Straits of Power

clearances for foreign nationals working on my staff…. South African, ethnic Boer.” He hung up.

Hodgkiss glanced at his wristwatch, then at Ilse. “Let’s move, we’re both late for a rather important meeting.”

Chapter 7

Back in Norfolk, Jeffrey wasn’t surprised when he was led deep underground at Headquarters, Commander, U.S. Atlantic Fleet. Admiral Hodgkiss had a large conference room right off his big war room, on an upper level, but everything going on so far used the highest security possible.

An enlisted attendant showed him to the meeting room. “Go right inside, please, sir.”

Just like the special meeting rooms at the Pentagon, this one had two marine guards, and two thick doors with an empty vestibule between them. Jeffrey was first to arrive.

A minute later Admiral Hodgkiss and Ilse showed up. Jeffrey was surprised to see them accompanied by two more marines, who scanned the room with their eyes and checked under the table.

Jeffrey and Ilse said hello, while Hodgkiss watched, unamused. Their breakup had been amicable, they’d met a few times since on navy business, and Jeffrey had far too much on his mind to feel emotional now. But Ilse was angry.

“Wait outside,” Hodgkiss told the marines. “The meeting is classified. Lieutenant Reebeck will be safe enough.”

What gives? Jeffrey thought better of asking. He didn’t know who was cleared for what, and he had to avoid giving something away by an inadvertent question.

Hodgkiss took the head of the table. “Sit anywhere. This is an informal working session.”

Two more people walked in. Felix Estabo was one of them.

Jeffrey came around the conference table and shook Felix’s hand, a broad grin on his face. “It’s good to see you again. All recovered?” Jeffrey had commanded the mission on which Felix had been wounded.

“I got the forms that say so.” Felix turned to the civilian who’d arrived with him. “This gentleman tells me he knows you, Captain.”

Jeffrey was puzzled. The man peered at Jeffrey, obviously enjoying the moment. There was something familiar about his eyes. Jeffrey never forgot a face, but he drew a blank on this guy. Then the man spoke.

“We killed many Germans together, you and Ilse and I.”

The voice was the giveaway. “Gamal? Gamal Salih?”

“In the flesh. Except last time we met you were a mere lieutenant commander, and I don’t recall all those fancy medals on your chest.”

Ilse came over and embraced Salih, who wasn’t the least bit shy in hugging her back.

Jeffrey and Ilse looked at Salih up close. “Plastic surgery?” Jeffrey asked.

“Yes. They did a good job, no?”

“A very good job. But why?”

“Since I spoke before the UN, the whole world knows my face. Or knew it, I should say.”

Jeffrey and Ilse nodded.

“Not that it made any difference in the end,” Salih said. “Lies, lies, so many lies. You know Churchill said that ‘in wartime, the truth must be hidden behind a bodyguard of lies’? The problem now is, nobody knows when you’re honest.”

“Too true,” Jeffrey said.

“But your government, at least, did keep their promise, the promise you made when you convinced me to come back with you.” He was referring to a mission to northern Germany, before Christmas the previous year.

“That you could return behind enemy lines?” Ilse asked. She’d been right there at the time, as heavy machine guns and main battle-tank fire poured in at the team, and their position had seemed hopeless.

“For that, I need a new face, and I’ve learned to alter my voice a little, and I’ve polished up my Turkish a lot.”

Gerald Parker arrived. Introductions were made as needed.

“Mr. Parker is my teacher,” Salih said to Jeffrey and Ilse. “At the farm.”

“Got it,” Jeffrey responded. The “farm” was a secret installation where the CIA trained their field operatives.

“Your English is a lot better than when we talked in the van,” Felix said, half accusingly.

Salih’s dark eyes sparkled. He stroked his mustache, for effect. “In the land of spies, nothing is what it seems at first, my friend.”

Others came into the room.

Jeffrey recognized Commander Ralph Parcelli, CO of the Gold crew of USS Ohio. Jeffrey was impressed: Parcelli had been a commander for more than three years, and his ship was a very prestigious assignment. He’d probably make the rank of captain soon, and the grapevine had it that he’d already been tagged for early selection to rear admiral after that.

The Ohio was an old SSBN, a boomer sub, one of four converted to a new hybrid configuration. The Ohio had started life with two dozen big vertical missile tubes behind her sail; those tubes were her raison d’etre, the reason she and her seventeen sister ships had been built. Each tube originally held a long-range Trident C-4 ballistic missile, with multiple hydrogen-bomb warheads on each missile, as the ultimate survivable strategic deterrent. To maximize their deployment availability at sea, each Ohio sub had two captains and two crews, Blue and Gold, so one could rest and train on land while the other hid beneath the waves for ten weeks at a time. After the Cold War, when the world situation changed and the funding from Congress came through, Ohio and three others of her class were refurbished. Now each tube could hold a canister of seven Tactical Tomahawk cruise missiles, for high- explosive land-attack missions. Two of her tubes were altered to become SEAL lock-out chambers. Space was made for sixty-six SEALs to sleep comfortably, and also keep fit in an extensive physical-training area. Other spaces held their special ops equipment and mission planning facilities — now that the Trident support systems and special navigation center weren’t needed. Some of that SEAL gear could be stored in up to eight of her tubes, and the reborn Ohio, now designated an SSGN, could carry two Advanced SEAL Delivery System minisubs on her back. Each of these battery-powered minis could transport a team of eight SEALs to a hostile beach or underwater work site, in a warm and dry shirtsleeve environment.

Jeffrey assumed Ohio was nearby, at sea, submerged for stealth, and Parcelli had sneaked into harbor via minisub for the meeting.

Parcelli and Jeffrey shook hands. Jeffrey felt a bit self-conscious. He was wearing his workaday khakis, while Parcelli had come in dress blues.

With Parcelli was another commander, in khakis like Jeffrey. He wore the Special Warfare qualification badge — a Navy SEAL, like Felix.

“This is Commander McCollough,” Felix said to Jeffrey. “Commander McCollough leads the SEAL complement on Ohio.”

Jeffrey and McCollough shook hands warmly. They had never met face-to-face, although Ohio and Challenger had worked together briefly. Felix and his team had come over from Ohio to Challenger in an ASDS, during a covert underwater rendezvous in the Caribbean.

“I’m honored, Captain Fuller,” McCollough said. “I’ve been hearing a lot of good things about you and your ship.”

“Thank you,” Jeffrey said slightly awkwardly. Praise always embarrassed him, especially when delivered in McCollough’s powerful voice and in front of so many senior people. McCollough was very tall, six-four easily, and his accent immediately gave him away as a Boston-area Irishman.

One more person showed up, slightly breathless. “Sorry I’m late.” The newcomer was also a commander, but