Goldman gasped. That was an impossible task. OptiMarx was a very complex operation with a myriad of twists, turns, and alternatives in the code. Even an ordinary turnover on a typical project would take several weeks. There was no such thing as an ordinary turnover to Barry Sanderson. Goldman had worked with him on other projects. He was two shakes to the left of hopelessly incompetent. The Harvard-trained inspector’s main talent was that he could talk a great game. He always managed to replace his lack of technical competence with a sense of consummate bureaucracy. He had all the backbone of a reed in a windstorm and he did not belong on something as crucial and convoluted as OptiMarx.

“You’ve got to be kidding! A couple of hours to turn OptiMarx over to Sanderson? I’m not sure I could do it if I had a couple of years.” She tried to keep the pleading tone out of her voice, but it was difficult. “Stan, give me a break here. I’m onto something big. It stinks to high heaven and I know I’m close to tracking it down. Just give me a couple more weeks and I’ll prove it.”

There was a note of finality in Miller’s words when he responded, “Catherine, turn over to Barry this evening. That’s final. You are off OptiMarx. McLain is fast-tracking it and Sanderson has the job.”

The telephone line went dead in Goldman’s hand. She couldn’t believe it. McLain was fast-tracking a system that she knew was dirty. She had made it clear to them all that she had seen something screwy going on. She had never once cried wolf before without eventually turning up some hairy beast with big teeth. To top it off, this was one of the biggest projects in the history of the Exchange.

The director must be nuts!

Just as Goldman dropped the phone back into its cradle, a sudden thought hit her. A chill traveled all the way up her spine.

Or Alstair McLain himself was dirty.

“Conn, sonar. New contact on the thin-line towed array,” Master Chief Zillich’s voice boomed over the 21MC. Some of the crew called him “DeeJay” because he sometimes sounded like a radio announcer. He spilled the rest of his message in a rapid torrent. “Designate sierra four-four and four-five. Ambiguous bearings one-six-two and two-four-two. Holding a twenty-four hertz line on the contact.”

Pat Durand grabbed the microphone hanging on the stanchion behind the periscope stand. “Sonar, Conn, aye. Master Chief, we’ll get a leg on this course and then come right to resolve ambiguity. Do you think this is our friend?”

“Don’t know yet,” Zillich answered. “He should have a line at twenty-four hertz, but so do a lot of other people out here. Recommend new course two-nine-zero.”

Durand replaced the microphone in its holder and ordered, “Station the section tracking party. Track sierra four-four and four-five.”