by Stuart Slade
“Understood Sir.” Baxter spoke with relish. It was traditional for a new destroyer on West Indies Station to take on the Jamaican team in a Pack Gun Race. How well the ship performed would have a lot of impact on her crew’s status during her two year stay out there. The Commonwealth (and some of the ex-Commonwealth) civilians might have cricket but the services had Pack and Field Gun racing. Even some of the non-Commonwealth countries joined in occasionally although Baxter got the feeling that they didn’t quite understand the spirit of the race. Once the American SEALs had been challenged to a Pack Gun Race and they’d accepted with alacrity. Only, on the day of the race, their challengers had found their gun had been mysteriously stolen overnight. Even in sports, the damned Septics never fought fair.
“I hope so. Daring lost their race. Mermaid won theirs, meaning we need to win ours so the Andrew can hold a lead. Starboard twenty.”
Baxter nodded again as the destroyer swung to take another wave over the bows. It wasn’t surprising Daring had lost her race. Even though the destroyers looked impressive with their quartette of four inch guns, they’d never really fitted into the Andrew and they were unpopular postings. They were cramped, uncomfortable and the standards for the enlisted men was well below those on other Royal Navy destroyers. It made matters worse that the officer’s accommodation was well above normal standards. In the Andrew, as the Royal Navy was affectionately called by its members, that difference wasn’t acceptable. They were only in the Royal Navy because they’d seemed to be a deal too good to turn down, but they would be gone soon and they wouldn’t be missed much.
“I’ll get the team training in the boat hangar, Sir. And on the flight deck when we’re out of this clag.” The Rotodyne deck aft was one of the few places on Glowworm where major exercises could take place while the ship was underway. He’d have to send around a message asking for volunteers. That wouldn’t be a problem. Every seaman knew that the one sure way to get the favorable notice of a ship’s captain was to be on his winning Pack Gun Race team.
Married Quarters, MacDill Air Force Base, Florida
Selma Hitchins-Yates applied a last touch to the garish make-up she was wearing, then stepped away to look the general effect in the full length mirror. Indecently short leather skirt, high-heeled boots, fishnet stockings and a blouse that was both microscopic and transparent. Lord girl, you do make one mean-looking sidewalk stewardess. She checked her appearance again, then glanced over to the “secret” cabinet built into her wardrobe that held her costumes. A police woman’s uniform, a nurse’s uniform, an Indian maiden’s outfit (bought after her husband had become fascinated by the heroine of Ghostwalk), a western saloon girl’s dress, a maid’s outfit and even the orange coveralls worn by inhabitants of a state prison. Few others as well. The cabinet wasn’t actually hidden, although it was arranged so its existence wasn’t immediately obvious. Mike Yates kept the family guns in there as well. With young children in the house, a little care over things they weren’t ready for was essential. She closed the door and reached in behind the front paneling to secure the lock. Then, ready, she started to think herself into character.
“I’m home darling. No visitors.” Her husband’s voice came from downstairs. She heard him close and lock the front door, then move around, closing the windows, pulling down the blinds and drawing the curtains. Selma picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder and made her way downstairs with a practiced swing of her hips. Her husband was in the study, unloading papers on some new equipment.
“Hey, handsome, you want to buy a girl a drink?”
Yates looked at his wife and his eyebrows twitched slightly. “Err, yes, ma’am, what would you like?”
“Not so much of the ma’am handsome. I’m Sugar, Brown Sugar. And I drink Champagne.”
“I don’t think we have any.” Yates looked suddenly disappointed.
“Wanna bet, handsome?” Selma jerked her head at the refrigerator. Her husband opened the door. Sure enough, there was a bottle of champagne chilling in an ice-bucket.
“Well what’ya know? Let me pour you a glass, Brown Sugar.” The glasses were close at hand and Yates was a master at opening champagne bottles. The cork popped out with barely a plop and none of the wine was wasted fizzing out. “You want to party?”
“Sure thing handsome. You got the dough, we got the party.” Selma was working hard to keep the sultry, seductive tone in her voice while the champagne bubbles went up her nose. She was suppressing the urge to laugh. Did people actually fall for this routine, she thought to herself. She supposed so; what amazed her was that her husband seemed to be doing just that.
“What’s this going to cost me?” Yates asked the question straight-faced. Selma reached into her bag and produced a list of ‘available services.’ It was quite genuine. She’d got the details from a friend of hers in the local police, explaining that she needed it for a paper she had to write as part of her liberal studies requirement at university. Although, if her professors ever found what she was using her PhD studies as a cover for, they’d probably have heart failure.
Her husband was reading the list while his eyebrows went out of control. “You know, there are things on here I didn’t think were possible.”
“Been there done them all handsome. Now, you wanna party or do I find another catch?”
“Let’s party. I want to try that.” Yates indicated an item fairly far down the expensive end of the list.
“That’ll be two hundred bucks handsome. Payable in advance.” Selma looked at the item in question and felt her own eyebrows rise slightly. That was unexpected, she thought. Still, it was on the list so she’d have to go through with it. Then, she took the roll of notes and stuffed them in her bra. “Right, lover, let’s party.”
Several hours later, Selma quietly got up, leaving her husband snoring happily on their bed, went to her room and changed out of her costume. The family bank books were on her desk and she filled out a paying-in slip to put the two hundred dollars she’d just ‘earned’ into the kid’s college fund. Then she cleaned off her make-up. By the time she got back, her husband had woken up.
“Oh, it’s you. I thought it was ‘Brown Sugar’.”
“Perhaps another time, lover. You happy?”
“Yeah, Broke, but happy. Sellie, you fancy a trip to Cuba? I can grab a week’s leave while the birds are in dock for the new tests.”
“Shield Maiden in the test program then? We haven’t had the work orders yet.”
“We are. We’re part of the laser test team. So, how about Cuba?”
“I’ve got leave coming up as well. We could take the kids as well; make it over Christmas?”
“Sounds good.” Yates relaxed, his arm curled around his wife. “I hear Cuba’s quieted down a lot since the old days. Had to happen I suppose. Once regular companies started investing lots of money, I guess the Mob ways didn’t really work so well.”
“Still pretty wild, and the Mob still run the place, in theory at least. We can book up in Disney’s place there; the kids will love that. And if you’re a real good boy, Brown Sugar might pay you another visit.”
Government limousine, approaching the NSC Building.
“Is the traffic always this heavy?” Branwen was shocked by the congestion that was typical of Washington’s rush hour. Geneva had nothing on this.
“This is not too bad. It will be worse in a month or two. All we need is half an inch of snow and Washington grinds to a halt.” Mrs. Sunderstrom snorted slightly, Stockholm dealt with serious snow every winter without much fuss. Gusoyn edged into the right hand lane and then turned on to a down ramp that took them under one of the office buildings. He brought them to a halt behind a bright red Ferrari that was passing through the security checkpoint. Ahead of them, the candy-striped barrier rose and the Ferrari shot through. It dropped again and Gusoyn eased the government Packard up to the box.
“Don’t tell me that Ferrari was a government vehicle?” Branwen sounded incredulous.
“What would happen if I punched that number in?” Branwen was fascinated.
“If you were Igrat, as far as we can make out, you would get in. Otherwise, unless you hit lucky on literally a thousand to one shot, a steel barrier would come up behind us and Security would be down here in seconds.” Gusoyn drove in and parked the car in a spot with its registration plate number painted on the blacktop. “Ladies, follow me please. This is a secure government building, so I am obliged to warn you not to take any photographs or look in any offices that might be open.”
He led his charges to an elevator, ushered them inside, then pressed the button for the 14th floor. The elevator ride was smooth and swift. The dreadful elevator muzak that some buildings inflicted on their occupants was mercifully absent. The lift opened directly opposite the National Security Advisor’s officer suite. Branwen looked around, a little furtively, comparing it to Loke’s suite. It was less opulent; the style was modern rather than Loki’s preferred classical, but there was no absence of modern technology. Her eye was drawn to a painting on the wall that separated the reception area from the Seer’s office. It showed a B-36 on a runway with a B-70 taking off over it. She couldn’t read the signature on it. Gusoyn read her thoughts “Leonard Vincent,” he said quietly.
“Hi, Branwen. You must be Mrs. Sunderstrom? Thanks Gusoyn, I’ll take it from here.”
Lillith pressed the button on the communication box on her desk. “Boss, your oh-nine thirty is here.”
“Trot them in.” Branwen and Mrs. Sunderstrom headed for the Seer’s office. Lillith scribbled something on her pad and grinned at Gusoyn. “This should be fun.”
“I thought The Seer did not care for those things?” Gusoyn gestured at the communication box.
“He doesn’t. That’s why we don’t have them on the Thirteenth Floor. But we do have them here.”
The Seer’s Office, NSC Building, Washington B.C.
“So, what can I do for you?” The Seer relaxed in his chair, looking at the two women sitting opposite him. The apparently older woman looked a little confused by the surroundings and apprehensive at being in the lair of the notorious targeteers.
“Sir, it’s my daughter, Karyn. Two years ago she was at university in Stockholm when she met a young Argentine student. They fell in love, and a year ago she went to Argentina to be with him. About a month after she arrived, there was some sort of incident on the Buenos Aires university campus and a lot of students were arrested. One of them was Karyn’s boyfriend. About two days later, some men came to the hostel she was staying in and bundled her into a car. That’s the last we have heard of her. She has just vanished. I’ve been asking the Swedish Foreign Affairs Ministry and they’ve made inquiries but they get nothing.”
“So, I ask again, what can we do for you? In this case, ‘we’ being the United States Government?”
“Nobody cares what Sweden says or does, but they do care what America does. So could you make the inquiries, make the Argentine government release my daughter? Or send your SEALs to get her?”
The Seer sighed and tapped his fingers. “Firstly, Mrs. Sunderstrom, I must ask you to be realistic about this. Argentina is notorious. People who oppose the regime in power there ‘disappear.’ None of those who have vanished have ever, say again, ever, reappeared. Your daughter has been missing for a year and I am deeply sorry to have to say that it is almost certain that she has been killed. She was probably dead within hours of being picked up.” The Seer didn’t voice the other thought that had run through his mind. She had been picked up as a lever to make her boyfriend talk. In that case she might have lived longer, at least while she had that use, but there is no need to distress this woman with the implications of that. “Also, none of the bodies have ever turned up. You must resign yourself to the certainty that you will never see your daughter again. The best you can hope for is to find out what happened to her.
“Now, as to what we can do, I am also very sorry to tell you that the answer again is ‘very little.’ The U.S. policy on Argentina, both under this administration and its predecessor, is that we regard their regime as deplorable and an affront to human dignity. We have as little to do with them as possible. We’ve cut off supplies of military equipment and do not support the systems that they do have. But, as far as your daughter is concerned, there is very little we can do. Since she is not a U.S. citizen, we have no right or duty to take any action on her behalf. Nor are there any other reasons that would give us cause to involve ourselves on her behalf. I’m afraid the only government that can take any action is the Swedish government. It would be different if an American citizen had been disappeared in this manner but the Argentine Junta has been clever enough not to do that. The worst they have done is put any of our people they don’t like on a plane out of the country.”
“But she’s my daughter. If you’d lost children of your own “ In the background, Lillith, quietly taking notes of the meeting, winced. Both on her own behalf and on the Seer’s.
“As it happens, Mrs. Sunderstrom, I do know exactly how you feel. That is why you are sitting here today. However, I cannot allow my personal feelings to affect the interests of the United States. We can’t do anything, however much we might like to. We have been accused of trying to rule the world by terror, of using the threat of nuclear destruction to force people to obey our commands, but we don’t do anything like that. We can’t, couldn’t even if we wanted to. We can’t go sending troops into countries to rescue any and all people from the governments of those countries. Otherwise we would be doing exactly what our critics accuse us of doing.”
Mrs. Sunderstrom nodded, slowly and unhappily, painfully aware that she had been one of those who, in days long past, had spoken out against the United States and its supposed nuclear-based tyranny. Now that the reality of the world had started hammering on her door, she had become painfully aware of the limits of power. The Seer, watching her, saw that reality strike home.
“We have certain vital interests that we must protect and every country in the world knows full well what those are. The prime one is, don’t start wars of aggression. If a country really wants to fight a war, then it must keep it small, keep it restricted, fight decently and end it reasonably. Break those rules and we’ll end the war by ending the aggressor. Another vital interest; don’t abuse American citizens. If one of our citizens goes to a country and breaks their laws, that’s their hard luck. As long as they get a fair trial and a punishment that’s commensurate with the offense, then we’re happy. But disappear one of our people and we’ll get them back or exact a due, dispassionate and totally excessive revenge on their behalf. Now, can you tell me how committing U.S. forces and getting a lot of people killed on behalf of your daughter falls under those categories?”
Mrs. Sunderstrom shook her head, crying slightly. “But she’s my baby. Is there nothing we can do for her?”
“I didn’t quite say that. Can we do something now? No. Not officially any way. We can hang our ears out. We can search the winds for any mention of your daughter. We can try and find any reference to her in various places. Mrs. Sunderstrom, one thing I have learned in this job is that powers like Argentina eventually make mistakes and bring the wrath of the world down on their heads. When that happens, we may be in a position to ask the right questions, to get answers and to find out what will happen. That day may come much sooner than you think. When it does, Karyn Sunderstrom will be on the list of names we will be asking about. More than that, I cannot promise you.”
Cabinet Room, 10 Downing Street, London, UK
“Cruisers are obsolete. Their inclusion in the propos
ed building program is simply old-fashioned admirals trying to hang on to the past. They’d be building battleships if we let them. The Treasury insists that these ships be cancelled and that the Royal Navy estimates be reduced accordingly.” Derek Featherstone looked around the assembled Cabinet aggressively, defying anybody to disagree with his dictates.
“Admiral Gillespie, do you have an answer to that.” The Prime Minister’s voice was mild. Those who knew him detected an edge that threatened an unpleasant half hour for somebody.
“Yes, Sir. As you might expect, I disagree with the opinion expressed by the Chancellor of the Exchequer on many levels. The cruisers we have in our fleet perform a number of vital functions that cannot be duplicated by smaller ships. First and foremost is that of flagships… “
“Barges for admirals.” Featherstone snorted the description with contempt.
“Derek, please do not interrupt the Admiral again.” Prime Minister Newton’s voice was still quiet but the edge was noticeably sharper. “Continue please, Admiral.”
“As I was saying, the four cruisers we have in service fulfill the role of command ships excellently. They have the internal volume to contain the equipment for both long-and short-range communications. They have the accommodation for the staff. Their size makes them stable in bad weather and they have the electrical power generation needed to run the equipment on board. The last is something of a new factor but it’s becoming very important. The role of flagship isn’t just restricted to fleet operations. When we have been conducting joint missions with the Army, the cruisers have been invaluable forward command facilities.”
General Howard raised a linger and the Prime Minister nodded. “I would like to support the comments made by the First Sea Lord concerning the value of the cruisers in joint operations. In that Sierra Leone business last year, they proved invaluable as command ships. Their six-inch guns came in useful as well.”
