Hellfire

SEVENTEEN

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.”

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.

“I’m well, sir,” he replied, silently swearing at himself for using such a formal tone of voice. Why couldn’t he relax around Tombstone like everyone else? “And you?”

Tombstone shrugged his shoulders, his gun metal gray stare elsewhere. “Okay, I guess. You know what’s up with all this?”

Lab Rat nodded. “Yes, sir. There are some changes in the composition of forces that you ought to know about.” He extracted the first photograph from the folder and passed it to Tombstone. The former admiral glanced at it, then gave it to Jeremy Greene. Lab Rat fought to keep a look of concern off his face.

Tombstone keeps saying he’s going to let the kid fly more missions, but he never does. I wonder if I ought to point that out to him. It’s not really my place, but I don’t know how many other people notice how unhappy the kid is. He’s not a RIO and Tombstone should treat him like he is.

“So what are these?” Greene asked, his curiosity getting the better of his mood. “It looks like a landing craft.”

“That’s exactly what it is,” Lab Rat said. “The latest and greatest in Russian landing craft. They’re built like hydrofoils, but these guys have ours beat six ways to Sunday. Larger carrying capacity, more power, better sea-keeping ability. There’s a retractable keel that stabilizes them up to sea state five. They’re completely enclosed and carry a lot more firepower — they’re armed, not just transports.”

“That wouldn’t be hard to do,” Tombstone observed. “That’s long been a problem with our landing forces.”

Of course he knows about them. He had to when he commanded the battle group. Sure, the Marines had primary responsibility for the landing force, but he was in overall command until they made it to the beach. Aloud, he continued, “They’ve been developing these for use in the Black Sea and other littoral areas. A variant of these is used in commercial transport all over their waterways. They’ve got a lot of experience with them in the depot-level spare parts supply chain. It’s not surprising that we’re seeing them deployed in open ocean.”

Green tossed the photo back on the table. “Sea state five is pretty impressive.”

Lab Rat nodded. “And look at this.” He turned the picture so it was right side up to the two men. “Quad canisters. This may be a version of an anti-ship and anti-air missile they’re testing. It’s like a Stinger, we think. Range, probably ten miles. A rudimentary guidance system, and maybe — just maybe — a seeker head in the missile itself. Primary purpose self-defense but that covers a lot of offensive operations as well.”

“Ten miles doesn’t buy you much,” Tombstone said.

“It might when I tell you the rest of it,” Lab Rat countered. “Intelligence shows that the top speed of these babies is around sixty knots. In sea state four.” He saw the look of surprise cross both men’s faces. “And they’re maneuverable at that speed, sir. Yes, you can target them from further out, but don’t count on them being where your missiles think they are by the time the missile gets there. Plus they carry countermeasures — lots of them. Small, tight electronics packages, and you know how small those are these days, along with the normal chaff and flares.”

Tombstone glanced at Greene. The Tomcat they’d flown out to the carrier was equipped with the latest in spoofing gear as well. It could not only deceive incoming missiles and aircraft, but it could also project additional images to trick the radar into thinking there were twenty aircraft there instead of one. By manipulating the incoming radar signals, he could even give the impression that the twenty aircraft were maneuvering independently. Flying in a precision formation was an immediate dead giveaway.

Worst case, the additional images would make targeting difficult. And best case, the enemy would believe he faced a lot larger force.

“If they can do that, what else can they do?” Tombstone asked.

“That’s what worries us. We don’t know.” Lab Rat extracted the next set of photographs and spread them out on the table in front of him. “The rest of it should be familiar territory. The Russian amphibious transport is the newest hull of its class. Packed with electronics, capable handling vertical takeoff fighters and helos. They’ve made some progress on deploying traditional catapults, but the word is that they’re still pretty unreliable.”

“Wonder why it’s taking them so long to get ahead on that,” Tombstone mused. “They’ve seen enough of our ships that they should have a good idea how it works.”

“It’s part of their mind-set,” Lab Rat said. “Despite their power as a blue water navy, the Russians have always thought like brown water sailors. Coastal defense, supported by land-based aircraft. Amphibious forces — now, that’s right up their alley. But a truly moderate floating aircraft fortress like ours? They can do it, technologically. But they don’t have the fire in the belly for it the way we do.”

Tombstone studied the last photo, worry evident on his face. “This part seems pretty routine, but those landing craft worry me now. We’re going to have to get close enough in to use the guns on them.”

“That’s the recommendation from Top Gun,” Lab Rat said.

“Okay, then.” Tombstone yawned. “I’m going to go find my stateroom and rack out for a while. Jeremy, let’s meet back here after evening chow, okay?”

As the two men started to leave, Lab Rat said, “Admiral? I wonder if I could speak to you privately for a moment?” He held his breath, hoping Greene would not cop an attitude. But the younger pilot simply flipped a hand at them. “You guys go ahead and catch up on the gossip. Me, I’m getting some sleep.”

Tombstone turned back to face him. “So, what’s up?” Clearly, the last thing the pilot wanted to do was sit down and talk.

“In my office, Admiral. Please.”

Tombstone drew back slightly at Lab Rat’s tone of voice, firm and professional. There was a spark of interest in his eyes, and some of the weariness seemed to drop away. “Like that, huh? Okay, you’re on. Surprise me.”

He just had to say that. Lab Rat led the way back to his office.

“Sit down, Admiral.” Again, that odd tone of voice seemed to come out of him automatically. Now Tombstone’s curiosity was definitely aroused.

“Spit it out, Commander.” The shift to formal titles indicated that Tombstone understood this was not a routine matter. And yet Tombstone was no longer an admiral. He was a civilian and Lab Rat was the senior officer present. Some said that admirals never gave up their rank when they retired — with Tombstone, his command presence permeated every atom of his being. Try as he might, he would never be anything other than what he was.

“Sir, I have some news.” Lab Rat groped for words for a moment then extracted a photograph and passed it to Tombstone. It had been digitally enhanced, and one corner held a blowup of a small section of the overall photo. Tombstone took it, smiling slightly, and then stared. The color drained from his face. For a moment, Lab Rat thought he would faint.

“When?” Tombstone asked, his voice hard and quiet. “When and where?”

“Yesterday morning,” Lab Rat said gently. “And yes, that is the amphibious transport twenty miles off our beam.”

Tombstone stared at the photo, his mouth working silently as he tried to force the words out through his throat. Finally, he simply looked up at Lab Rat with that cold, impassive face that had earned him his nickname.

“Yes, sir,” Lab Rat said, answering the question he knew Tombstone wanted to ask. “We’re certain. It’s her.”

Tombstone dropped his gaze down to the photo and held the picture with trembling fingers. “Tomboy,” he said, his voice unbelievably steady. “You’re alive.”

Just then, the door opened. Pamela Drake, escorted by Chief Abbyssian, walked in. She held out a sheaf of papers with sketches on them, then a roll of film. “I think you’re going to want to see this.”