America

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jake Grafton and Janos Ilin learned of the missile strike on New York City when they turned on the television in the kitchen of the house they were in, somewhere west of Manassas and a half mile or so north of Interstate 66. Grafton and Ilin had walked the halls, looked at the doors and windows, concluded that there was just no way for whoever was chasing them to enter the house without making noise, then they went back to the kitchen.

Jake found peanut butter in the cupboard. Ilin touched his finger to the peanut butter, tasted it experimentally, and made a face. They were eating it on crackers and drinking water when Ilin finally reached for the television and flipped it on. Some of the channels were off the air, so he flipped around until they found one that was on, CNN.

New York! The sub had E-bombed New York!

They started with the volume off so they could hear the sound of glass breaking, but eventually they turned it up so they could hear the audio. The television types were confused and besieging the military authorities for answers, which weren't forthcoming. At least two Flashlight missiles had struck New York City, perhaps three, maybe four — no one seemed to know. A fighter had crashed, perhaps several, perhaps there had been an air battle in the skies over the city, blocks of buildings were ablaze, firefighters couldn't get to the scene.

Manhattan and Brooklyn had been surgically removed from modern America. The power had failed. Lights, heat, elevators, and telephones didn't work, the subways didn't run, the streets were filled with cars, trucks, taxis, and buses that were no longer operable, the television and radio networks that originated there were no longer on the air. Eventually Grafton and Ilin learned that the television crews on the air were from New Jersey.

The whole scene reminded Jake of Baghdad during the Gulf War, with camera crews on rooftops looking at columns of smoke rising in the distance.

After a half hour of watching the breathless reporting and the guesses, good and bad, Jake turned the television off and walked through the house again with the shotgun in his hand. Standing well back from the windows, he looked out, trying to see if anyone were still out there.

And saw no one.

"What do you think?" he asked Ilin, who was doing the same thing.

"I think they may still be out there," the Russian responded. "I have nothing more pressing on my calendar."

"Maybe they are waiting for us to come out."

"That is possible. One wonders if the owners will come home this afternoon."

That, Jake suspected, wasn't in the cards. The house looked like it had been vacant for weeks, perhaps longer. There were no perishables in the refrigerator or cupboards. He pointed this out to Ilin.

They were trapped. The circuits in Jake's cell phone were fried the night before last — he had almost thrown the thing away, but Callie suggested he retain it to show to the insurance company if there were problems. She was confident their household insurance would pay their losses. A forlorn hope, Jake suspected, but he put the telephone on his dresser and left it there.

Now he wandered through this house looking for a cell phone. He checked the bedrooms and the owner's office area, looked in the drawers. He found a charger for a cell phone, but the instrument was not there.

New York!

Well, at least they had the pickup. Tonight.

"Are you married?" he asked Ilin.

"She died. Cancer." I m sorry.

"It was years ago. Life cheated her. She loved me, she loved life, she loved her country. Then she got sick and died young."

Jake thought of his wife. He and Callie had been lucky, extraordinarily so, and they both knew it. That realization dusted every day of their lives with magic. He didn't say this to Ilin, of course.

"People change," Ilin mused, "the world changes. When I finished school I was recruited by the KGB. My father was prominent in the defense department, his father had been a hero of the war against fascism. The KGB seemed the path of least resistance." He shrugged. "In those days we knew who the enemy was. America. And what a fine enemy you were, too. Rich, powerful, strong, at times stupid and heedless. We looked for cracks, for chinks in the armor, prepared for the final battle between good and evil, Armageddon. It didn't come. The Soviet Union was always a geopolitical oxymoron, an empire that tried to be a nation. It collapsed, finally, stunning us all."

They sat, each with his own thoughts, listening to the silence.

"So everything changed," Ilin continued after a while, "and nothing changed. Russia remained what it always was, poor and backward in so many ways, isolated, afraid of foreign ideas, struggling to keep up with the outside world, not sure it wanted to. Today the enemy is still America… and Europe and China and Japan. And given the state of affairs in Russia, that is good. When Armageddon comes we will be on the sidelines."

"Maybe it's here now," Jake Grafton said.

"The struggle has no beginning and no end. It is ongoing and everywhere. You comfortable Americans, you have never understood that basic fact. Change brings new challenges. That is the fallacy of SuperAegis. Regardless of how much money you spend or how clever you are, technology cannot give you security. Checkmate happens only in chess, not in human affairs. Man has been looking for a magic weapon since he first picked up a club. And hasn't found it yet.

"Nuclear weapons worked," Jake objected. "They prevented World War III."

"Nuclear weapons forced the struggle into other channels. And Russia lost. But the struggle never ends. As long as life continues, the struggle continues." Janos Ilin gestured at the silent television set, then picked up a dead telephone and pointed it at Grafton. "And America is losing."

"Skipper, what if the navy sends another boat into this area?" Skip Harlow, executive officer of La Jolla, asked that question of his commanding officer, Junior Ryder. Two hours had passed since Buck Brown had told them of Americas presence behind them. The P-3 was still searching the area, dropping sonobuoys periodically, apparently searching in vain for the stolen submarine.

Ryder had been thinking of the message advising him to rise to periscope depth to receive an encrypted message via satellite. He had elected not to waste time or give away his presence by that maneuver. Now he wondered if he had made a mistake. There were a variety of things SUBLANT could have thought urgent enough to justify that maneuver, and Harlow was right, another sub entering the area was one of them.

If another boat entered the area, he thought Kolnikov aboard America would probably hear it first, at maximum range, before Ryder knew it was there. What if he elected to fire a torpedo at the oncoming boat while he was still too close to La Jolla for either him or Ryder to launch a torpedo at the other?

Oh, man! This could get crazy! Ryder looked around the control room, looked at the sailors on the consoles, his XO, the chief of the boat, the watch officer.

"We must be ready for anything," he said. "I want everything ready to go, torpedoes, decoys, bubble makers, everything."

All the action stations were already manned, and mentally the skipper took stock. Even if his boat lacked America's capability, he would stack his crew up against any crew in the world. The two torpedo control consoles were manned, all four of the sonar consoles, the computers, the helm, the chief, of the boat watching everything, the guys on the plot backing up the automatic systems…. They were ready to shoot as soon as the boat's sensors found a target within the torpedoes' operating envelope. The torpedo control consoles automatically monitored the attack-director function and generated preset data on a continuous basis for two torpedoes, which could be fired instantly. The attack director received its data from the central computer complex, which integrated inputs from sonar, the ship's inertial nav system, underwater log, and analog dead-reckoning analyzer/indicator.

"Buck," Ryder said, placing a hand on the first class petty officer's shoulder, "if another sub comes into the area, I want to know it as soon as possible. If America shoots a torpedo, it will be at one of our guys, so the instant it leaves the tube, sing out."

"Aye aye, sir."

In a whisper in the exec's ear, Ryder asked him to go through the boat, check that all watertight doors were properly secured, that every station was manned and ready, and to say a word to everyone. Then he turned to the com officer. "Encrypt and transmit a message via the underwater telephone. Tell that P-3 that we have found America. Tell them to clear the area and keep everyone else away."

"Aye aye, Skipper. But the pirates have America's codebooks. They can decode the message."

"Indeed, if they know what to do and how to do it, they can. I bet they won't bother. Go."

"Yes, sir."

Vladimir Kolnikov was standing behind his helmsman, Turchak, monitoring the bulkhead-mounted vertical displays when he caught the faintest flicker of light from the massive, shimmering shape of La Jolla on the Revelation display. Automatically he glanced at the photonics image, the computer-constructed image derived from television and inputs from the sensors on the photonics mast, which was elevated several feet out of the sail so it could look ahead. America's sail floodlights were still illuminated, which helped give the image clarity but. . no, the flickering light was not present on that image.

"See that light!" he hissed at Turchak, who looked up from the screen where he had been monitoring the performance of the sub's autopilot. Like Kolnikov, Turchak's eyes went from display to display.

"La Jolla is using her underwater telephone," Eck announced softly. "It's encrypted, I think, but I'm recording it if you want someone to try to decode it."

"Who—?" asked Turchak, obviously mystified.

"The P-3," Kolnikov said, disgusted with himself that he didn't realize instantly what the energy source was. "He's talking to the patrol plane. They'll pick up the audio on their sonobuoys."

"He knows we're behind him," Turchak said, as if he were a judge pronouncing a sentence.

Aboard the P-3, the sonobuoy operators did receive the message. After running it through the decoder, the TACCO took the printout forward for the pilot to see.

Duke Dolan read the message, then passed it back. "That's certainly clear enough," he said.

"Yeah, it is," said the TACCO. His name was Ruben Garcia. "I think we should indeed clear the area, but let's stay where we can hear the sonobuoys. If La Jolla doesn't get this guy, we can come back and look some more."

"This message says America's following close behind La Jolla. You hear her?"

"Well, no, but—"

"Hell!" said Duke Dolan and threw up his hands. "We got plenty of gas and nothing better to do today, so why not?" He motioned to the flight engineer for climb power. As the props bit more deeply into the atmosphere, he lifted the Orion's nose and began a climb to the west. He said over his shoulder, "Better tell the Sentry to relay the message to SUBLANT. La Jolla waved us off."

"The P-3 is leaving," Eck told Kolnikov and Turchak. "His noise is fading."

"Which way?"

"He went out to the west."

"If this guy knows we're back here," Turchak said, "he'll torpedo us as we break off contact."

"I've been thinking about that," Kolnikov said. You should have sunk this guy when we had the advantage of surprise."

"/ should have! Just killed them all and nuked off into the sunset. Yeah. Isn't that right, Heydrich?"

Heydrich got up from his chair and wandered out of the compartment.

In the Pentagon the secure telephone on the desk of Vice-Admiral Navarre rang. He answered it and found himself talking to SUB-LANT, a two-star admiral. "Sir, I thought you should know. We have received a message from a P-3 sent to investigate the area where the cruise missiles were fired from this morning. La Jolla heard the firings and went to investigate. She put a voice message in the water that the Orion picked up. She reports that she has contact with America and asked the P-3 to leave the area."

"When was this?"

"Just moments ago, sir. The P-3 asked to remain close enough to monitor the sonobuoys in the water, just in case, and I agreed. He is going to pull off about fifty miles and orbit high."

"This wasn't the way we planned to hunt for America. What went wrong?"

"Sir, the message directing our boats to come to periscope depth went out as an advisory, not mandatory."

"I'm going to tell you again, just this once. We will never find America with passive tactics: She's too quiet. I want P-3s to get there as soon as possible and echo-range with those sonobuoys. When they have her illuminated, they can call the attack subs in. Not before."

"Yes, sir. But that didn't happen this time. We didn't get the plan out. Now La Jolla says she has a contact on America. We have another boat in the vicinity that can reach the area in several hours at high speed. Colorado Springs. She was at communications depth to receive our original situation update… so I authorized her to proceed into the area."

"Did La Jolla ask for help?"

"No, sir. In fact, the skipper requested that everyone stay out. But America is so stealthy, I just don't feel it wise to bet everything that La Jolla can sink her."

Navarre didn't know what to say. A hell of a day… American submarines hunting American submarines.

"I've got a real bad feeling about this," he said finally. "We're after a rogue grizzly bear. I think the only safe tactio is to let P-3s illu-

minate America and our boats shoot from long range. If we do it any other way we're going to lose boats."

"Sir, the problem is, La Jolla says she's on her. We have no way to pull her off, even if we wanted to. The question is what is the best way to help La Jolla prosecute this contact."

"You're the man on the hot seat," Navarre said. "Keep me advised," he added and hung up the phone.

SUBLANT was going to pile in the forces until America went down. And damn the cost! What else could he do?

On one of their trips to look out the windows, Jake thought he saw someone across the lawn, at the edge of the woods. He paused and waited. Ilin joined him eventually and they both watched. After five minutes they saw a moving figure — perhaps the same one, perhaps someone else — well back in the trees.

"If they crash in here with guns blazing they'll kill us both," Jake said. "You realize that?"

"I've watched your television shows."

"On the other hand, if it's you they're after, they can pot you any old time going into or out of the embassy. Heck, they can just go back there now and wait for you to show up."

"If they were after me," Ilin replied dryly, "they could have shot me this morning when the limo drove out of the embassy gate. It's you they want."

"You are a real ray of sunshine."

"Just explaining why I don't think they will teargas the house and knock down the door. I saw that on television last week. California must be a marvelous place. Three beautiful women with gorgeous hair, magnificent chests, and submachine guns. They didn't even bother with body armor. Only cretins would shoot at women like that."

There were half a dozen cans of beer in the kitchen fridge, so Jake thought, Why not? He passed one to Ilin and opened one for himself.

After the SuperAegis satellite was lost, why did your people send you to the liaison team?"

Ilin snorted. "To keep an eye on Mayer, Jadot, and Barrington-Lee."

"So what have you decided?"

Janos Ilin shrugged. "I look for a gesture, a glance, a wrong move. I listen for a slip of the tongue. So far, nothing."

"Who put the satellite in the water?"

"I don't know. The FBI may find out, but not by questioning people. Someone will retire to a life of leisure. Or spend too much money. A spouse seeking a divorce will voice suspicions. Something like that."

"I think you know a lot you aren't telling me," Jake said, making contact with Ilin's eyes and holding them.

Ilin searched Jake's face, then reached into his pocket for cigarettes. He took his time getting one out, lighting it. "Knocking out the tracking stations at precisely the right time and putting the rocket in the water — someplace — was a sophisticated operation. Several people were involved, perhaps a half dozen."

Jake nodded.

"Running a covert operation like that would be extraordinarily difficult for a foreign intelligence service. Difficult for anyone, but essentially impossible for a foreign service. Funding, covers, cut-outs, it would be a huge undertaking. As a rule, the larger the operation, the more likely it is to be affected by random chance, by the friction of normal life."

"So it wasn't Russia."

"I doubt it. My directorate wouldn't handle it."

"No one but the Americans wanted SuperAegis," Jake said thoughtfully, scrutinizing Ilin's face. "Europe and Russia went along only when their tails were twisted."

Ilin nodded. "They ceased active opposition only when they were backed into a corner, with no other options. America is the only superpower. With an antiballistic missile shield in place, America will be even less inclined to listen to other nations' concerns."

"I thought expanding the shield to cover Europe and Russia made the system politically palatable?"

"It made the medicine impossible to refuse, but if the system never becomes operational, Europe will not be unhappy."

"Europe?"

Ilin smiled. He dropped the stub of his cigarette into his beer can, then went to the refrigerator and helped himself to another can. "You

Americans! You sit here in your prosperous paradise, with your beautiful houses and stables of cars and supermarkets full of cheap food and think the unwashed hordes in China and India and the Middle East are your enemies. Not so. Your enemy is your largest economic rival. Europe has a larger economy than the United States; in fact, it's the largest economy on Earth. They have slashed taxes, jettisoned massive overregulation, kissed socialism good-bye, embraced capitalism, and adopted one currency. Europe is on the road to becoming a federal state. Europe is the next superpower."

"Not Russia."

"Not Russia," Ilin agreed flatly. "An academic economist I met at a Washington cocktail party told me that Russia will never be able to accumulate capital as rapidly as Europe or the United States. She was right, of course. The place is too large, with a harsh climate and relatively few people. The Russians will always pay more for the infrastructure upon which a modern economy rests. Roads, factories, bridges, food, electrical grids, pipelines, all kinds of distribution systems. . everything costs more. Always has and always will. The problem with capitalism is that it is a game Russia cannot win."

In the silence that followed that remark he lit another cigarette.

"Europe is Russia's natural enemy," Ilin continued finally, musing aloud. "Has been for centuries. Russia's foreign policy since the Middle Ages has been designed to protect itself from the European powers. As along as they were divided and could be played off against each other, Russia, with its vast spaces and thin, poor population, had a chance. With Europe united, Russia's future looks grim." 1 see.

"Today the bulk of our intelligence efforts are directed against Europe. More of them should be."

"I suppose the Europeans resent that."

"What they resent is American intelligence efforts against them. With the collapse of communism, they directed their efforts against the United States, sought to use their intelligence services to provide an edge for their industrial efforts. Naturally the Americans reacted." He grinned tightly. "It is a different game these days. Without the ideological bogeyman to frighten people, they can more easily convince themselves that betrayal of their company is not betrayal of their country. After all, they tell themselves, it's only money. Most people want more of it. Want the good life that their neighbors have." He gestured at the room in which they were sitting. "They want this."

"And you, Ilin? What do you want?"

"Are you asking my price?"

"No," Jake Grafton said. "I don't think you have one."

"Thank you," Janos Ilin said. A smile lit up his face. "That is the nicest compliment I have ever received from an American."