Night had fallen sullenly over the storm ravaged waters of the Gulf of Mexico, with heavy drops of rain spitting down from the wet, grey, overcast sky. The rain and the blustery winds were the final remnants of the worst hurricane to have hit the area in the past decade. Thunder rolled across the waves as occasional flashes of sheet lightning burst across the sky illuminating the dark-grey thunderheads in a spectacular display of nature's fury and beauty.

An ill-tempered squall, pushed along by the southerly winds, swirled across the surface of the Gulf scuffing white the wave tops of the choppy grey-green water. Unrolled across the surface of the Gulf, like a white-flecked carpet, a straight foamy wake stretched out of the southern mists to mark the course of the nuclear powered, Los Angeles Class attack submarine, SSN-769, the USS Toledo.

With just the 'sail' visible above the churning waters the Toledo resembled more a predatory shark than one of the world's most sophisticated mechanical and technological ocean going marvels. Displacing just under seven thousand tons submerged and fitted with twelve vertical launchers, capable of firing nuclear-tipped Tomahawk cruise missiles, and four thirty-one inch torpedo tubes, the Toledo was one of the most lethal weapons systems in the United States Naval arsenal. Now within a few hours of her destination a flock of lazily wheeling seagulls was escorting the Toledo. The birds' raucous shrieks and cries filled the sky with an eerie symphony. From the sinister black of the Toledo's hull, to the dirty off white of the seagulls, and the dull greenish-grey of the sea spray, the world appeared to be a bleak composition of soggy greys.

The greyness seemed strangely befitting of the current global environment, Commander Gerald Brentwood thought as he stood looking out from the bridge atop the Toledo's twenty-foot sail. In his opinion colour was reserved for such things as freshly blooming flowers, and newborn babies, and sunny springtime mornings like those he had spent with his wife and daughter prior to the global economic collapse of the early twenty- first century. Things that symbolized new beginnings. He could still vividly remember the birth of his daughter. The pained screams of his wife as she worked on bringing a new life into the world. And of the doctor's handing him little Bekka for the first time. . It was moments such as these that Brentwood associated with colour. On the other hand corpses were pale, the sick 'ashen faced', and the infirm were 'grey' with exhaustion. Along with strength and life, colour drained from those things that were nearing the end of their existence. It seemed more than a little appropriate that a world with little to no hope for its own future should be devoid of colour also.

At least, barring some kind of miracle or spiritual intervention from God, the free world of the West, what little remained, that he and his crew were committed to defending, had no real future. In the Pacific the Japanese Imperial Defense Forces were rapidly reclaiming territories captured by them during the Second World War. This new surge of Japanese aggression was aimed directly at America's only remaining allies in the region, Australia and New Zealand. Already, 60 years after the bombing of Nagasaki and Hiroshima, Japanese and ANZAC forces had clashed on the island nation of Papua New Guinea/ Irian Jaya, scene of some of the bloodiest fighting of World War Two, and home of the infamous Kokoda Trail, with the Aussies finally halting the Japanese after two months of intense jungle conflict. Even in Europe old animosities were coming to a violent and ugly head. A financially, and militarily-strong, re-unified Germany had finally risen from the shadows of the Cold War, and the divisiveness of the Berlin Wall, to take their place among the power brokers of the European Union, and push toward the regional supremacy they had held under Adolf Hitler.

As he watched the waves of the Gulf crash the black hull of his warship Brentwood's mind flashed back to the moment that he had decided that the life of a submariner was the career path he was going to pursue. Having been born into a family with a rich naval tradition, his father having served with the Royal Navy before immigrating to the Unites States in the late seventies and settling in San Diego, Brentwood had quickly learnt about the beauty and danger of the ocean. At age thirteen he had been accompanying his father and uncle, also a veteran of the Royal Navy, on a fishing trip off the island of Santa Catalina when their cruiser had come within a half mile of a surfacing Ohio Class Ballistic Missile Submarine.

Thankfully the sun had been out at the time and the young Brentwood had watched transfixed through binoculars as the great black warhorse continued its homeward-bound journey. He had almost died of excitement when a couple of the submarines officers had spotted him watching them with their own binoculars and had waved from the bridge towards him. Brentwood had gazed upon the ultimate fist of United States sea power until it had disappeared over the horizon, with barely contained awe. In the pit of his stomach there was a tight knot of fear, except he knew it was not really fear he was feeling. After all Gerald Steven Brentwood was not afraid of the submarine. He was more fascinated by a machine that could roam the world's oceans, virtually undetected, and destroy a city if so ordered by the Commander In Chief of the United States Military. As he turned back to the infinitely lesser thrills of fishing he was left with only one thought on his mind. What he really wanted to do was to command his own Submarine.

Slowly bringing himself back to the present Brentwood shifted his gaze from the lights glowing on the distant horizon to the man who had joined him on the bridge. A man whose fur-lined cap, with turned down back flap, and German paratrooper smock, worn over a skin-tight black wetsuit, contrasted dramatically with the naval garb worn by the Toledo's crew. The clothes were taken from the visitor's kit and he had changed into them from the workmen's clothing Brentwood had seen him wearing below deck, prior to his coming topside. Captain Michael Dorjan commanded the five-man squad of elite military commandos, from the United States Special Operations Command, that had been picked up in a secret rendezvous three days earlier with the Carl Vinson carrier battle group in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

The night had been pitch-black, the sky overcast, when Dorjan and his men had made their way across the Carl Vinson's hangar deck. The seas had been relatively flat, so the huge wake trailing the massive warship was not as confused and dangerous as it could have been. Dorjan warned his men that once they hit the water they were to dive below the surface and swim at right angles away from the ship to avoid the massive suction created by the Vinson's gigantic propellers.

There was no rail on the open elevator shaft from where his team would rappel, and it was at least a thirty to forty foot drop to the water below. Dorjan and his men were dressed in black, neoprene wetsuits with hoods; small scuba tanks were attached to their chest and swim fins strapped to their feet to assist in swimming away from the carrier. Dorjan also carried a state of the art Global Positioning System/ Inertial Navigator Unit about the size of an average paperback novel. He would the use the GPS to get an exact fix on their location once they hit the water, and the Navigational unit to guide them toward the Toledo.

Somewhere in the waters below the Carl Vinson was the USS Toledo Dorjan hoped as he flung his rope over the side of the elevator. After attaching the hooks to the six-inch lip of the deck, they threaded the lines through their rappelling carabineers. The idea was to rappel over the side and then swim down to the Toledo, which was going to be waiting on station at a depth of fifty feet.

Now, three days after the pickup, Dorjan found himself standing on the bridge of the Toledo within moments of commencing stage two of his assignment. Slung over his shoulder, mainly out of habit, he carried a Belgian manufactured Fabrique Nationale FN P-90 submachine gun. The futuristic-looking weapon was originally designed as a self-defense weapon for technical and support personnel not directly involved in combat operations. However, soon after it's inception into the Belgian military during the early 90's, the P-90 came to the attention of numerous Special Forces units throughout the world. With it's ambidextrous design, overall length of less than twenty inches, robust construction, and high magazine capacity it was an excellent choice for infiltration and high-risk military operations.

With his predominantly youthful features, short-cropped blond hair, tanned skin, and a sensitive mouth, Dorjan looked much younger than his age of 35. His complexion was dark, his eyes large, blue, and brooding, as befitted his nature. If he felt any sentiments at all about the fate of the nation, or the world for that matter, his eyes revealed no hint of them as he took in the indistinct horizon. His eyes shifted with the practiced laziness of someone trained, and adapted to existing inconspicuously for long periods of time in hostile environments. If he had not read Dorjan's file Brentwood would have guessed him to be in his late thirties early forties, although his reluctance to smile and the air of seriousness that he wore most of the time were the characteristics of someone much older. Someone, perhaps, who had grown cynical of living.

'Sir, we are approaching waypoint Omega.' David Ahern reported, emerging from the bridge ladder and joining the two men on deck. 'Estimated time of arrival to Omega approximately twenty minutes.'

'Thank you XO. Reduce speed and prepare the ship to dive.' Brentwood said. He turned to Dorjan whilst Ahern translated his words in to orders and relayed them to the crew manning their stations below. 'As you heard, Captain, we are now approaching our final waypoint before we commence our turn back eastward and return to our patrol sector. I suggest that you join your men below and be ready to be off my boat before that happens. No offence.'

Dorjan just nodded, his eyes flicking between the distant horizon and the two men who stood with him.

Brentwood and his crew had received a message as they were patrolling the Atlantic coastline, in search of German and Russian fast attack subs, ordering them to rendezvous with the Carl Vinson and her carrier battle group. The message, sent via a Navy VLF (very low frequency) transmitter located in North Carolina, on a long wavelength capable of being picked up by submarines whilst submerged, advised Brentwood that Captain Dorjan and his team were required for a Top Secret assignment and would be awaiting the arrival of the Toledo. 'They don't give you guys much of a break do they?' Brentwood commented. 'I'm sorry that you'll be leaving us so soon.'

'That's just the way it goes, I guess.' Dorjan responded, turning his attention back to his
surroundings.

Brentwood looked at the solider for a few moments longer, and then decided to abandon any further attempts at conversation with a barely perceptible shrug and a sigh. 'Always on the look out for trouble aren't you?' Brentwood thought. 'Well like I said Captain. I had best be letting you get to your men. All of your gear is currently being transferred to the wardroom ready for your departure.' He said, extending his right hand. 'It was a pleasure having you and your men aboard the Toledo. Glad we could be of some assistance to you, and God speed. I wish you the best of luck with whatever task they have dreamt up for you now.'

'Thank you, Sir.' Dorjan said, sounding somewhat formal. He extended his hand, shaking first Ahern's and then Brentwood's. 'My men asked me to express their gratitude for your hospitality, and that shown by your crew. I realize that our presence aboard, at such short notice, must have been somewhat of an inconvenience.'

Brentwood nodded and smiled faintly in appreciation. Having to reshuffle the sleeping
arrangements of his crew had been a hassle, but one that they had easily overcome.
Dorjan saluted before climbing down into the bridge hatch and descending the ladder below.

Crewmen were busy at stations that extended away from along the walls aft of the twin periscope stand and huge map table when Dorjan descended a third ladder, bringing him to the forward section of the control room. On the port side stood two padded leather chairs with aircraft-like control columns and a vast array of hooded instruments, reminding him more of the cockpit of an F-117 Nighthawk than the helmsman and diving officers positions on a state of the art nuclear-powered attack submarine. Each of the seats was fitted with safety belts, which indicated the maneuvering capabilities of the Toledo. Having spoken to several of the crew over the past few days, Dorjan had come to the conclusion that the dynamics of handling a fast attack submarine came closer to flying through the water than anything that resemble the traditional sense of sailing.

Brentwood's executive officer and a detail of armed seamen accompanied Dorjan through the forward passage, leading between the captain's cabin and sickbay, to the wardroom where he and his men were given bunking space for the voyage. Several more crewmen were also in the wardroom chatting with Dorjan's men and assisting with the preparation of their gear.

'Pretty much all done here, Mike.' Carl Rennick drawled zipping up the bags he had just finished packing. 'How are things going topside?'

'We'll be at the drop off point in about fifteen minutes,' Dorjan said placing the P-90 on the bunk he had been using and removing his parachute smock. 'Commander Brentwood wants us prepped and ready to go overboard long before then.'

It was one of the Toledo's crew that answered the second part of Rennick's question 'Latest satellite report we got indicated a severe storm front was moving north out of the Caribbean at a steady rate.'

'Wet, cold, and windy it looks like. It's going be a rough ride in' Dorjan commented. 'Everyone ready down here?'

'All set.'

Whilst several of the Toledo's crewmen carried their kit out of the wardroom, Dorjan and his men made a final inspection of the room, before following them the narrow passageways towards the aft end of the accommodation spaces, where the forward ASDS (Advance SEAL Delivery System) docking chamber was located. On the way they were forced to step over several supply crates, moved to create extra accommodation spaces, which had been lashed to the deck and covered with floorboards. Finally, there in front of them, no more than fifteen feet from the beginning of the reactor compartment shielding, was a large sphere with an open hatch.

Dorjan slowly stepped into the sphere, then looked up through the massive hatch leading to the ASDS mating collar. Robert Clark, a member of Toledo's own Special Warfare detachment and the ASDS's pilot, grinned down at him.

'Checklists are nearly completed,' Clark announced. 'Once all your gear is stowed we'll be getting underway.

'Best of luck everyone,' Brentwood said, taking the time to shake hands with each team < member.

Let's move,' Dorjan snapped as the last of the gear was uploaded through the hatch. 'We're already behind schedule, another hour and we may miss the tides.'

With his team preceding him, Dorjan quickly climbed the ladder and went up through the hatch. Now, as he stood within the hyperbaric chamber of the ASDS minisub, he watched as Clark went about dogging the hatches. Measuring sixty-five feet in length, a submerged displacement of sixty ton, the ASDS was designed to carry eight fully armed combat swimmers, and a crew of two stealthily into a hostile environment. Designed and manufactured by Northrop Grumman, the same company contracted to construct the B-2 Stealth Bomber, the ASDS was capable of a top speed of eight knots and an effective range of 125 nautical miles. Whereas the earlier model SDV's (Swimmer Delivery Vehicles) carried its personnel in 'wet' conditions, the ASDS, a submarine in its own right, was capable of carrying its crew and passengers in dry conditions within a pressurized hull, thereby increasing the units combat effectiveness.

Above his head was the minisub's roof hatch. Through the open crew compartment hatch he could see Clark settling in behind the controls. Another member of the Toledo's crew, a Leading Seamen by the name of Ian miller, quickly joined Clark, taking the other position, before reaching back and closing the hatch. Dorjan made his way aft into the transport compartment, where the remainder if his team was seated, dressed in black, pumped up and ready to go.

’We saved the front seat for you,' Rennick said, nonchalantly waving his commanding officer
towards the front row of fold down nylon seats.

'Terrific.' Dorjan laughed, taking one of the forward seats and fastening his seatbelt. 'And I suppose if I get seasick all I have to do is keep facing forward.'

Rennick chuckled. Even Stoner had a grin on his face.

Before any further comments could be made, there was a dull thud forward of the compartment, followed quickly by another from aft. Then Miller's voice came over the subs intercom. "Hatch secured, swimmer delivery vehicles secured. We have a window of opportunity in the threat TMA, Toledo now approaching nominal launch depth.'

'I don't feel anything.' Stoner commented. Though he had been in the Australian Special Air Service for a number of years, this was his first time as part of an actual ASDS launch.

Before anyone could voice a response Millers voice came back on. 'We're currently at two hundred thirty feet. Ocean interface conformal hangar has been flooded and equalized. Toledo's pressure-proof bay doors are now open. Devilfish is ready to disembark.'

Dorjan picked up a mic. 'All set back here.'

’They should have some pictures up or something,' Janyce Dylan commented from her seat at the rear of the compartment. Perhaps some travel posters. This is like a subway with no windows.'

Within seconds Devilfish, the call sign designated to the ASDS, rose, and slowly moved forward.

An LCD screen lit up on the transport compartments forward bulkhead; depth, course and speed, navigational chart, and sonar picture were displayed. Dorjan, though not really understanding all of the figures, couldn't help but study the varying data. He kept reminding himself that he would have to trust Miller and Clark. He tried to relax, just a passenger now, but he couldn't.

'Briefing folders, everybody,' he said, reaching into his pack and handing them out. 'Last chance for any comments, and bright ideas.'

As they studied their folder, the ASDS added some up bubble, causing it to head upwards toward shallower depths. Nearer the surface Devilfish surged and heaved, too small to escape the wave action topside.