Hellfire

“A very good question,” she said. “And one that deserves an answer.”

He smiled at her now, his expression relieved. “And the answers, as you must suspect, must come from your own people. We have shown you our system. Now ask them to show you theirs.”

“I don’t think they will.” She shrugged. “You must know that I’m not in their good graces right now. Not after what Winston did.”

“Yes, of course. That is the reason you are here. I think there can be little doubt that your network is willing to report stories that are not entirely flattering to your country.”

“An understatement, but thank you for the compliment. It took a good deal of pressure for the admiral to allow me to come over here from the carrier, you know. They have tried to silence us, but it isn’t working.”

The Russian nodded sympathetically. “I must tell you, Miss Drake. I think the story you’re after is not the one you’ll eventually find. There has been a serious tragedy here, one that could have been avoided by honest communications between all parties. The responsibility for this lies with your — with the Americans.”

“Please go on.” Drake kept her expression neutral.

“Let me ask you this first,” the Russian said. “Why exactly are the Americans here?”

“Routine operations, as I understand it.”

The Russian looked her over carefully, as though trying to see into her mind. “And you believe that?”

“Well, I’m fairly familiar with normal carrier operations, and so far I have had no reason to doubt it. Should I?”

He laughed aloud. “Now I am certain that the story you will get is not the one you’re expecting. Miss Drake, that battle group is not here on routine operations. They are testing an advanced weaponry system, one called theater ballistic missile defense, or TBMD. There are no laser communications, no oceanographic experiments. We are conducting a test of a new weapon, yes. And your Americans are conducting their own tests to counter it.” He watched her closely for a moment, observing her reaction, then nodded in satisfaction. “I thought so. They did not tell you, did they?”

“What exactly does this TBMD do?” she asked, ignoring his question.

“It uses lasers to conduct a soft kill on a missile. It scrambles the electronics in the guidance system. Once that happens, it goes off course. Without guidance, the propulsion will cut out, and once inertia is overcome, it simply falls into the ocean.”

“This all sounds very routine, then,” Drake said, as though bored. “Surely this isn’t the first time that you have conducted tests and the Americans have conducted tests of their countermeasures? It’s very interesting, but not astounding.”

“There’s more. The Americans were not testing countermeasures. They were testing a laser system as well.”

Drake didn’t have to fake the surprise on her face. Yes, it all made sense. She had known from the beginning that Coyote and Tombstone were not being honest about Jefferson’s mission, and the Russian’s report just confirmed it. And knowing that she did not know the truth, they had sent her here anyway, to find out how much the Russians knew. Surely they had known that the Russians would tell her what they suspected. They must have been counting on it, in fact. All that talk about a new weapon system, the radar she was to look for — just a cover story to sidetrack her. In reality, she should have been looking for that evidence on board Jefferson instead of on the Russian ship.

“What are your plans now?” she said, operating on automatic. “The search and rescue will continue, surely.”

The Russian shrugged. “Your captain had it right. If there were more survivors from Montego Bay, we would have found them by now. We will continue to search for a few more days, but our hopes are dwindling quickly. I would be surprised if we find anything.”

“Our sympathies to their families, of course,” Drake murmured. Her mind was racing furiously as she tried to shape the new story in her mind. How much of it would she tell? How much secrecy was vital to national security, and how much was simply reflective of government secrecy?

“The reason I am showing you all this,” the Russian continued after a moment, “is that you must find some way to convince the Americans how very serious the situation is. They tested their system, they caused the sinking of a civilian ship, then they tried to blame it on us. We view this as an act of aggression, an attempt to rally world opinion against us. We cannot allow this to continue. Unless there is a prompt admission of guilt and a complete apology — there were fifteen Russians on board Montego Bay—we will be forced to act to protect our own interests and to demonstrate the efficacy of our own system. It has been suggested that the USS Jefferson might be a suitable target.”

“You’d attack the Jefferson?” Drake asked, her voice astonished. “Isn’t that a little out of proportion?” She saw the look on his face, and waved her hand impatiently. “Yeah, yeah, the civilian ship and fifteen Russians. It’s a tragedy — it bleeds, it leads in the news. But you’re talking about attacking an American ship of war! Tell me why this makes sense!”

The Russian general regarded her gravely. “Talk to others on the staff here, Miss Drake. I think you will see that America committed two acts of aggression. First, by deploying this system despite the protests of the rest of the world. And second, by targeting our ship with fire control radar. You may not understand it, not as we do, but we consider ourselves already at war. You would be wise to remember that and to convey it to the battle group commander, Admiral Grant.”

Drake spent the next five hours interviewing other members of the Russian staff, but as far as she was concerned, she got what she came for in the first interview. Later, as her helo lifted off to return to Jefferson, she stared back at the Russian ship. The real task now was sorting out the Russian manipulation from the American manipulation. For just a second, she wondered if Winston didn’t have it right.

SEVENTEEN

The United Nations

0700 local (GMT-5)

Wexler could not recall a time when she had ever been quite so tired. Or so discouraged. Nothing in the world seemed to make any sense anymore, least of all what had happened at the United Nations in the last week. Beginning with the equivocation of Great Britain, proceeding to Liberia’s motion as seconded by India, and finally to this — the complete and utter desertion of the United States by all her purported allies.

I will not look in the mirror. I will not. She did not need to see her reflection to know that her eyes were bleary and bloodshot, her face pale and drained. She could feel the results of too little sleep and too much caffeine in every inch of her body.

But what were the options? During a crisis, no one slept.

Forty-five minutes left. What will I tell them?

The prospect of announcing to the world that the United States would not—could not?  — pay its just obligations was simply unthinkable. So was the option of withdrawing from the United Nations. There had to be a middle ground — there had to be.

There was a knock on her door and Brad stepped in without waiting for an answer. If anything, he looked worse than she did. But there was a note of hope in his voice when he said, “Captain Hemingway to see you, Ambassador.”

“I hope she brought her own tea leaves,” Wexler answered, glancing at the antique can on her credenza. She’d run out of her favorite orange oolong three hours ago.

Captain Jane Hemingway stepped into the room. She held out a small brown paper bag. “As it happens, I do. We can drink it and then stare at the dregs and try to figure out what’s going on.”

“Divining answers from tea leaves requires a fresh pot, I think,” Brad said. He plucked the bag out of her hand. “I’ll take care of that.”

He left, shutting the door behind him. Without waiting for an invitation, Captain Hemingway sank down on the comfortable couch. “Hell of a long week, isn’t it?”