By Dawn's Early Light by David Hagberg

every system within the White House, but he’d been able to dig deep enough to find out at least some of what he wanted to know.
    The Discovery ’s repair mission had not come as a surprise to anyone, least of all Galt. But the president’s warning, and promise, that the crew would have help was disturbing.
    At the very least his customers had to be warned. Then he would have to find out what kind of help the president was talking about. Galt had not heard a thing, which was unusual for a man in his position.
    Something had to be done. And he already had a couple of very good ideas.
    He grabbed his cap, left his office and headed to the elevators. He kept seeing the look of calm determination on Lieutenant Colonel Thoreau’s face. He smiled to himself.
    It was so much better to go up against a confident man. The victory was all the more sweet.

Into the Tiger’s Lair

1
    0400 LOCAL
WEST OF OAHU
    â€œPrepare to dive the boat,” Dillon said into the growler phone. He did a quick three-sixty, then glanced up at the billion stars overhead. No fanfare this time. Only the lights of a couple of fishing boats far away to the south, and the gleam low on the horizon behind them from Honolulu.
    And neither the angels in Heaven above,
    Nor the demons down under the sea,
    Can ever dissever my soul from the soul
    Of the beautiful Annabel Lee.
    He’d wanted to call Jill. Wanted it with everything in his heart. He was the commanding officer; it would have been easy. No one would have known he’d broken orders. Only he.
    He made another sweep, a shutter closing off that part of his mind, focusing him on the job at hand.
    â€œClear the bridge,” he ordered.
    â€œAye, aye, skipper,” Alvarez said. He disappeared into the boat, followed by the lookout, with Dillon right behind them, dogging the hatch.
    His crew was in place when he reached the control room. “My hatch is secure,” he said, stowing his cap and binoculars. Exact routines were important aboard a warship, especially a submarine. Their lives depended on doing the same task in exactly the same manner every time.
    â€œSkipper, I have an all-green board,” Alvarez announced. “Pressures in the tanks are normal. We are ready in all respects for dive.”
    â€œVery well,” Dillon said. “Dive the boat. Make your depth sixty feet.”
    â€œAye, aye, dive the boat, make my depth six-zero feet,” Alvarez repeated the order.
    Bateman sounded the warning klaxon, and as Alvarez went through the steps to dive the boat to periscope depth, Dillon pulled down the growler phone.
    â€œSonar, conn.”
    â€œSonar, aye.”
    â€œHow’s it look, Ski?”
    â€œNo subsea targets, Captain,” Chief Sonarman Leonard “Ski” Zimenski, came back. “I have numerous surface vessels to the southeast and northwest. Fishing boats, and one large vessel, inbound to Pearl from the southeast. A container ship.”
    â€œVery well, keep a sharp lookout. We could be having company at any time. We’ve been advised that there’s at least one Akula about eight hundred miles west, possibly right on our track.”
    â€œAye, skipper. If he’s still around, we’ll bag him.”
    Dillon hung up the phone.
    He glanced at the masthead indicators. “Mastheads are wet,” he told his diving officer.
    â€œThe time is fourteen-twelve Zulu, skipper, shall I message Pearl?” Bateman, his hand on a growler phone, asked.
    â€œNegative,” Dillon said. “No message to Pearl.”
    â€œEase your angle on the planes,” Alvarez told the planesman, and their rate of descent slowed as the chief of boat balanced the trim tanks. They stopped at sixty feet.
    â€œCheck all compartments and all machinery in all respects,” Dillon said.
    â€œAye, Captain,” Alvarez responded, and he passed the order to all sections from the forward torpedo compartments to the aft engine