Nuke Zone

9

With his feet parked on the corner of his desk, Packmeyer leaned back in his chair and lifted his butt off the seat cushion. He stretched, feeling the tight muscles around his lower spine resist. It was a routine of his, a daily exercise to try to combat the inevitable backaches and joint problems he acquired as a result of his sedentary job. With the phone plastered to his ear, he started tracking down the story.

As he waited for a mid-grade career employee at the embassy to take him off hold, his second line rang. His private line, the one number that he gave to important sources. It was indicative of his relationship with the embassy that no one inside the United States government had that particular telephone number. He replaced the receiver on his public line, cutting off the bland music that had been serenading him for the last ten minutes while the attache got around to answering his call. He picked up the private line: “Packmeyer.”

“Mike, it’s me. You recognize the voice?”

The man spoke fluent English, the edges of his vowels tinged with a clipped British accent.

“Of course I do. What’s happening?” Packmeyer came right to the point, knowing that if this particular source were calling him, then time was at a premium.

“No names. And deep background–not even a hint where you got this information. Agreed?”

“Of course.”

A heavy sigh. Then, more slowly now that the preliminary conditions of their conversation were established, the man continued. “Everything’s going to shit. By this afternoon, a radical Shiite sect will be making a statement condemning United States interference in this area of the world and promising retaliation and vengeance for the damage done to Turkey’s international reputation. Mike, they’re absolutely serious about this–not a one of them believes that a Turkish platform actually fired that missile.”

Packmeyer snorted. “And you believe them?”

Both men had a long history with the Turkish government, and his contact should have known better than to believe any public pronouncements.

His contact. A strange way to identify the cultural attache of the Russian embassy. But then again, Chemenko was an odd sort of cultural attache. A real one wouldn’t have been armed at all times.

“Yes, yes–I know. But this time, I do believe them. Every source I’ve got–and I’ve got sources you wouldn’t even dream of–has called me in a cold sweat over this entire incident. It’s not just disinformation this time–this is for real. Mike, someone’s trying to implicate Turkey in this, and they don’t like it one bit. There’s no way the moderates will be able to hold the Shiites in check this time.”

Packmeyer let out a low whistle. “What have they got planned besides the statement?”

“That’s the reason I’m calling. They’re going to be seeking out U.S. targets in Turkey for retaliation. It’s all dressed up in fancy diplomatic language, but that’s the gist of it.”

“ACN?” Mike felt a sudden cold tingle of fear. The ACN bureau had generally positive relationships with most of the Turkish political entities, but there was always that chance…

“An epitome of American capitalism,” the voice over the phone continued dryly. “At least that’s the line. You take some special precautions, at least for the next couple of weeks until this shakes out. I wouldn’t put it past them to-“

The window glass in Mike’s office shattered, showering him with a spray of sharp shards. He yelped, dropped the phone, and dove out of his chair and onto the far side of his desk. The receiver dangled in front of him. He snatched it up and plastered it to his ear. “Are you still there?” he asked, his voice shaky as adrenaline flooded his system.

“What’s going on?”

“Some asshole just shot out my window. Dammit, are they-?”

He cut his question off in mid-sentence. The telephone line was dead.

Still crouching down, Mike darted across to his office door and crept out into the main newsroom. Most of the reporters were already sheltered behind desks, and a few still clutched telephones in their hands. He felt a moment of pride–under fire, they were still doing their jobs. Pamela Drake wasn’t the only one who had guts around here.

“Gather around!” He was pleased to find that his voice was steady. “Everybody, over here.”

The resulting editorial conference looked as much like a children’s game as a business meeting, but there was nothing entertaining about it at all. All the reporters, even the administrative staff, all refused to cut and run, refused to be driven off the story by a terrorist attack.

Finally, Mike convinced them to take at least some elementary precautions.

In the distance he could hear sirens wailing, tires screeching as local law enforcement officials pulled up in front of the building. He scuttled over to the door and let himself out into a hallway before standing again.

The exchange was brief and foreboding. The officers appeared oddly unconcerned about the attack on ACN. While they promised more frequent patrols in the area and a full investigation, Packmeyer was convinced that they either knew about the attack, or were already certain that they knew who had conducted it.

After they left, he rejoined his staff. Many of them had already moved computer monitors and keyboards down to the floor and were busy typing, cross-legged in front of their monitors, their keyboards resting across their knees. Phones littered the narrow passages between desks as investigative reporters started stories.

Mike went back to his office to put in a few calls of his own.

A half hour later, he had as many questions as answers. All across the country, particularly along the coast, Turkish military troops were mobilizing, going to their scheduled strike-launching points. But there was no pattern to it–units were deployed to the north as often as they were deployed to the coast. In particular, the mine-control facility at Izmir was in a heightened state of alert. Yet despite his best efforts, he could not get the slightest lead on any possible targeting information.

Indeed, his sources sounded puzzled, confused–in some cases actually angry that they knew so little.

Finally, as he hung up the phone after talking to his last source,

Mike Packmeyer sat back to think.

Random violence against U.S. businesses and institutions–no, that wouldn’t be enough. He shook his head, certain that the Turkish national mentality would hardly deem that as fitting vengeance for their grievances.

There would be something larger, more spectacular.

The aircraft carrier. Of course. A perfect target. And now, en route to the Black Sea and transiting the Strait of Bosphorus, it was a perfect target. Most nations knew that the Strait was heavily mined, the weapons inert and harmless until they received an underwater radioactivation signal from the facility at Izmir.

Publicly, the purpose of the mines was to prevent a Russian sortie from the Black Sea with the Black Sea fleet, but most agreed that, like any trapdoor, this one worked two ways. The mines in the Bosphorus Strait could be used to keep the Russians in–or the United States out.

That was the easy answer, the most likely U.S. target. But Mike still had to unravel the actual causes behind the initial attack on the United States and Turkey’s reactions. Why, for instance, were amphibious forces loading onto transports within the Black Sea?

And why were ground troops concentrating not only on the coast but to the north as well?

Of course Turkey was not going to invade the United States–that was beyond even the most grandiose of Turkish plans. But ground troops–why?

His thoughts took a new direction as he contemplated the map of Turkey. To her east, Iraq, always an uneasy neighbor. To her north, the smaller former Soviet states of Georgia, Azerbaijan, and Armenia. North of that, Ukraine.

Ukraine–she was the key, he suddenly knew. Ukraine was the only other powerhouse nation, or what passed for it, in the vicinity of the Black Sea. Since the breakup of the Soviet Union, Ukraine had suffered through horrendous economic and social turmoil. Her relations with Russia had been cool, verging on uneasy at best.

Russia–another wild card. He pondered that one for a moment, trying to trace out the circuitous and subtle motives and objectives of the nations involved.

His contact was Russian–definitely Russian. Normally reliable, but not above using his sources–and Mike knew that the attache viewed him as just that–to achieve his own objectives.

What, then, was the hidden agenda behind the attache’s call?

The sudden conviction seized him that if he could unravel that part of the puzzle, the rest of the pieces would fall into place.

Reaching a decision, he walked back in a crouch into the newsroom, waddling duck-like over to his number-two man. “I’m going out.” Packmeyer made it a statement, not a question.

His assistant editor nodded. “Be careful. It’s not going to be any better out there than it is in here.”

Mike nodded. “I know.” He managed a small chuckle. “It’s been years since I’ve been a field reporter, but I think I remember the drill. There’s a story out there, and somebody needs to get it.”

“Our viewers?” The assistant editor wore a wry, sardonic look. “Anything for the scoop, heh?”

“Something like that.” Mike followed this cryptic pronouncement with a detailed list of instructions, finally patting the fellow on the back and saying, “Just run things like they ought to be run, George. You know how to do it.”

He stuffed a cell phone and pager into his satchel as he spoke.

Packmeyer hoisted the bag onto his shoulder and crawled over to the door, standing upright once he went out into the passageway. There was a back stairway. He turned and crept down it, feeling unexpectedly excited and adventurous.

Yes, the ACN viewers depended on the bureau to get the story. But there was more at stake than that–more than Pamela Drake certainly would have ever admitted. With his sources and contacts inside Istanbul, Packmeyer knew without a doubt that sooner or later he’d tumble onto the link between Russia, Ukraine, and Turkey. It was just a matter of time.

And as urgently as the ACN viewers might want to absorb his in-depth analysis from the safety of their Stateside homes, there was one other entity that would value the data even more–the United States Navy.

“Little bastard’s gotta come up sometime,” Rabies muttered. He turned partway in his seat, throwing a dark glance at the TACCO and enlisted technician in the backseat. “Harness, you got your head up your ass? Haven’t heard you say a word back there.”

Harness shrugged, the gesture almost imperceptible in his ejection harness. “I can’t find what isn’t there.”

“He’s there, all right,” Rabies said firmly. “I can feel it–dammit, do I have to do your job too?”

“No, sir,” Harness answered, putting slightly more emphasis than was necessary on the last word. “I think I’m probably capable of handling this.”

“Then find me a submarine.”

Rabies put the S-3B Viking into a tight turn, maintaining station above the line of sonobuoys strung across the Strait. “He was in the Med last time we saw him. He’ll be after the carrier–that’s his only mission in life. Unless you want those helos to claim all the glory, shut us out of the prosecution like they did last time, we need to come up with something. And fast.”

He shot a glance in the direction of the carrier, now only a vague blur on the horizon. “Trapped in that strait, she’s got nowhere to run.”

“And we’ve got lousy water, sir,” Harness said sharply. “Sir, I recommend we try something radical. Acoustics aren’t gonna cut it in this environment–not a bit. Let’s reverse-engineer this–figure out what distance she wants to be from the carrier to shoot, and start running MAD runs across the area. We’ll come up to altitude intermittently, take a look at the buoys, see if there’s anything interesting. But in this circumstance, since we’re not going to get a visual during daylight hours, I think MAD is our best bet.”

“Now you’re thinking,” Rabies said approvingly. “Any objections?”

The magnetic anomaly detector, or MAD, was the sensor of choice in this situation.

“Go for it,” the TACCO said.

Rabies put the S-3 into a steep dive, heading for the deck. Finally, five hundred feet above the water, he pulled her up, leveling off a mere fifty feet above the water. “East and west okay with you?”

“Just fine. Here’s your first fly-to point.”

A small symbol blipped up on Rabies’ screen, transmitted by the TACCO.

“We’re going hunting bear, boys,” Rabies said softly. “Sometimes you get the bear, and sometimes the bear gets you.”

Halfway through the second pass, Harness yelled, “Bingo! Boss, we got him bigger than shit.”

“Madman, Madman,” the TACCO sung out. “Rabies, I need a cross-fix–turn zero, zero, zero, then come back south on him.”

The nimble ASW aircraft reversed the plane of its search, cutting north-south lines in a ladder pattern above the point at which Harness had first gotten the positive detection of the submarine. On the third pass, Harness sang out another Madman call. “We got him cold.”

“Hold on, boys.” Rabies’ voice was jubilant. “It’s time to call home and get our marching orders. I think I know what they’ll be–Let’s get that torpedo spun up.”

“In conclusion, Admiral, we’ve-“

Lab Rat broke off abruptly as the insistent, high-pitched ringing of a cellular telephone cut through his briefing.

Pamela shrugged impatiently, reached into her pocket, and withdrew a tiny cell phone. Without even glancing at the admiral or Lab Rat, she flipped it open and answered tersely with her last name.

“Pamela–thank God I got you.” Mike Packmeyer’s voice was low and urgent. “You’re still on the carrier, right?”

Pamela drummed her fingers impatiently on the tabletop, and finally looked over at Tombstone. Her fingers stopped when she saw the rage growing in his face. “I am. And I’m kinda busy right now, Mike,” she said quickly.

“Listen, I just need to tell you a couple of things.”

Pamela cut him off. “I said I’m busy.” She punched the power button, breaking off the connection. “My apologies for the interruption, Admiral. I’ve turned the power off–it won’t happen again.”

The unexpected apology spun Tombstone’s temper down three degrees. He nodded, softening his frosty glare slightly. “No telephones in the briefing room, Miss Drake–that’s my policy.”

Pamela nodded courteously. “It won’t happen again,” she repeated.

She turned back toward the front of the room.

“Just out of curiosity,” Tombstone added as an afterthought, “who was it?”

Pamela shrugged. “Just another reporter. Jealous, I think.”

“Hunter 701, take with torpedoes upon visual ID,” the aircraft TAO’s voice said calmly. “Or positive acoustic identification.”

Rabies swore quietly. “We’re not gonna get VID–that would mean she’d have to come up to the surface, and she’s not going to do that during daylight hours. And if we could get acoustic, we would. But we won’t, not in these waters.”

His voice was hard, belying his earlier harassment of Harness. Rabies knew as well as the AW that acoustic contact in the strait was damned near impossible.

“Those are the Rules of Engagement at this point, Rabies,” the TAO said. “Too many possible friendlies in the area to risk an incident.”

“If they’re friendly, what are they doing so near our aircraft carrier?” Rabies demanded. “Anyone who’s on good terms with us is staying well clear of this, as per our stay-away zone.”

The TAO sighed, his frustration evident even over the encrypted circuit. “Like I said–until we know who it is, you stay weapons tight.”

“Get me some data,” Rabies snapped at Harness. “Dammit, Harness, if anybody can, you can. You heard the man–now make it happen.”

“Roger.” Harness’s voice was calm. “Let’s saturate this area with sonobuoys. Sooner or later, somebody’s gotta flush the toilet–then I’ll get her.”

The TACCO snorted. “And just how are you going to tell a Turkish toilet from a Russian? Or, for that matter, any one of the other nations that owns these sewer pipes?”

“We’ll solve that problem when we get to it,” Harness said.

The messenger slipped into the compartment and handed Batman a scribbled sheet of paper. He waited, taking a step back as the admiral stood up.

Batman turned to Tombstone. “Submarine activity. I’ll be in TFCC if you need me, Admiral.”

Tombstone shifted his weight as if starting to stand then settled back in his chair. “Call me if you need me,” he said. “I’ll be right here.”

Batman strode into TFCC and assessed the situation with a glance. The symbol designating a hostile submarine was six thousand yards aft of the carrier, its speed leader pointing toward the carrier and Shiloh, now stationed seven thousand yards ahead of the carrier. The submarine was closing on them as they spoke. He turned to the TAO. “Kick her in the ass.”

The TAO nodded. “The bridge is already coming up to twenty knots, Admiral, but this part of the water is lousy with fishing boats. Even at twenty knots, we’re unsafe. Not unless we want to take the risk of running over a civilian craft.”

“Damned sight cheaper to buy them a new one than to replace a shaft on this aircraft carrier,” Batman said tersely. “Twenty-five–if the Captain thinks he can.”

“Got it,” Harness crowed. He jabbed his forefinger at the waterfall display. “I classify this as Russian–or at least, built by the Russians. You understand, I can’t tell you who owns it now.”

“That’s the problem with those damned Russkies,” Rabies snapped. “Dammit, selling their submarines to every pissant little nation that wants one. Is there anything to tell you that it’s not Turkey?”

“It’s not Turkey,” Harness said thoughtfully. “They made some modifications to the electrical system–this isn’t one of theirs.”

“At least that solves our problem,” the copilot said. “If it’s not Turkey, then we shouldn’t have to worry about them.”

Rabies shot him a scornful look. “We always have to worry about submarines, shipmate. That’s our job.”

“How’bout we go down and take a look?” Harness suggested. “This water’s for shit, but maybe we’ll see him just under the surface. Maybe.”

Rabies shrugged. “Worth a shot.”

He tipped the S-3 back down and headed for the surface of the water. “Are you holding contact enough to track him?”

“I just got a couple of hits–enough to say that he’s probably headed north, right in behind the carrier.”

“Whoever she is, we’re staying right on top of her,” Rabies answered.

The S-3 skimmed along, too close to the surface of the ocean for comfort.

Rabies put her in a gentle circle, orbiting around the spot at which they had gained acoustic contact. All four crew members peered out of the windows, desperate for a glimpse of the submarine.

Suddenly, just ahead of them, the ocean exploded. Water geysered up sixty feet, almost grazing the bottom of the aircraft. With a sharp yelp, Rabies yanked the S-3 into a steep climb and slammed the throttles forward to avoid a stall. In the backseat, Harness howled and snatched the earphones off of his head.

“What the fuck was that?” Rabies demanded. “Jesus, did we-?”

“No, we didn’t,” the copilot said firmly. “All of our weapons are still hanging off the wings.”

“Then what was that?”

“Harness, stop that damned caterwauling!” Rabies snapped.

“It was a fucking explosion,” Harness finally said. His voice was high and tremulous. “Damn, just about blew my eardrums out.”

The TACCO next to him leaned over and looked at the waterfall display.

“No doubt about it,” he confirmed. “A huge blast of noise all across the spectrum, on all buoys. Something damned big went boom down there.”

“Look.”

Rabies tipped the jet over to the left to get a better view of the water below. The Bosphorus Strait was a major waterway in this part of the world. As such, the surface was usually glazed with debris and dirt, an oily film mixing with the surface layer of the water to form a thin emulsion. Even given the dirty water, though, the evidence was clear.

The massive oil slick was spreading out below them, cluttered with bits of debris and odd unidentifiable parts.

“Jesus, that submarine–what the hell happened to her?” Rabies finally said. “We sure as hell didn’t do it. Did we?”

“Absolutely not.”

The copilot’s voice was firm. “You want to go outside and check yourself?”

Rabies shook his head. “Then what happened?”

“A mine,” Harness said. His voice was steady now, all traces of his earlier pain gone. “A mine–you know how this strait is–that’s what it had to be. The submarine trailer hit a mine.”

“Then why didn’t it go off earlier when the carrier passed over it?” the copilot asked.

“You know why,” Rabies retorted. “At least you would if you went to all the intelligence briefings like you’re suppose to. Those mines are command activated–some of them are on counters. They don’t hit the first contact that passes through, but they nail the second one. That’s in case there are mine sweepers going out in front of the major target–don’t want to waste a mine on a small boat when you can nail the big one right behind him.”

During this exchange, the copilot was talking to Jefferson, filling her in on the explosion and giving her a running commentary on their conclusions. The others could hear the carrier TAO agreeing, could hear the urgency stark in his voice. From their Link data, they could see that the carrier was slowly accelerating through twenty knots, still headed straight north in the Strait, Shiloh steaming ahead of her. If the minefield were now active, whether on a counter or not, both ships stood every chance of taking a hit.

As they watched, the water churned violently behind the carrier as she threw her engines into reverse and sought to slow her frantic dash through the Strait. Shiloh executed a sharp turn to port, slowing quickly and clearing the channel for the larger ship. Each aviator said a silent prayer that it would be enough.

“Dammit, I gave explicit orders,” Batman stormed. “What the hell-“

His sentence broke off as he listened to the report from the S-3 coming over the speaker. His anger seeped away as his face turned pale. Everyone in TFCC felt the deck shudder as the aircraft carrier tried to slow eighty-four thousand tons of metal through the water at twenty knots. The General Quarters alarm was barely audible over the shuddering through every structural member of the ship.

Pamela slipped a hand into her pocket and surreptitiously thumbed the power switch on her cell phone on. Her fingers sought out the speed-dial codes, and she punched the code in for ACN Istanbul. She could hear the busy signal sound faintly as the officers in the conference room dashed for TFCC.

She hit the disconnect switch but left the power on, intending to try again in a few minutes. She’d overheard the conversation from TFCC, and ACN was going to be the first to break the news of another attack on the aircraft carrier.

Her telephone rang. Annoyed, she thumbed the answer switch. “Drake.”

“Pamela, don’t hang up,” Packmeyer said. His voice was frantic.

“Listen, you’ve gotta listen for just a minute. I’ve got evidence that Turkey is mobilizing for a full-scale attack on American forces and assets around here. Jesus, Pamela–they machine-gunned my office. Nobody was hurt, but-“

“What did you say?” Pamela said, cutting him off. “About the mobilization. Give me the details.” Her voice was hard and uncompromising.

“My sources say that every military force in Turkey is mobilizing. They’re pissed, Pamela–real pissed. I’ve never seen anything like it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that they were not behind the first attack on the USS La Salle–but they will be behind the next one. You can count on it.”

“I think they just were.”

Pamela briefly described the gist of the conversation she’d heard over the radio circuit. “Where are you now? We need to get this out immediately.”

Packmeyer laughed. “Not in my office, that’s for sure. The story’s out here, Pamela–and I’m on scene.”

Pamela thought for a moment. “Why are you calling me?” she asked finally.

“Because you’re on the carrier. And if anybody needs this, the battle group does. Pamela, please–you’re an American citizen,” he said, almost pleading. “Our viewers–yes, we work for them. But we’ve got other responsibilities as well, whether you admit it or not.”

“Of course I know,” she snapped. “Just what the hell-“

“Pamela, for once in your life, think about something besides the story. Think about the sailors who may get killed, the soldiers who are going to be dead on some battlefield if we don’t stop this. I don’t know what started this–it has something to do with Russia or Ukraine, I know–please, Pamela.”

“Hold on.”

Pamela looked at the phone thoughtfully, trying to assess the emotions warring inside her. The story was breaking, probably one of the biggest she’d ever covered, and she was in a perfect position to report it. Yet, as Packmeyer had said, she had other responsibilities as well.

If it ever got out that she’d known about this–known, and deliberately endangered U.S. troops by keeping her information to herself–ACN would never have access again to any military reporting pool.

Tombstone had often taunted her about her driven need to get into the middle of the action, saying she put the story above everything.

“Maybe above my love life–but not above my country.”

She stood up and walked into TFCC and handed Tombstone the telephone. “I think you may want to talk to this fellow–his name’s Mike Packmeyer.”