This trail seemed manmade, the individual treads appearing much like that which would be left in the wake of some sort of subterranean tractor.

  Mac noted the shape of the tread marks and the width of the track itself. Though he would need to take exact measurements, there was no doubt in his mind that Admiral Long’s suspicions had been correct.

  Only three weeks ago, Mac had seen an exact duplicate of this same track on the seafloor beneath San Francisco harbor. The previous month, he had examined another similar trail off the coast of Norfolk, Virginia, in Chesapeake Bay. Earlier in the year, other tracks were found in the Mediterranean Sea near Sicily, and on the seafloor of the Baltic opposite the Swedish city of Karlskrona. Each of these sightings pointed to the presence of some sort of mysterious vessel that used a tracked drive to prowl the seafloor. What made this supposition all the more chilling was the fact that each of these sightings occurred in the restricted waters adjoining a variety of the West’s most sensitive military installations.

  It was Mac’s current mission to determine the nationality of this vehicle, and to figure out a way to stop future incursions before America’s very security was compromised.

  “If you ask me, it looks like someone’s been driving a Caterpillar tractor down here. Who knows, maybe the guys who were driving it are the same ones who made off with our warhead,” offered the pilot.

  Such an idea caused goosebumps to form on Mac’s forearms, and as he was about to respond, the DSRV’s underwater telephone activated. The pilot put the receiver to his ear, and after a brief conversation he handed it to Mac.

  “Commander Mackenzie, this is Lieutenant Commander Jenkins on the Bill fish. I’m afraid we’re going to have to get you topside on the double. We just received a priority flash from COMSUBPAC requesting your immediate presence in San Diego. Air transport will be awaiting you on Kwajalein.”

  His eyes still glued to the monitor, Mac wondered what had occurred to necessitate his immediate presence in far-off California. The only thing he could be certain of was that it was most likely somehow related to the mysterious set of tracks that were still displayed on the screen before him. Not looking forward to yet another long commute, he wearily instructed the Avalon’s pilot to break off the scan and rejoin the mother ship.

  Chapter Two

  The sun set over the Irish Sea with a deceptive swiftness.

  From the transom of his battered fishing trawler, Liam Lafferty watched the twilight. The western horizon was aglow in breathtaking color. Rich bands of orange and golden yellow merged with the gathering violet of night to produce a unique, ever-changing canvas. Absorbing every detail, the grizzled fisherman prayed it was an omen of good fortune.

  For an entire two-week stretch, they had had nothing but one angry gale after another sweep in from the North Atlantic. During this time, only the most desperate fishermen left Dundalk Bay to ply their trade. Most of these individuals returned home with nothing but smashed equipment and a severe case of seasickness to show for their efforts.

  Even though his family was already down to half-portions of cod, Liam wasn’t one of those fools who challenged the windswept tempests. Better to go hungry than lose one’s life to the elements. This was a lesson that the old-timer learned the hard way, for he had lost his father and his only brother to just such a storm.

  Less than three hours ago, the red pennant was lowered from the harbormaster’s flagpole. Shortly thereafter, the dark canopy of lowlying clouds that had been with them for the past fourteen days began to clear.

  Liam was working on his lines in the shed behind his cottage when a neighbor excitedly conveyed the good news. Without wasting a second, Liam gathered his line and hooks, and rushed from his cottage to get his seabag.

  He was able to get his trawler to sea just as the tide began to change.

  He had been out for a good two hours now and already had several fat fish in the hold. Soon it would be time to once more pull in the lines to add to this catch.

  But before he did so, he decided to have a smoke. He packed his trusty briar pipe with tobacco and lit the bowl with a wooden match. The aromatic scent of rum and vanilla wafted upward as Liam exhaled a long ribbon of smoke.

  With his gaze still locked on the western horizon, he watched the vibrant colors of twilight begin to fade. The night was swiftly taking over, and a sharp crescent moon crowned this inevitable triumph. Almost directly beneath this celestial orb, Liam spotted the distant, flickering directional beacon at Dunany Point. Since he had no navigational equipment of his own to speak of, he preferred to keep this light in sight
at all times. As long as he knew in what direction it lay, not even the arrival of a sudden gale or fog bank could disorientate him.

  His son Sean was forever pestering him to buy one of the newfangled Loran directional finders. Such a device would allow him to find his way home even without the assistance of the Dunany Point beacon. In this way, argued Sean, he could vastly increase his fishing territory and assure his future safety as well.

  Liam wanted no part of such expensive, wasteful contraptions.

  He was a traditionalist who much preferred to work with as few mechanical devices as possible. Fancy equipment was always breaking down. Besides costing a fortune to repair, it only made life that much more complicated.

  Though the territory he could cover was limited without such gear, he could still get the job done just as his forefathers had for seven generations before him.

  If Sean was so anxious to help him increase his catch, the very least he could do was give his father a hand once in a while. Sean was his only son, and Liam had hoped he would take an interest in his father’s craft. As a child, Sean seemed to love the sea and accompanied Liam on many a fishing trip. The boy was bright and inquisitive, and was a great help when it came to baiting the hooks and hauling in the catch.

  It was when Sean dropped out of upper school that he seemed to lose all interest in both his family and fishing. Bored of life in provincial Dundalk, he moved to Dublin, where he got a job at the Guinness brewery.

  Though Liam hated to lose him, at least the boy had gotten himself a decent job and was taking care of himself.

  Content to let him do his thing, Liam made the best of the situation. Even though he was pushing sixty five he was in decent health and could still manage his affairs quite capably.

  His wife Anne wanted him to hire an apprentice.

  Liam would have no part of such a ridiculous thing.

  Even in bountiful times, fishing was a poor man’s occupation.

  Liam’s profits were meager, and bringing in an outsider would only dilute them that much further. Besides, he honestly enjoyed working by himself. At least during his time at sea, he could be guaranteed genuine peace and quiet. Clever small talk and gossip were not for him. Like his father and grandfather before him, Liam was a loner. Bringing an apprentice from outside the family would make serene evenings such as this one impossible, and as far as he was concerned, it just wasn’t worth the bother.

  Taking a contented pull on his pipe’s worn stem, Liam redirected his gaze upward. The rapidly darkening sky was unusually clear, and the evening star could be seen close beside the new moon. Further up in the heavens, a myriad of twinkling stars greeted him.

  With his gaze still locked skyward, the old-timer muttered a prayer to the gently blowing wind.

  “Heavenly Father, I realize that I’m not one of your most devout subjects, but I really do try to live within your gospel even if I don’t make it to church every Sunday. So with that in mind, could you please see to it that this good weather holds, and that I’ll return home with a full hold before my Annie’s forced to eat the last of the cod.

  That woman’s an angel if I ever met one, and it’s for her sake alone that I issue this prayer. For yours is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever and ever.

  Amen.”

  Hurriedly crossing himself, Liam took one last look at the twinkling expanse of stars that covered the black heavens before sticking the stem of his pipe back in his mouth and turning to get back to his fishing.

  Thirty-eight thousand feet above the Irish Sea, the Boeing B-52G Stratofortress bomber, whose call name was Red Dog two-niner, was about to complete the second leg of a twenty-five-hour-long mission. Eighteen and half hours ago, the aircraft had taken off from Barksdale Air Force Base, outside of Shreveport, Louisiana.

  Manned by a crew of six, Red Dog two-niner headed due north on the first leg of its flight. It was over the northern tip of Greenland that it rendezvoused with a KC-135 tanker and took on 25,000 gallons of kerosene jet fuel. Over the frozen Arctic island of Spitsbergen, the B-52 initiated a racetrack-shaped course for eight hours. At this time they came to the very edge of Soviet airspace, patiently awaiting the “go” code that would send them on the mission for which the aircraft had been designed — the nuclear bombardment of the Soviet Union.

  Captain Lawrence Stockton had made dozens of these alert patrols before. Only thirty years old, Stockton already had over 2,000 hours behind the controls of a B-52, and was presently Red Dog two-niner’s senior staff pilot. At his side in the cockpit, he had a rectangular black satchel marked with red stripes and the words Top Secret boldly emblazoned in big yellow letters. This was the Combat Mission Folder, or CMF, for short. It held the precise identity of their target, and could be opened only on direct orders from the President. Fortunately for all of them, a CMF had never been opened in the air; hopefully it never would be. For such an act would be contrary to the motto of the Strategic Air Command, which read, Peace is our profession.

  As a veteran cold warrior, Lawrence Stockton understood sac’s role as a deterrent. As a B-52 pilot, he participated in only one leg of the so-called triad, which also included ground and submarine-based missiles.

  Each of these delivery systems was developed to ensure that the United States could respond in case of a surprise nuclear strike by the Soviets.

  In the event that such an unthinkable attack was to take place, Stockton’s mission was to deliver four hydrogen bombs to their targets. Each of these weapons was stored in the forward bomb rack and could produce an explosion equivalent to 1,000,000 tons of TNT. To give him a better idea of its true nature, it was once explained to Stockton that such a blast would be about seventy-five times stronger than that which destroyed Hiroshima.

  When he was off duty back home in Louisiana, the Michigan State graduate tried not to think about his awesome responsibility. At such a time his family became the center of his life. Married for nine years now, he had three healthy children and another on the way.

  Since his wife had been an Air Force brat, she understood the demanding nature of his work, and made certain that his time at home was as free from needless pressures and petty hassles as possible.

  Only a few days ago, he had learned that with the conclusion of this mission, he was to be taken off the flight line and made command post controller. Though he loved to fly, this new ground position would be more like a nine-to-five job, and thus allow him a more stable home life. It would also give him a chance to take his family on a long overdue vacation. His kids had already picked Walt Disney World in Orlando. He didn’t dare veto them, and left instructions with his wife to begin accumulating the proper maps and guidebooks.

  Satisfied that he was finally going to be able to spend some real quality time with his family, Lawrence Stockton anxiously looked up and scanned the dozens of dials and gauges on his side of the cockpit. To his right, his twenty-four-year-old copilot, Lieutenant Michael Ritter, was in the process of monitoring the instruments that he was responsible for.

  “How are you holding up. Lieutenant?” quizzed Stockton lightly.

  “Is your first real deterrence patrol all that you expected it to be?”

  The copilot yawned before answering.

  “It sure beats flying those simulators, sir. Although I must admit that I’m going to really enjoy getting some decent rack time.”

  The pilot grinned.

  “You’ll get used to it eventually. Of course, you could always call up Major Avila. I’m certain that he’d be more than willing to spell you.”

  Major Pete Avila was their relief pilot, and was presently curled up in the rear of the plane reading the latest issue of Popular Mechanics.

  “That’s okay, sir. I can handle it,” retorted the recent flight school graduate a bit more eagerly.

  Stockton remembered well his own eagerness on his first mission, and wasn’t about to spoil his copilot’s first experience in the big leagues.

  “We’re
getting close to our final refueling point, Lieutenant.

  All we need to do is top off our tanks, and then we can turn this eagle home to its nest. Why don’t you see if First Lieutenant Gener has our KC-135 on the scope yet.”

  While the copilot initiated this call to Red Dog two niner navigator, the Boeing KC-135 Stratotanker that Lawrence Stockton had been referring to had just taken off from its nearby base at Mildenhall, England. Built around the same basic airframe as a commercial 707, the KC-135 was in reality nothing but a cavernous flying gas station. Though its mission was far less glamorous than the fighters and bombers that it was designed to refuel, the KC-135 Stratotanker was one of the most important platforms in America’s military arsenal. Without such dependable vehicles available to fulfill their mission, the range of the country’s strategic and tactical airborne response would be drastically cut back.

  As the sleek tanker streaked across English airspace and headed toward the Irish Sea, its four-man crew settled in to their jobs. In the cockpit, Major Gene Aikens, a forty-five-year-old veteran of the Vietnam conflict, was at the controls, while Captain Paul Standish sat beside him as his copilot. In an adjoining cabin, the plane’s navigator, First Lieutenant Lee Rothman, charted the exact coordinates where they were to rendezvous with the thirsty B-52. In the rear of the aircraft. Master Sergeant Lou Moretti passed the time reading a two-day-old copy of USA Today. As boom operator, Lou would not begin his work until the initial rendezvous was completed. Only then would he continue on into the tail portion of the plane, where he would take control of the actual transfer of the fuel.

  As the master sergeant scrutinized the sports page, he came across an article showing the results of the latest NFL draft. A decade ago, Lou had been an All-American defensive tackle for the University of Missouri Tigers.

  During his senior year, he was scouted by the Dallas Cowboys, who were so interested in his potential that they actually made him an offer. Coach Landry had been a childhood hero of Lou’s, and the Cowboys were one of his favorite teams. Yet it was a prior commitment with the United States Air Force that kept him from accepting. As a participant in the ROTC program, Lou received assistance towards his tuition at a time when a football scholarship wasn’t available. So upon graduation, instead of beginning a career in the NFL, he began one in the military.