Surrounded by the long lines of machines, he stood looking beyond them, the wind dragging at the flaps of his coat, his eyes questing through the low storm clouds that fled past as if trying to escape his gaze.

Glancing at his watch, he raised his arm, clenched his fist above his head and then dropped it sharply.

With a roar of racing clutches and exhausts, the huge vehicles snapped into motion. Tracks skating in the soft earth, wheels spinning, they plunged and jostled, the long lines breaking into a mass of slamming metal.

As they moved away to their tasks the iron-faced man stood silently, ignoring them, his eyes still searching the wind.

FROM: ADMIRAL HAMILTON, CIC U.S. SIXTH FLEET,

USS EISENHOWER, TUNIS. TO COMMANDER LAN-

YON, USS TERRAPIN, GENOA: GENERAL VAN DAMM

NOW IN U.S. MILITARY HOSPITAL, NICE. MULTIPLE

SPINAL FRACTURES. COLLECT TROOP CARRIER

FROM NATO TRANSPORT POOL, GENOA. EXPECTED

WIND SPEED: 85 KNOTS.

Crouched down in the well of the conning tower, Lanyon scanned the message, then nodded to the sailor, who saluted and disappeared below.

Twenty feet above him the concrete roof of the submarine pen was slick with moisture which dripped steadily into the choppy water below. The steel gates of the pen had been closed, but the sea outside pounded against the heavy grilles. It drove high swells along the 300-foot length of the pen which rode the _Terrapin_ up and down on its moorings and then slapped against the far wall, sending clouds of spray into the air over the submarine's stern.

Lanyon waited until the last of the moorings had been completed, then waved briefly to the portmaster, a blond-haired lieutenant in the concrete control cage jutting out from the wall ten feet ahead. Lowering himself through the hatch, he climbed down the companionway into the control room, swung around the periscope well and made his way to his cabin.

He sat down on his bunk and slowly loosened his collar, adjusting himself to the rhythmic rise and fall of the submarine. After the three-day crossing of the Mediterranean, at a steady, comfortable 20 fathoms, the surface felt like a switchback. His instructions were to make one trial surfacing en route, in a sheltered cove off the west coast of Sicily. But even before the conning tower broke surface the _Terrapin_ took on a 30-degree yaw and was hit by tremendous seas that almost stood it on its stern. They had stayed down until reaching the comparatively sheltered waters of the submarine base at Genoa, but even there had a difficult job negotiating the wreckstrewn limbs of the double breakwater.

What it was like topside Lanyon hated to imagine. Tunis, where all that was left of the Sixth Fleet was bottled up, had been a complete shambles. Vast seas were breaking over the harbor area, sending two-foot waves down streets 300 yards inshore, slamming at the big 95,000 ton carrier _Eisenhower_ and the two cruisers moored against the piers. When he had last seen the _Eisenhower_ she had taken on a 25-degree list and the constant 50-foot rise and fail had begun to rip huge pieces of concrete from the sides of the pier.

Genoa, sheltered a little by the hills and the land mass of the peninsula, seemed to be quieter. With luck, Lanyon hoped, the military here would have their pants on, instead of running around like a lot of startled baboons, frightening themselves with their own noise.

Lanyon tossed his cap onto the desk and stretched out on the bunk. As a submariner he felt (irrationally, he knew) that the wind was everybody else's problem. At thirty-eight he had served in submarines for over fifteen years, ever since he left Annapolis, and the traditional self-sufficiency of the service was now part of him. A sparse, lean six-footer, to strangers he appeared withdrawn and moody, but he had long ago found that a detached viewpoint left him with more freedom to maneuver.

So Van Damm was still alive. The captain who had laid on the _Terrapin_ had told Lanyon confidentially that the general would almost certainly be dead by the time they reached Genoa, but whether this was the truth or merely an astute piece of psychology-everybody else in the crew seemed to have been fed the same story-Lanyon had no means of finding out. Certainly Van Damm had been severely injured in the plane smash at Orly Airport, but at least he was lucky enough to be alive. The five-man crew of the _Constellation_ and two of the general's aides had been killed outright.

Now Van Damm had been brought south to Nice and the _Terrapin_ would have another shot at rescuing him. Lanyon wondered whether it was worth it. Up to the time of his accident Van Damm had been expected to declare himself the Democratic candidate in the coming election, but he wouldn't be of much interest now to the party chiefs. However, presumably some debt of honor was being paid off. After three years as NATO Supreme Commander, Van Damm was due anyway for retirement, and probably the Pentagon was living up to its bargain with him when he had signed on.

There was a knock on the door and Lieutenant Matheson, Lanyon's number two, stuck his head in.

"O.K., Steve?"

Lanyon swung his legs off the bunk. "Sure, come in."

Matheson looked slightly anxious, his plump face tense and uneven.

"I hear Van Damm is still holding on? Thought he was supposed to peg out by now."

Lanyon shrugged. The _Terrapin_ was a small J-class sub, and apart from himself Matheson was the only officer aboard. What frightened him was that he might have to take on the job of driving up to Nice and collecting Van Damm.

Lanyon smiled to himself. He liked Matheson, a pleasant boy with a relaxed sense of humor that Lanyon appreciated. But Matheson was no hero.

"What's the programme now?" Matheson pressed. "It's a 250-mile run round the coast to Nice, and God knows what it might be like. Don't you think it's worth trying to get in a little closer? There's a deep anchorage at Monte Carlo."

Lanyon shook his head. "It's full of smashed-up yachts. I can't take the risk. Don't worry, wind speed's only about ninety. It'll probably start slacking off today."

Matheson snorted unhappily. "That's what they've been saying for the last three weeks. I think we'd be crazy to lose two or three men trying to rescue a stiff."

Lanyon let this pass, but in a quiet voice he said: "Van Damm isn't dead yet. He's done his job, so I think we ought to do ours."

He stood up and pulled a heavy leather windbreaker from a hook on the bulkhead over the desk, then buckled on a service.45 and glanced at himself in the mirror, straightening his uniform.

After putting on his cap, he opened the door. "Let's go and see what's happening on deck."

They made their way up to the conning tower, crossed the gangway onto the narrow jetty on the wall of the sub-pen. A stairway took them over the workshops into the control deck at the far end of the pens.

There were a dozen pens in all, each with room for four submarines, but only three ships were at their berths, fitting out for rescue missions similar to the _Terrapin's_.

All the windows they passed were bricked in, but even through three feet of concrete they could hear the steady unvarying drone of the storm wind.

A sailor guided them to one of the offices in Combined Personnel H.Q. where Major Hendrix, the liaison officer, greeted them and pulled up chairs.

The office was snug and comfortable, but something about Hendrix, the fatigue showing in his face, the two buttons missing from his uniform jacket, warned Lanyon that he could expect to find conditions less equable outside.

"Good to see you, Commander," Hendrix said hurriedly. A coupie of map wallets and a packet of currency were on his desk and he pushed them forward. "Forgive me if I come straight to the point, but the army is pulling out of Genoa today and I've got a million things to do." He glanced up at the wall clock for a moment, then flipped on the intercom. "Sergeant, what are the latest readings we've got?"