there is a dummy load in series with it, transmitting nothing but static. Whoever is listening may think they’re getting some short-term interference. Sun spots, that sort of thing. They’ll wait for it to clear up on its own before they decide the device is compromised.”
“So they don’t know?”
Hemingway nodded. “If you want, we can replace it. In the long run, sooner or later, you’ll slip up. But in the short run, you may be able to plant some disinformation that may help undo any damage. What precisely that might be, I don’t know. That’s for you to decide.” She glanced around the room. The support staff was staring at them, shock on their faces. “And it will be quite a lot to orchestrate. Remember, you’ll all have to behave precisely as you were before, with the exception of being very careful about what you say. At the same time, you’ll have to act naturally enough that they won’t know there’s a problem.” She shook her head discouragingly. “It’s very difficult to pull off. We’ve had instances where people have tried, and failed miserably.”
“Could you move it?” Wexler asked. “Reposition it so it only hears inside my office alone?”
Hemingway looked startled, then quickly understood what Wexler was suggesting. “Yes, of course. And it’s much easier for one person to manage to carry on the charade than an entire office. That might work.”
“Next question, then. Who’s responsible?” She resisted the temptation to growl when she saw Hemingway and Brad exchange a significant glance. “Well? Who? The CIA, perhaps?”
She could see by their body language that Hemingway was tossing the ball into Brad’s court. He sighed, then looked away from her. “This is, I believe, a device known as ‘Little Insect.’ It is normally not intended as a long- term surveillance device. Somewhere behind a wallboard, we’ll find a small battery to power the transmitter. But because of its size, it’s normally for short-term use only. Unless you can make arrangements to have someone come in and change the battery.”
More horror. “But at least there’s a chance it’s short-term, yes? How long is short-term?”
“Depending on a number of factors, it is effective for up to three weeks.”
Finally, some good news, if it could be called that. “Let’s assume the battery hasn’t been replaced, for the moment. I imagine you’ll be able to tell more when you locate it, yes?” She saw two heads nodding in unison. “Very well, then. For now, we’ll operate on the assumption that it has been in place only three weeks. Now, answer my original question — who?”
There was a long silence, and Brad said, “The ‘Little Insect’ is manufactured in China. As far as we know, it is not available on the export market.” He held up one hand to forestall comment. “As far as we know. Every time we have seen it so far, the circumstances have indicated China.”
In the last year, Ambassador Wexler’s relationship with the ambassador from China had gone from mutual respect to warm friendship. He had been responsible for saving her life in the last Middle East crisis, and she’d come to depend more and more on his advice and friendship.
“China.” She looked away, her face carefully composed. “That would answer a lot of questions, wouldn’t it?” She glanced at Brad. He simply nodded.
“Replace it,” Wexler said firmly. “Fix it so it will only hear what’s inside my office. And you two,” she pointed at Brad and Hemingway, “and I need to have a long conversation. Somewhere else. I have a plan, and I’m going to need your help.”
EIGHT
Coyote stared down at his cup of coffee, fascinated. The surface of the liquid jittered with standing waves, the concentric circles radiating out from the center, a response to the vibrations thrumming through the ship.
It was odd to feel the carrier trembling under his feet. Odd to actually feel the power of her four turbines driving her four shafts, the slant on the deck as she made turns, the dip and yaw as she smashed through the seas.
Normally, the carrier had no more sense of motion about her than an office building. The deck was stable underfoot. Coffee cups and plates did not slide around on tables. Things stayed where you put them. Except for the howl of aircraft and the reverberating slam as aircraft hit the deck — and the occasional typhoon, of course — you could have been ashore.
But not now. Flight operations actually provided the most stable times, since the carrier reduced speed from flank, sought favorable winds and kept the deck level to within a few degrees of roll. But once a flight cycle was completed, the carrier immediately ramped back up to flank speed, channeling every atom of superheated steam from her reactors into pounding the ocean into submission with her propellers.
Coyote glanced up at the tactical plot and saw that they were making excellent time. Would it be fast enough? Hard to say — but short of fitting the carrier with jet engines and turning her into a hovercraft, they were making the best time that was humanly possible.
CAG had gotten the airwing onboard in record time. The deck was still clobbered with the newly arrived squadrons sorting out people and planes, looking for assigned spots, and generally going through all the gyrations that they would have had a couple of weeks to work out normally.
But the air wing wasn’t the only problem. In addition to Lab Rat’s people, there were hundreds of additional personnel to embark, and in between fighter traps and carrier quals, the decks were crowded with C-2 Greyhound CODS disgorging massive loads of people and gear. While they were still within range, the heavy transport helos picked up part of the load, but soon they would be out of the helos unrefueled range, and the CODs would have to handle the rest of it alone.
And the carrier quals — my God, had there been such an increase in new pilots into squadrons in the last year? It seemed like every third pilot was completely out of qual and had to get ten day traps and five night traps to even be considered minimally safe. And that didn’t even count the ones who needed a few extra looks at the deck to get back into the saddle.
Yes, getting the airwing back onboard and up to speed had cut into their speed of advance, or SOA. But there was no help for it. Cutting corners would just get people killed down the road.
“How long, do you think?” Coyote asked. He glanced over at Captain Ganner.
“I think we’ll make it in three weeks, easy,” Ganner said. “We might shave off a couple of days along the way if everything works well.”
“Let’s just hope China doesn’t bomb Taiwan back into the Stone Age while we’re hauling ass across the ocean. Dammit, what were they thinking, leaving the area without a carrier around?”
Ganner cleared his throat. “Sir, we could cut some time off if we proceeded ahead alone. I don’t like the option, and I know you don’t either. But the support ships and small boys are slowing us down. Between refueling and a slower speed of advance — well, I wonder if you’d reconsidered.”
Coyote grunted. What Ganner was proposing was something that they’d all known, but hadn’t had the balls to say out loud. The
The escort combatants and supply ships, however, were in an entirely different situation. Not only were they conventionally powered and needed fuel en route, but they also had slower max speeds. Sure, some of the gas turbine ships could keep up, but not without taking a terrible toll on equipment and personnel. Speeds that translated to a little roll onboard a carrier were gut-wrenching and exhausting rolls and yaws on a small boy. The motion would make solid sleep virtually impossible when every movement of the ship threatened to throw you out of your rack, and eating was a constant challenge. And that wasn’t even counting the sailors — about a third,
