“Or left in Russia, for that matter.”
“Absolutely not.”
“What did she do? And sir, that is part of the same question.”
“Tell you what. I’ll give you this one for free. You may as well know the whole enchilada. I figure you got the right. Besides, you did rescue her for me.”
“I’m all ears, sir.”
“She schooled you on how an EM launcher works, I assume. And the problems.”
“Well enough.”
“Okay. A few years back, our Dr. Cherlina and her team at Molniya came up with a very smart idea. Instead of shooting a shitload of juice in one large force into two parallel metal rails, why not ramp up the power in increments? Accelerate the projectile repeatedly as it travels down the rails. Distribute magnets along the length of the launcher, pulse the charge. You cut way back on the thermal energy, and that minimizes erosion and warping. You reduce the G-load from thousands to under a hundred, so now you can use GPS-guided projectiles.”
“That’s impressive.”
“Not as impressive as this.” Piper clapped hands and rubbed them together. Then he pointed the pistols of two fingers at LB’s face. “At the Plesetsk Cosmodrome, Dr. Cherlina oversaw the design and construction of a one-mile-long elevated electromagnetic track. This big bastard railgun successfully accelerated a forty-ton load—that’s what I said, a forty-ton payload—to a velocity of two kilometers per second. The projectile reached an altitude of one hundred kilometers, then separated and punched a one-ton satellite into earth orbit with a booster.”
“Wow.”
“And here’s the kicker. Other than the obvious, do you know why this incredible technical feat is so important? Why would the United States care that a country with the biggest booster rockets in the world launched a forty-ton payload off a mile-long electromagnetic track? Can you figure that one out?”
“Because we couldn’t track it.”
“Because we could not goddamn track it. Exactly. There was no heat signature. It’s Sputnik all over again—the Russians beat us to the punch. We’re playing catch-up. Oh, we’ll figure out how to spot an EM launch at some point now that we know we got to do it. That’ll take a while. But this capability to put a load into orbit off a rail is not something we want the Russians or anyone else to corner the market on. Up to this point, our EML research has focused on the metallurgic and power problems of deploying one as a naval weapon. Frankly, we’ve paid no attention to sequential acceleration. But it looks like a damn ingenious approach, for orbital as well as weapons. That is why Dr. Iris Cherlina is now working for you and me, under an assumed name, of course, at an undisclosed location. She will get no credit for the intellectual property she will develop, she’ll have restricted travel under US supervision, and she’ll only be allowed to confer with a few of her old mentors face-to-face. This operation is blacker than black. But she’ll have unlimited funds to work with and will be our lead scientist in pushing railgun technology to the lunatic fringe. Iris Cherlina pounced at the chance, to be honest. And you are now one of the few people in the world who knows it.”
LB’s arm ached in its sling. His calf tweaked him, too. The team would be attending a service for Robey tomorrow morning.
“So that’s what she couldn’t tell me.”
“Beg pardon.”
“Iris. She said she was just accompanying the cargo to Iran.”
“That was a lie, Sergeant, one of several I’m sure you heard. No, she was going to re-create the whole shebang for the Iranians. In a couple of years, they’d be launching shit we couldn’t spot, too. The railgun that got sunk was a next-generation prototype of her acceleration technology. The woman is a pioneer.”
“I get the picture.”
“Do you? Enlighten me.”
“This whole operation was a scam. Everything my team and I went through on that ship was to cover your ass so you could screw the deal with Iran, fake Iris’s death, then steal her for yourself.”
Piper rocked back in his chair like a man who’d just enjoyed a performance.
“Dead center. That is what we did. Congratulations, my boy. What do you think of yourself?”
“I think, sir, that anything you take from me in this room, I can get back. The whole thing sucks, and I think you need to hear that perspective from one of the guys who did the bleeding.”
Piper stood, done with LB.
“Nothing new here, son. Old men make wars, young men fight them. It’s going to be that way in any future we make. Rely on it. Now I’m going to leave on that note. Got a long flight back.”
LB unlocked the door and twisted the knob. He pulled open the door to let the general out. Piper took a step into the common room and stopped. LB halted in the doorway.
Wally kept watch from the Ping-Pong table; the rest of the PJs paid no attention. The general whispered over his shoulder: “You did good in there. Smart-alecky, but you held your own. Go ahead and keep your stripes. I lost count anyway.”
Walking off, wrinkled and formidable, Piper lifted his voice to all the PJs in the Barn.
“Remember, boys. Mum’s the goddamn word.”
Chapter 56
Jamie limped on two legs, LB on one, and neither Wally nor Quincy in slings could carry five bottles. Doc fetched all the beers.
Eleven Degrees North simmered after a hot day. April had lost its mildness, beginning the short slide into a Horn of Africa summer. Even with the sun down two hours ago, the patio’s concrete emitted warmth like a living thing under their boots, the metal chairs and table refusing to cool with the evening breeze off the gulf. LB wiped cold sweat from his beer on the back of his neck.
As usual after chow, the bar was crowded. One of the beauties of the place was that the men and women of the base did not clot by service. Sandy marine fatigues mingled with army-green camos. Pilots in flight suits, mechanics in overalls, anyone in T-shirts and shorts, all bought each other the next round, shared lighters for cigarettes. Japanese, French, Spanish, and British accents drifted past the PJs’ table. LB listened to those other conversations around him because none of the men with him were talking, just drinking.
Major Torres dropped by. She sat for five minutes of polite chat, making no mention of the mission, their bandages and slings, or Jamie’s crutches. Her presence at the table set the PJs on edge; Torres was the officer who’d started it all. Her smile at their wounds said everything for her; Torres knew less than any of them. All she could honor them with was blinks and that pretty smile.
Each of the PJs wanted to talk about what he’d done two days ago but couldn’t, not for solace or teasing. They wanted to recollect and honor Robey, a young man they hardly knew who’d laid his life down for them and whose sacrifice could never be spoken of. The memory of his death was ordered wiped away, no monument anywhere, reported as a training accident. Wally excused himself and the PRCC from the table.
Doc was the next to go. He bought one more round, delivered the bottles to the table. He dared the powers that be, saying, “These are for Robey,” then bid good night.
Quincy, Jamie, and LB finished their drinks silently. The bar’s lights didn’t blank out the African stars. All three leaned back in their chairs to study the pinpricks, using the Milky Way to stay at the table together a little longer without words. At last, with the bottles empty, Quincy rose to disappear into the crowd. He returned to tell Jamie he’d found them a ride back to the Barn. He stood one more bottle on the table, then the two left.
LB let the beer sit. He’d had enough, maybe more. He pushed it across the table when Wally sat.
Wally eased out of the sling to work his arm and slouch. LB gestured to the bottle.
“Go ahead.”
Wally waved it off, tired. “No, thanks. It’s yours.”
“I gave it to you.”
“I don’t want it. You drink it.”
LB lifted the beer. “That an order?”
“Don’t go there.”
“No, no. Don’t want to disobey an order.”
In one tip, LB guzzled half the bottle. Wally stretched his good arm for the second half, finishing it the same way. He set it down loudly, not between them but out of the way.
LB leaned on his good arm far across the table, less concerned with treason than loyalty. He checked to be sure no one else could hear him.
“Tell me you wouldn’t have fucking shot me.”
Wally took the same look-around for listeners. “Quit whining. You talked me out of it.”
“Why’d you come back over here?”
“You were by yourself.”
“Now I can’t sit by myself?”
Wally flicked his wrist, the same gesture he used to reject the beer. He kept his voice low. “Next time I will. I’ll just shoot you.”
LB stood, not sure why. He got to his feet because when someone says something like that, a man stands. Wally was drunk, too, and didn’t mean it, but when he slid his arm into the sling, he glared like he did.
Rising also, Wally bumped the table. The bottle toppled to its side and rolled to the edge. Both men could not stop it. The bottle hit the concrete but didn’t break.
LB tapped his own chest, mimicking a bullet there. “Shoot me? Because of bullshit orders? We both got Jolly Green Giant feet tattooed on our asses. Period.”
Wally pointed. “Sit down.”
“Why?”
“Because I can carry two beers. Then we’ll settle this.” Wally wove into the crowd. The night was too early to have drunk this much. LB thought to leave, let Wally return to an empty table. They wouldn’t settle anything; they were going to argue and drink.
But LB refused to disappear.
He sat, not because he was told to.
GLOSSARY
AFRICOM. US Africa Command
BDU. Battle dress uniform
cows’ tails. Lanyards clipped to rings in the floor of a helicopter
C4I. Command, control, communications, computers, and intelligence
CCS. Command and control stations
CSAR. Combat search and rescue
CQB. Close quarters battle
CRO. Combat rescue officer
CTF 151. Combined Task Force 151, the international counterpiracy task force
DKAV or D=KAV. Calculation for freefall and canopy drift, using several factors, including wind velocity, altitude, and direction
EML. Electromagnetic launcher
ERQS. Expeditionary Rescue Squadron
Guardian Angels. Overall system name for US Air Force pararescue resources
IRTC. Internationally Recognized Transit Corridor
JOC. Joint Operations Center
IP. Isolated personnel
IR. Infrared
LRP. Long range patrol
LT. Lieutenant
LZ. Landing zone
ODA. Operational detachment alpha (formerly Green Berets)
PJ. Pararescue jumper
PR. Personnel recovery
PRCC. Personnel Recovery Coordination Cell
PTT. Press to talk
RAMZ. Rigged Alternate Method Zodiac
SERE. Survive, evade, resist, escape
SIE. Self-initiated elimination
SF. Special Forces
SSAS. Ship Security Alarm System
target. Jargon for “target”
TDY. Temporary duty assignment
technical. Armed pickup truck
UAV. Unmanned aerial vehicle
UKMTO Dubai. United Kingdom Maritime Trade Operations office in Dubai, UAE
Acknowledgments
For my several historical novels, I’ve been able to gather a great deal of the information I needed out of archives and nonfiction books, the recorded voices of the dead. But for a novel like this one, a contemporary tale, I’ve had to rely much more on the living.
At every step in my research, folks in and out of the military embraced both me and the notion of a novel about combat search and rescue (CSAR) on a massive cargo ship. I’ve spent time listening on three continents, four seas, and one ocean to men recounting their adventures, dangers, and wisdom. I’ve done my best to weave their vivid experiences into a story that not only is exciting but rings true. To a greater extent than any book I’ve written, this novel owes its character to the guidance and generosity of many advisers.
On Long Island, at Francis S. Gebreski Airport, the PJs and CROs of the USAF 103rd RQS showed me hospitality, trust, and just how cool and brave their lives are. While every man I spoke with contributed to my knowledge and admiration, the ones with whom I spent the most time were Maj. Scott Williams (the original LB), Lt. Colonel John McElroy, Lt. Colonel Shawn Fitzgerald, base Col. Tom Owens, and Captain Glyn Weir. Thanks to them, LB and Wally are alive and kicking each other.
In Djibouti, I was hosted by the pararescueman of the 58th RQS out of Nellis Air Force Base. While deployed with these men, I had better food, more fun, more excitement, and better sleeps than in any civilian days in recent memory. If I were a younger fellow, I would want to be like them. Since I cannot, some characters in my book (Quincy, Doc, Jamie) are. Thank you.
For two weeks, between Malta and Dubai, I was fortunate enough to sail on the CMA CGM Hydra in the company of Capt. Slavko “Dado” Malasic and his lovely wife, Valnea. Along with Chief Engineer Razvan Uta, they taught me everything I needed to know about massive cargo ships, traveling great distances on blue seas, Ping-Pong, Dracula, piloting a huge ship with a tiny wheel, and high spirits. I could not have conceived this book without them.
My agent Luke Janklow of Janklow & Nesbitt is a star in many rights. He, for being an impatient man, has shown me great restraint and faith. I’ve pledged not to vex him so greatly in the future, because he’s been proven right often enough. Clare Dippel, his assistant, has been a guiding light for the journey of this book. Between the two of them, I am as confident in my representation as I’ve ever been.
At Thomas & Mercer, editor Andy Bartlett and his team of professionals have amazed me with their competence and eagerness to make this book a success. As any author will tell you, it’s a deeply gratifying experience to work with folks who not only care about your book, but are talented and open-minded along the way.
As he has for all ten of my novels, my old friend Jim Redington, MD, helped with everything medical. The Public Affairs Office of the USAF at the Pentagon was a dream to work with.
Sherrie Najarian is not just a smart, classy beauty. She’s also a first-class editor. Like so many others, she added many things to this novel for which I receive credit.
—David L. Robbins
About the Author
Photo by Maj. John McElroy, USAF, 2010
David L. Robbins currently teaches advanced creative writing at VCU Honors College. His exceptional talent is displayed through ten action-packed novels, including the classic War of the Rats, Broken Jewel, The Betrayal Game, The Assassins Gallery, and Scorched Earth. An award-winning essayist and screenwriter, Robbins founded the James River Writers, an organization dedicated to supporting professional and aspiring writers. He also co-founded the Podium Foundation, which encourages artistic expression in Richmond’s high schools. Robbins extends his creative scope beyond fiction as an accomplished guitarist and student of jazz, pop, and Latin classical music. When he’s not writing, he’s often found sailing, shooting, weightlifting, and traveling the world. He lives in his hometown of Richmond, Virginia.
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