of muddying up the playing field.
“Sir?” a voice just behind him asked. “Is there anything I can do?” Lab Rat turned to shake his head at Lieutenant Bill Strain, the new assistant intelligence officer who had checked in just before they’d deployed. Strain was a tall, lanky fellow, built like the college basketball player he was. Word had it that Strain had had a full scholarship at Notre Dame, a fact that was readily confirmed by the alumni on board. A few squadrons had already made a bid for him to join their intramural teams, but so far Strain had been pleading the need to concentrate on his duties in CVIC. Maybe later, after the deployment. Lab Rat suspected that his new lieutenant preferred more intellectual leisure activities and would probably continue to find excuses not to join until the interest died down. Nothing wrong with that, although Lab Rat found himself faintly envious of Strain for having a choice. At five-feet, six-inches tall, Lab Rat had long since resigned himself to signing up for bantam-weight sports.
“Not yet,” Lab Rat answered. “Not unless you know some way we can reach out and touch that system of theirs from here. And without getting caught.”
“Nothing comes to mind, but I’ll give it some thought.” Strain passed him a few sheets out of an intelligence update, information on the probable status of Russian laser defense systems. Lab Rat hadn’t known he wanted them until Strain handed them to him.
“Thanks.” Lab Rat glanced through them, refreshing his memory. It’d been a while since he’d looked at Russian capabilities, and it wouldn’t hurt to sound smart if Coyote had any technical questions. The admiral had a knack for surprising his officers with the depth of his knowledge on arcane subjects.
But it was an older satellite, wasn’t it? One that wasn’t all that useful anyway. And maybe, with the U.S. concentrating their resources and efforts on fighting worldwide terrorism, the Russians’ cooperation was worth more than a little outdated chunk of metal in the sky.
“I wonder what made them pick out Betty Lou,” Strain mused. “Old satellite, of course — were they walking some sort of line between pissing us off and proving that they could do it? A few years ago, they never would have dared. Seems like nothing’s sacred anymore.”
The changes that had been wrought in American society by the hideous events of September 11, 2001, were deep and profound. The legal system was already infringing on constitutional rights that just a few months before the attack were virtually untouchable. With U.S. military forces treading heavily around the restrictions on
If the tests tonight proved out, the U.S. would be a long way toward perfecting the continental missile defense system. And if it worked, it would free up assets normally occupied with mutual assured destruction, or MAD, to concentrate on the war on terrorism.
Coyote entered the compartment, and Strain moved quietly to a corner. That was another thing about the newly promoted lieutenant that Lab Rat liked, his ability to fade into the background until he was needed. Hard to do when you were Strain’s size, too.
“Your people ready?” Coyote asked. “I got to tell you, there’s a lot more riding on this test now than there was a few hours ago.”
Lab Rat ran his hand over his scalp, feeling the small bristles poking into his palm. “It’ll work. It’s got to.”
“You sound sure about that.”
“I am, Admiral.”
“Well.” Coyote stared at the computer screen showing the relative positions of all the ships in this part of the ocean. The symbols formed a neat geometric pattern on the screen, courses and speed represented by speed leaders. Too bad reality wasn’t as orderly. “The sooner we get it over with, the better I’ll feel. Especially when we COD the civilians off the ship.” He glanced over at Lab Rat. “They’re a pain in the ass.”
“Yes, Admiral. But they own the gear until we sign off on the formal acceptance of it.”
Coyote waved him off irritably. “I know, I know. As much as we’ve paid them for developing the damn thing, you think they’d be easier to get along with.” The defense contractors had been cluttering up the flag mess for weeks.
“We’ll know tonight, Admiral. As soon as it tests sat, I’ll have them secure all the gear and pack up their stuff. We’ll have them out on the next COD.”
Coyote stared moodily at the screen. “Yeah, I know.” He stood and stretched, feeling the long hours seeping into his bones. “The sooner the better. DESRON wants the ASW module back, and the techs are bitching about the power distribution panels and the new wiring harnesses, and the chief engineer is going hermitile over the voltage drop in there. That shit draws a hell of a lot of power.”
“First COD,” Lab Rat promised.
“Let’s hope that’s soon enough. Call me if there are any changes.” Coyote took one last look at the tactical plot before leaving.
Strain moved quietly to Lab Rat’s side. “I’ll go through the pre-op checklist again, sir.”
Lab Rat shook his head. “No. We’re ready. If you really want to do something useful—”
“Yes, sir.”
“—then go check on the COD availability. I have a feeling the admiral’s going to be more interested in that than another checklist.”
Tombstone pulled his cherry red muscle car into the parking lot. The office building was typical of the structures that were home to a multitude of small defense contractors known as the Beltway Bandits. The design had been modern fifteen years ago, when defense industry money seemed to be an endless stream of cash and new defense contractors and consultants would pop up overnight. It featured an impressive foyer replete with a waterfall and large plants, marbled floors and express elevators. The entire impression of the lobby was one of luxury.
Not so for the floors farther up the sixteen-story building. At least half had absolutely no windows. The target occupants required areas that could satisfy the Department of Defense regulations for security, and the building specifications required to house top secret material. Each floor was separated from the others by a layer of steel, and the concrete brick of the structure was designed to prevent eavesdropping and electronic surveillance.
The sixteenth floor was particularly secure. The rents charged were commensurate with the degree of security the floor afforded its occupants, and ranged from merely high to absolutely outrageous. Nevertheless, the building never had a shortage of potential renters for the sixteenth-floor facilities.
That Advanced Analysis had been able to obtain a small suite of rooms was something of a curiosity to the other occupants. Normally, one spent months, perhaps years on the waiting list. How it was that Advanced Analysis had managed to move in immediately just eight months ago was a mystery. No one had ever heard of them and no one had ever worked with them before their appearance on the scene.
A few of the more knowledgeable defense contractors quietly took note of that, along with the priority given to their tenancy, glanced at the sign-in log in the lobby, and noted that few visitors ever came to Advanced Analysis. And finally, they took in the occasional appearance of two very familiar faces in the passageway and elevators: retired Admiral Thomas Magruder and his nephew, retired Vice Admiral Matthew Magruder.
While other defense contractors speculated on Advanced Analysis’s projects and complained about their intrusion into the sixteenth floor — one small computer company had wanted the spaces to expand their own operations — the wiser among them kept their collective mouths shut. They had seen this before and knew what it
