"I can transfer my F-18s to shore, and that'll give us room for twenty more Vikings.  I don't like losing the striking power, but what we're going to need is more ASW muscle.  That means more S-3s.  Jack, you know that if you're wrong, that Russkie surface force is going to be a handful to deal with.  You know how many surface-to-surface missiles they're packing?"

"No, sir."  Ryan was certain it was too many.

"We're one carrier, and that makes us their primary target.  If they start shooting at us, it'll get awful lonesome—then it'll get awful exciting."  The phone rang.  "Painter here . . . Yes.  Thank you.  Well, Invincible just turned around.  Good, they're giving her to us along with two tin cans.  The rest of the escorts and the three attack subs are still heading home."  He frowned.  "I can't really fault them for that.  That means we have to give them some escorts, but it's a good trade.  I want that flight deck."

"Can we chopper Jack out to her?"  Ryan wondered if Davenport knew what the president had ordered him to do.  The admiral seemed interested in getting him off the Kennedy.

Painter shook his head.  "Too far for a chopper.  Maybe they can send a Harrier back for him."

"The Harrier's a fighter, sir," Ryan commented.

"They have an experimental two-seat version set up for ASW patrolling.  It's supposed to work reasonably well outside their helo perimeter.  That's how they bagged one of our attack boats, caught her napping."  Painter finished off the last of his coffee.

"Okay, gentlemen, let's get ourselves down to ASW control and try and figure a way to run this circus act.  CINCLANT will want to hear what I have in mind.  I suppose I'd better decide for myself.  We'll also call Invincible and have them send a bird back to ferry you out, Ryan."

Ryan followed the two admirals out of the room.  He spent two hours watching Painter move ships around the ocean like a chess master with his pieces.

The USS Dallas

Bart Mancuso had been on duty in the attack center for more than twenty hours.  Only a few hours of sleep separated this stretch from the previous one. He had been eating sandwiches and drinking coffee, and two cups of soup had been thrown in by his cooks for variety's sake.  He examined his latest cup of freeze-dried without affection.

"Cap'n?"  He turned.  It was Roger Thompson, his sonar officer.

"Yes, what is it?"  Mancuso pulled himself away from the tactical display that had occupied his attention for several days.  Thompson was standing at the rear of the compartment.  Jones was standing beside him holding a clipboard and what looked like a tape machine.

"Sir, Jonesy has something I think you ought to look at."

Mancuso didn't want to be bothered—extended time on duty always taxed his patience.  But Jones looked eager and excited.  "Okay, come on over to the chart table."