SECDEF had clamped a tight security blanket on any mention of the story. Glass and Toledo were still up there under the ice. If someone was attacking U.S. boats, it would be best to wait until Toledo was well clear before anyone outside the current small group knew there was anyone up there. That meant they would have to wait a few weeks to announce the loss of Miami and to start grieving for her crew. So far it had not shown up in the Washington Post. With a story like this, and with all the sudden swarm of activity around the Pentagon in response to it, it was a matter of time.

Donnegan shook his head. That was some PR weenie’s problem anyhow, keeping a lid on the thing until they could figure out what the hell had happened and how the hell to respond.

This latest message was now at the forefront of Donnegan’s attention. A boat, sunk by an enemy torpedo, as horrible and unlikely a scenario as it was these days, was still something he could deal with. Find out who did it and shoot back. That was simple war.

This last missive opened up a perplexing can of worms.

He shoved the reading glasses up on his forehead and rubbed his eyes to try to ease the pounding headache that had sneaked up on him. The first light of day was just beginning to illuminate the horizon over the stark black limbs of the leafless willows down near the Potomac. Someone was moving about out there. A lone jogger, bundled against the cold, trotted along the river trail.

Seeing the runner reminded Donnegan of someone else he should call: Jon Ward.

Ward would be out running on a morning like this, too. He rarely missed a day. He was probably somewhere along the beach down in Norfolk right about now, pushing his body as hard as he could. The call to Ward could wait a few more minutes. Let him finish his run before he hit him with this latest development and the part he would have him play in it.

Donnegan picked up the message one more time. The words had not changed since the last time he read them. They still told an unbelievable story.

Joe Glass and Toledo had been attacked by a probable Russian sub. They had shot back in self-defense. The Russian was sunk and Toledo escaped with no damage and only minor injuries.

He had proceeded on his original mission, deploying the DSRV and rescuing the survivors from the wreckage of some new Russian boat, a submarine called the Gepard. Now he reported thirty-five survivors on board, including the submarine’s commanding officer. That captain was telling some amazing tale of sabotage, a plot launched by no less than Admiral of the Northern Fleet Alexander Durov.

It was all unsubstantiated. In Donnegan’s line of work, proof was usually hard to come by.