Hellfire c 20, p.19
Hellfire c-20, page 19
part #20 of Carrier Series
“Furthermore,” he continued, his accent growing stronger, “there are many who have doubts about your system. Some believe deployment will destabilize the entire balance of power between your country and mine. Again, we have not undertaken this of our own, but simply respond to America’s actions.”
Drake could hear the sincerity in his voice. The questions around her became more insisted, more probing. More and more often, the admiral sidestepped the question, citing security reasons. After ten minutes, the public information officer stepped to the podium and said, “Thank you, ladies and gentlemen. And thank you, Admiral. Now, if you’ll follow your escort, there is time for a brief tour of our combat center and the flight deck before your return here for a meal and to meet some of our people. If you have any questions or any needs, please do not hesitate to ask.”
The reporters, acting on reflex at the familiar cue, gathered up their gear. The Russian escorts promptly rounded up their charges and eased them out of the room, half of the group heading for Combat, the other half to the flight deck.
Pamela’s own escort approached her and said, “Miss Drake, I suspect you have seen many combat centers and many flight decks. The admiral would like to provide a private tour for you — an exclusive, if you will.” The public information officer appeared behind him, nodding. “If you would come this way.”
“Thank you. Come on, Jeff,” she said, motioning to her cameraman, who fell into step behind her. The public information officer held up one hand.
“No pictures without my express approval. Agreed?”
“Of course. We’re used to covering military operations, Commander. We understand the game rules.”
He smiled. “Not everyone does. Your Miss Winston, for instance. This is why you were selected, and not the others.”
Does everybody in the world know about Cary Winston? What is he trying to tell me by letting me know they know about her?
Drake decided that discretion was the better part of valor. She smiled. “She is very young. With time, she may be all right.”
“Perhaps. But she will not be here.”
The two Russian officers led the way toward the stern of the ship, descending another two decks. Pamela followed, dividing her attention between the passageways and the complaints of Jeff behind her as he maneuvered his gear through tight openings.
Surprisingly, the passageways looked very much like they did on America’s carrier. The markings on the bulkheads were in Cyrillic rather than English letters and the compartment numbering scheme appeared to be slightly different. But there was the familiar sense of too many people crammed into too-small spaces and the odd combination smell of fuel and cooking that she’d noticed on the deck. They passed a few sailors, who pressed themselves against the bulkhead in order to let them pass, even though there was more than enough room. A few murmured polite greetings. All averted their eyes.
Finally, when Drake sensed that they must be near the stern, they went up three decks. They were just below the flight deck, and the motion of the ship was more pronounced than it had been amidships.
The public information officer tapped out the security code on a cipher lock, then stepped back to allow them to precede him into the room. Pamela walked in, and saw that the bulkhead was crammed with consoles. In the center of the room, a large, spotless steel-and-white setup extended through the ceiling overhead.
“A laser,” she said softly. She turned to face him, her excitement visible. “This is your system, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Tested extensively but not yet ready for live targets.” He held up one hand as the cameraman fumbled with his gear. “I’m sorry. No pictures. Not yet.”
“May I get a closer look?” she asked.
“Yes, of course.”
She walked slowly around it, trying to memorize the details. There was a large, clear cylinder in the center, with a maze of wires and connections at either end. Steel struts marked with calibration figures ringed it, holding it so perfectly in alignment that it looked unnatural.
In truth, there was not much to see. It looked remarkably similar to the one on board Jefferson. But she studied anyway, trying to memorize the details, counting the struts and supports with one part of her mind as the other worked out the wording she would use to describe it to her audience. “We are on the record?” she asked to confirm their status. “You know that term?”
“Yes. And I hope,” he continued, with what was apparently a burst of candor, “that you will tell the Americans that we are quite far along in our own program. Should they decide to deploy their laser system, we will not be far behind. Not far behind at all. However, I think that world opinion may have something to say about both systems. When the testing alone results in the deaths of innocent civilians, how much more dangerous would full-scale deployment be?”
“A very good question,” she said. “And one that deserves an answer.”
He smiled at her now, his expression relieved. “And the answers, as you must suspect, must come from your own people. We have shown you our system. Now ask them to show you theirs.”
“I don’t think they will.” She shrugged. “You must know that I’m not in their good graces right now. Not after what Winston did.”
“Yes, of course. That is the reason you are here. I think there can be little doubt that your network is willing to report stories that are not entirely flattering to your country.”
“An understatement, but thank you for the compliment. It took a good deal of pressure for the admiral to allow me to come over here from the carrier, you know. They have tried to silence us, but it isn’t working.”
The Russian nodded sympathetically. “I must tell you, Miss Drake. I think the story you’re after is not the one you’ll eventually find. There has been a serious tragedy here, one that could have been avoided by honest communications between all parties. The responsibility for this lies with your — with the Americans.”
“Please go on.” Drake kept her expression neutral.
“Let me ask you this first,” the Russian said. “Why exactly are the Americans here?”
“Routine operations, as I understand it.”
The Russian looked her over carefully, as though trying to see into her mind. “And you believe that?”
“Well, I’m fairly familiar with normal carrier operations, and so far I have had no reason to doubt it. Should I?”
He laughed aloud. “Now I am certain that the story you will get is not the one you’re expecting. Miss Drake, that battle group is not here on routine operations. They are testing an advanced weaponry system, one called theater ballistic missile defense, or TBMD. There are no laser communications, no oceanographic experiments. We are conducting a test of a new weapon, yes. And your Americans are conducting their own tests to counter it.” He watched her closely for a moment, observing her reaction, then nodded in satisfaction. “I thought so. They did not tell you, did they?”
“What exactly does this TBMD do?” she asked, ignoring his question.
“It uses lasers to conduct a soft kill on a missile. It scrambles the electronics in the guidance system. Once that happens, it goes off course. Without guidance, the propulsion will cut out, and once inertia is overcome, it simply falls into the ocean.”
“This all sounds very routine, then,” Drake said, as though bored. “Surely this isn’t the first time that you have conducted tests and the Americans have conducted tests of their countermeasures? It’s very interesting, but not astounding.”
“There’s more. The Americans were not testing countermeasures. They were testing a laser system as well.”
Drake didn’t have to fake the surprise on her face. Yes, it all made sense. She had known from the beginning that Coyote and Tombstone were not being honest about Jefferson’s mission, and the Russian’s report just confirmed it. And knowing that she did not know the truth, they had sent her here anyway, to find out how much the Russians knew. Surely they had known that the Russians would tell her what they suspected. They must have been counting on it, in fact. All that talk about a new weapon system, the radar she was to look for — just a cover story to sidetrack her. In reality, she should have been looking for that evidence on board Jefferson instead of on the Russian ship.
“What are your plans now?” she said, operating on automatic. “The search and rescue will continue, surely.”
The Russian shrugged. “Your captain had it right. If there were more survivors from Montego Bay, we would have found them by now. We will continue to search for a few more days, but our hopes are dwindling quickly. I would be surprised if we find anything.”
“Our sympathies to their families, of course,” Drake murmured. Her mind was racing furiously as she tried to shape the new story in her mind. How much of it would she tell? How much secrecy was vital to national security, and how much was simply reflective of government secrecy?
“The reason I am showing you all this,” the Russian continued after a moment, “is that you must find some way to convince the Americans how very serious the situation is. They tested their system, they caused the sinking of a civilian ship, then they tried to blame it on us. We view this as an act of aggression, an attempt to rally world opinion against us. We cannot allow this to continue. Unless there is a prompt admission of guilt and a complete apology — there were fifteen Russians on board Montego Bay—we will be forced to act to protect our own interests and to demonstrate the efficacy of our own system. It has been suggested that the USS Jefferson might be a suitable target.”
“You’d attack the Jefferson?” Drake asked, her voice astonished. “Isn’t that a little out of proportion?” She saw the look on his face, and waved her hand impatiently. “Yeah, yeah, the civilian ship and fifteen Russians. It’s a tragedy — it bleeds, it leads in the news. But you’re talking about attacking an American ship of war! Tell me why this makes sense!”
The Russian general regarded her gravely. “Talk to others on the staff here, Miss Drake. I think you will see that America committed two acts of aggression. First, by deploying this system despite the protests of the rest of the world. And second, by targeting our ship with fire control radar. You may not understand it, not as we do, but we consider ourselves already at war. You would be wise to remember that and to convey it to the battle group commander, Admiral Grant.”
Drake spent the next five hours interviewing other members of the Russian staff, but as far as she was concerned, she got what she came for in the first interview. Later, as her helo lifted off to return to Jefferson, she stared back at the Russian ship. The real task now was sorting out the Russian manipulation from the American manipulation. For just a second, she wondered if Winston didn’t have it right.
SEVENTEEN
The United Nations
0700 local (GMT-5)
Wexler could not recall a time when she had ever been quite so tired. Or so discouraged. Nothing in the world seemed to make any sense anymore, least of all what had happened at the United Nations in the last week. Beginning with the equivocation of Great Britain, proceeding to Liberia’s motion as seconded by India, and finally to this — the complete and utter desertion of the United States by all her purported allies.
I will not look in the mirror. I will not. She did not need to see her reflection to know that her eyes were bleary and bloodshot, her face pale and drained. She could feel the results of too little sleep and too much caffeine in every inch of her body.
But what were the options? During a crisis, no one slept.
Forty-five minutes left. What will I tell them?
The prospect of announcing to the world that the United States would not—could not? — pay its just obligations was simply unthinkable. So was the option of withdrawing from the United Nations. There had to be a middle ground — there had to be.
There was a knock on her door and Brad stepped in without waiting for an answer. If anything, he looked worse than she did. But there was a note of hope in his voice when he said, “Captain Hemingway to see you, Ambassador.”
“I hope she brought her own tea leaves,” Wexler answered, glancing at the antique can on her credenza. She’d run out of her favorite orange oolong three hours ago.
Captain Jane Hemingway stepped into the room. She held out a small brown paper bag. “As it happens, I do. We can drink it and then stare at the dregs and try to figure out what’s going on.”
“Divining answers from tea leaves requires a fresh pot, I think,” Brad said. He plucked the bag out of her hand. “I’ll take care of that.”
He left, shutting the door behind him. Without waiting for an invitation, Captain Hemingway sank down on the comfortable couch. “Hell of a long week, isn’t it?”
“For everyone, I suspect. Have you come to offer moral support, or just drop off a going away present?” Wexler could not keep the bitterness out of her voice.
Hemingway yawned and looked suspiciously, like she wanted to stretch out on the couch for nap. “Neither, really. Actually, you may consider me the cavalry.”
“Want to explain that?”
Hemingway shook her head. “Nope. I mean, no, Madam Ambassador.” Hemingway opened her briefcase, fumbling with the security latch for a moment and then extracting a sealed brown envelope. She raised it to her lips, kissed the seal, and passed it to Wexler.
Wexler felt an unreasoning flick of hope. She took the envelope, broke the security seal, and extracted the contents.
“Just read. Get all the way through it, and then I can answer any questions.” Hemingway yawned again.
“Go ahead,” Wexler murmured, already running her finger down the front page. “Crash out. I will wake you when I need you.” Before she turned to the second page, Hemingway was asleep.
The first two sentences were sufficient to flush every trace of fatigue out of her body. It was the section entitled “Executive Summary,” a quick overview intended to convince the reader to probe into the details.
Analysis of the electromagnetic spectrum during the attack on the Montego Bay indicated the ship was destroyed by a Silkworm missile. Trajectory reconstruction indicated that the missile was fired from the Russian amphibious transport.
Wexler started to ask, “They can really prove this?” Instead, she glanced at the sleeping Navy captain and began to read the supporting documentation.
Minutes later, Brad reappeared with a fresh pot of tea. He took in the situation at a glance, quietly poured both women large mugs, avoiding the delicate teacups that Wexler favored, slipped a cozy over the pot, and withdrew without comment. Five minutes after that, Wexler said, “Jane.”
Hemingway’s eyes snapped opened. There was a microsecond of disorientation and then she was alert. She sat up, moving smoothly, and picked up the mug of tea. The fifteen-minute nap appeared to have worked magic.
“Cavalry, indeed,” Wexler said. She tapped the sheaf of documents. “Since when did the cavalry carry dynamite?”
“There’s more,” Hemingway said. She yawned, then took another large gulp of the tea. “Don’t ask me where I got this information from, okay? Just don’t.”
“Provisionally, I agree,” Wexler said cautiously. “As long as there’s nothing criminal about it.”
Hemmingway shrugged. “Define criminal for me and I’ll tell you. Just listen first, though.”
She took a deep breath and shook off the last vestiges of sleep. “Has it occurred to you that damn little has been said about what started all this. That the Russians tested their TBMD system by taking out an American satellite? Doesn’t it seem odd to you that nobody’s screaming bloody murder about that, but they’re up in arms about a fire control radar?”
“Yes, it does,” Wexler said.
“What if I told you that the president told them they could take it out?”
“Impossible. What in the world would he gain by doing something like that?” Wexler asked.
“This.” Hemmingway passed her another folder, this one containing a single sheet of paper.
Wexler looked at it, then felt her face turn pale. She stared at the information, just two short paragraphs and a photo. “He traded the satellite for this information,” she said slowly. It made complete sense to her now.
“Yeah. That’s the way it looks. And I think we got the better end of the deal, don’t you?”
Wexler snapped the folder shut. “I know who needs to see this.”
“You can’t tell them where you got it.”
“I won’t. They won’t care. And,” Wexler continued, her voice now grim, “it’s going outside of the usual channels. It’s going straight to the man who ought to have seen it first.”
CVIC
0700 local (GMT-9)
Lab Rat ran his fingers over the folder again, feeling the rough surface of the coarse brown paper. It was an ordinary file folder, of the sort used in every part of the Navy for every conceivable purpose. Nothing at all to distinguish this one from those that contained everything from personnel transfers to plans for World War III.
Except there was something special about this particular folder. For the man who would eventually see it, it would be devastating.
But now Lab Rat had to find a way to approach the subject. It couldn’t be gone into in front of everyone, no. That wouldn’t be fair.
Tombstone strode into CVIC as though he were still in command of the battle group. It was as though he’d never left. How many times had Lab Rat seen him come in this way, wearing the same flight suit, or even occasionally khakis or a dress uniform?
Except for this. The informality. Even if we can’t believe he’s retired, he knows it. Tombstone stuck out his hand and said, “Lab Rat, good to see you again.”
Lab Rat winced at the nickname. Of course he knew that’s what everyone called him. It was even on his flight how much.
