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quoted as saying, ‘Do you really think the USA would trade Taiwan for Los Angeles?’ I mean, that’s bad shit.”
    “It sure would be if they really could throw a ballistic missile right across the Pacific.”
    “And can they?”
    “Who knows,” said Stockton. “Who the hell knows.”
    “I bet our XO knows,” said Andy. “That’s one mysterious guy. But he spends half his life in the CIA, and I’m told he’s officially involved with Navy Intelligence.”
    “If you ask me, he ought to stay there,” said Jasonindiscreetly. “I mean, did you guys tune into that shit that broke out last October?”
    “You mean when he ordered the ship to the surface against the CO’s wishes when we had the leak in the torpedo room?”
    “Yeah. That was one scared dude.”
    “Yeah, he was scared,” said Chief Stockton. “But so was I.”
    “So was everyone.”
    “The CO wasn’t.”
    “I bet he was. He just wasn’t letting on.”
    “Well, if everyone was just as scared as everyone else, how come the CO pulled everyone together, took command, and refused to panic?”
    “Because he’s the goddamned CO, that’s why. That’s what he’s trained for,” said Brad. “In case you haven’t noticed, they don’t make many people commanding officers of nuclear submarines, not out of all the thousands of guys who want to join the Navy.”
    “They don’t make many XOs, either. And ours was one scared dude.”
    “Right. But it was his first major incident on a deep submergence trial. You know, the guy had no idea what to expect. And he thought he might die in the next five minutes. And that tends to concentrate your head. People react differently. He’ll learn…I think.”
    “Yeah, well, he might. But I sure know who I’d rather have in command.”
    1625. Friday, June 16 .
Office of the President’s
National Security Adviser .
The White House .
    Vice Admiral Arnold Morgan was irritated, which was not a totally unusual situation. He sat behind his huge desk, glowering. On the wall opposite were three magnificently framed oil paintings, one of General Douglas MacArthur, one of General George Patton, one of Admiral Chester Nimitz. Guys who had some semblance of an idea of what the hell was going on .
    The admiral, however, remained irritated, despite being gazed down upon, not disapprovingly, he thought, by three of the twentieth-century titans of the U.S. military.
    “KATHY!” he yelled, bypassing the excellent state-of-the-art White House communications system. “COFFEE FOR ONE…NONE FOR THAT LATE BASTARD FROM THE PENTAGON…ANYWAY, WHERE THE HELL IS HE?”
    The slim-line pastel green telephone on his desk tinkled discreetly like a little silver bell, which also irritated him—“ Goddamned faggot phone ”—and he grabbed it like a wild boar with a truffle.
    “MORGAN!” he rasped. “SPEAK.”
    “Oh, such a relief to find you in such rare good humor, Admiral,” came the voice of his very private secretary and even more private girlfriend, Kathy O’Brien, the best-looking lady in the White House and possibly the best-looking redhead in Washington. “I do hope you don’t object to my using the phone, rather than standing up in the hall out here and trying to bellow through a five-inch-thick oak door like a rutting moose…LIKE YOU.”
    The admiral dissolved into laughter, as he usually did at the sassy turn of phrase of the lady he loved. Recovering his natural poise, he continued, “WELL…where the hell is he?”
    “You mean Admiral Mulligan, sir?”
    “Who the hell do you think I mean? John the Baptist?”
    “I didn’t even know John the Baptist was working in the Pentagon.”
    “Jesus Christ, Kathy! Where the hell is he?”
    Kathy’s tone changed. “Arnold Morgan,” she gritted, “I have told you five times that I have been in touch with the office of the Chief of Naval Operations and on eachoccasion I have been informed that Admiral Joseph Mulligan has left his office and was on his way here.