Hellfire

THREE

The cruise ship Montego Bay had seen better days. Once the flagship of her fleet, she was now starting to show her age. On more modern ships, gas turbines replaced the steam boilers Montego Bay used for power. Her wooden decking had been stripped, sanded, and refinished so many times that it was now perceptibly lower than the interior of the ship. The cabins were smaller than those found on modern ships, and contained fewer amenities. While the cruise ship company had done what it could to keep her updated and attractive, the Montego Bay was trapped somewhere between a claim to old world charm and sleek modern convenience.

Despite her deficiencies, Montego Bay’s revenues were always positive. She was the favorite of a large class of passengers who enjoyed cruises but found the prices of the newer liners simply beyond their means. Montego Bay provided an acceptable compromise.

Montego Bay was currently working the pineapple run, the voyage between San Pedro Island in Southern California and the Hawaiian island chain. She’d made the trip many times, always uneventfully. This time, through no fault of her own, that would not be the case.

Her captain, Eric Gaspert, had been her master for the last ten years. He knew every sound she made, had walked her through her most recent renovations, and enjoyed being her master. The passengers were far more reasonable to deal with than the very rich. Gaspert liked his job and looked forward to several more years of it.

Gaspert was also a diligent captain, entirely professional and conscientious. This morning, he was on the bridge, reviewing the weather forecasts, notices to mariners, and other operational reports. The notices to mariners, or NOTAMS, particularly caught his attention. These were promulgated by the United States Coast Guard and contained warnings about military operations or other hazards at sea.

“If we stay on our present course, we’ll be right along the edge of this warning area,” his navigator said, tapping the chart in the center of an area outlined in red pencil. “And I think we’d like to stay well clear. Last night they were doing those random zigzags they like to practice — no talking to us, even though they saw us on the radar, no warning. We were never too close, but it’d be nice to know when they’re going to do something like that. Then all at once—wham. One of them, the Russians or the Americans, starts shooting lasers up in the air.”

Gaspert chuckled. “Bet that scared the crap out of the night crew.”

“I was down in the engine room and I heard the deck officer yell. Wonder what it was.”

“The NOTAM says they’re doing some Kernel Blitz missile testing exercises today,” Gaspert said. “It’s probably related to that, and if it’s missile testing, we won’t have to worry about staying clear. They’ll be all over us to clear the area before they take a shot.”

“Yes, of course,” the navigator said. “But this time, it may be a bit more complicated. The Russians are keeping a close eye on them. And they’ve been keeping station just to the east of the operating area.”

“They know something we don’t?” Gaspert asked.

The navigator nodded. “Probably. No less than we do, anyway.”

Wonder why the Russians are so interested in this exercise? Sure, they conduct surveillance on most military operations, but normally with one of their spy trawlers masquerading as a fishing boat. Hardly ever with a complete battle group including one of their own operational carriers. “They must be making the Navy nervous,” he said out loud. Gaspert had started his own career at sea in the United States Navy, and had a good idea of what was probably going on within the American battle group with the Russians so close. “INCOS is getting a workout.”

INCOS, or the International Concord to Avoid Incidents at Sea, was an agreement signed by both Russia and the United States. It covered conduct between the navies when meeting in open ocean and was designed to prevent misunderstandings that could escalate into conflicts. Prior to INCOS, there had been many instances where posturing and seemingly innocent but fairly hostile acts had almost led to tragedy. Recognizing the need for stricter rules between enemies during the Cold War, the Concord had been developed with the help of military and civilian law-of-the-sea experts. Since nobody wanted a war, particularly not now, both sides respected its provisions.

“Well, they’re big enough that we’ll see them on radar,” Gaspert said, checking the formations one last time. “But put a note in the night orders to notify me if we come within twenty miles of either group.” INCOS might cover Russian and U.S. military forces, but it said nothing about conduct toward cruise ships.

“Aye-aye, sir.” The navigator proceeded to brief the weather, which looked exceptionally pleasant. No hurricanes, not even a low-pressure system between the ship and her final destination, nor was one expected to move in. This was good news. The Montego Bay lacked the advanced stabilizers of more modern hulls, and although she rode the seas well, she could not provide the rock-steady deck that many passengers seemed to expect under all conditions. “We’d hate to interfere with shuffleboard, wouldn’t we?”

There was nothing more of particular interest in Gaspert’s morning brief. A few emergencies involving the passengers. One now in sick bay for a possible heart attack. A twisted ankle, a few cases of seasickness — and how was that possible, in this most gentle of seas? One case of what looked like the flu. The ordinary run of accidents and illnesses expected on any trip.

Captain Gaspert followed his usual sequence of dealing with paperwork, approving engineering and maintenance requests, making his rounds among the passengers, seeing and being seen and providing a sense of presence that reassured the most nervous of them. By the time he went below to tour the ship’s engineering plant, he had every reason to feel confident that the voyage would proceed uneventfully.

The morning brief on board the carrier was proceeding according to plan. Each department head ran through the status report of the areas under his or her responsibility, the remarks backed up by slides projected from a computer onto a large screen. Engineering, operations, intelligence, and so forth, each one bringing Coyote current on what had transpired since the previous evening brief.

The very last department to report was always the oceanographer, who also served as the meteorologist. Coyote had decreed the order of the briefers, saying the weather and the ocean environment were of critical importance to every department on the ship. Privately, Lab Rat suspected that the admiral had scheduled it as a show closer because the presentation was always boring enough to convince even the most gung-ho brown-noser present that it was time for the brief to wrap up.

“Another four days of this weather,” Lieutenant Commander Mason Wyatt said, entirely too chattily for Lab Rat’s taste. Whenever Wyatt briefed, Lab Rat got the distinct impression that he was auditioning for a spot on the Weather Channel. “Looks like terrific weather for the steel beach planned for the Fourth of July.” Wyatt beamed as though personally guaranteeing good weather for the gigantic cookout and celebration planned on the flight deck, the steel beach.

He proceeded to run through a number of graphs depicting the sound velocity profile of the ocean, the major weather fronts and high- and low-pressure areas across the Pacific, maintaining the same informal, breezy tone so at odds with the no-nonsense seriousness of every other department. Still, Lab Rat reflected, Mason was a hell of a meteorologist. If he said they were in for good weather, there would be good weather. Personally, Lab Rat thought that the Jefferson was due for some decent weather just to make up for the rest of the cruise.

Jefferson, along with her escorts, had departed San Diego six weeks ago. They were supposedly deployed to participate in a major war game staged for the Pacific theater, known as Kernel Blitz. At least, that was the story put out to all but a few with the need to know.

Lab Rat was one of those with a need to know.

It wasn’t as if it were a complete cover-up. There was an exercise named Kernel Blitz under way, and Jefferson was in the data link with units around the world, as was the Naval War College. Most of the ship’s crew was frantically planning and executing theoretical strikes and amphibious landings as well as other evolutions designed to ensure that every part of the battle group had a chance to practice the skills they’d need in actual war.

But a small group located in the bowels of Lab Rat’s department was engaged in something far more critical to the nation’s defense: the operational test of a new theater ballistic missile defense system.

Lab Rat had been chosen to head up the operation on board Jefferson, partly because he possessed the necessary clearances and it fell within his areas of responsibility as intelligence officer for the ship. Additionally, he was all too familiar with lasers and ballistic missile defense. During the last cruise, Senior Chief Armstrong, Lab Rat’s right-hand man, had showed him just how potent a land-based defense system could be. Only three weeks before, the senior chief had retired from the Navy and left Jefferson to begin his new civilian career with Omicron, the defense contractor with the primary contract for the TBMD laser.

To complicate matters, a Russian battle group centered around the Admiral Kurashov, what the Russians called an amphibious transport but what was really an aircraft carrier, was located thirty miles to the east. The laser blast arrowing up into the sky last night had caught them all off guard. The low-level intelligence reports said that they were there to monitor Kernel Blitz. But Lab Rat suspected that somewhere in the bowels of the organization would be a group similar to his, watching the TBMD tests and evaluating the impact of a success on the balance of power. Because, when you got right down to it, nothing was ever as secret as you thought it was.

There was, however, one primary problem with any land-based system: no matter how secret, no matter how covert, its location eventually became known. And once known, it was immediately targeted by America’s enemies.

The same reasoning that had led the United States to base a third of its nuclear triad on silent nuclear submarines had also spurred the development of sea-based ballistic missile defense systems. Omicron was again the lead contractor, as they had been for the land-based system, although this time through one of its wholly owned subsidiaries. Judging from the message traffic Lab Rat had seen that morning, Senior Chief Armstrong would soon be back aboard Jefferson, but this time as a very senior project manager whose equivalent military grade was several grades higher than Lab Rat’s rank.

“Finally,” Mason said, still holding his genial smile and staring at his audience while tapping the chart with his pointer — and just how did he do that, Lab Rat wondered, manage to nail exactly the correct spot without looking at it—“meteorologists all over the world are saying a fond farewell to a satellite known as Betty Lou. Last night, at approximately 0230, one final transmission was received from Betty Lou. After that, she no longer responded to control commands.”

“Okay, anything else?” Coyote asked briskly, tapping his number two pencil on the legal pad in front of him. Everyone on his staff knew that this was a sign that the admiral’s attention span had just been exceeded. Mason was the only one who never seemed to understand that, and to Coyote’s dismay, Mason continued.

“Odd circumstances, too,” he went on blithely. “In fact, Commander Busby, some of your folks are looking into it now. Just before Betty Lou passed away, she detected a — well, we don’t know exactly what it is. It’s being correlated with other intelligence sources now, I suppose. But it looked like a bolt of lightning.”

Shit. We’re supposed to be keeping a lid on this. Maybe he’ll take the hint if I blow it off. Coyote had talked to the midwatch TFCC crew and made sure that they all knew the laser incident was strictly hush-hush. If the lookouts kept their mouths shut, they might just pull off the secrecy bit for a while longer.

“Lightning?” Coyote queried. “In space? Right.”

“A sharp, short blast of light. Probably an internal short circuit of some sort that created an artifact, Admiral.” Mason was positively gloating over the fact that Coyote had shown enough interest to comment. Most of the time, his questions came from the destroyer squadron, or DESRON, who maintained an intense and somewhat anal interest in the intricate temperature profiles within the ocean.

“Well,” Coyote said, clearly a dismissal. “Unless there are any questions.” His tone of voice made it clear that none were expected. “Commander Busby, I’ll see you in CDC in ten minutes.”

“Yes, Admiral,” Lab Rat replied.

They’re testing their systems.

Of course, it could be one of those odd coincidences that keeps popping up around the world, and making a hash of the best intelligence estimates that money could buy. Lady Luck always had her hand in the works. But losing a satellite to something that looked like lightning just when Jefferson was testing out her systems and Russians were watching — or maybe even testing their own — well, that was just a little bit too much, wasn’t it?

Well, significant or not, it would have to wait. Lab Rat had eight minutes before he was supposed to meet the admiral in CDC to go over the final details for the test of their own system tonight. Sure, it was bad news that the Russians were testing their own version, not only from a correlation-of-forces point of view but simply as a matter of muddying up the playing field.

“Sir?” a voice just behind him asked. “Is there anything I can do?” Lab Rat turned to shake his head at Lieutenant Bill Strain, the new assistant intelligence officer who had checked in just before they’d deployed. Strain was a tall, lanky fellow, built like the college basketball player he was. Word had it that Strain had had a full scholarship at Notre Dame, a fact that was readily confirmed by the alumni on board. A few squadrons had already made a bid for him to join their intramural teams, but so far Strain had been pleading the need to concentrate on his duties in CVIC. Maybe later, after the deployment. Lab Rat suspected that his new lieutenant preferred more intellectual leisure activities and would probably continue to find excuses not to join until the interest died down. Nothing wrong with that, although Lab Rat found himself faintly envious of Strain for having a choice. At five-feet, six-inches tall, Lab Rat had long since resigned himself to signing up for bantam-weight sports.

“Not yet,” Lab Rat answered. “Not unless you know some way we can reach out and touch that system of theirs from here. And without getting caught.”

“Nothing comes to mind, but I’ll give it some thought.” Strain passed him a few sheets out of an intelligence update, information on the probable status of Russian laser defense systems. Lab Rat hadn’t known he wanted them until Strain handed them to him.

Sharp, real sharp. New, just like Bailey Kates, but already a front runner. We’re growing the next generation right here, our own replacements. And the Navy’s giving us some damned fine material to work with.

“Thanks.” Lab Rat glanced through them, refreshing his memory. It’d been a while since he’d looked at Russian capabilities, and it wouldn’t hurt to sound smart if Coyote had any technical questions. The admiral had a knack for surprising his officers with the depth of his knowledge on arcane subjects.

Maybe they’re done with their test. Maybe taking out the satellite was enough for them. Not that there won’t be hell to pay for that — in fact, I’m surprised we’re not already seeing warning orders on it. In some contexts, that would be a clear enough act of war to start a nasty little exchange of weapons.

But it was an older satellite, wasn’t it? One that wasn’t all that useful anyway. And maybe, with the U.S. concentrating their resources and efforts on fighting worldwide terrorism, the Russians’ cooperation was worth more than a little outdated chunk of metal in the sky.

And we’re just going to let them get away with it? Lab Rat shook his head in disgust. Not so long ago, destroying an American satellite would have been grounds for a declaration of war.

“I wonder what made them pick out Betty Lou,” Strain mused. “Old satellite, of course — were they walking some sort of line between pissing us off and proving that they could do it? A few years ago, they never would have dared. Seems like nothing’s sacred anymore.”

The changes that had been wrought in American society by the hideous events of September 11, 2001, were deep and profound. The legal system was already infringing on constitutional rights that just a few months before the attack were virtually untouchable. With U.S. military forces treading heavily around the restrictions on posse comitatus, the restriction on using the military inside the U.S. for law enforcement, a lot of things were giving way to the need to hunt down terrorists. Maybe that included not being quite so worried about one satellite and not being willing to risk war over it.

If the tests tonight proved out, the U.S. would be a long way toward perfecting the continental missile defense system. And if it worked, it would free up assets normally occupied with mutual assured destruction, or MAD, to concentrate on the war on terrorism.

Coyote entered the compartment, and Strain moved quietly to a corner. That was another thing about the newly promoted lieutenant that Lab Rat liked, his ability to fade into the background until he was needed. Hard to do when you were Strain’s size, too.

“Your people ready?” Coyote asked. “I got to tell you, there’s a lot more riding on this test now than there was a few hours ago.”

Lab Rat ran his hand over his scalp, feeling the small bristles poking into his palm. “It’ll work. It’s got to.”

“You sound sure about that.”

“I am, Admiral.”

“Well.” Coyote stared at the computer screen showing the relative positions of all the ships in this part of the ocean. The symbols formed a neat geometric pattern on the screen, courses and speed represented by speed leaders. Too bad reality wasn’t as orderly. “The sooner we get it over with, the better I’ll feel. Especially when we COD the civilians off the ship.” He glanced over at Lab Rat. “They’re a pain in the ass.”

“Yes, Admiral. But they own the gear until we sign off on the formal acceptance of it.”

Coyote waved him off irritably. “I know, I know. As much as we’ve paid them for developing the damn thing, you think they’d be easier to get along with.” The defense contractors had been cluttering up the flag mess for weeks.

“We’ll know tonight, Admiral. As soon as it tests sat, I’ll have them secure all the gear and pack up their stuff. We’ll have them out on the next COD.”

Coyote stared moodily at the screen. “Yeah, I know.” He stood and stretched, feeling the long hours seeping into his bones. “The sooner the better. DESRON wants the ASW module back, and the techs are bitching about the power distribution panels and the new wiring harnesses, and the chief engineer is going hermitile over the voltage drop in there. That shit draws a hell of a lot of power.”

“First COD,” Lab Rat promised.

“Let’s hope that’s soon enough. Call me if there are any changes.” Coyote took one last look at the tactical plot before leaving.

Strain moved quietly to Lab Rat’s side. “I’ll go through the pre-op checklist again, sir.”

Lab Rat shook his head. “No. We’re ready. If you really want to do something useful—”

“Yes, sir.”

“—then go check on the COD availability. I have a feeling the admiral’s going to be more interested in that than another checklist.”

Tombstone pulled his cherry red muscle car into the parking lot. The office building was typical of the structures that were home to a multitude of small defense contractors known as the Beltway Bandits. The design had been modern fifteen years ago, when defense industry money seemed to be an endless stream of cash and new defense contractors and consultants would pop up overnight. It featured an impressive foyer replete with a waterfall and large plants, marbled floors and express elevators. The entire impression of the lobby was one of luxury.

Not so for the floors farther up the sixteen-story building. At least half had absolutely no windows. The target occupants required areas that could satisfy the Department of Defense regulations for security, and the building specifications required to house top secret material. Each floor was separated from the others by a layer of steel, and the concrete brick of the structure was designed to prevent eavesdropping and electronic surveillance.

The sixteenth floor was particularly secure. The rents charged were commensurate with the degree of security the floor afforded its occupants, and ranged from merely high to absolutely outrageous. Nevertheless, the building never had a shortage of potential renters for the sixteenth-floor facilities.

That Advanced Analysis had been able to obtain a small suite of rooms was something of a curiosity to the other occupants. Normally, one spent months, perhaps years on the waiting list. How it was that Advanced Analysis had managed to move in immediately just eight months ago was a mystery. No one had ever heard of them and no one had ever worked with them before their appearance on the scene.

A few of the more knowledgeable defense contractors quietly took note of that, along with the priority given to their tenancy, glanced at the sign-in log in the lobby, and noted that few visitors ever came to Advanced Analysis. And finally, they took in the occasional appearance of two very familiar faces in the passageway and elevators: retired Admiral Thomas Magruder and his nephew, retired Vice Admiral Matthew Magruder.

While other defense contractors speculated on Advanced Analysis’s projects and complained about their intrusion into the sixteenth floor — one small computer company had wanted the spaces to expand their own operations — the wiser among them kept their collective mouths shut. They had seen this before and knew what it meant, more often in the bad old days of the Cold War than now, but the pattern was all too familiar. In all probability, Advanced Analysis was not a normal aspiring defense contractor. Not with those two men involved. Advanced Analysis was most probably a front for the CIA or perhaps another agency with an interest in certain special operations. There were always things that needed doing that no one in the established military structure wanted to be responsible for. Sure, they recognized the necessity, even suggested particular operations, but when it came down to committing forces to the operations, the enthusiasm evaporated.

The outer office and lobby of Advanced Analysis was done in traditional colors and style. Mauve and sky blue predominated, with modern pictures composed of interesting fabrics and textures gracing the walls. The waiting room had several comfortable chairs, a plastic and slightly dusty small tree in one corner, and a few outdated magazines carefully arranged on the side tables. It gave little evidence of ever being used.

To date, Advanced Analysis had only four employees: the two Magruders, another Tomcat pilot named Jeremy Greene, and a receptionist, Janice Hall. Greene was technically a civilian, and had accepted a discharge from the Navy with the understanding that if he left Advanced Analysis he would be immediately recalled to active duty. Hall was a quiet, sharp woman, adept at maintaining the outer facade of the company. She fielded incoming calls, collected the resumes dropped off by job hunters and kept the small refrigerator stocked. Of the four, only Hall had regular hours. The other three worked insane hours when a mission was prepping and stood down between missions.

Tombstone had just returned from two weeks in Africa. There had been some indications that his wife, the former Tomboy Flynn, had been taken there as a prisoner following her ejection at sea. Tomboy, as the commanding officer of VF 95, had punched out when her aircraft was fatally damaged.

A month before, a Navy captain had risked her career to provide him with photo-intelligence shots of a rebel camp. In one of them, Tombstone could clearly make out Tomboy’s face, lifted up toward the sky. It was a procedure that all aviators were taught, to expose their faces to the sky in hopes that a satellite or reconnaissance aircraft would be able to identify them. Analysis indicated that she was probably at a rebel camp in Africa. Tombstone had few contacts in the area, but that did not prevent him from going there personally and imposing on every possible government official to gain access to the interior.

“Good morning, sir,” Hall said as Tombstone strode into the waiting room. “Your uncle is already here.”

“And Jeremy?” Tombstone asked.

Hall shook her head. “Traffic, probably.”

“Probably. Again,” Tombstone said. None of them punched a clock at Advanced Analysis, but certain standards of behavior were expected when an operation was in the offing. Even during downtimes, they were expected to stay in contact with the office, ready for immediate recall. Since the last mission, Greene had been increasingly restless and sometimes difficult to locate when needed.

Tombstone knew what was at the heart of the younger aviator’s attitude. Jeremy was a pilot and he wanted to fly. When he accepted the offer to join Advanced Analysis, he had been assured that he would be flying, and in more dangerous situations than he would in the fleet. It hadn’t worked out that way, and too much of it had been Tombstone’s fault.

I should have taken a RIO, not another pilot. And I should get him more stick time.

Damn it all, it was so hard to turn over the controls. But how was Jeremy going to get the experience that Tombstone had without — well, experience?

I’ll talk to Uncle about it. Get a couple of RIOs and start planning on two aircraft missions. Otherwise, we’re going to lose him. I can feel it.

The security door opened as Hall let him in. Tombstone strode down the short passageway to his office, checked for messages, and then headed for the conference room. A few hours catching up on paperwork, and he would be done.

His uncle was already there, perusing a thin brown folder. “Morning,” Tombstone said. “Anything up?”

“Maybe.” His uncle sighed heavily, shut the folder, and shoved it across the table to Tombstone. “Although I’m not sure what we can do about it. We might not even be involved.”

Before he took the folder, Tombstone paused to study his uncle. In the last three months, his uncle’s boundless enthusiasm for Advanced Analysis and its mission seemed to have waned. Instead of presenting the ruddy, cheerful face he normally did to the world, his uncle had lost a good deal of color. His face tended to look gray and drawn now, and he appeared older than he had in years.

“Is anything wrong?” Tombstone asked, his hand still on the closed folder. “You don’t look so hot.”

“I’m fine,” his uncle said.

“You sure?”

His uncle glared at him, his eyes piercing under his heavy eyebrows. There was a grim set to his face, a determination that Tombstone knew very well. It was an expression he’d seen often during his uncle’s days as chief of naval operations, but less often since he had retired from active duty. Now, seeing the same expression again, Tombstone felt uneasy. “What is it?”

“Nothing.”

Tombstone recognized that tone in his uncle’s voice. Questioning him further would just result in an argument. Whatever was going on — and Tombstone was convinced something was — he would have to wait for his uncle to reveal it in his own time.

Tombstone opened the folder. A satellite photo was on top, and Tombstone spent a few minutes trying to puzzle it out before referring to the attached analysis sheet. Photo-intelligence interpretation was a highly specialized skill, more art than science, and it took trained eyes to extract the most information from a picture.

He glanced at the technical data before getting to the analyst’s comments. The picture was taken at nighttime by an older geosynchronous satellite and showed a large portion of the Atlantic Ocean. There was a sharp line running across the center on it, linking the top right and bottom left corners. Tombstone had assumed it was a scratch of some sort, or a processing anomaly or gap in the data.

After reading the analyst’s comments, he flipped back to the photo with renewed interest. “A laser shot,” he said, impressed. “And from a Russian ship. Just why did they let us see this? They know when the satellites are going to be overhead, and what areas are covered by geosynchronous assets. Why test it on a clear day when you know a satellite is watching?”

“Exactly. But keep reading — there’s more.”

Tombstone skipped the rest of the report and leafed through the later materials. Just after the analyst’s report was a top secret message from the National Atmospheric and Oceanographic Observatory. It announced the termination of the satellite that had taken the first photo. The cause was listed as unknown, possibly a mechanical failure. The message was classified top secret.

The message after it went one step further, both in classification and in explanation. It was specially compartmented information, eyes only. Readers had to have a cosmic purple clearance even to know that those messages existed.

And the contents were stunning. Tombstone whistled softly as he read. “Laser… intentional termination… possible experiment and response to theater ballistic missile testing…” When he finished reading, Tombstone looked up with concern in his eyes. “They think the Russians nailed the satellite? But why? How does that tie in with the theater ballistic missile defense system?”

“Pretty tightly, if you ask me. You saw the storm of worldwide protest when President Bush first announced that the United States would be pursuing an anti-missile defense system. Well, the rest of the world has had a few years to think about that while we worked on developing an operationally reliable system. It relies on early detection of launches and laser targeting and weaponry for soft kill operations. It makes perfect sense as a tactical system. The first thing anyone would want to do would be eliminate the detection and targeting systems, and that means taking out the space-based lasers. What better weapon to use against a laser than another laser?”

“Fight fire with fire?” Tombstone mused.

His uncle nodded. “Exactly. It’s very much like the development of the mutually assured destruction, or MAD, program. If you recall, the think tanks were tasked with coming up with a solution to the possibility of nuclear attack from Russia. They spent years considering defense systems just like this, but the technology didn’t exist then. Finally, some smart kid ran the numbers and came up with the answer — within the budget restraints, the only way to fight the Russian ballistic missiles system was to develop our own. Fire with fire, as you say. That resulted in the insanity of the Cold War. We made it so costly for the Russians to attack that they never did — although they did test our resolve on numerous occasions, not believing that an American would have the guts to push the button.

“But while the system worked, the downside was that it insured there would be an arms race. And that, as you know, eventually led to nuclear weapons in the hands of rogue states.” His uncle shook his head sadly. “Sometimes I think it would have been better if we’d never uncorked that particular genie.”

“Maybe if we hadn’t relied on MAD, more research would have been poured into defense systems like the laser,” Tombstone added. “So why are the Russians so dead set against a missile defense system?”

“Because, to their mind, it means we can attack and not suffer the consequences of MAD. There’s a huge cultural gap between Russia and the United States, don’t ever forget that.”

“Right. So we’re testing a missile laser system at sea—”

His uncle interrupted him. “They’re shadowing Jefferson, which is testing our own sea-based ballistic missile defense system. That’s the official story. In response to every query, Russia says it is simply in the same area testing its own systems.”

“So they planned to use the battle group for surveillance anyway?” Tombstone asked.

“The thinking is that the Russians are worried enough about the test to stage a little demonstration of their own power. They picked an older satellite, one that wouldn’t have remained in service much longer, and took her out. Maybe they thought they would destroy it before it detected the laser, or that it wouldn’t be able to transmit after being targeted. But fortunately, although her optical capabilities were burned out immediately, she did manage one last data downlink. That picture.”

“So where do we come in?” Tombstone asked.

“I don’t know yet. For now, this is all background briefing.” His uncle looked even more troubled and seemed about to continue, then just shook his head. “It’s a complicated situation, Tombstone. More so than I can tell you right now.”

“I see.”

“Yeah. I know you don’t like it, but for now you’ll have to let it ride. I’ll fill you in when I can.”

“No problem.” Tombstone turned his attention back to the message traffic, but had a hard time staying focused. The discomfort on his uncle’s face hinted that there was much more to this than he was letting on. And given the discomfort it was causing the elder Magruder, Tombstone wasn’t so sure he really wanted to know what it was about.

I really don’t want to know. Tombstone stared at the message in front of him, not seeing it, as he realized how much he meant it. Maybe I’m finally realizing I’m retired. Or maybe it’s just all too much. I’ve spent so much time trying to track down Tomboy, following every lead, worrying about her — maybe there’s just no room left for anything else. There was a time when I had to know every detail, had to. Maybe I can finally put the load down.

He glanced across at his uncle, who appeared lost in his own thoughts, and felt a flash of guilt. Tombstone might be able to avoid whatever it was, but his uncle couldn’t.

Blair Edwards was one of the men that Coyote thought of first when the admiral contemplated the indignities of having civilian defense contractors on board his ship. Edwards was a large man, one built on the scale everyone would expect from a Texan. He was almost six and a half feet tall, with broad shoulders narrowing to a solidly muscled waist and legs. As a quarterback at Texas A&M, he had accumulated an impressive record, and had followed it up with a string of business successes as well. Armed with an electrical engineering degree, Edwards had struck out on his own during the height of the Cold War, building from the ground up an electronics and weapons design firm that was second to none. He kept it small so he could control every aspect of the company. While it might not be a household name, everyone in the defense industry knew Edwards Electronics.

Edwards had been a golden boy during the Reagan era. In a series of top secret contracts, his company had been funded to conduct the initial research and testing on Reagan’s dream of a missile defense system. But the technology had not been there, not then. Reagan had had the dream, but others would have to build the computers to make it possible. When the Star Wars projects had been abandoned, many had thought that Edwards would be crushed.

Those who knew him well knew better. His closest competitors in France watched him sit back, take stock, and quietly continue his own research. He kept track of all the new technology that might support a missile defense system, updating his designs, keeping a marketing plan so current that some said it was reviewed daily. When the time finally came and technology and leadership collided to produce a favorable environment, Edwards was ready.

Edwards had long since lost touch with the details of the tactical side of things. As much as he enjoyed them, newer and brighter minds now dealt with the details. Edwards was at his most effective as a front man for the company, the CEO out there shaking hands and kissing babies, wining and dining senators and congresspeople in order to keep his name in front of them.

It wasn’t that Edwards minded that part of his job, not at all. By nature he was gregarious and found he had a lot in common with the politicians he befriended. Occasionally he missed the early days when he had been intimately involved in every technical decision, but he was mature enough to know that he was more valuable where he was.

One prerogative that he insisted on was his right to be present at every operational test. Edwards was one of those men who always seem like they’ve been in the military, but have never actually served. He affected a military style of speech and had a flight jacket. When he was on board ship or traveling with the ground unit, he took some pains to ensure he never appeared ignorant or inexperienced. This often required hours of staff briefing. But as a result, when he wandered into Jefferson’s CDC, Edwards looked at home.

“You boys ready to do this?” he asked, his voice carrying to every corner of Combat. “ ’Cause I’m telling you, we’re ready.” He slapped his hand on the arm of one of the elevated chairs as though he’d made a joke. Several sailors smiled. Edwards’s enthusiasm was contagious. “I’m telling you, we’re going to smash that—”

“Sir!” A voice at his side, an elbow in his ribs.

“What the hell?”

“Sir, over here.” Lab Rat touched Edwards gently on the elbow to get his attention. “This console.”

Edwards looked slightly abashed. He had been briefed on security measures, but had forgotten that not everyone on the ship, not even all the Combat watchstanders, knew what was going on. “Whenever you say, son.” He followed Lab Rat into a compartment located just off Combat. Lab Rat stood aside to allow Edwards to go in first. Once they were both in, Lab Rat swung the heavy hatch shut and slid the dogging bar home.

Two technicians were sitting at consoles monitoring self-tests in the laser gear. Speakers set high in the corner hissed static broken only occasionally by a cryptic report from an aircraft or shore station.

“Sorry about that out there,” Edwards said, gesturing vaguely toward the main compartment. “Don’t think anybody noticed anyhow.”

Edwards was aware of Lab Rat’s cool, light blue eyes studying him carefully. It was an uncomfortable feeling. Edwards was the one that stared people down and made them uneasy. It wasn’t done to him. He was just about to protest, figuring out what to say — after all, it didn’t make much sense to say, “Quit looking at me like that”—when Lab Rat broke the silence.

“You’re right. I don’t think anyone noticed. If they did, I’ll deal with it.” Lab Rat turned back to the two technicians. “Anything happening?”

One shook his head. “Not a thing, sir. No indication that anything is out of the ordinary. We’re running system checks every twenty minutes and so far everything is clean.”

“Good, good. No surprises, okay?” Lab Rat said, a faint note of relief in his voice. He turned back to Edwards. “Come sit over here.” He pointed at a chair mounted in front of a large console in the center of the room. “This is where I will be when we run the actual test.”

Edwards slid his bulk into the chair, feeling slightly confined. He noticed the seat belt dangling from the seat. What kind of seas could make a ship this big so unsteady that you’d need a belt? He shuddered at the thought.

Lab Rat stood behind him. “Standard data link input,” he said. “Here we are, and here are the Russians.” He pointed at a set of contacts on the screen. “They’ve been keeping their distance. During the actual test, we’re not going to be able to hide the laser light. But by then, it shouldn’t make any difference.”

“How close are they?” Edwards asked.

“About ten miles right now,” Lab Rat said. “Closer than we’d like. The captain was just going to ask them to stand off a bit. Ten miles may sound like a lot of distance, but it’s not. Especially not when you’re conducting flight operations and have to run into the wind.”

“So what will the fellows sitting here do?” Edwards asked. He touched the trackball embedded in the keyboard and moved the cursor around on the screen. “I’m not going to start World War III, am I?”

Lab Rat grinned. “No. The console is signed off right now. Your input isn’t going into the link. So feel free to fool around with it. If you’ve got any questions, speak up.”

Lab Rat moved back over to the technicians and began discussing some small detail of the upcoming exercise. They quickly progressed beyond terminology that Edwards recognized, and he began to get bored.

That was the thing about the ship, the close quarters. Except for the flight deck, there was nowhere you could really sort of spread out, Texas style. And as for the decks below the water line, well — it just wasn’t natural. The only way he could feel safe down there was to consciously try to forget just how far below the surface of the water he was.

Curious by nature, Edwards let his fingers roam over the keys, pulling up menus and submenus, examining the options for each. They’d tinkered with his system some, but for the better. Sure, it still had a few rough spots — this organization of options didn’t make sense, for instance. Why not move them over here with the targeting functions?

He pulled up the display of the sensors and checked the status of each. By now, his boredom was becoming serious. This was a completed system, one that no longer needed working on — nothing more boring than a system that worked as advertised.

He flipped through the radar options, marveling at just how many sensors were on board the carrier. That one there he recognized as a fire control radar. He scrolled down to it and called up details. There were a number of different modes for both search and targeting functions. He toggled through them, his fingers dancing lightly on the keys. He experimented with selecting different options, and noted that a few places required two mouse clicks and others required one to change the default settings. Sloppy programming — why hadn’t he caught that? No matter, it would be an easy fix when his folks dove back into the guts of the program.

Off to Edwards’s left, an inadequately shielded high-voltage line arced across a sixteenth of an inch of dead space to energize another circuit. Eight hundred feet overhead, the massive SPS-49 radar shivered slightly. If it had been a sailor, it might have objected to the changes being cycled through its programming. It might have wondered what sort of operational sequence could possibly require search, track, and targeting modes so quickly, particularly when the data wasn’t being relayed to another unit. It probably would have objected to the orders it was receiving, or at least asked for verification.

But radar so finely tuned to capture every bit of metal in the air was not a sailor. Its electronics had no problem keeping pace with the changes that were ordered. As Edwards crawled through each option below, simply highlighting a mode for the radar, a bug in the program automatically switched the radar to that mode. The console wasn’t transmitting data, not into the link anyway. But its link to the radars was still enabled and simply looking at an option on the screen was sufficient to activate it.

“Okay, I think we’re done,” Lab Rat said, turning back to Edwards. “Any questions about the changes we’ve made?”

Edward shook his head. “Couple of places I’d change a single click to a double, but nothing real important.” Edwards then launched into a series of questions about the configuration of the load out and targeting menus, eventually appearing satisfied by Lab Rat’s explanations.

“Well, then.” Lab Rat unlocked a heavy door. “Intelligence brief in fifteen minutes, Mr. Edwards. I do hope you’ll excuse me so I can prepare. If you’d like to join us, we’ll be in CVIC.”

Edwards stretched and yawned. “Might see if I can get outside for bit,” he said. “Get some air.”

Lab Rat nodded. “You should have time. We don’t start flight operations for another two hours. Plenty of time to get in a run, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just watch out for the pad eyes on the deck — nasty road rash if you fall on non-skid.”

Edwards chuckled. “Don’t I know it.”

Lab Rat swung the door shut behind them. “I’ll probably see you after your run, then,” he said.

Eight hundred feet overhead, the SPS-49 radar pulsed once then fell silent.

Lieutenant Ilya Rotenyo was standing his watch in his normal fashion. Rotenyo was an experienced officer, one respected by both his subordinates and seniors. Promotions came more slowly in the Russian Navy than in her American counterpart, and paychecks even more so. For some time, he had been debating whether or not to leave the navy and try to find a civilian job. Perhaps in the shipyard or in one of the defense industries. He would probably make more money, at least after the first training.

Still, did he really want to leave this? His gaze swept over the crowded electronics compartment, assessing each individual’s readiness and recalling the status of all equipment. He knew what he was doing in here, knew it so well that most decisions were made by reflex rather than requiring much thought. Did he really want to trade going to sea for landlocked life?

Not really. But then again, he did have responsibilities, didn’t he? And officers in the Russian Navy had not been paid for two months now. Without socialism, his family would be starving.

He mulled over the options for perhaps the millionth time in his mind, trying to decide what he should do. The more he thought about it, the more tiresome it became. But his wife Irini was pushing for decisions, and he said that when he got back from this cruise he needed to make the change.

Suddenly, a buzzer snapped to life, followed immediately by the intercom system. He snatched at the handset. “What was that?” he demanded.

“Sir, fire control radar — yes, we verified it. It’s coming from the aircraft carrier.”

“Are you sure?” he asked incredulously. A fire control radar — they knew better than that. Targeting another vessel with fire control radar was an act of war and strictly forbidden. “Could it have been anything else?”

“No, sir,” the voice said, offended.

“Very well.” Rotenyo put down the handset and surveyed the shocked faces staring at him around Combat. “Set general quarters. We’ve been targeted.” He turned to his weapons officer. “Prepare for snapshot return of fire.”

All around him, the men sprang into action. They had done this drill so many times that there was no confusion, no hesitation. An edge of adrenaline made them move a bit faster, knowing that this time it wasn’t the drill.

Or was it? The captain could have arranged the buzzer. And the telephone call — perhaps the electronics warfare people were in on it, too. Perhaps it was just a drill, another exercise of their capabilities. Rotenyo tried to believe that, tried to ignore the fact that no one in his right mind would set general quarters this close to the American battle group, and that the weapons officer looked just as worried as he did.

Petty Officer Joe Warner had just popped open his first candy bar of the watch when the ESM data console in front of him beeped a warning. The electronics warfare technician swore quietly and punched the mouse for the details of the offending signal, while peeling back the candy bar wrapper with his teeth.

Just as he’d thought. No different from the hundreds of other warnings it had insisted were threats in the last hour. The last software upgrade had turned his normally reliable console into a sensitive bitch, and the number of false alarms had quadrupled.

He scanned the details again. The specs were consistent with a Russian fire control radar and there was nothing else in the area that the gear could have confused it with.

Better safe than sorry. He toggled on his comm circuit. “TAO, EW — got a brief shot of a fire control radar off them. It’s out now.”

“Roger, I see it,” the TAO acknowledged. “Any other indications of launch?” There was worry in the TAO’s voice. This could be a spurious detection, a mistake on the part of some poorly trained Russian sailor — or the beginning of a world of shit.

“Nothing further, sir,” the EW replied. Warner sighed. New officers were always too paranoid. Until they got the hang of it, they freaked out over every false alarm. It made for a tense and uncomfortable watch. Warner took one last look at his scope. Nothing else.

Warner glanced over and saw the TAO staring at his screen, his finger poised over a fire control switch. Like that would do any good, even if it were the real thing. An attack at this close range would leave virtually no time for reaction. It would be up to CIWS, with its independent radar and fire control system, to detect any incoming missile and react. Even if CIWS did kill the main body of it, the shrapnel would do serious damage.

Neither man considered the possibility that it had been a radar signal from their own ship that had provoked the warning signal. The EW’s console was programmed to ignore his own ship radiations.

Forty frames astern of CDC, the carrier intelligence center, or CVIC, kept watch on all signals, including those emitted by the carrier herself. Under normal conditions, every console was manned and a watch supervisor roamed the SIGINT, or signals intelligence, processing center. But tonight one of the intelligence specialists had tuned one monitor to a replay of a Cubs game — one that the Cubs won—and most of the watch section was popping over there at least intermittently to check out the action.

Most of the watch section, but not all of it. Bill Johnson was tired of being on watch. In fact, he was pretty much tired of the Navy altogether. While everyone else was watching the Cubs, Johnson was responsible for keeping an eye on the consoles and logging the alerts generated. Help was just a few steps away if he needed it.

So when the electronics warfare console warning went off, it was more of an irritation. The EW gear was so sensitive that if you left the audible alert turned on, the warning buzzer sounded at least once a minute. More often, usually. And it seemed to have worse judgment than a sailor on liberty, often alerting on commercial radar and tentatively classifying them as threats, sounding the buzzer, and then immediately downgrading the contact to a friendly or neutral. As a result, except for drills and special exercises, the buzzer was turned off and the techs relied on the flashing red light that replaced it.

Johnson stole a wistful look at the almost-empty plate of doughnuts on the table five feet away. There had been at least two dozen of them when the baker dropped them off, and they’d quickly disappeared. Only two were left, one glazed and one sprinkled with cinnamon sugar. The latter was a particular favorite of his. But here he was, anchored to a console, and there it was, out of reach and everyone else gone, already stuffed with their own favorites.

But no one was watching right now, were they? He stole another look at the doughnuts, and seemed to hear them calling to him. The red light flashed again. He checked the console, quickly locating the false signal, and then hit the reset button. Every twenty seconds now. And for this he’d gone to a year of school?

From the outer room, he heard a ripple of laughter, and his feeling of being left out deepened. Why did he always get left behind? If there was only one person at the console, shouldn’t it be somebody more senior?

He reached a decision. He slipped his headphones off quickly, shoved his chair back, and in one quick motion snagged the cinnamon doughnut. He started to settle back into his chair, and then reached and grabbed the other one as well. Let them be the ones to come back into the compartment to an empty tray for a change.

He had taken his eyes off his console for no more than eight seconds or so. He slid back into the chair, the doughnuts warm and greasy in his fingers. He could almost feel the warmth seeping into his skin.

He slipped the headphones back on and saw that the red light was on once again. Right on time. He mashed the reset button with his right hand, getting a little smear of sugar on it. He quickly polished that off with his sleeve, then wiped his fingers on his pants.

The warning symbol and threat parameters that flashed on-screen when the red light flashed also disappeared. He had a vague impression that he should have looked at them, and then decided it was simply his guilty conscience. The others got away with a lot more than he did, didn’t they? It wasn’t like they were at war or something, was it?

He broke the glazed doughnut in half and took a bite. It was just as light and warm as he’d expected, and he groaned with pleasure as it slid down his throat. He finished off the rest of it, savoring every bite, and then turned his attention to the cinnamon and sugar one. He licked the edge of it first, tasting the pungent combination, letting the anticipation build. Then, one tiny nibble after another. He closed his eyes to concentrate, and saw the red light strobe at him behind his eyelids. He opened them, checked the screen again, and mashed reset.

Five minutes later, the rest of the watch section returned. By then, the only trace of the doughnuts was two greasy streaks on his pants and a sprinkling of sugar and cinnamon on the deck. And a very short but valid detection of a fire control radar radiating, and not from the Russians but from the USS Jefferson. Ignored, negligently relegated to the massive history data banks, the signal was digitally recorded on the CD when the watch section backed up the database prior to watch relief. No one else even noticed it.

Captain Gaspert stared at the ships in the distance. The Russians were just dark blots on the horizon. The American ships were farther away and he could just make out a few running lights. Still, the computer gave a clear record of their track. They were heading away, and Montego Bay would be well clear of them even if they reversed course right now.

But there was something about the geometry that made him uneasy. He couldn’t pinpoint it exactly, hard as he tried. Perhaps it was the instinctive reaction to being the burdened vessel in any encounter with ships in military operations. Normally, the Montego Bay would be the privileged vehicle, the ship entitled to right-of-way should there be any conflict between her course and that of another vessel.

But the Russians were conducting flight operations and had to maintain a particular angle into the wind in order to launch and recover safely. That made the Admiral Kurashov the privileged vehicle, and Montego Bay the burdened vehicle ship.

Why am I even thinking there’s a situation? We’re opening, not closing. There is no reason to be concerned.

Still, he stayed on the bridge, watching the Russian ship as daylight faded. An hour after dark, he instructed the officer of the day to change course by fifteen degrees, increasing the distance between the Russian ship and Montego Bay. Again, he had no real reason to do this, but somehow the added margin of safety made him feel slightly better.

Gaspert watched the screen as the distance between his ship and the Russians increased. He should be feeling much better, but he wasn’t.

General Gorshenko reached Combat just a few steps behind Captain Bolshovick. Any question the general had about whether or not the general alarm was a drill was answered the moment he looked at the captain’s face. The navy captain’s normal expression of supreme confidence was gone.

Mistake, that. They should never see you show concern or alarm.

“Captain!” The young lieutenant’s voice was sharp. “A fire control radar has been detected. We are being targeted, sir!”

“What radar? From which platform?” the captain asked.

“The SPS-48 from the carrier, sir. In targeting mode for only a brief moment, but definitely a fire control radar locked on.”

“And now?”

“Normal search mode, sir.”

“That is exactly how they would fire a Harpoon,” the captain snapped. “A brief flash for targeting data, then launch the weapon. The missile has its own seeker head, complete with re-attack circuitry, and would need no further guidance.” Bolshovick paused for a moment as though considering his options.

Gorshenko swore quietly. “And nothing further? Just one radar sweep, no more? No additional aircraft in the air, no signs of targeting or manuevering?”

“None of that, General,” the lieutenant answered, steadying visibly in response to the general’s calm, no-nonsense tone.

“Irrelevant,” the navy captain said, clearly annoyed at the general’s interference. “Weapons officer, weapons release authority. One round, targeting the carrier.”

Before Bolshovich could foul things up further with his infernal grandstanding, Gorshenko reached his decision. “No.” His voice carried the unconscious assumption that he would be obeyed. The lieutenant froze. “There is no evidence they are attacking.”

“Captain?” the lieutenant asked. Gorshenko could hear the uncertainty in his voice, and it was reflected in the faces of the rest of the men in Combat. The warrant officers and petty officers stared at the captain, aghast.

“If I wait until the missile is visible to our radar, it will be too late,” the captain said.

“They are not attacking,” the general said. “You, weapons person — do not fire.”

“We destroyed their satellite! Of course they are attacking!”

The lieutenant held his finger still poised over the button. He kept his gaze locked on his captain, ignoring the general except for the fact he had not yet fired. It was clear that if the captain so much as nodded, he would depress the button.

The damned fool. The Americans are not attacking, not unless something has gone terribly wrong. If Bolshovich only knew — no, I cannot tell him. He would not believe me now.

“There is much you do not know,” Gorshenko said, crossing the compartment in a few steps to stand beside the lieutenant’s console. “Captain, you must not shoot. I forbid it.”

“I am in command here,” the captain snapped, moving to Rotenyo’s other side. “Lieutenant, you will obey my orders.”

Gorshenko saw in the lieutenant’s face that the young officer had reached a decision. Before Rotenyo’s finger could twitch, the general slammed into him, smashing him out of the chair. By reflex, Rotenyo’s finger jabbed down at the fire control button, even as the general’s palm slapped down on the console keyboard in an effort to abort the attack.

When the laser had fired, there had been no indication inside the ship of its operation — no warning buzzer, no vibration, no sound, nothing. With the anti-ship missile, however, it was different. All personnel had been recalled inside the skin of the ship for the laser exercise and for general quarters. The entire forward part of the ship rumbled, and exhaust from the rocket billowed from the launch canister, sweeping across the deck. The rumble built for two seconds, then white fire ignited inside the cloud. The missile emerged from the fire, a thin, white pole, and seemed to hang in the air for a few moments, before it shot off toward the horizon.

On board the cruiser, Lieutenant Commander Alan Simms, the tactical action officer, or TAO, was double-checking a closest-point-of-approach solution showing his ship would pass well aft of the Montego Bay. He’d had the operations specialists work out the solution manually as well, figuring any opportunity for real live training shouldn’t be missed. All in all, it was a quiet night watch, and Simms figured they’d have plenty of time to work out the final preparations for the Kernel Blitz evolutions scheduled for the next day.

All that changed in an instant. As TAO, Simms had weapons release authority and full responsibility for protecting the ship when the captain was not in Combat. With the ships so close together there was no time to think, no time to call the captain or ask for a second opinion. The reflexes implanted by hours of training and countless drills kicked in.

At the very moment that Gorshenko was first realizing what Bolshovich had done, Simms flipped his fire control key to the launch position and sounded general quarters. As Gorshenko attempted to abort the launch, Simms ordered weapons free, and the chief manning the weapons console manually designated the launch cell from the vertical launch system. By the time the Russian general knocked the sailor out of his chair, the Lake Champlain had fired two anti-air missiles at the Russian missile already in the air. Once clear of the ship, the Champlain’s missiles locked on to the Russian missile and began boring in on it.

“You fool,” Gorshenko raged. “I did not authorize you to fire. Abort the missile — do it now!”

“You are the fool,” the captain responded. “I’m authorized to take such action to preserve the safety of the ship, even if you are in tactical command.”

“Captain!” Rotenyo stared at the screen in horror. “Sir, the missile is off course!”

Both the captain and the general spun around to check the large screen in the front of the compartment. The symbol for the missile, which had been inching toward the carrier, had changed direction. As they watched, the symbol for a hostile missile launch appeared next to the American cruiser, the arrowhead of the speed leader aimed directly for the Kurashov.

“You’re responsible for that,” the captain said, his voice soft and menacing. “When you hit the keyboard, you disrupted the programmed launch order. God knows where it’s going — and what it will hit.”

On the screen, the Russian missile changed course again. The American missile changed course also, tracking it. As they both veered north, Gorshenko saw that their trajectories put them directly overhead the SS Montego Bay.

Gorshenko stared at the screen in horror, his mind in turmoil. What had he done? What had he done?