Donlan looked over into the worried eyes of the big SEAL. He smiled and pointed at one of the red numbers on the display. “No problem until the signal strength on that indicator gets up to forty-nine decibels. He doesn’t have a chance of finding us so long as it’s below that.” The readout now showed thirty-two decibels, but it was climbing steadily. “Even then, chances are real good he won’t be able to pick us out down here in all this mud and fish shit.”

“Sure thing,” Beaman responded dubiously. “That’s what the owner’s manual says. I’ll believe it when that guy turns around and goes home.”

Gonzales smiled. “At least the Grisha has to go dead in the water every time it wants to use the dipping sonar. That allows us to run some between the dips. Their Bull Horn hull-mounted sonar isn’t sensitive enough to pick us up in these confined waters.”

Beaman stole a glance at the signal strength indicator. He swallowed hard. The readout had climbed to thirty-six.

Admiral Alexander Durov paced the length of the command center. He reached the brick wall, executed a precise about-face, and paced right back again, as if he was on sentry duty over the seeming chaos surrounding him. All around his position, people ran about, shouting commands into radios or hurriedly typing messages on computer keyboards. It looked like total bedlam. Durov didn’t say anything as he continued his pacing, oblivious of all the activity. He seemed lost in his thoughts.

The old admiral suppressed a smile as he watched the frenzied movements of his command staff. It was all so familiar, so comforting. Clausewitz had called it “the fog of war,” an apt description. Men were forced to make snap decisions that affected the existence of nations, the lives of many human beings, all based on such little information. Much of the intelligence they did have was conflicting, subject to doubt.

No matter. It was the time for a true leader to shine through. Durov pulled his tired old body up even straighter and ignored the knife-sharp pain in the middle of his chest. The light in the room flashed off the rows of medals and ribbons on his dress uniform. He hoped the men would look his way to remind themselves that he was there and in charge.

“Admiral!” Vasiliy Zhurkov shouted from across the room. He held his hand over the mouthpiece of a telephone. “Boris Medikov is on the secure phone. He reports that the American financial markets are in shambles. The news stories are full with tales of terrible woes. He wants to speak with you.”

Durov shook his head and held up a gloved hand. “Tell him I am occupied. Thank him for the report and tell him to keep up the pressure. I want to know the minute the markets are closed for the emergency. They cannot sustain it for much longer.”