“Sorry, Admiral. That was President Brown’s chief of staff. You are to report immediately to the White House situation room. All the national security team is there already. General Tambor is on his way in, along with the joint chiefs and the director of intelligence.” He paused again, squinting at something else on the paper. “They also said Alstair McLain from the Securities and Exchange Commission is going to be there.”

Donnegan’s eyebrows went to a quizzical arch. He cocked his head sideways. “Considering what we just heard, I expected that call. Did they give you any idea why somebody from the SEC is coming?”

Schwartz hunched his shoulders. “Not a clue.”

“It is time, Captain,” Anistov Dmolysti said flatly. The two Russian submarine sailors stood at the back of the control room, watching the crew at work. Vipr was in the center of the Gulf of Finland. The lights of Tallinn and Helsinki were just over the horizon behind them. St. Petersburg was a few kilometers ahead. They were in their patrol box. The long trek from Polyarnyy was over. It was time for them to do the job they had been sent here to do.

Captain Anatol Vivilav looked at the large clock mounted on the after bulkhead. As usual, his first officer was right. Everyone was in place already, doing his job and anticipating the captain’s next command.

The air in the tiny control room was thick with the sweaty odor of twenty excited men preparing to go into battle for the first time in their lives. The air-conditioning could barely keep up, even though the Vipr was submerged in the cold waters of the Baltic. Eager young faces reflected the harsh yellow-green light of a dozen computer screens.

Vivilav felt very old. He was surrounded by children who had been entrusted to his protection. Soon they would usher in a new era of Russian greatness. Or they would die in the attempt.

He shook his head, trying to clear the extraneous thoughts. There was work to do. A battle to fight.

Vivilav looked at the sonar repeater. It was crosshatched with hundreds of traces. The confused picture was expected. Every trace represented a ship that the sonar team was tracking. The Gulf of Finland was a busy maritime highway. He glanced over his shoulder at Dmolysti. “Does sonar report any contacts of interest?”

The first officer grabbed a phone from its holder on the bulkhead and spoke into it for a few seconds.

“Nyet, Captain,” he answered. “All tracks are merchants or fishermen. No tracks will approach Vipr within five thousand meters.”

“Well, Anistovovich. Let us go up and take a look around. I would not want to unduly frighten one of those poor fishermen.” Vivilav’s voice became very serious. “I want to start shooting as soon as we can verify the area is clear.”