“Our planes have Mark Fifty-fours aboard. They’re ASW torpedoes. Best we’ve got. This is why we build them.”

Fucillo nodded.

“Take that damn thing out before it comes an inch closer,” she said.

Koschei had approached the control room in heady spirits, though that mood would dissolve before he entered. He had moments ago concluded a satellite call with his imbedded people in the Chinese government. But what began as his update on Silent Dragon’s status had turned—if just briefly—into a conversation about their mutual vision of the future.

They had spoken of a new power structure in Beijing after the weak-minded President Tsao was gone. He would truthfully deny having ordered the strike on Pearl Harbor, would prostrate himself to the Americans, but it would be too late. The United Sates would be forced to retaliate in kind. Not to the extent of an all-out war. But with a force that would shake Tsao out of the office he believed was his for life.

Koschei and his allies had discussed their shared opportunity when the dust settled. They had talked about their nations coexisting in a comprehensive economic partnership, with a full political and strategic convergence of purpose. In his enthusiasm, General Huang had even spoken of the bear and dragon rising atop America’s bones. While that seemed a touch melodramatic, Koschei had seen it as a valid metaphor. Sino-Russian competitiveness had hurt both nations for decades, but they had far too much in common to let that go on to their detriment. Hundreds of billions in trade every year, an aversion to American cultural and political interference... It was high time their nations acted together to assert primacy over the West and take charge of global affairs.

Heady indeed, and Koschei had stepped through the heart of the mountain to the control room with a subtle hop in his normally even, regular step.

That changed the instant its door slid open and he saw the grim faces of the technicians turning in his direction.

Half a minute passed. He stood looking inside, his eyes moving from one to the other, seeking out Drajan Petrovik. The project manager, Alina Bailik, stood beside him.

He walked over to them. “What’s going on?”

“Malkira broke off the upload,” Drajan said. “Sentient’s underwater sensors are still active.”

Koschei was silent as that sank in, his brows coming together over his eyes like thick, dark clouds.

“Has there been word from Grigor?”

“Nothing.”

Another silence. Koschie looked at Bailik. “How far would the submarine travel before they destroy it?”

“We can’t know with certainty,” she said. “I doubt we can push it to cavitation speed quickly enough to avoid their aircraft. There isn’t time for a run-up. But we could set it on an evasive course. At three hundred miles from the target, there’s a fair chance of bringing it within firing range.”