Ward gritted his teeth and, when he spoke, used a low, slow voice. “Hunting Russian subs ain’t the same as tracking airliners with that big fancy radar. You only get little sniffs of the bastard. You have to act on them right away. If you wait to get solid contact, that Akula will be long gone and you’ll be left sitting out here holding your ass in your hand.”

Norquest winced but shook his head stubbornly. “No, sir. If I call the P-3s and there isn’t any contact, I’ll look bad. Our ship will look bad. We’ll just wait until Three Two makes contact, narrows the window down, and then we’ll—”

Ward slammed his fist down on the table. The room was instantly quiet. “Captain, I’ve sent envelopes to a lot of skippers with periscope pictures of their ships when they had no idea where we were. They thought exactly the way you are thinking now. The difference was, we were doing that in war games. This, Captain, is for real. Deadly real.” He went on in a low, quiet voice, one that only the two of them could hear. “This is not a democracy, Skipper. Nothing we are doing is for show or to save face. Get that damn P-3 and get it now.”

Alan Smythe struggled to try to sit up, but the big Russian slapped him and shoved him hard back onto the car’s floorboard. In his terror, the OptiMarx CEO had lost track of time and direction, but one thing was clear. These must be the same Russians who had roughed up Andretti.

They were going to kill him. Kill him on the very day of his greatest triumph. Smythe couldn’t help sobbing and his body shook uncontrollably. He felt a warm, wet sensation spreading from his crotch as he lost control. He didn’t even care.

“Damn!” Bogatinoff yelped. “The girly man, he has just pissed his pants.”

Vujnovich chuckled as he yelled back, “Just be glad he didn’t shit them.”

The limo barreled down the New Jersey Turnpike, mingling with all the traffic. It appeared to be nothing more than another carload of executives headed out of the city for some important meeting somewhere in Jersey.

They took the first Princeton exit. Within a few minutes, they were roaring down a lonely country road and there was no more traffic. Twenty minutes later, they swung into the drive leading up to the isolated farmhouse.

The big car slid to a stop with a spray of gravel. Bogatinoff grabbed Smythe by the collar and lifted him out of the car, then tossed the quaking man to the ground. He winked at his partners as he kicked the mass of quivering flesh and growled, “Get up, you piece of shit. I will not dirty my hands by carrying you.”