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Chapters (39)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Page
  3. Acknowledgements
  4. Epigraph
  5. ONE
  6. TWO
  7. THREE
  8. FOUR
  9. FIVE
  10. SIX
  11. SEVEN
  12. EIGHT
  13. NINE
  14. TEN
  15. ELEVEN
  16. TWELVE
  17. THIRTEEN
  18. FOURTEEN
  19. FIFTEEN
  20. SIXTEEN
  21. SEVENTEEN
  22. EIGHTEEN
  23. NINETEEN
  24. TWENTY
  25. TWENTY-ONE
  26. TWENTY-TWO
  27. TWENTY-THREE
  28. TWENTY-FOUR
  29. TWENTY-FIVE
  30. TWENTY-SIX
  31. TWENTY-SEVEN
  32. TWENTY-EIGHT
  33. TWENTY-NINE
  34. THIRTY
  35. THIRTY-ONE
  36. THIRTY-TWO
  37. THIRTY-THREE
  38. THIRTY-FOUR
  39. THIRTY-FIVE

"When I left Alaska, the door closed all the way, and I knew my father was going to die. He was sick for a long time. I'm okay."

"You're sure."

"If anything, sir, when I go out there, it'll be for him. I wouldn't be a Ghost if it weren't for him."

Mitchell slapped his hand on Bo's massive shoulder. "You're a good man, Bo. I'm sorry about your loss."

"Thank you, sir." He nodded and turned off, heading back to the group.

Mitchell closed his eyes and sighed, still wondering if he had made the right decision.

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-THREE

USS MONTANA (SSN-823)
EN ROUTE TO TAIWAN STRAIT
SOUTH CHINA SEA
APRIL 2012

Montana's fly-by-wire system hovered the 377-foot submarine at exactly one hundred feet as Mitchell and his team flooded, exited, reentered, and blew out the lock-out trunk with lights on and in total darkness. The drills were completed within the first six hours after leaving Subic Bay, while still in warm seas.

It was, admittedly, unnerving to stand in that trunk in total darkness while the water rose. All Mitchell could think about in those last few seconds was an accident and the warnings offered by the two SEALs.

The twenty-one-hour trip to Xiamen Harbor was otherwise uneventful. Mitchell and his Ghosts listened to stories, shared some of their own, and the lies per nautical mile grew to astronomical proportions.

As they neared the harbor and the end of their journey, Montana "rigged for ultraquiet," with the sub's interior bathed only in red light. All nonwatchstanders remained in their bunks, and television or other leisure activities were prohibited. Even the galley was closed.

The captain told Mitchell that they were sweeping the entire harbor, their fathometer and minesweeping sonar actively probing under and around the sub with impunity because of the horrendous day and night noise level of numerous small craft and shipyard construction activity.

The sun had just set, and under the cover of darkness, the captain extended a photonic mast to photograph and measure laser IR ranges for potential drop-off sites.

Using those pictures, Mitchell and Gummerson met to determine a location, choosing a spot near the southeast tip of an unnamed and uninhabited sand spit.

"Looks good," said Mitchell.

"Yes, and don't worry. I'll get us in within a thousand feet so you won't have far to swim, and I'll still have about two hundred fifty feet of water around me."

The captain went on to say that hovering with her keel at one hundred feet would still keep the tip of Montana 's sail at forty-eight feet below the surface. He said he hadn't seen any ship in the harbor that drew that much water, fully laden.

"You must live right, Scott," he finally added. "We're at high tide, and it's a spring tide."

"So that's good?"