Pete waited as two U.S. Navy fuel trucks rolled slowly by, then turned right, creeping behind the second truck for the last hundred-yard trek down to the parking lot at COMSUBPAC headquarters.

Sporting his "ice cream" summer white uniform, with black shoulder boards each bearing the three gold stripes of Navy commander, Pete stepped out of the car, leaving the convertible top down. He grabbed his briefcase from the front seat and walked quickly under the two palm trees flanking the walkway leading to the building's entrance.

Two white-clad Navy shore patrolmen in Dixie-cup hats came to attention. "Good morning, sir." The SPs saluted.

Pete returned the salute and stepped into the building, walking under the blue-and-gold sign proclaiming Commander Naval Submarine Forces Pacific, known in the Navy by the acronym COMSUBPAC.

A quick turn down the hallway to the left brought him to the reception area of Rear Admiral Philip Getman, the two-star flag officer in charge of every American submarine operating in the Pacific Theater.

A navy lieutenant commander, also in his summer white uniform, sat at the desk. "Commander Miranda for Admiral Getman, " Pete said.

"If you'll have a seat, sir, I'll let the admiral know you're here, " the aide said.

Pete sat at the end of the leather sofa farthest from the closed door of the admiral's office. The walls displayed a photographic history of the Navy's submarine force. From a black-and-white photo of the Confederate sub CSS Hundley, to color photos of USS Los Angeles and USS Ohio, for which the Navy's current attack- and boomer-class boats were named, they were all there.

"Coffee, Commander?"

"Please."

When Chicago had arrived back at Pearl from her mission off San Diego yesterday, no celebrations or fanfare greeted her upon arrival. Her mission off the California coast had been top-secret.

The only significant officer on hand for the arrival was Pete's immediate boss, Submarine Squadron 3 commodore, Captain Ronald "Rocky" Gaylord, who met Pete as he crossed the catwalk from the submarine to the concrete pier. "Welcome home, Pete, " Gaylord had said, slapping him on the back with a knowing nod of approval. "Great job out there."

"We tried, sir, " Pete had said.

"Admiral wants you in his office at zero-ten-hundred tomorrow morning."

And with that directive from his boss, Pete was now sitting on the leather sofa outside the big kahuna's office, sipping on a cup of coffee that the admiral's aide had just given him.

Pete expected this meeting. Chicago would probably be commended for its performance off San Diego. Probably a Navy Unit Commendation. As commanding officer, he would also be decorated. Under different circumstances, perhaps a Navy Cross. But the nature of this operation would prevent that.

Who cared?

Pete already had a chest full of medals and didn't really care if he got any more. As long as he could drive submarines – and Corvettes – he was a happy camper.

The door opened. "Morning, Pete, " Admiral Getman said. "Come on in."

Pete entered the office, greeting the admiral and his boss, Captain Gaylord.

"Have a seat, " the admiral said, settling back into his own chair. "Pete, I'll cut to the chase." An unexpected seriousness pervaded the admiral's manner. "AIRPAC is upset that you sunk their aircraft carrier."

Pete suppressed a self-satisfied grin. "I would hope so, sir."

"No, I'm serious, Pete. Admiral Hopkins" – he was referring to Rear Admiral Joe Hopkins, Commander U.S. Naval Air Forces Pacific, known by the acronym AIRPAC – "wants you reprimanded for what you did."

Pete gaped. Was this a joke?

"With all due respect, sir, what's AIRPAC's problem?"

"Like I said, Pete, you sunk their carrier."

Pete locked eyes with Captain Gaylord, who looked down at the floor, and looked back at the admiral.

"Isn't that what submarines are supposed to do, sir? You know our motto. There are two kinds of ships in the Navy. Submarines, and targets."

"Yes, I know our motto. And in real life that's exactly what you're supposed to do. You were supposed to sink the carrier. But, Pete, this was a war game."

Pete glanced at Captain Gaylord again. The gray-haired Navy captain was subtly nodding his head, as if agreeing with Pete. "I understand that it was a war game, sir, " Pete said. "And the purpose of the game, as I understand it, was to practice the implementation of General Order 009-001 under realistic conditions. We practiced implementation of the order. We executed the maneuvers that I ordered and frankly, we won. So I ask again, sir, with all due respect, what's AIRPAC's problem?"

"Look, Pete, here's the problem." Getman leaned forward. "As you know, our submarines war-game against our aircraft carriers all the time. It's the same ole story. You know it. The sub versus the carrier. In these war games – which we try to make as realistic as possible – sometimes the sub wins. Sometimes the carrier wins.

"Most of our sub commanders bat about.500 in these war games with our carriers. AIRPAC can live with that, because that means that their carrier captains are also winning about half the time. But there's a political problem here. It costs a lot more money to sink an aircraft carrier than to sink a submarine. AIRPAC wants to go to Congress to ask for more money to build these new Gerald R. Ford-class supercarriers to replace the current Nimitz-class ships.

"Congressional critics say that the carriers are way too expensive. You know the argument – too vulnerable to being sunk by a submarine. Frankly, I agree. I'd rather have a hundred new Virginia-class attack subs than one new supercarrier."

Pete nodded his head in agreement.

"But AIRPAC's problem is that these liberal congressmen want to know war-games statistics as ammunition to argue against carrier spending. It's politics, Pete. The problem with you, Commander, is that you don't lose."

Pete shook his head and took a sip of the coffee, which was as disappointing as the direction of this conversation. "What am I supposed to do, sir? Let the carrier win?"

Getman pulled open his drawer and extracted a six-inch, hand-wrapped Dominican cigar. "Gentlemen, care for a smoke?" Though federal regulations prohibited smoking in government buildings, Getman smoked his stogies whenever and wherever he pleased.

"No, thank you, sir, " Pete said. Captain Gaylord likewise declined.

"See, Pete, here's the problem, " Getman said, lighting the stogie and drawing from it, then releasing a concentric smoke ring which wafted to the ceiling, "AIRPAC says you cheat."

"Sir?"

"Look, I didn't say you cheat. Admiral Hopkins at AIRPAC did." Another smoke ring. "Politics, my boy. You pop up behind USS Carl Vinson, playing the role of an enemy aircraft carrier, launch your torps before they know you're there, and the skipper of the Vinson, who just so happens to be under consideration for flag rank, by the way, gets embarrassed.

"If fact, he's double embarrassed because it's not the first time you've done it to him. On top of that, neither he nor his escort ships can find you or sink you as you slither off into the deep. Can't be his fault, can it?" A rhetorical smoke ring followed the question.

Pete watched the smoke ring vaporize into the twirling ceiling fan. "May I ask just how AIRPAC claims I cheated, sir?"

"They claim you violated the rules of engagement by not simulating realistic combat conditions."

"Sir?"

"You popped up on the carrier's tail and chapped his rear with your torps at point-blank range."

"Yes, sir, we did. So what? They neither caught us, nor spotted us, nor sank us."

It appeared for a second that the admiral wanted to grin. Instead, he remained poker-faced. "AIRPAC says in real life it's unrealistic that you'd pop up right in the middle of a carrier battle group for a point-blank shot at a carrier like that. They claim that would be a suicide maneuver that would not be tried if we were using live fire, and that you only took the risk because you wanted to pad your war-game statistics."