The president’s eyebrows furrowed. “So the German military never intended to buy all this new hardware they’re building?”
“Not as far as we can tell, Mr. President.”
“What’s ONI’s best guess on this?” the president asked. “How much hardware, and when does it get delivered?”
The national security advisor tugged at his collar. “Uh … again, I remind you that these are rough figures, sir. But right now, we’re looking at something like four Type 212B diesel submarines, to be followed by at least three Type 214s when those start rolling off the block.”
The president frowned. “Obviously we don’t want any new military hardware going into Siraj at all, but why are we getting so bent out of shape over diesel submarines? Nuclear subs I could understand …”
“With all due respect, Mr. President,” Brenthoven said, “your information is about a half a century out of date.”
The president whistled through his teeth. “I’ve been accused of being behind the times before, but never a half century.”
Brenthoven smiled. “Sir, when I say
“Over the past three decades, there have been about a hundred quantum leaps in diesel submarine design and engineering. The new boats are equipped with air-independent propulsion systems and hydrogen fuel-cell technology straight out of the aerospace industry. They can run submerged for weeks without having to snorkel or come up for air. Their hull metallurgy is incredibly advanced, giving them operating depths comparable to our nuclear subs. And the new Austenitic steels are non-magnetic, making the most advanced diesel subs difficult or impossible to detect with magnetic sensors. To top it all off, nearly all of the new diesel subs are capable of firing Exocet anti-ship cruise missiles, as well as highly advanced acoustic homing torpedoes.”
The national security advisor looked at the president. “Sir, I could go on for an hour.”
“You make them sound better than our nuclear attack subs,” the president said.
Brenthoven shook his head. “Not better, sir. Nuclear subs can still stay down longer. But when you’re chasing a diesel boat that can stay submerged for a month at a time, the difference starts to seem academic.
And in a reasonably confined body of water, like the Persian Gulf, an advanced diesel submarine is every bit as deadly as one of our nuclear fast-attack subs.”
“Jesus,” Doyle said softly. “The Germans are actually thinking about selling these things to Siraj? Abdul al- Rahiim has stirred up enough trouble with obsolete Soviet hardware. I don’t even want to think about what a madman like that can do with cutting-edge submarines. What little stability there is in the Middle East will go right down the toilet.”
“I’m afraid that subs aren’t all of it.” The national security advisor swallowed before continuing. “It looks like the deal may include somewhere between thirty and fifty of the new Joint European Strike Fighters.”
The president took a breath and let it out slowly. “Are we certain about this weapons deal?”
“Not yet, Mr. President. The CIA and ONI are both out shaking the trees for independent corroboration.”
“So this whole thing could turn out to be a pig in a poke?”
Brenthoven nodded. “It’s possible, sir. But the intelligence boys don’t think so, and neither do I. Do you want me to bring the Joint Chiefs in on this?”
“Not yet,” the president said. “Let’s push this one onto the back burner until we get some sort of corroboration. Right now, Germany rates about a zero-point-nothing on my threat scale. I’m worried about China. Those boys have stuck their dick out, and I’ve got a bad feeling that they’re not going to be really happy until they’ve stepped on it.”
CHAPTER 5
Sarah Bexley leaned on the sink basin and rested her eyes for a moment. Here, in the quiet coolness of the ladies’ toilet, her throbbing headache seemed to recede to something approaching a bearable level. It had to be the flu — some nasty little American variety of the virus with a particular taste for fair English flesh. At least it seemed that way, since everyone in the office appeared to be catching it. A third of the staff had already gone home ill.
Sarah felt for the handle of the cold-water tap and turned it on, cringing instantly at the sound of the water cascading into the marble basin. Her head was killing her. The two Motrin she had taken had done a bit to ease the body aches, but they weren’t doing much for the pounding symphony of pain behind her temples. Why couldn’t the Yank pharmacies stock a decent painkiller, like Nurosen? Oh they said it was all ibuprofen, didn’t they? But it wasn’t really the same, now was it? A couple of Nurosen would have had this headache on the run by now, whereas the bloody Motrin wasn’t doing a thing.
She opened her eyes and looked at her reflection in the mirror. It took a few seconds to force her eyes to focus. She barely recognized the face staring back out of the glass; it was flushed, puffy looking, and inhumanly tired. Her eyes were the worst: red-rimmed and bloodshot. There were dark circles under them that her makeup couldn’t disguise.
Sarah was twenty-eight, and she prided herself on having inherited something of her mother’s Anglican beauty. Not that you could see it at the moment. The face in the mirror might have belonged to a forty-year-old barfly after a month or two of pub crawling.
She pulled a hand towel from the neat stack next to the wash basin, moistened a corner of it under the running water, and then folded it and dabbed it against the back of her neck. The cool wetness felt good against her overheated skin.
She swallowed with a painful effort. Her throat felt raw and swollen.
This was ridiculous. She couldn’t work like this. She needed to go home and curl up on the couch with a blanket and a cup of tea. Maybe she
Sir Anthony had the economic conference on Wednesday, and his presentation materials weren’t ready yet. Or rather, they
Hammersmith was a grumpy old bastard. If she tried to leave before he was happy with her presentation materials, she might as well pack up her desk and move back down to the second floor.
She sighed again.
Her bleary eyes came to rest on the delicate curves of the marble sink basin with its sculpted supporting column and the elegant fluting of the water spout and tap handles. It had taken her five years to make it to the fourth floor — up here, where the desks were polished mahogany, the floors were tiled with exquisite mosaics, and the fluffy hand towels were emblazoned with the Royal Crest. Up here, where Sarah’s opinion mattered, where influential people depended upon her work and listened to her words with interest. Up here, where men found her ideas more compelling than her breasts.
She laid the towel on the countertop and turned off the water tap. She stood up straight, doing her best to ignore the surge of pain her movements sent coursing through her aching muscles. She nearly had to lean on the sink again as her knees trembled and threatened to give way. But the weakness passed after a few seconds — most of it anyway. She could tough it out. Another hour or two, at least. Perhaps long enough for Mr. Hammersmith to admit that her economic presentation was ready for the ambassador’s desk. Or at least long enough for Hammersmith to throw in the towel himself and go home sick. He looked even worse than Sarah did. She suspected
