Woods said nothing, disappearing inside. Dreamland’s ultra-top-secret facility was now crowded with Navy people. The lone member of the Whiplash team inside was Sergeant Geraldo Hernandez, who sat at the com panel toward the back.
“Out,” demanded Dog. “Everyone the hell out of here.”
“Belay that!” said Woods.
“Belay bullshit,” said Dog. “This is a code-word-classified installation.
“
Woods, his hands balled into fists that perched on his hips, stood in front of Dog, his face the color of a ripe strawberry. Dog’s was undoubtedly the same shade. It was only with the greatest effort he kept himself from physically pushing the Navy people out the door.
“Admiral, let’s be clear about this,” he said. “The gear in this trailer, let alone the network it connects to and the information it accesses, are covered by six different code-word clearances, none of which I guarantee you or your men have,” said Dog. “You’re not even cleared to know the existence of the damn classification.”
“And let
“The chain of command is going to make little difference in Leavenworth,” said Dog.
Dog wasn’t particularly tall; fight pilots rarely were. Woods was only an inch or two taller than Dog, though his frame held at least thirty more pounds. The two men glared at each other, their eyes only a few millimeters apart.
“Colonel, uh, I have a link pending here from NSC. Need your voice confirmation,” said Hernandez. Among other things, the Whiplash team member had helped make a daylight rescue under fire during Gulf War, but his voice now had a worried tremble to it.
Dog managed to unball his hands.
“I have to get that,” he told Woods. “The computer won’t let the communication proceed with anyone else in view, even if I wear headphones.”
“Understood,” said Woods.
The two men held each other’s glare for a few seconds more. Then simultaneously, Dog turned toward the com area, and Woods nodded to his men. They filed out quietly, undoubtedly glad to escape without having been scorched. Hernandez looked at Dog, silently asking if he should go too. Dog decided it might be an appropriate diplomatic gesture and nodded.
Woods stood quietly by the table, out of line-of-sight of the com screen. Dog, meanwhile, picked up a headset and spoke his name into the microphone. Jed Barclay’s face snapped into view.
“Hi, Colonel.”
“Jed. What’s up?”
“Wanted to brief you on the situation with China and India. Um, and um, to uh, well, the way you got the news, I would’ve preferred to give you a better heads-up.”
“Understood,” Dog told him. “You’re just the messenger.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s all right, Jed. I’m a big boy,” said Dog. When he’d first met Barclay, he hadn’t thought much of the NSC aide; he was a pimple-faced kid who stuttered when he spoke. Hell, he was also a computer whiz, quite possibly as adept at the science as Jennifer Gleason, though his interests were more in international politics than hand- constructed integrated circuits. Barclay combined the technical knowledge with a surprisingly deft feel for foreign relations, and could analyze the international implications of anything from ATM machines to U/MFs. What he did for Dreamland and Whiplash — basically acting as a liaison for the NSC director and the President — involved perhaps one one-hundredth of his skills.
“Well, okay,” said Jed. He began running down the situation between China and India, starting with the present force structure.
Dog stopped him.
“I have Admiral Woods here,” he said. “Maybe he ought to listen in.”
“Okay. Sure. Good idea,” said Jed. While he authorized the feed from his end, Dog took off his headset and called Woods over.
The admiral too had calmed somewhat. He came over without saying anything, frowned, then looked at what was now a blank screen.
“You’ll have to give your name and rank to the computer,” Dog told him. “Just do it once, and do it in as natural a voice as you can. If the voice pattern is not already in the system, you’ll be asked for a retina scan and a fingerprint. You put your hand there.”
Dog pointed toward a small glass panel at the side of the auxiliary keyboard to the com set. Woods nodded.
“Authorize additional com link,” began Dog, starting off the procedure. He nodded at Woods, who spoke so slowly the computer asked him to repeat in a natural voice.
Dog suppressed a grin as Woods repeated his name, this time somewhat sternly. When he finished, the admiral started to laugh.
“Jesus,” said Woods. “It’s come to this.”
“Please maintain level composure,” snapped the computer.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It needs to look at your eyes. Poor choice of words,” said Dog.
Woods began to laugh. “What does it know? It’s a computer.”
Dog started to laugh too, though not quite for the same reason. The words had been chosen by Ray Rubeo, who was twice as arbitrary as any computer in existence.
Jed Barclay’s face came back on the screen.
“So here’s the thing,” said Barclay, launching back into the point he’d been making earlier. “The Indians use new technology, the Chinese feel they have to retaliate. Up the ante. They’re in big trouble domestically, and if they can’t go to war against us, and quite another for the Indians to do it. They have a second carrier en route; we suspect two more subs — nukes this time.”
“Two? The Xias?” asked the admiral, referring to the most advanced submarine the Chinese were known to have.
“Actually, Admiral, we think they’re Trafalgar clones. We’re still trying to develop information on them. that’s uh, what we want from Whiplash. I mean, from the Dreamland contingent.”
“Where would the Chinese have gotten British attack submarines?” asked Woods.
“Well, these aren’t Trafalgars per se,” said Jed. “Thougj we think they do have the pump-jet propulsion system. We’re pretty sure about that. The question is whether they’re some kind of Chinese take on the Akula or a totally different design. We’re really interested in the diving capability and we don’t have a sound signature, for obvious reasons.”
“You guys are losing me,” said Dog. “Give me a little background, okay?”
Woods explained the Akula was a very good Russian nuclear attack boat, capable of high speeds and deep depths. The British submarines were also among the best all-around attack subs in the world, though the Trafalgar class represented a slightly different philosophy, one that emphasized silence over sheer performance. Its pump-jet propulsion system was notably quieter than a traditional propeller-driver boat. With their hulls covered in a special rubber material and a range of other improvements, the submarines were about as quiet as anything in the ocean, including diesels using batteries.
“They can dive to about the same depth as the Akula,” said Woods, “though the Brits tend to be more conservative than the Russians. Pick your poison really — they’re both excellent subs. If the Chinese have anything similar to either, they’re pretty potent weapons.”
He turned back to the screen. “But nowhere in any briefing that I’ve seen has anyone said the Chinese have such advanced submarines. We haven’t seen them at sea, certainly. They had plans to purchase two Akula from the Ruskies, supposedly, but that hadn’t gone through. This is out of left field.”
“Which is my point,” said Jed. “The two boats left Behai eighteen hours ago. We have a good read on their initial direction, but beyond that we’re empty.”
“Behai? On the Gulf of Tonkin? There’s no facility there.”
