by Jeff Edwards
Captain Bowie’s eyebrows went up.
Chief McPherson smiled. “That’s pretty heady stuff, sir. Have you been eating your Wheaties?”
Ensign Cooper frowned. “Why, Chief? Did I say something wrong?”
The chief shook her head. “Not as far as I can see, sir. I think you nailed it.”
Commander Vargas tilted her head to one side. “It’s still just a guess, but I have to admit, it looks like a pretty damned good one.”
“Looks good to me,” Lieutenant (jg) Sherman said.
“Okay,” Captain Bowie said. “We go with Pat’s hunch until something better comes along.”
Ensign Cooper’s eyes widened.
Captain Bowie laughed. “Don’t look so shocked, Pat. We’re not so hidebound that we can’t recognize good thinking when we see it, even if it does come from the new kid on the block. Now, reach into your hunch generator and see if you can pull out the next place that sub is going to take on fuel. He’s got to be thirsty by now. Where’s he going to stop for a drink?”
Ensign Cooper studied the chart. After a few seconds, he said, “Qatar.”
Commander Vargas looked at Captain Bowie. “Where did you find this kid? The Psychic Hotline?”
“It’s within the sub’s range, if it fueled up in Socotra,” Ensign Cooper said. “The current regime is not particularly friendly to the United States. It’s even roughly in line with the sub’s last known position and the Siraji port of Zubayr.”
“What about Iran?”Lieutenant (jg) Sherman asked. “They’re not big fans of the U.S., and they’ve got tons of coastline that a sub could slip up to.”
“Iran doesn’t like us much,” Ensign Cooper said, “but they hate Siraj a lot more. Those guys have been sniping across the border at each other for thirty years. I doubt the Iranian government would jump through hoops to break an arms embargo against one of their long-running enemies.”
“I’ll admit,” Commander Vargas said, “that Qatar is copping an attitude toward us. But would they risk international censure to help out Siraj?”
“They might, if the money was right,” Ensign Cooper said. “But, if they’re smart, they won’t let the submarine pull into any of their ports. They’ll keep it at sea, so they can claim ignorance if things go bad.”
Captain Bowie frowned. “Does Qatar have any oilers configured for at-sea replenishment?”
Ensign Cooper shook his head. “Not that I know of, sir. But they don’t need one. All they have to do is pull up to an oil platform.”
“An interesting theory,” Lieutenant (jg) Sherman said, “but subs don’t run on crude oil. They’re going to need diesel, and oil platforms aren’t set up to refine crude oil into fuel.”
“Actually, oil platforms do have diesel tanks,” Ensign Cooper said. “For their generators and the small boats that work the rigs—that sort of thing.”
Chief McPherson whistled slowly through her teeth. “You have been eating your Wheaties!”
Commander Vargas nodded. “You could be right.”
Captain Bowie nodded also. “Maybe the pond isn’t as big as we thought.”
CHAPTER 43
OVAL OFFICE
WASHINGTON, DC
MONDAY; 21 MAY
1:07 AM EDT
The president held the receiver to his ear and verified that the green “secure” lamp was lit before speaking. “Okay, Emily. We’re green.”
The voice of British Prime Minister Emily Irons warbled slightly as it came through the encrypted phone. “I appreciate you taking my call at this hour, Frank. I should have checked the time difference before phoning.”
“Don’t give it a second’s thought,” the president said. He did his best to suppress a yawn. Emily Irons wasn’t known for wasting time on pleasantries, and she never called without a compelling reason. It was worth getting up before the roosters to hear anything she had to say.
“What’s on your mind, Emily?”
“The attack on my embassy,” she said.
The president automatically sat up straighter and tightened the belt of his robe. “I’m listening.”
“The attack was planned by Abdul Kaliq, the Siraji minister of defense, and financed by the government of Siraj through a series of blind bank transactions in the Cayman Islands.”
The president felt a twinge, deep in his bowels. “You’re certain?”
“There’s no room for doubt, Frank. I’ve seen the proof.”
“Are you going to take it to the UN?”
“No,” she said. “I’m going to handle the matter myself.”
“I see,” the president said. “Do you mind if I ask how you found out who was behind the attack?”
The British prime minister paused before answering. “That’s a bit of a sticky question, I’m afraid. I must ask you to trust me when I tell you that you will be much happier if you don’t ever know the answer to that question.”
It was the president’s turn to pause. “I had a homeland security briefing yesterday evening. It seems that there was a third man involved in the attack on your embassy—a Mr. Isma’il Hamid. He was struck down by a ruptured appendix before he could carry out his part of the plan. My intelligence people tell me that Hamid disappeared from his hospital bed at Columbia Memorial just about a half-hour before the FBI showed up to take him into custody. The hospital staff is certain that Mr. Hamid was far too sick to escape under his own power. You wouldn’t have any idea where Mr. Hamid disappeared to, would you?”
Emily Irons sighed into the phone. “Frank, I’m a little deaf in my left ear, and I didn’t hear that question. But, whatever it was, both of our lives will be much less complicated if you never ask it again.”
“I see,” the president said again. He rubbed his eyes. “No, Emily, I don’t see. I’m not trying to be rude, but surely you didn’t call me just to tell me that you can’t tell me anything.”
“Friedrik Shoernberg knew about the attack on my embassy, Frank.”
“What?”
“The BND, the German Federal Intelligence Service, had advanced intelligence on Abdul Kaliq’s plan to attack my embassy. I know for a fact that Shoernberg received a detailed brief on the attack at least a week before it happened.”
Frank swallowed. “You’ll have to excuse me, Emily, but I find that a little hard to believe. I’ll grant you that Friedrik has made some pretty dicey decisions lately, but the idea that he would …”
“He knew, Frank. The bastard knew the Sirajis were planning to murder my people, and he didn’t raise a finger to stop it.”
She paused for a few seconds. When she resumed speaking, her voice had a strangely formal quality to it. “Under its current regime, the Federal Republic of Germany constitutes a clear and present danger to the security and the sovereignty of the United Kingdom. In a few hours, I intend to ask Parliament for a formal resolution authorizing war with Germany.”
The president sat in silence for nearly a minute. “Are you certain you want to do this?”
“The Germans attacked my ships, in clear violation of Article 5 of the NATO Charter,” the British prime minister said. “And under Article 5, member nations of NATO are required to take whatever action is necessary to restore the security of the North Atlantic Treaty area.” Her voice took on a hard edge. “The charter doesn’t say we’re authorized to take action, Frank. It says we are required to take action. Article 5 also requires other signatory nations to assist any NATO country that has come under attack. I’m going to take the fight to Shoernberg’s door, Mr. President. And I expect the backing of the United States.”
The president closed his eyes. “I assume you’re going to petition the other NATO countries as well …”
“Of course,” Irons said.
“You’ll have trouble getting support,” the president said. “Shoernberg is claiming that your ships fired first at Gibraltar. Without concrete evidence, it’ll be difficult to prove that Germany struck the first blow.”
“The Ger
man government knew about the biological warfare attack on my embassy, Frank. They didn’t warn us, and they didn’t do anything to prevent it. And now they’re selling weapons to the very people who attacked us.”
“I know,” the president said. “But both of our countries lost a lot of popularity in NATO when we took on Iraq. Some of our NATO partners will want to believe Germany’s claim that your ships fired first at Gibraltar. And you’ll have to reveal your intelligence sources if you’re going to prove that Friedrik Shoernberg knew about the embassy attack ahead of time. From what you’ve told me, I suspect you’re not going to be able to reveal your sources. That’ll give France all the excuse it needs to side with Germany. Belgium will probably follow Germany on this as well. Italy could go either way. They gave us nominal support during the liberation of Iraq, but they’ve bucked us on nearly everything since. Turkey’s another coin toss. They’re still mad at us because we wouldn’t let them beat up the Kurds in northern Iraq.”
“Greece will back us,” Irons said. “So will Portugal, and Poland. And I think we can convince the majority of the others.”
“Maybe you’re right, Emily,” the president said. “Maybe you will be able to persuade most of the others. But at what cost? NATO is going to come apart at the seams. Do you really want that?”
“Of course not,” she said. “But the NATO alliance is worthless if we can’t call upon it to live up to its charter. Either NATO protects its members, or it doesn’t. And if it doesn’t, it isn’t an alliance at all. It’s just a lot of high-sounding words on paper.”
“What if I can take Shoernberg down?” the president asked. He gripped the phone more tightly as the words came out of his mouth, and he wished instantly that he hadn’t said them.
“What do you mean?” Irons asked.
The president gritted his teeth. In for a penny, in for a pound …
“Suppose I can take Shoernberg’s regime out of power … That would remove the threat to your country, wouldn’t it? The German people aren’t really your problem. It’s Shoernberg and his cronies.”
“How would you go about it?”
“For starters,” the president said, “I squash his last submarine like a bug. And if necessary, I order a surgical strike on the air base where the Germans are staging fighter jets for delivery to Siraj. I don’t let so much as a slingshot get through to Siraj.”
“Go on.”
“Then I rake Friedrik over the coals. I stand before the United Nations General Assembly and formally accuse him of violating everything from standing UN resolutions, to international law, to Article 5 of the NATO Treaty. I pull down his pants in front of the media. I paint him as not only a criminal, but an incompetent criminal. It’s not bad enough that he violates international law, but he’s not even smart enough to do it successfully.”
“That won’t be enough to push him out of power.”
“No. But it’s a start. Siraj won’t be supplying Germany with oil, because Germany won’t be delivering any weapons. My analysts tell me that the German economy is going to take a nosedive without that oil. They’re going to have one hell of an energy shortage, complete with power rationing—maybe even blackouts. I’ll crank up import tariffs on German-made products and squeeze their economy even harder. Once the crunch is really on, the German people will be screaming for Shoernberg’s head on a stick. I’ll have the CIA dig up every scrap of dirt that Shoernberg or his people ever touched. If one of them ever stole a candy bar, cheated on his taxes, or pinched a secretary on the rump, we’ll plaster it all over the six o’clock news. We’ll humiliate him every morning and discredit him every evening. Hell, I don’t know what all we’ll do. I’m just freewheeling here. I’ve never played dirty politics before. But I’ve got some smart people working for me, Emily. So do you. We’ll turn them loose on this.”
The prime minister paused before speaking. “I don’t think it will work, Frank.”
“Maybe it won’t,” the president said. “But it’s certainly worth trying. Anything is better than war. You know what happened the last two times your country butted heads with Germany …”
“This situation isn’t remotely similar,” Irons said. “We’re not going to drag the entire world into this. It won’t happen that way again. The world has changed too much.”
“We’d like to believe that,” the president said. “But we can’t be sure.”
He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “If war with Germany cannot be avoided, the United States will honor its obligations of treaty and its long-standing friendship with Great Britain. But I beg you, Emily … give me a chance to prevent this war.”
“You sink that submarine, Mr. President,” the British prime minister said, “and then we’ll talk.”
CHAPTER 44
GUNSLINGER FOUR-ONE
CENTRAL ARABIAN GULF (OFF THE COAST OF QATAR)
MONDAY; 21 MAY
0758 hours (7:58 AM)
TIME ZONE +3 ‘CHARLIE’
Lieutenant Vincent Brolan yawned hard enough to make his ears ring. “I fucking hate dawn patrol,” he said, for about the eighth time that morning. “I mean I really fucking hate it.”
“I know you do, Vince,” the copilot said. “And you really hate spending all that flight pay that you get for flying it.”
Brolan eased his aircraft, Gunslinger Four-One, a little closer to the oil platform. They were close enough to see the workers going about their morning routines, doing whatever the hell it was that oil rig workers did. A few of the workers turned at the sound of the helo’s rotor blades, and some of them even waved. Most of them paid no attention whatsoever. Helicopters were a dime a dozen in the gulf.
Lieutenant Brolan leaned his helmet against the port-side window and felt the vibration of the engines resonating through his skull. “Lucky Number Seven is a bust,” he said. “Let’s move on to our next contestant.”
The copilot, Lieutenant (junior grade) Enrico “Henry” Chavez, pointed down at the platform. “Don’t you think we ought to swing around and check out the back side?”
“It’s a waste of time, Henry. There’s nobody home.” Under his breath, he said, “This whole thing is a waste of time.”
“We ought to do this by the numbers, Vince. That sub has got to be hiding somewhere.”
“Yeah? Well if it ever was here, it’s long gone by now.”
“Come on, Vince. You know our orders.”
In the rear seat, the Sensor Operator, Aviation Warfare Systems Operator Second Class Linda “Mojo” Haynes, listened to the exchange and didn’t say a word. As the only enlisted member of the flight crew, she made it her business to stay out of disagreements between the officers.
The pilot let out a heavy sigh. “All right, okay, I’m turning already.” He banked the helicopter into a broad turn that would take them around behind the oil platform.
As they rounded the corner of the platform, it slid into view: a fat black cigar shape riding low in the water, tethered to the platform by a web of lines and hoses.
“Jackpot,” the SENSO said over the intercom. “There’s our submarine.”
Lieutenant (jg) Chavez reached up to key his mike, when a pair of nickel-sized holes surrounded by spider webs blossomed on the Plexiglas windshield to the left of his head. Simultaneously the helicopter was jarred sharply several times, as though someone with a hammer was banging on the fuselage.
“Holy shit!” Chavez shouted. “They’re shooting at us!”
Lieutenant Brolan swung the helo into a tight turn away from the station and put on the speed. A stream of tracers leapt up from the oil platform and blasted through the air where the helo had been a split second before. Brolan keyed his radio. “This is Gunslinger. I’m under fire!”
Lieutenant (jg) Chavez half turned in his seat and keyed his intercom. “Hey, Mojo. You okay back there?”
“I think I just peed my pants, sir!”
“Don’t feel like the Lone Ranger, kid!”
Lieuten
ant Brolan jogged the helo to the right just in time to avoid another burst of machine-gun fire. He shouted into the radio, “My aircraft is hit and still receiving hostile fire!”
“Gunslinger Four-One, this is SAU Commander. Evade and return to home plate. Help is on the way, over.”
Lieutenant Brolan jerked the stick to the left, but a series of rapid-fire hammer blows to the airframe told him that he hadn’t been quite fast enough. A chattering vibration started to come from the tail boom, and the indicator needles on several instruments began to swing crazily.
“I’m hit again!” Lieutenant Brolan shouted into the radio. “Gunslinger is hit again! We are still taking fire!”
“Gunslinger Four-One, this is SAU Commander. Can you tell me what kind of fire are you taking, over?”
“How the fuck should I know? Some kind of machine gun!”
Chavez keyed the radio. “SAU Commander, this is Gunslinger Four-One. We have located Gremlin Zero Four, moored to oil platform Golf. Our aircraft has taken several hits from one or more automatic weapons. Damage report to follow, over.”
He switched over to his intercom. “Mojo, I need a damage report. Give me a rapid survey; we’ll check for little stuff in a minute.”
A few seconds went by, but he didn’t receive an answer. He keyed the intercom again. “How’s it looking back there?”
No answer.
Chavez turned far enough in his seat to see into the rear of the cabin. Petty Officer Haynes was slumped over in her seat, her head hanging limply, bobbing and rolling with each movement of the aircraft. A dark stain was spreading across her chest, but against the olive drab of her flight suit, it was impossible to tell if it was blood. The helo took a particularly violent bump, and the young woman’s head lolled far enough to the side so that her face was partially visible. A dark red bubble formed over one nostril, broke, and then another one began to form. It was blood all right.
