Island Warriors

THIRTEEN

Despite the occasional cry of wolf from the intelligence community, life remained relatively normal during the carrier’s transit to Taiwan. Wexler and T’ing repaired a few frays in their friendship and soon resumed their easy conversations over dinner. Although Wexler found the presence of Little Insect in her office troublesome, she spent the time putting the final touches on her plan for uncovering the source.

China’s opening diplomatic salvo came as a surprise to both Wexler and her allies. None of the Asian nations even saw it coming, and it came from a most unexpected quarter.

Brad came into her office after the morning session, his face serious. He handed her a petition addressed to the United Nations, signed by the ambassador from China. It protested in the strongest possible terms the presence or intended presence, or potential presence, of radioactive materials in her territorial waters. China lodged her objection in general, and then specifically noted the aircraft carrier USS United States as a potential source of the objectionable materials.

Wexler scanned the petition hastily, picking out the pertinent points. China was making much of the fact that the aircraft carrier had not even completed sea trials before being deployed. The petition claimed that under the circumstances, her safety precautions could hardly be considered adequate. China requested — no, demanded — that the United Nations take measures to ensure that the aircraft carrier not enter Chinese territorial waters — which, according to the Chinese, extended one thousand miles out past the coastline.

“Complete and utter nonsense,” Wexler said, tossing the petition on her desk. “There’s no way they’ll get any support for that.”

“I don’t know, ma’am,” Brad said quietly. “From what I hear, they might not be alone in this.”

“Who?” she demanded.

“Russia.”

At that, she let out a hearty laugh. “They’re the biggest offenders in the world in the area of nuclear safety,” she said. “They’d get laughed out of session.”

“Maybe.” Brad’s voice was dubious. “Maybe not.”

“Do you have information I don’t?” she demanded.

He shook his head. “I just have a bad feeling about this one.”

An idea occurred to Wexler. She turned to Brad and carefully touched her right ear. It was their prearranged signal. A look of surprise flashed across his face, and then he nodded his understanding.

“It’s a good thing,” Wexler said in a normal tone of voice, “that the President agreed to send those Patriot batteries to Taiwan. I think they’ll come in handy.”

“Sure will,” Brad said.

“Although,” she continued, “I have to tell you, I’m not sure that we’ll really be able to keep the Chinese from finding out about it. And labeling the boxes as farm equipment — well, who is that going to fool? No, I think we’ve got to plan for the possibility that China will find out, although I dread the possibility.”

“Let’s hope everyone just does his job right,” Brad answered.

“Let’s hope,” she said.

And let’s see who does find out!

Later that afternoon, Wexler would learn that Brad’s premonition had been true. Russia, as well as a host of smaller nations, and of course Australia and New Zealand, joined in the protest. The United Nations Secretary-General sent the matter to committee for further study, which would stall the matter further, but there was every chance that with China and Russia acting in concert, the matter would be back on the floor for a vote in record time.

From the outside, Tombstone’s uncle’s new quarters looked like any one of the Beltway Bandits that thronged around the center of the country’s government. They sprang up overnight like mushrooms, bid against each other, merged a week later, and competition for economic survival was fierce.

The entrance sign gave no hint of what was inside. ADVANCE SOLUTIONS, it said, the letters picked out in gold paint over plastic, swirling in a cursive script, impressive and prosperous unless you looked too close. Beltway firms were experts at looking well-capitalized while expending as little money as possible.

Even the double doors leading to the suite were in keeping with Advance Solutions’ public image. The darkly stained wood doors opened onto the portion that was unclassified, complete with a receptionist and a couple of computer technicians. Indeed, Advance Solutions had already bid on three government contracts, although never successfully.

But what was important was what lay behind the metal doors at the far end of the suite. The door frame itself housed a number of security measures, including metal detectors and a fluoroscope. It opened onto a secure vestibule. Entrance beyond that was controlled by a retinal scanner as well as a security number pad. Both were required to gain access. And beyond that armed guards sat behind one-way mirrors, Marines for the most part.

Tombstone passed quickly through the outer area, garnering a cheery greeting from the receptionist. Had anyone asked her, she would have informed them that Tombstone was a technical adviser working on the company’s bid to design the analysis factors that would go into the final bid requirements for advanced fighter ECM system. And she would have been able to discuss quite convincingly — and often did in response to phone queries from job seekers — the firm’s requirements, staffing, and past and future plans. Indeed, she was probably the most well-prepared part of the entire cover story.

Once past the steel doors, all pretense of corporate luxury ceased. The walls, overhead, and deck were reinforced, and sensitive electronic monitors in every corner kept watch to prevent eavesdropping. The windows were insulated, covered with metal, covered with another layer of sound-deadening material, and sealed off. All in all, it was the most secure classified area that existed outside the Pentagon.

“Good morning, Uncle,” Tombstone said. His uncle had a desk in one corner, a small, functional metal one. Tombstone had his desk in the opposite corner. “What’s up?”

“Our first mission,” his uncle said, his voice a model of controlled excitement. “Dammit, Tombstone, they’re actually going to let us do it this time.”

Tombstone slouched down in the comfortable executive chair he’d insisted on. “About time,” he said. “Four months of desk work are starting to get to me.”

His uncle shot him an amused look. “It hasn’t been all desk work, as I recall. There is a little matter of two hundred hours in a Tomcat.”

“There is that. But I took it as simply a signing bonus.”

His uncle laughed out loud. Tombstone stared at him with some degree of amazement, delighted in the changes in his uncle’s demeanor over the last months.

How had it been that he had missed his uncle’s slide into the grim formality that had characterized his tour of the CNO? How could he have missed the absence of the warm friendliness that always characterized their relationship, the occasional bad joke his uncle used to make? No, it was only now that his uncle was freed of those burdens that he saw the man he remembered from his childhood days emerge again. His uncle was like a child with a new toy, only this toy had a budget that was truly mind-boggling and bigger, better, faster toys than anything either of them had experienced as a child.

“So what’s the deal?” Tombstone asked, as he propped his feet up on his desk. “Is it time to save the world?”

“A small part of it, maybe,” his uncle said. He came over to Tombstone’s desk, and tossed a couple of photographic surveillance photos in front of him. “Take a gander at these.”

Tombstone studied them, pretending to puzzle out whatever it was he was supposed to notice. But in truth, he as well as his uncle depended on the enlisted intelligence staff who were experts at this sort of work. Interpreting satellite images was still more of an art than a science, and it took years of looking at seemingly random collections of light and dark before the brain started making sense of what the eyes reported.

Once he made the obligatory show of studying them, Tombstone held out his hand. “Okay, care. Where’s the report?”

His uncle handed him two sheets of paper.

Tombstone scanned them quickly, sparing a fleeting moment to appreciate the terse style in which they had been written. The terrain was just north of the Kurile Islands, and those specks of white on the infrared shots were troops. Lots of troops. Just off the coast were Russian landing vessels. The analyst concluded that there were at least two regiments and ships to carry them waiting to deploy to the Kuriles.

“The Russians making a grab for them, are they?” he asked.

His uncle nodded. “Yep. No indications from other sources yet, but we’ve got some feelers out.”

“Well, you got to have troops to hold land, that’s for sure. And it looks like they’ve got enough of them.”

“Take a look at the last paragraph again.”

Tombstone looked again. According to the analyst, there was no indication that there were antiair defenses in place, and no indication that they would be installed. He looked up at his uncle in amazement. “Pretty stupid. The Japanese are more than capable of taking them out.”

“The Japanese aren’t. We are.”

“What!?” Tombstones bolted upright in his chair.

His uncle stuck out his hand. “You heard me. Congratulations, you’re a plankowner.”

Tombstone clasped his uncle’s hand in both of his own. “We’re actually going to take them out?”

His uncle nodded. “The Pentagon figures that one good bombing run could disable all three ships and decimate about half of the ground troops. They’ll know who’s responsible, don’t doubt that. But they won’t be able to say a thing. Because just as we’re not going to be there, they’re not there right now. Everybody’s cover stories will fit together neatly.”

One bombing run — yes, that could do it. Tombstone studied the satellite photographs again, now that he knew what they represented, and saw it was entirely possible. Two antiship rounds, maybe three — the rest Rockeyes or some other antipersonnel weapon. He called up a picture of the region in his mind, and verified that there was one serious problem with the plan. “How am I supposed to get there?”

“The Aleutians. Your last stop will be Adak. You’ll refuel there, and then make one hell of a long-assed haul down to the Russian position. You’ll be met enroute by KC-135 tanking support.”

“Tanking from the Air Force? That’s going to compromise our mission, isn’t it?”

His uncle shook his head. “Son, there’s a hell of a lot you don’t know about the way the world works. The Air Force has been providing this sort of service for ages. They don’t ask, we don’t tell. After all, they get paid the same whether they’re refueling satellites or aircraft.”

Tombstone looked stunned. “Satellites? You’re kidding; they do that?”

His uncle’s face was dead serious. “Yes. Of course I’m kidding.” Then his face cracked into a broad smile and he laughed aloud again. “Don’t be silly, Tombstone. Refueling a satellite… come on, it was a joke.”

“I knew that.”

“Right. So. You up for this? Remember, I told you that you could refuse any mission you didn’t want to carry out.”

“Are you kidding?” Tombstone said. “Of course I’m up for it.”

“Remember, there are going to be risks,” his uncle said somberly. “For most of the transit, you’ll be a long way from land. You’re going to get the best aircraft that money can buy, but there’s always the unexpected. And it’s possible the Russians will move air defenses in place between now and then.”

“When is then?” Tombstone asked.

“Tomorrow. Unless you need more time.”

“Tomorrow! You’re not kidding when you say things move fast.” Tombstone shook his head admiringly, thinking of the things he could’ve done while on active duty if the Navy establishment had been so flexible. So much trouble could’ve been prevented, nipped in the bud, by a force capable of doing just what his uncle was proposing.

But then, did he really know for sure that there hadn’t been a predecessor to Advance Solutions?

He started to ask, and saw his uncle shake his head. “I know what you’re thinking. Don’t even ask. I can’t tell you, even if I knew.”

“Well. I just wish…” Tombstone’s voice broke off.

His uncle laid a reassuring hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “I miss her, too. She was good for you.”

His last, shattering memories of Tomboy came flooding back. Her face, the feel of her skin next to his, the way she had of continually challenging him, making him better than he’d ever thought he could be. God, but he missed her. And to be denied even the cold comfort of burying her — well, it didn’t bear thinking about. Nothing could change what had happened.

“So tomorrow,” Tombstone said at last. “I better get some sleep, then.” Another question occurred him. “Who’s my backseater?”

“Some good news, there,” his uncle said. “The aircraft you’re taking was originally configured as a trainer, so you’ll have dual flight controls. You can have a pilot instead of an RIO, if that’s what you want.”

“I’ll take Jason,” Tombstone said promptly.

Jason Greene was the newest addition to their team, a hotshot young F-14 pilot who had leaped at the opportunity to join up. He had already foreseen the way his career would go, that eventually responsibilities and duties would take him further and further away from the cockpit. All Jason wanted to do was fly — he didn’t care about additional responsibility, about command, or any of the other things that a good naval officer should care about. That made him perfect for Advance Solutions.

“Jason’s a good choice,” his uncle said approvingly. “I don’t think you’ll have any difficulty convincing him.”

“Difficulty? Hell, I’d have to shoot him to take off without him.”