Phoenix Sub Zero

“Norfolk Navcom Center, this is Tango Two Foxtrot,” Binghamton called, the T2F the January 2 call sign for the Phoenix. He repeated the call several times, a whistling sound rising and falling from the transceiver, static blaring out over the speakers.

“Come on, come on,” Kane muttered, intensely aware that the Destiny was driving on ahead, opening the range.

“Norfolk Navcom Center, this is Tango Two Foxtrot, over.”

Static.

“Navcom, this is Tango Two Foxtrot with a Navy Blue message, over.”

Static, broken by a distorted voice, then more whistling on the speaker.

“Navcom, this is Tango Two Foxtrot with a flash Navy Blue, over.”

A hissing, interrupted briefly by a voice: “TWO FOX …”

“Come on, Senior,” Kane said, more to himself than Binghamton.

“Navcom, this is Tango Two Foxtrot with Navy Blue to follow. Do you copy, over?”

“TANG … OOH … OX … BED YOU FIVE BY … ANSMIT … OVER.”

“Is that the best we can do. Senior?”

“Let’s transmit and see if they can read back.”

Kane glanced at a message form he’d scratched out.

“Norfolk Navcom Center, this is Tango Two Foxtrot,” he said slowly and clearly. “Navy Blue message to follow, break.” Navy Blue meant the message was a flash transmission to go directly to Admiral Donchez in the Pentagon.

“Tango Two Foxtrot reports own position at latitude five two degrees four minutes twelve seconds November, longitude three three degrees seventeen minutes four zero seconds whiskey, break.” Kane had agonized over the next section of the message, knowing it was going out with no encryption, able to be heard by UIF receivers if they were listening.

“Our customer was met at the original point of contact and continued to present location with probable destination Labrador Sea, speed three five for the last twenty hours with re cent slowing to speed one three. Tango Two Foxtrot damaged but recovered, but UHF radios out of commission. our garage has no more Matthew-Luke-and-John five zero vehicles.” A way of getting across that he was out of Mark 50 torpedoes. “Further updates to follow, break. Bravo tango. I say again, Navy Blue message to follow …”

Kane repeated the transmission and asked for a readback.

The speakers whistled and sputtered.

“ANGO … AVY BLUE … REPORT … OSITION LAT … FIVE TWO DE … NOVEMBER, LONG …

THREETH … SEVENTEEN MIN … WHISKEY …”

The rest of the readback continued that way. Kane looked at Binghamton. There was enough of the message coming back that it seemed safe to assume that they’d received it, if it was really the naval communications center they were talking to.

“TANGO TWO … NAVCOM … AUTHENTICATE GOLF … OVER.”

Binghamton took over. “Say again, Navcom, you are coming in garbled.”

“AUTHENTICATE GO … VICTOR THR …”

“Navcom, this is Tango Two Foxtrot, confirming, do you desire authenticate golf victor three?”

“TANGO … AFFIRMA …”

Binghamton grabbed the code book from the ledge, the black volume marked top SECRETCOMSEC, the designation for the highest communications security classification.

“Let’s see here,” the senior chief mumbled to himself, “today is the second of January, here’s golf, down to the victor column, to the three line. Golf victor three should all thenticate as W3B. Do you concur, sir?”

Kane looked at the code book, the rows and columns meaningless numbers and letters. The Navcom center was trying to verify that they really were the Phoenix by asking them to decode an alphanumeric that could be decoded only by having a code book, and the new codebooks were printed for individual ships—only the Phoenix had this version of the code book. Anyone else out there would be unable to decipher GV3 as W3B. It would positively mark their message as authentic.

“Navcom, this is Tango Two Foxtrot, we authenticate as whiskey three bravo, repeat whiskey three bravo, over.” “… FOXTROT … ROGER YOUR … MESSAGE RE … NAVCOM … OUT.”

“I think they got it. Skipper.”

“Conn, radio, lower the bigmouth and go deep!” Kane shouted to the control-room speaker microphone. The deck plunged downward before he could get out of radio and back into control.

Now came the hard part. Could they find Target One again after all that?

NATIONAL SECURITY AGENCY HEADQUARTERS

FORT MEADE, MARYLAND

BUILDING 427

SPECIAL COMPARTMENTED INFORMATION FACILITY

It had been overcast with heavy featureless clouds when the sun had set. Donchez had taken the limo from the Pentagon to nearby Fort Meade, halfway between D.C. and Baltimore along the Baltimore-Washington Expressway. By the time the car approached the beltway the blizzard started, slowing them down. A half-hour later the Lincoln’s tires were buried in snow at the gate of Fort Meade. When Donchez got out at Building 427 the snow covered him, making his long black overcoat white in just twenty steps to the building entrance.

“I can see we’ll be sleeping here tonight,” Donchez told his aide Rummel. “Better grab us a couple rooms at the BOQ before we get too involved at the briefing.”