Sea of Shadows eBook - Navy Thriller.com

102 JEFF EDWARDS
Eyebrows went up around the table, and a few people sat up straighter
in their seats.
Undersecretary of State Mitchell said, “Obviously, any such delivery is
in clear violation of standing United Nations resolutions.”
“Obviously,” Admiral Casey said.
“The repercussions would be staggering,” the vice president said. “The
government of Germany wouldn’t dare …”
The admiral keyed the remote. “I’m afraid they already have dared,
sir.” The image changed to a split-screen picture of two warships. “The
ship on the left is—or rather was—HMS York, a destroyer belonging to the
British Royal Navy. The ship on the right is her escort, HMS Chatham, a
Royal Navy frigate. Approximately twenty-two hours ago, while
attempting to blockade the Strait of Gibraltar, these ships gained sonar
contact on what they believed to be the four German submarines. While
HMS York and HMS Chatham were attempting to divert the submarines, a
flight of approximately six German warplanes appeared. Based upon their
performance characteristics, we believe they were the German Air Force
variant of the EF-2000S EuroStrike-Fighter. We don’t know who pulled
the trigger first, but the encounter escalated into a missile shoot. HMS
York went down with a loss of nearly all hands. HMS Chatham was
severely damaged and is currently being rigged for tow back into port.
According to their reports, the British shot down four of the jets and may
have damaged a fifth.”
The admiral looked directly at Vice President Wainright. “The Royal
Navy has search and rescue helicopters out combing the water for
survivors, but as of their last situation report, two hundred ninety-four
British Sailors are either dead or missing.” He paused for a second. “Sir, I
humbly submit that our German allies have already dared one hell of a
lot.”
“Where does that put us now, Bob?” the president asked.
The admiral looked at the screen and pressed the button again. The
ships were replaced by a color map of the Mediterranean Sea. “The
German subs are somewhere in the Med by now. Assuming that they are
moving at their maximum possible speed, they should still be west of this
line.” He pressed another button, and a curved red line appeared on the
map. “In all probability, they are somewhere between the Spanish island
of Balearic and Sardinia—off the Italian coast.” He turned to look at the
president. “It’s a big stretch of water, Mr. President. But not so big as to
be unmanageable. I’ve got the Abraham Lincoln strike group steaming
west at top speed, and a half-dozen P-3s in the air as we speak.” He keyed
the remote again, and a series of small black silhouettes appeared on the