America by Stephen Coonts

people out for ice cream, dog owners with their pets on leashes. Lovers walked hand in hand in the shadows, unwilling to give up the September evening.
    â€œIt all looks so normal,” Callie said.
    â€œYes,” Jake said, watching the people. “For how long?”
    When they got out of the car in front of the house he could hear the surf hitting the beach. He took her hand and led her along the street to the boardwalk across the dune. The wind was off the dark sea. As the surf broke, the foam of the breakers was just visible. A few stars enlivened the dark sky. Holding Callie’s hand, Jake breathed deeply of the cool salt wind.
    The sub was out there somewhere, in that vast sea.
    Well, the men who stole it wouldn’t remain hidden long. Stalnaker said the White House thought the sub would go to some third-world country, perhaps be used to threaten a neighbor. All of which was ridiculous, of course. The politicians didn’t want to face up to the reality of the disaster. They should have ordered the Jones to sink the sub when the destroyer had the sub under its guns.
    Jake half turned, glanced toward the beach house. The Russian, Ilin, was there. Were the Russians behind the theft? Ilin was a spook—did he know about this?
    Callie held him tightly as the wind played with her hair.
    He wrapped his arms around her.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Kolnikov and Turchak were poring over the cruise-missile universal target databases in the computer when Rothberg finally yawned and asked permission to find a bunk to sleep in. Kolnikov nodded his assent. Boldt went with him. For the first time since they seized America, the two Russians were alone.
    â€œWhile they sleep, we must collect all the weapons,” Kolnikov whispered.
    â€œBut the boat! Who will watch it?”
    â€œWe will leave it on autopilot.”
    Turchak’s eyes widened. With no one to monitor the performance of the computers that formed the autopilot, there was no safety margin whatsoever. “Oh, man. Why don’t we just shoot ourselves now and get it over with? This really is Russian roulette.”
    â€œWe must get the guns.”
    â€œWe may have to kill Heydrich.”
    Kolnikov grunted.
    â€œYou and I could run the boat,” Turchak admitted. “The automation is quite extraordinary. We could not respond quickly to anything, and there would be no safety margin—none—which makes my flesh crawl. The first casualty, the first equipment failure, and we will be dead men. With people on watch in the reactor and engine room, we have a little breathing room. Someone on the sonar will help enormously. We will need all the people we have if we need to reload a torpedo tube. Still, we know so little. A tiny fire, an electrical problem … we’ll be dead.”
    â€œThat is the risk we agreed to take,” Kolnikov insisted.
    â€œTalking about risks on dry land is not the same as living them.”
    They stood looking at the displays. Finally Kolnikov shook his head. “There is no way to undo what we have done. We must go forward.”
    â€œI know. I know! All of this frightens me—that is the honest truth. I wish—”
    Turchak left the thought hanging. After a bit he asked, “What are we going to do with the guns?”
    â€œJettisoning them through an empty torpedo tube would be best. I don’t want them aboard.”
    Kolnikov checked the navigation display. The boat was five hundred feet deep, running southeast at four knots. Except for the grunting of some distant whales, the sea was silent, empty in all directions, surface and subsurface. A few minutes ago there had been the telltale signature of noise from an airplane passing overhead, a jet running high. It was gone now.
    Kolnikov pulled the pistol from his belt, checked that the safety was on, and went forward.
    Pistols and rifles were strewn carelessly near the sleeping men. The two Russian officers picked up every firearm they