support for that.”
“I don’t know, ma’am,” Brad said quietly. “From what I hear, they might not be alone in this.”
“Who?” she demanded.
“Russia.”
At that, she let out a hearty laugh. “They’re the biggest offenders in the world in the area of nuclear safety,” she said. “They’d get laughed out of session.”
“Maybe.” Brad’s voice was dubious. “Maybe not.”
“Do you have information I don’t?” she demanded.
He shook his head. “I just have a bad feeling about this one.”
An idea occurred to Wexler. She turned to Brad and carefully touched her right ear. It was their prearranged signal. A look of surprise flashed across his face, and then he nodded his understanding.
“It’s a good thing,” Wexler said in a normal tone of voice, “that the President agreed to send those Patriot batteries to Taiwan. I think they’ll come in handy.”
“Sure will,” Brad said.
“Although,” she continued, “I have to tell you, I’m not sure that we’ll really be able to keep the Chinese from finding out about it. And labeling the boxes as farm equipment — well, who is that going to fool? No, I think we’ve got to plan for the possibility that China will find out, although I dread the possibility.”
“Let’s hope everyone just does his job right,” Brad answered.
“Let’s hope,” she said.
Later that afternoon, Wexler would learn that Brad’s premonition had been true. Russia, as well as a host of smaller nations, and of course Australia and New Zealand, joined in the protest. The United Nations Secretary- General sent the matter to committee for further study, which would stall the matter further, but there was every chance that with China and Russia acting in concert, the matter would be back on the floor for a vote in record time.
From the outside, Tombstone’s uncle’s new quarters looked like any one of the Beltway Bandits that thronged around the center of the country’s government. They sprang up overnight like mushrooms, bid against each other, merged a week later, and competition for economic survival was fierce.
The entrance sign gave no hint of what was inside. ADVANCE SOLUTIONS, it said, the letters picked out in gold paint over plastic, swirling in a cursive script, impressive and prosperous unless you looked too close. Beltway firms were experts at looking well-capitalized while expending as little money as possible.
Even the double doors leading to the suite were in keeping with Advance Solutions’ public image. The darkly stained wood doors opened onto the portion that was unclassified, complete with a receptionist and a couple of computer technicians. Indeed, Advance Solutions had already bid on three government contracts, although never successfully.
But what was important was what lay behind the metal doors at the far end of the suite. The door frame itself housed a number of security measures, including metal detectors and a fluoroscope. It opened onto a secure vestibule. Entrance beyond that was controlled by a retinal scanner as well as a security number pad. Both were required to gain access. And beyond that armed guards sat behind one-way mirrors, Marines for the most part.
Tombstone passed quickly through the outer area, garnering a cheery greeting from the receptionist. Had anyone asked her, she would have informed them that Tombstone was a technical adviser working on the company’s bid to design the analysis factors that would go into the final bid requirements for advanced fighter ECM system. And she would have been able to discuss quite convincingly — and often did in response to phone queries from job seekers — the firm’s requirements, staffing, and past and future plans. Indeed, she was probably the most well-prepared part of the entire cover story.
Once past the steel doors, all pretense of corporate luxury ceased. The walls, overhead, and deck were reinforced, and sensitive electronic monitors in every corner kept watch to prevent eavesdropping. The windows were insulated, covered with metal, covered with another layer of sound-deadening material, and sealed off. All in all, it was the most secure classified area that existed outside the Pentagon.
“Good morning, Uncle,” Tombstone said. His uncle had a desk in one corner, a small, functional metal one. Tombstone had his desk in the opposite corner. “What’s up?”
“Our first mission,” his uncle said, his voice a model of controlled excitement. “Dammit, Tombstone, they’re actually going to let us do it this time.”
Tombstone slouched down in the comfortable executive chair he’d insisted on. “About time,” he said. “Four months of desk work are starting to get to me.”
His uncle shot him an amused look. “It hasn’t been all desk work, as I recall. There is a little matter of two hundred hours in a Tomcat.”
“There is that. But I took it as simply a signing bonus.”
His uncle laughed out loud. Tombstone stared at him with some degree of amazement, delighted in the changes in his uncle’s demeanor over the last months.
How had it been that he had missed his uncle’s slide into the grim formality that had characterized his tour of the CNO? How could he have missed the absence of the warm friendliness that always characterized their relationship, the occasional bad joke his uncle used to make? No, it was only now that his uncle was freed of those burdens that he saw the man he remembered from his childhood days emerge again. His uncle was like a child with a new toy, only this toy had a budget that was truly mind-boggling and bigger, better, faster toys than anything either of them had experienced as a child.
“So what’s the deal?” Tombstone asked, as he propped his feet up on his desk. “Is it time to save the world?”
“A small part of it, maybe,” his uncle said. He came over to Tombstone’s desk, and tossed a couple of photographic surveillance photos in front of him. “Take a gander at these.”
Tombstone studied them, pretending to puzzle out whatever it was he was supposed to notice. But in truth, he as well as his uncle depended on the enlisted intelligence staff who were experts at this sort of work. Interpreting satellite images was still more of an art than a science, and it took years of looking at seemingly random collections of light and dark before the brain started making sense of what the eyes reported.
Once he made the obligatory show of studying them, Tombstone held out his hand. “Okay, care. Where’s the report?”
His uncle handed him two sheets of paper.
Tombstone scanned them quickly, sparing a fleeting moment to appreciate the terse style in which they had been written. The terrain was just north of the Kurile Islands, and those specks of white on the infrared shots were troops. Lots of troops. Just off the coast were Russian landing vessels. The analyst concluded that there were at least two regiments and ships to carry them waiting to deploy to the Kuriles.
“The Russians making a grab for them, are they?” he asked.
His uncle nodded. “Yep. No indications from other sources yet, but we’ve got some feelers out.”
“Well, you got to have troops to hold land, that’s for sure. And it looks like they’ve got enough of them.”
“Take a look at the last paragraph again.”
Tombstone looked again. According to the analyst, there was no indication that there were antiair defenses in place, and no indication that they would be installed. He looked up at his uncle in amazement. “Pretty stupid. The Japanese are more than capable of taking them out.”
“The Japanese aren’t. We are.”
“What!?” Tombstones bolted upright in his chair.
His uncle stuck out his hand. “You heard me. Congratulations, you’re a plankowner.”
Tombstone clasped his uncle’s hand in both of his own. “We’re actually going to take them out?”
His uncle nodded. “The Pentagon figures that one good bombing run could disable all three ships and decimate about half of the ground troops. They’ll know who’s responsible, don’t doubt that. But they won’t be able to say a thing. Because just as we’re not going to be there, they’re not there right now. Everybody’s cover stories
