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embarrassment on his face. “I know I’ve got a new Sonar Chief, but I didn’t realize how far the sonar shack’s proficiency had fallen. We’ll spend a few weeks in the sonar trainer before our next deployment.”
    Wilson didn’t reply. He knew Lawson would take a turn on his crew as soon as they returned to port. Instead, his eyes searched the horizon for the Kentucky .
    “Bearing two-seven-zero relative,” the Lookout behind Wilson said.
    Turning to his left, Wilson spotted the Kentucky ’s periscope and antenna just off the Houston ’s port beam, only a few hundred yards away as the ballistic missile submarine headed out to sea for her long strategic deterrent patrol.
    Lawson passed the handheld radio to Wilson. “The Kentucky ’s on channel sixteen.”
    Wilson took the radio, holding it close to his mouth. “Outbound Navy unit, this is inbound Navy unit, over.”
    A familiar voice crackled from the radio; Murray’s son, Tom, responded to the Houston ’s hail. “Inbound Navy unit, request release, over.”
    Wilson replied, “Outbound Navy unit, you are released for other duties. Godspeed and good hunting, over.”
    There was a burst of static, followed by Tom’s response. “That’s not an appropriate wish for this class of submarine, but thanks anyway. See you in a few months, sir. This is outbound Navy unit, out.”
    Wilson handed the radio back to Lawson, then watched the Kentucky ’s periscope grow smaller as the submarine headed out to sea, finally disappearing altogether as she descended into the murky ocean depths. A brisk wind whipped through the fast attack’s Bridge, sending a chill down Wilson’s spine. He rubbed both arms as he looked up, noting a towering bank of dark gray cumulous clouds approaching from the west, the direction the Kentucky was headed. But Wilson’s son and the rest of the submarine’s crew wouldn’t even notice the storm churning the water’s surface several hundred feet above them.
    “The cold front’s rolling in fast,” Wilson said, turning to Lawson. “Let’s get in before we get caught in the storm.”

 
    4
    WASHINGTON, D.C.
     
    National Security Adviser Christine O’Connor sat in her West Wing office with her elbows propped on her polished rosewood desk, rubbing her temples with her fingertips in a slow circular motion. As she gazed out her window overlooking the White House south lawn, hoping for relief from her pounding headache, she took no notice of the gray skies and steady rain that had moved in overnight. Instead, her thoughts dwelt on the upcoming meeting with the president’s chief of staff; the reason, she was sure, for her painful migraine.
    Searching through her desk, Christine located and then downed four ibuprofen with a gulp of lukewarm coffee. Although she felt far older today, she was only forty-two, not that most people would have guessed; only the thin lines around her slate-blue eyes gave her age away. Still, it felt like her time in the administration had aged her more than it was worth. As Christine brushed a strand of auburn hair away from her face, she wondered, not for the first time, if she had made the right decision.
    Two years earlier, in the incoming administration’s temporary spaces off Pennsylvania Avenue, Christine had sat nervously across from the president-elect, answering pointed questions from the man she’d met only moments earlier. She hadn’t expected the interview to go particularly well; she disagreed with the president-elect’s positions on national security on almost every point and made no effort to imply otherwise. However, there must have been something about her straightforward responses and poised demeanor that sealed the deal for the president. Christine had accepted the appointment, even though she knew it would be difficult working in an administration whose political views she didn’t share. Unfortunately, she hadn’t counted on the animosity between her and the president’s chief of