Hellfire

FOURTEEN

Wexler noticed the difference the moment she entered the United Nations building. After seven years of service, sometimes it seemed as though her own nervous system was irreversibly hardwired to the mortar and bricks of the structure. It was not something she could define precisely, more a tingling along the periphery of her nerves, warning her of danger. Was it some intuitive deduction from the angle at which the members’ cars were parked, indicating agitation. A sense of a few more guards on duty than normal? Something about the way people moved?

She didn’t know. All she knew was that she could feel trouble brewing.

Her suspicions were confirmed as soon as she entered her suite of offices. The British ambassador was sitting in a chair, having tea and chatting with her receptionist.

After they exchanged their customary greetings, she said, “So what brings you here this early today?” Her British colleague was not known for keeping early hours.

He drained his cup of tea and set it gently on the table before speaking. “Trouble, I’m afraid. From the usual sources.”

“So what else is new,” she said. “The president briefed me last night. I’m afraid the Russian ambassador saw me leaving the party early and drew his own conclusions.”

“Yes, rather.” For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

Wexler and the British ambassador had had an unusual relationship. He had originally been posted to the UN with instructions to get close to her and interrupt her growing friendship with the Chinese. He had played the fool for several months in an attempt to win her friendship. It was only after she had confronted him that he finally dropped his irritating mannerisms. Since then, they had become close friends.

“Out with it,” she said, not unkindly. The British tendency to beat around the bush and cloak matters in polite circumvention she understood. Indeed, on many occasions she appreciated it, but this was not one of those times.

“There is some talk,” he began slowly, “of the role the United States plays in the United Nations.”

“Is it the world police bit again?”

He shook his head. “No, and it’s a bit more than rhetoric this time. The issue is the status of the United States’ payment of dues.”

It was Wexler’s turn to be reluctant to speak. Not because she did not know what to say — but because this issue had haunted her nightmares for longer than she cared to think.

America covered a large portion of the operating costs of the United Nations. Currently, she was eighty million dollars behind on her payments. The amount had been appropriated in Congress, but the necessary funding bill was constantly bogged down with other issues. Additionally, there were constant protests from right-wing “patriots” who suspected that the United Nations was in the forefront of a worldwide government, a pawn of the Russians, a front for a military-industrial international conspiracy, and just about any other conspiracy you cared to name. Crackpots, mostly, Wexler thought.

But those crackpots voted. And they were very vocal, communicating their displeasure to their elected representatives. Privately, she believed that they were probably just as suspicious of their elected representatives as they were of the United Nations.

“Who’s behind it?” she asked.

“India, I think,” he said, a thoughtful look on his face. “Although it’s hard to be exactly sure.”

“Why India?”

“Why not?” He shook his head impatiently. “It’s not necessarily India’s idea, you understand. She may be acting as a front.”

“For whom?”

“It doesn’t matter.” He began to regard her with some degree of impatience. “What does matter is that my sources tell me a motion will be brought to remove the United States from the United Nations for nonpayment of dues.”

“Right.” She let the disbelief show in her voice. “It’ll never pass the general assembly. We’re in New York, for god’s sake!”

She hoped she sounded confident. Because she wasn’t. Not at all. She had brought this matter to the president several times, trying to persuade him that at the very minimum they needed a contingency plan. He had yet to give her a date on which the dues would be paid, or to provide her with some justification that would make sense to the rest of the general assembly.

And so it comes to this.

For a moment, she considered the possibility that the United States might well be better off withdrawing from the United Nations. Certainly it would provide some relief to her own military forces. They were stretched thin around the world, so thin. Calling the United States the world’s 911 force was not much of an exaggeration. If they gave up a large part of their peacekeeping responsibilities around the world, then there might be more funds available for research and development. Certainly the military would be a more attractive career if troops spent more time with their families.

But what will the world look like if we cannot intervene? Who will stop the next Hitler or Bin Laden? Can we really let the rest of the world go to hell while we hide behind a missile defense shield?

She shook her head. There were no easy answers, not at all. Aloud, she said, “When is it going to happen?”

“I don’t know. Before long, I suspect. Getting that particular ball in play before the issue of the Montego Bay comes up would be a smart move. Things might move very quickly from this point on down.” He drained the last of his tea and carefully positioned the cup on its saucer, avoiding her eyes. “I would have a serious chat with your president. You must be prepared to move on this immediately, Sarah. Immediately.”

“Have I any reason,” she began slowly, “to doubt that Great Britain would tell me about any such measure?” She kept her gaze locked on him, willing for him to look up, praying she would not see the answer she dreaded in his eyes.

“It is India,” he said simply. “You know our special relationship with that continent. And after the recent election, my own party is finding that there are far more compromises necessary than we would like.”

“Compromises that include deserting us.” She did not bother to keep the sharpness out of her voice.

“Compromises that are necessary for the well-being of my country,” he countered. “Both the United States and India are former colonies. We have much more recent experience with India, and still have generations of Englishmen living there. Then again, there is that special relationship we have with the United States. On balance, I believe that our loyalty to you would win out over our ties to India. But it is not nearly so certain a thing as it has been in the past, Sarah. Not nearly so certain.”

“Then we will veto it ourselves.”

“You might not be able to,” he said, and the last card was finally played face up on the table. “Not unless your dues are paid. You don’t know the rules as well as you ought to.”

Oh, but I know the rules all too well. And you’re exactly right. They do allow us to be removed and prevent us from exercising our veto power if our dues are not paid.

“Thank you for the warning,” she said finally. “And your candor.” However much she might dislike what he had to say, she’d rather hear it now than on the floor. Unpleasant truths were still truths, and at least she now had time to prepare her response.

My response. Like what? Not my problem. The president and Congress have to deal with this one.

He unfolded himself from the chair, rising to loom over her. “I wish the news could be better. If you can find out what happened with that cruise liner, it might make things easier.”

“If I knew that, none of this would be necessary.” She walked him to the door, letting the conversation slide into polite chitchat. After he’d gone, she retreated to her office. She leaned back in her chair, shut her eyes, and let her mind roam free. What in the world could she possibly do?

She spent perhaps fifteen minutes examining the alternatives, and then picked up the phone. She dialed the number herself. When the president’s chief of staff came on the line, she said, “I have to talk to him. Now.”

Pamela Drake was delighted to learn that Cary Winston was truly ugly when she was angry. Something in the way her face flushed and changed coloration sufficiently to make her appear brittle and artificial. The darker skin color contrasted badly with her blond hair and turned her blue eyes from open and winning to feral and hungry. It was a shocking transformation.

Pamela noted that Jeff was staring at her with a tart expression of professional doubt. He caught Pamela’s glance and shook his head almost imperceptibly. No, Winston would not come across well on the camera. No amount of filtering or soft lens could mask the character now shining out of her face.

It wasn’t that a reporter had to be good-looking. At least, not anymore. Drake knew that now and, looking back over the last few days, felt a surge of quiet pride at her own conduct. Winston might be fifteen years her junior, but she was a century behind Drake in the things that really mattered.

“You can’t get away with this,” Winston stormed. “I won’t let you. The world has a right to know.”

“Not on my ship,” Coyote said coldly.

“Freedom of the press,” Winston began.

“Don’t you talk to me about freedom of the press,” Coyote shouted, pushed beyond all endurance. “It’s your type the causes most of the problems of the world, Winston.”

“You think you can do whatever you want to out here,” Winston snapped, the color rising even more in her face. “But you can’t. I won’t let you.”

Coyote took a step forward. “Why you little—” He cut himself off and stood rigid for a moment. Then he seemed to relax and regain that hard veneer of command. “You are quite mistaken,” he said almost conversationally. “I’m not barring the press at all. Miss Drake is welcome to stay, along with anyone else she is willing to vouch for.

“You, however, are a danger. Not only to my people and my battle group, but to your colleagues as well. God forbid that they should all be tainted by your reputation.”

Just then, Lab Rat’s errant lieutenant stormed into the room waving a piece of paper. “Sir, look at this! I think it was our missile that—”

“Shut up,” Lab Rat snapped, his voice as angry as Drake had ever heard it.

The lieutenant saw Winston then, and his face turned pale. “I thought she left on the COD! Sir, I wouldn’t—” The lieutenant shut up before he could do any more harm.

“Miss Winston was just leaving,” Coyote said, now fully in control of himself. “Now if you will all excuse me?”

The master at arms took Winston by the elbow. “Ma’am?” She struggled briefly and he jerked her out of the office.

Coyote waited until she was gone. “Okay, what have you got?”

“The initial analysis of the electromagnetic spectrum during the attack on Montego Bay,” the lieutenant said, his voice shaking as he realized the magnitude of his error. “Admiral, it looks like it could have been our missile that hit her.”

“Are you certain?” Coyote asked, his voice cold.

Lab Rat took the reports from the lieutenant. “No, Admiral.” He shot the lieutenant a stern look. “We are not certain, not until I have a chance to review the underlying data. You never get reports at this stage of the game. There are too many factors that go into validated conclusions.”

“Conclusions may not matter,” Drake said, with a perceptible trace of despair in her voice. “Not with Winston. As soon as she gets back to ACN, she’ll be broadcasting an update based on what she heard. Oh, sure, there will be some disclaimers. But the damage will be done. Admiral, it might be advisable for you to have your own update ready to go. Beat her back to the ground, if you will.”

“Or we could just have her arrested when she lands,” Coyote said. “Not a bad idea.”

“A very bad idea,” Drake said, now on solid ground. “Sir, the second you have her put into custody you will have just insured that every news organization in the world will run that as their top story. Winston will be a hero. She won’t be reporting the story anymore. She will be the story. And every civil rights organization in the country will get behind her.”

Coyote looked like he was about to argue, but Lab Rat broke in. “You’re right, of course, Miss Drake,” he said. He turned to the admiral. “We should have our own story ready to go. Our own twist on it.” He glanced up at the clock. “And we have about ninety minutes to get it figured out and on tape before she lands.”

There was an odd silence in the room as the officers contemplated the possibility that Pamela Drake was on their side. They looked everywhere except at her, trying to figure out some way around it. Many of them, she suspected, would warmly welcome the idea of arresting Cary Winston. But if she knew anything about the First Amendment and about the news media, it was that arresting Winston would be like pouring gasoline on fire. The results would be immediate, and deadly.

“Work it out,” Coyote said. “Twenty minutes — then brief me. Get moving, people. This is a different sort of war, but it is war nonetheless. Now move.”

He stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. There was another moment of silence, and then Drake said briskly, “Well, you heard the man. Let’s get to work.”

The ambassador for Great Britain had not been wrong in his estimation. By the time Wexler finally finished briefing the president and obtaining his guidance, it was common knowledge within the corridors and foyers that the United States would be on the firing line that afternoon.

The president’s guidance had been less than helpful. Do what you can, he had said. She’d try to extract promises or commitments to pay the dues, but he was having none of it. Never had she known him to be so evasive and noncommittal.

As the delegates and ambassadors and their staff meandered into the assembly room, she watched carefully, assessing their positions based on which aisles each chose to walk down, whom they greeted along the way, and whether or not they looked over to meet her eyes. Her heart sank as she counted up the votes. Even those smaller nations she thought might remember benefiting from American intervention were questionable. Bangladesh, of course — she would not expect them to stand up against India. But Israel? And Turkey? American assistance in cash, trade, and military commitments played a large role in their economies. Could they forget that so easily? Certainly the present administration had been a supporter, if not always a strong one, of Israel. And Turkey had been the largest recipient of American foreign aid for decades. The American bases there were valuable additions to their economy.

But neither Israel nor Turkey glanced her way as they came in. Great Britain did, of course. But he was far too much of a pro to let her divine his intentions.

As the delegates settled down, the secretary-general called for attention. He looked out over the assembly, his expression one of grave reluctance. After the opening formalities, he said, “I am informed that the representative from Liberia wishes to be heard.”

Liberia? What the hell? She had unconsciously started to turn toward India, and caught herself just in time. She twisted the other way to see the ambassador from Liberia rising to his feet.

The Liberian ambassador was relatively new. She had met him twice, and each time he’d seemed a proud, somewhat distant man. Today, he was dressed in traditional garb. The lines were long and flowing, the colors vibrant in this somber, conservative setting.

Her earlier conversation with T’ing came back to her, and the different interpretations of her white dress. What should she divine from what the Liberian ambassador was wearing? In his culture, would he be considered conservatively dressed? Or were the colors somehow significant, intended to remind other nations of Liberia’s allegiances?

For just a moment, she felt hopelessly out of her depth. There was so much subtext that she should understand and didn’t.

But she had been the representative of the United Nations here for seven years. Seven years — long enough to understand that all nations had some basic goals on their minds. Long enough to understand that people around the world, despite their most profound cultural differences, all had certain things in common. And she had managed all right, hadn’t she? So why should she suspect now that she wasn’t — go ahead, say it — competent?

She wasn’t. No more than the other nations were competent to judge America’s resolve and intent. And, just in case there was any chance of misunderstanding, she would make certain that America’s position was eminently clear.

But what was America’s position? The president’s guidance had consisted up telling her to do her best. She decided that her duty now to her country was to use her best judgment, thinking on her feet and reacting immediately. Since America had no way of completely screening out every missile, every terrorist with a shoe bomb, and every radical arms militia with a small vial of deadly biological toxin, America’s best interest lay in a peaceful world. And, like it or not, resolutions by the United Nations provided a legal basis for America to intervene in most of the world.

Presumptuous? Quite possibly. America did not have answers for every part of the world. Indeed, if Wexler was certain of one thing, it was this: that peace had to come from inside a nation. It could not be imposed from without. The answers for the Middle East would not be the same answers for the fragmented former Soviet Union states. All America could do was stop a conflict and allow calmer heads to prevail in a region.

She took a deep breath, a feeling of calm descending. Whatever the challenge was, she would meet it to the best of her ability.

“Mr. Secretary General,” the Liberian began, speaking English with an odd overlay of French and British accents, “it is well known to us all that certain countries are not meeting their financial obligations to this body. I do not need to mention any names. There are several countries, for whatever reason, in this category.”

Interesting approach. I wonder what is behind it? Surely he has been pressured to denounce the United States in particular. Is he crafting a defense just in case we win? Or is there another message in this?

“It is understood, by some of us more than others, that the ravages of war, famine, and civil unrest can wreak havoc on even the most stable economies. Allowances must be made, compassion extended. And yet, do not all nations benefit if we function as we should? Is not the United Nations the source of food, relief, and assistance in maintaining civil order? Yes, of course it is. All of us recognize that. And therefore, we must come to a balance between compassion and holding nations accountable. Therefore, I call on the Security Council to appoint a special committee to examine this issue.”

Now, that’s not so bad. A special committee — I can live with that.

“And, pending the resulting committee report,” the Liberian continued inexorably, “I suggest — no, I move — that we suspend membership in United Nations for all those members which are delinquent on dues.” As he delivered this coup de grâce, the Liberian turned to face Wexler.

Wexler resisted the impulse to bolt to her feet and begin protesting. Instead, she took a moment to confer with her staff, as though all this was entirely expected, and then rise to her feet in a dignified manner. “Mr. Secretary-General, I must admit that I believe my country will fall into this category.” Must admit, hell. Everyone knows we’re behind. “I will not presume to speak for the other nations that may or may not lack the capacity to meet their obligations. And in truth, I cannot stand here and assure you that promises have been made to rectify this unfortunate situation immediately.”

A murmur of surprise swept through the room, followed by a few acerbic comments. Wexler ignored them and continued. “However, I must tell you that if the United States is restrained from participation in the United Nations’ deliberations, then we would have few options in regards to continuing support on ongoing resolutions.” She paused to let that sink in and continued, “Foreign aid. Military assistance. Peacekeeping forces. Humanitarian relief operations. Rescue-at-sea patrols. International research stations, and flights to and from them. These are but a few of the activities that would be under immediate scrutiny.”

Now the comments were louder and angrier, and several delegates from strife-torn nations looked stricken. She felt a flash of pity for them. What she was threatening could bring their entire worlds crashing in on them. She tried to stay focused on what she needed to achieve.

“Is that a threat?” someone shouted. She turned to survey the crowd but could not determine who had said it.

“No threat,” she said calmly. “Just the natural consequences of withdrawing from United Nations participation. Now,” she said, spreading her hands apart, palms up, in a gesture of reconciliation, “I do acknowledge that these issues must be addressed. And immediately. I can pledge my best efforts toward resolving them. Because I agree with the ambassador from Liberia. We must find that balance. And, as one of the founding members and home country of this organization, my country must set an example for others.”

“And why haven’t you paid your dues?” the secretary-general asked.

“I don’t know.” The murmurs and comments stopped at her frank admission. “Most of you understand the bicameral nature of our political process. The budget bill necessary to bring our dues current has been passed. It has not yet been funded. I cannot tell you when that will occur. You understand, of course, that I work for the executive branch. This is in the hands of the legislative branch at the moment. I will do everything in my power to see that this is resolved at the earliest possible time, but our doctrine of separation of powers precludes direct interference.”

The silence continued for several moments, and whispers among ambassadors and their staffs began to crescendo. Wexler remained standing a moment longer, then said, “Thank you, Mr. Secretary-General. The United States, of course, will vote against this motion, and we urge other nations to do so as well.”

Now, put that in your pipe and smoke it. See how many of your playmates are willing to give up their aid packages from the United States to support your agenda.

She glanced over at India, and caught the hard glare from her ambassador. So Britain was right — India is behind it. And Liberia—

Brad leaned forward to tap her on the shoulder. “Foreign-flagged vessels,” he murmured, and then leaned back, apparently confident she would understand.

She did. A large portion of the world’s merchant navies flew the flag of Liberia as a flag of convenience. Liberian safety inspections, license fees, and other requirements were much less onerous than those of other maritime nations, particularly the United States. Somewhere in the subterranean political maneuverings, someone had pointed out to Liberia that it was entirely possible that U.S.-flagged merchant ships might be perceived as being at risk. This might afford Liberia the opportunity to grab even more of the market share. For a nation such as Liberia, those revenues might be sufficiently tempting to risk losing foreign aid from the United States.

“A motion has been made. Second?” the secretary-general asked.

India leaped to her feet. “Second,” the ambassador snapped, and subsided with an angry glare.

The secretary-general regarded the assembly for a moment then said, “The motion has been made, and seconded. Given the nature of the question, I suggest that thoughtful and significant debate is required prior to a vote. Therefore,” he continued, picking up his gavel, “we will continue this matter until tomorrow morning, allowing each of you to consult with your principals. This meeting is adjourned.”

Nice move. I’ll remember that. She shot a warm glance at the ambassador from the Bahamas. He was not looking in her direction, but she thought she saw the faintest trace of a smile on his face.

On the way out, Brad asked, “So what now?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know,” she answered. The only thing that was certain at this point was that her chances of getting a decent night’s sleep were gone.

A good night’s sleep and a hot meal had improved the Montego Bay captain’s appearance considerably. But his eyes still had a drawn, haunted look to them, and it would take more than twenty-four hours to restore color to his face and diminish the harsh lines drawn into his cheeks and forehead. Looking at him, Coyote suspected that even after the external signs of trauma were long gone, the scars on his soul would remain.

“Is there anything else we can do for you?” Coyote asked, his voice gentle. “Anything?”

Gaspert shook his head. “No. Thank you. Your people have been more than gracious. The only thing I need now is information. I’m sure my company representatives will be out tomorrow to assist with the… the….” Gaspert ran out of words, and his face twisted.

“The investigation and the arrangements,” Coyote said, swearing silently as he did so. Hard, so hard — it was one thing for a member of the military to pay the ultimate price. It was something they volunteered for, knowing that even if the danger seemed slight, there was always the chance that they would be called on to risk their lives — and perhaps lose them.

That civilians — no, more than civilians, vacationers, who had paid for luxury, comfort, and a complete escape from all cares, innocent men and women — and, dear god, children… Coyote could barely keep the pain off of his face. If what had happened to Montego Bay was overwhelming to him, then he could not imagine what the man sitting before him felt.

“Can you tell me, Admiral — I know much of it must be classified, but anything you can tell me would help — what happened? Why were we attacked?” Gaspert’s eyes were haunted, seeing again the flames, the men and women running and screaming, the complete destruction of his ship. “I was in the Navy, sir — I know, I’ve already told you that — listen to me, I’m rambling — but anything you can tell me, Admiral, anything at all…” Gaspert seemed to deflate like a balloon losing its air.

Dear god, how am I suppose to bear this? I could invoke security classifications, keep him in the dark for twenty or thirty years. Leave him to pass the years wondering what he did wrong, wondering how he aroused the Russian’s anger or what he stepped into the middle of. Can I do that?

With a sudden, crushing certainty, Coyote knew that Gaspert’s chance of surviving the next year hung in the balance. Without irrefutable proof that he was not to blame, that there was nothing he could have done, Gaspert would not allow himself to live when so many others had died.

“You were a surface sailor in the Navy,” Coyote said, uncertain how to begin but knowing that he must.

“Yes, Admiral. Destroyers.”

“There are some things I can tell you. As you remember, there are certain routines associated with discussing classified material. The first is this — a disclosure form, and acknowledgment.” Coyote slid a form across the desk to him. “Read it, and if you agree to all the provisions, sign and date it at the bottom.”

Coyote watched as Gaspert read through it, his finger moving down the lines. The form had not changed in twenty years at least, so he was relatively sure that Gaspert understood what he was getting into. Basically, it said that Gaspert was about to receive certain classified information, the minimum classification with the top secret. By signing, Gaspert acknowledged that, agreed to debriefing before he left the ship, and acknowledged that disclosing this material to anyone not authorized could result in a prison term of thirty years, a fine of twenty thousand dollars, or both.

Will that hold him? It wouldn’t me. Not if I knew I had the passengers’ relatives to explain the deaths to. For a moment, Coyote considered soft-pedaling it and feeding Gaspert the cover story.

“As you’ve been told, we are out here conducting battle group operations,” Coyote said, reaching the decision as he spoke. He would pay for this later, perhaps, but he was going to do it. “The classified part of this is that we are also testing various defensive systems.” Briefly, Coyote outlined the capabilities of the missile defense system, concluding with “And of course, the Russians were keeping an eye on us as well. In fact…” For the first time, Coyote hesitated, aware that he was stepping over a line he could never withdraw from. “In fact, they were testing their own capabilities as well. Probably a laser defense system, perhaps targeting just missiles. Perhaps not.”

Gaspert appeared to absorb the information impassively. “That was no laser that hit us.”

“No, it wasn’t. It was a missile. The question at this point is whether it was ours or theirs. Just prior to the attack on Montego Bay, approximately twelve hours earlier, certain agencies lost contact with a satellite in geosynchronous orbit over this part of the world. This satellite was in the process of downloading information, and later analysis revealed that prior to going off line, it detected a blue flash from this part of the ocean. Then, as it went off line, it transmitted another blue flash. We believe the Russians may have executed a soft kill on the satellite using their new laser-based system. That seems to correlate with what our lookouts and surveillance aircraft observed as well.”

“And so what does this have to do with Montego Bay?” Gaspert asked, and Coyote saw a trace of suspicion in his eyes.

“At some point, the Russians were apparently convinced that a fire control radar had locked onto them. Under the circumstances, they believed that we were targeting them.”

“And they launched a missile. And hit my ship.” A little life crept into Gaspert’s face, but it was ugly.

Stop right now. Let him believe that the Russians screwed up and attacked his ship. It’s something he can live with, and as a veteran, it’s something he can understand. No, he’ll never live easily with the memory of those people he lost, but at least he’ll know it was nothing he did.

“You were well outside the exercise area, way outside of it,” Coyote continued. “There was no reason to suspect you would be in danger.”

“I know that. I was on the bridge when it happened. We were opening the distance even more. But it sounds like a whole ocean wouldn’t have been far enough.”

“Once the Russians launched a missile at us, we activated our anti-air defense systems. The cruisers are quite different from the ones you remember. In full automatic mode, they can ripple off missiles almost as fast as you can fire a forty-five.”

“So they fired, then you launched and brought their missile down. And—” Gaspert’s voice broke off suddenly. The beginning of anger in his eyes was replaced by horror. “Oh dear god,” he whispered. “That’s it, isn’t it? You’re saying that it might be your missile that struck rather than theirs.”

“It’s a possibility,” Coyote said gently. “And the reason that I’m telling you this is that the media will no doubt began to speculate on that. They have so many satellites of their own, so many. Weather satellites, communications — we aren’t the only ones watching this part of the ocean. And the resolution of some of the civilian satellites is even superior to our earlier ones. We use their information part of the time instead of our own.”

“And they’ll have people that know how to read those photos, too.”

Coyote nodded. “Exactly. So I wanted to talk to you before you began hearing about it on ACN.”

Gaspert’s face was blank. He sat impassively, not moving. His eyes were only half-open. Coyote considered calling Medical. Surely Gaspert had been under such a strain that he was beginning to crack.

Suddenly, Gaspert spoke. Fire blazed in his eyes. “You attacked me.” His voice was cold and implacable. “You killed my people, the passengers — you. You.” He looked around the admiral’s cabin as though he had forgotten where he was. Then he turned back to Coyote, and his voice cracked as he said, “I want my people off this ship. Now. I don’t care when the company is coming out, I don’t care about the investigation. I’ll never go to sea again anyway. But if you don’t arrange to get us off this ship within the next hour or two, what I agreed to on that piece of paper won’t mean shit. I will not be responsible for my actions, do you hear? I will not.” Gaspert’s voice was rising now, his fury evident. For a moment, Coyote thought the admiral might come across the desk at him.

“Of course,” Coyote said, making his voice brisk and professional. “Completely understandable. I will make the arrangements immediately. Now, is there anything else I can do for you or your passengers?”

Gaspert started for the door. He paused with his hand on the doorknob. “Yes. You can all go fuck yourselves.”

Coyote stared at the door that Gaspert slammed behind him. There were moments when he felt the true, crushing weight of his responsibilities, and this was one of them. Men and women—civilian men and women — were dead. And there was a chance it was his fault.

No, dammit. It wasn’t our fault. It can’t be. And I’m going to prove it.

Coyote jabbed out the extension for CVIC. When a junior sailor answered, he said, “Tell Commander Busby I want to see him. Now.”

Coyote leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. There had to be an answer hidden somewhere in the mounds of data Jefferson collected. There had to be. And if anyone could find it, Lab Rat could.