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she knew about cross-sonar put her and highly classified information at risk if it became known she was the original source of its design. Security was there to make sure she didn’t have a problem while she was in the Kitsap area, and it would likely be tasked to stay with her for the first few weeks after sheleft to make sure she hadn’t been identified and targeted. As the price for working on the sonar data, she reluctantly accepted the arrangement. She knew should she ever be designated a national security asset, the secure detail wouldn’t end when she left Bangor.
    Gina watched the sub depart, the morning sun glistening on the wet, black hull, then returned to her car. She pulled back onto the road, the security car behind her. She liked the three guys who had been assigned to her; one was always with her in rotating shifts of 12 hours. They were also there to help her secure the notebooks she used and the server-data rack she pulled at the end of a night’s work session. What she did with sonar was not particularly hard to figure out, she thought, but she did understand that the military viewed her as a resource to protect, just as they protected the officers who had detailed knowledge of the strategic weapons deployments.
    Kevin had been no more than a fleeting memory since she got here. She was functioning, the sadness was lifting at the margins, and she was looking forward to Jeff’s arrival back on land. Life went on.
    Breakfast at the Inside Out Café located in the Bangor Plaza was her usual stop after work, but she decided she could tolerate one more oatmeal raisin bar her brother stocked at his condo. It had been a long work night, and she was ready to get some sleep. She would like to get at least the first of the two sonar ideas sorted out before Jeff got back on land, but she didn’t know if that arrival was days or weeks away. A fast-attack submarine stayed out to sea while it was operationally useful for it to remain in an area. The USS Seawolf was due back sometime this month, and she’d probably learnit was in port the moment Jeff walked in his front door and stumbled over her shoes.

    Commander Mark Bishop entered his stateroom two floors below the command-and-control center of the USS Nevada , 14 hours after he had last left it. The officer of the deck would wake him if anything needed his attention, on the boat or in the ocean around them. Unfortunately he was one of two people aboard who knew another fire alarm was going to sound in a few hours. It would make his needed sleep a bit on the short side, as 18-hour days aboard a submarine—rather than the usual 24-hour days—made for a patrol that was lived on shorter, more frequent periods of sleep. Every hour he could get at this point in a patrol was welcome.
    Mark nudged off his tennis shoes, unzipped and removed his poopie suit, the solid-blue coveralls worn by every submariner at sea. Polyester with only a touch of cotton to keep lint from being an issue for the air filters, the garment zipped in the front and had six pockets—two in front, two slash pockets on the front of each leg, and two back pockets. Sewn above the right pocket was M . BISHOP , with a gold star inside a gold circle above his name signifying he presently had Command at Sea. A seven-point silver oak leaf on each collar showed his rank of commander.
    Onshore, the working uniform had changed yet again to the Navy’s version of camouflage—a blue and gray aquaflage that he personally thought was uncomfortably warm but otherwise serviceable. For official events, correct attire, thankfully, was still either the white or blue dress uniform, depending on the season.
    He had something tucked in most of the pockets, so he fished items out to drop on his desk before putting the blue coveralls in the laundry bag. The crew did their own laundry, sharing one washer and dryer, but it was considered bad luck for the commander to wash his. One