Within hours, northbound Interstate 5 would be jammed with millions of cars driven by panic-stricken Southern Californians, seeking refuge from the nuclear fallout in San Francisco, Portland, and Seattle, escaping the giant mushroom cloud rising in their rearview mirrors over what was left of San Diego.

In the mad scramble, his nation's intelligence operatives would telephone American media outlets, claiming credit for the attack in the name of Islamic fundamentalism. They would claim that nuclear bombs had exploded inside an eighteen-wheeler tractor-trailer truck parked down by the Broadway pier on San Diego's waterfront.

In fact, such a truck had been leased and at this moment parked just for the occasion. Photographs had been taken of it, as recently as yesterday, with the clipper-ship-turned-museum Star of India in the background. These photos would be leaked to the international media in conjunction with the cover story. The tractor-trailer, of course, was a ruse. But soon, its image would become the most widely disseminated photograph in the history of the twenty-first century.

Neither the admiral nor his nation were Islamic. But in the horrified chaos of it all, America would fall for it. She would blame the attack on Islamic suicide bombers.

America would never know what hit her.

Nor by whom.

The USS Chicago The Pacific Ocean

We have periscope depth, Captain, " the chief of the boat said.

"Up scope! Now!" the skipper ordered.

Humming and clicking echoed down the stainless steel cylinder hanging in the middle of the control room. The American sub commander grabbed the training handles of the periscope and brought his eyes up to the viewfinder. His jaw tightened at the sight.

One American warship, and only one, had by happenchance discovered the approaching presence of an enemy armada. One U.S. naval vessel stood between the enemy task force and the west coast of the United States of America. She was the nuclear-powered submarine, the USS Chicago. Her commander was Pete Miranda, United States Navy, considered to be one of the more aggressive sub captains in the Navy.

Miranda considered his predicament.

He could float a communications buoy and report the armada's presence to the rest of the fleet. But that could alert the enemy that Chicago was lurking in the area. Plus, even if he got the signal off, no other ships or planes were close enough to intercept the armada before it was in effective striking distance of the coastline.

Pete was under standing orders to take action against this enemy if its ships and warplanes were observed "engaging in maneuvers that appeared hostile to the West Coast of the United States of America" – General Order 009-001. He was was now faced with the sole responsibility of deciding whether to apply it. If he attacked this armada, he would be the first American commander to execute 009-001.

But what if he was wrong?

His predicament shot through his mind like lightning flashing from east to west.

Down scope! Emergency deep! Six-zero-zero feet! Take her down! Now!"

At Pete's command, the Chicago dropped through the water like a roller coaster car on Space Mountain. Clipboards, pencils, anything not bolted down was slung across the control room like the steel orb in a pinball machine.

Pete grabbed the handles on the periscope tube as his men hung on to keep their balances. The diving officer called out depth changes.

"Five hundred feet, Captain… Passing five-five-zero feet… Approaching six hundred feet… Five-seventy-five, five-nine-zero, six hundred feet, Captain."

"Very well, " Pete said. "All stop!"

The freefall drop ended. The Chicago disengaged her propellers. She was now hovering in the water at six hundred feet below the surface. By diving deep, and by temporarily disengaging his propellers, Pete hoped to make his boat "disappear" into a black hole in the ocean, avoiding the passive sonar on board the aircraft carrier and her support ships, all of which could crush Chicago's hull with powerful torpedo depth charges.

"Nobody flinch."

Sweat beaded on the foreheads of the men in the control room.

"Sonar. Conn. I want to know the moment that carrier passes over us."

"Aye, Captain."

He looked around at his men on the bridge. Their eyes were locked on him, hanging upon his every physical movement, as if his next words would be divinely inspired.

Quickly and silently, he prayed for divine inspiration.

"All right, here's what we're going to do. As soon as that carrier passes over us, we're going to turn the boat around. We're going to raise our depth to one-five-zero feet and get right into her wake. Then we're going to put two MK-48 ADCAP torpedoes right up her can."

Their eyes widened even more.

"I don't have to tell you how dangerous this maneuver will be. We're going to pop up inside her escort screen. We'll depend on the noise from her screws churning water to buffer our presence from their passive sonar. But I can't guarantee we won't be detected by one or more of her escort ships. But by then, hopefully it will be too late. As soon as we release our torps, we'll execute another emergency dive, and get the heck out of Dodge."

"Conn. Sonar. She's passing right over us now, sir."

"Very well. Right full rudder. Set course zero-nine-zero degrees. All ahead one-third."

The Chicago swung around, pointing her nose due east, now following the direction of the enemy carrier.

"Prep torps one and four. Make your depth one-five-zero feet."

Chicago's nose pointed upward again, and she began climbing through the water.

"Torps one and four are fully armed and ready, Captain."

"Very well, " Pete said. "Depth?"

"Approaching two hundred feet, Captain."

"Good. Continue to climb. Continue to report."

"Approaching one-seven-five feet, sir. Approaching one-six-zero.

Depth now one-five-zero, sir. Ship stabilized."

"On my mark, be prepared to fire torp one! Range to target?"

"Range to target, five hundred yards."

"That's too close to detonate, " Pete said. "Decrease speed to fifteen knots."

"Aye, Captain."

"Range now?"

"Seven-hundred-fifty yards to target, Skipper."

"Very well, continue to report."

Another minute passed. "Range now one thousand yards to target and expanding, sir."

"Very well – fire torp one!"

"Firing torp one!"

Swoosh.

"Torp one in the water, Captain."

"Fire torp four!"

"Firing torp four!"

Swoosh.

"Torp four is in the water, Captain."

"Dive! Dive! Emergency deep! Take us to eight hundred feet! Let's get out of here! Now!"

United States Naval Base

Pearl Harbor, Hawaii

Accepting the salutes from two United States Marines guarding the sun-baked east entrance of the naval base, Pete Miranda pressed the accelerator with his right foot.

The white Corvette C6 convertible rolled forward two hundred yards to the T-intersection at North Road, where Pete turned right, and then one hundred yards later made a forty-five-degree left on Pierce Street. This was followed by another forty-five-degree, one-hundred-yard left on Nimitz Street, which dead-ended two hundred yards later on Morton Street.

Because of the short streets on the Pearl Harbor Naval Base, he never could get the 'Vette beyond fifteen miles per hour. Slight frustration crawled across his stomach as he sat at the stop sign at Nimitz and Morton.

When he wasn't driving a nine-hundred-million-dollar nuclear submarine through the depths of the world's oceans, Commander Pete Miranda was plagued with one incurable landlubber's disease: an addiction to Corvettes.

His disease was aggravated by the fact that his boat, USS Chicago, was home-ported at a naval base that provided little relief for his addiction. After all, Corvettes were born for speed out on the open interstate. Hawaii's scenic beauty surpassed anything on the mainland, but Oahu's compact size made it difficult to find a place to open up the C6 for any period of time. One could make only so many loops around Interstate H1.