"I doubt it."

"Question, Captain Mitchell?" asked Sands.

"No, sir."

"Good. You'll be briefed about spaces that are off-limits, certain ship routines called rigs, and most importantly, how to flush the commode."

Mitchell and his Ghosts chuckled.

But Sands wasn't kidding. "While that's happening, a working party will finish unloading your gear and move it below. It'll be waiting for you in the torpedo room."

Turning to Mitchell, Sands added, "Captain Gummerson would like to see you in his stateroom at your convenience."

"I'm at the captain's disposal," replied Mitchell. "Lead the way. But I guess I'll grab one of those Geiger counters first."

After yelling, "Down ladder," as instructed, marksman Alicia Diaz studied the twenty-five-inch-wide black hole, grasped the hatch knife edge, and lowered herself down, rung by rung, right behind Master Chief Suallo.

She, along with Smith, Hume, and Suallo, gathered outside the hatch at the bottom, waiting for the others.

"What's that smell?" asked Hume.

"It's Smith," said Diaz with a laugh. "He tries to cover up that body odor with cologne, but he smells even worse."

Smith drew his brows together in mock seriousness. "You kidding? That's my natural musky odor, and it drives women wild. You must have a cold, Alicia."

COB rolled his eyes and recited an explanation he had obviously provided before. "What you're smelling is a mixture of high-voltage ozone, diesel and lube oil, and a derivative of ammonia called amines from our atmospheric system. You'll get used to it."

"What's that ringing in my ears?" asked Smith.

The chief grinned. "That's the 400-hertz electronic buzz that turns us into wonder sub. All our computer systems are processed using 400-cycle power instead of 60-cycle. That higher frequency means everything is smaller, lighter, more accurate, and runs a whole lot cooler. Don't worry. The buzz will go away, too." He glanced to one of the mess tables. "Why don't you folks grab a seat while we wait for the others."

Diaz complied, and Hume, who dropped beside her, leaned over and said, "You're the only woman on this entire sub. You know that, right?"

"So what?"

"It's just . . . we'll keep an eye out for you."

"Gee, thanks, Johnny." She showed him her ugliest face.

"I'm just saying--"

"Too much," she finished.

Mitchell entered the captain's stateroom, which was much smaller than he had imagined. In one corner stood a tiny fold-down desk, but the bulkheads were barren, along with the rest of the quarters.

Captain Gummerson came forward, beaming, his graying hair as mottled as granite, his voice deep and resonant. "Evening, Captain. Ken Gummerson, welcome aboard."

"Thank you, sir. Please call me Scott." Mitchell offered a firm handshake.

"Forgive the empty room. I'm all packed up. We were on our way to Japan to pick up my replacement when we got the call. This may be my last operation on Montana ."

"Well, I'm hoping you don't go out with a bang, sir."

"Me, too."

"And I have to say, I've been around, sir, but this is my first time aboard a Virginia-class sub. Pretty amazing."

Gummerson grinned and nodded. "I've been riding boats for thirty years, but Montana still makes me a little bug-eyed." The captain motioned to a seat near his bed. "Relax a minute. I need to run through a few things, and I need to get radio to bring in your message board. You have some update traffic from your boss. Once submerged, the radio messenger will come to you with that message board whenever you have incoming traffic."

"Okay, sir."

"Scott, right now we're situated on the midlevel deck. I call it Main Street. Forward of my stateroom is the control and attack center. Aft of this space is a head that I share with the XO, the XO's stateroom, and aft of him is the VIP stateroom. Aft of that is a bulkhead with a hatch accessing the reactor compartment tunnel. From that hatch aft is off-limits to all but engineering personnel." Gummerson paused.

"Uh, understood, sir."

The captain grinned. "Don't lie. Even I don't remember what I just said. But you'll be taken on a tour."

Mitchell returned the grin. "Good idea."

"I've kicked the ops officer out of the VIP stateroom to turn it over to Sergeant Diaz."

"No need for that," Mitchell assured him. "Sergeant Diaz digs her own latrine just like the rest of us. We never offer her special treatment."

"I appreciate that, but Montana is a twenty-first-century machine crewed by stubborn geeks following the old naval traditions. Hell, until these guys got to sub school in New London, they never heard of Rick-over. They thought Jules Verne was the father of the atomic submarine. You don't think Verne was the father, do you?"

Wearing a grin, Mitchell shook his head.

"Whew. Now, once we're under way, we don't adhere to any specific dress code, meaning we're pretty lax on what we wear--and don't wear--especially in the berthing compartment area. Diaz will share the head with the XO and me. We'll work out a schedule for the three of us."

"I understand, sir. If we can address this issue as subtly as possible, I'd appreciate it."

"No problem." Gummerson glanced at his notepad before continuing. "The lock-out trunk has a nine-man capacity, which means you and your team can lock out in one evolution, but you'll need training and help from my SEALs, as I indicated to General Keating."

"No arguments here, sir."

"You'll get with SEAL Chiefs Tanner and Phillips between here and China. We'll work in two drills, once with lights, once in total darkness."

Gummerson was about to go on when the radio messenger knocked and entered with two message boards. "A good place to stop," he said. "Let's step back to the wardroom, get some coffee, introduce you to the other officers, and plow through some of this latest traffic."

"Sounds good." Mitchell rose. "And, sir, is it true you guys have the best food in the navy?"

"Oh, don't worry, Captain, you'll find out for yourself."

Damn Ramirez. He had Mitchell thinking about chow.

Once he'd met the other officers, Mitchell retired in privacy to a computer terminal. He accessed a prerecorded video message from General Keating, who confirmed that their satellite surveillance of the Hakka castle was now in place and that their two CIA agents had already been observed meeting with their inside man earlier in the day.

The general also indicated that there was a lot of activity in and around missile sites located within the Nanjing Military Region and that the situation in Taiwan was growing far worse. The declaration of martial law had resulted in numerous cases of human rights violations by Taiwan's military and police, and demonstrators were still picketing and being arrested in front of the presidential building. Images of bludgeoned and bleeding civilians flashed across the screen.

Of course, Mitchell could have bet a year's pay that the general would repeat that it was up to him, that everything came down to the Ghosts stopping the Spring Tigers from initiating their plan. Mitchell finished watching the transmission and growled, "Yeah, I know. It' all up to me."

A second message from the Red Cross caught him by surprise. Bo Jenkins's father had passed away. Last report was that he'd been stable, but he'd taken a sharp turn for the worse. Part of Mitchell wanted to hold off telling Bo so that the man's head would be in the mission. The other part said that wasn't fair and that Bo deserved to know immediately.