The Seventh Angel - Страница 51

He shivered, and looked down toward the darkly rolling waves. “There are 130 people on that submarine,” he said. “And I don’t want to hurt any of them. But there are millions of people in Washington, and Oregon, and California, and Colorado …”

He turned toward Ann. “I’m a liaison and logistics guy,” he said. “Not a technician, or an operator. I can’t make Mouse do his stuff. That’s your end of the business. So this all comes down to you. If you help the Navy destroy that sub, you’ll have 130 deaths on your conscience. I’m not going to lie to you, Ann. You probably will have nightmares. Hell, I’m just the hand-shaker and the pencil-pusher, and I’ll probably have nightmares. But if you do nothing to stop that sub, and it launches more nukes at the United States …” His voice trailed off.

“I wonder, Ann,” he said quietly, “How many nightmares will we get, if we let a million people die?”

CHAPTER 39

USS TOWERS (DDG-103)

WESTERN PACIFIC OCEAN

TUESDAY; 05 MARCH

0631 hours (6:31 AM)

TIME ZONE +11 ‘LIMA’

“Okay,” Captain Bowie said. “Let’s go around the table again. There’s a solution to this, people. We just haven’t found it yet.”

He looked to his left. “XO?”

The Executive Officer of Towers, Lieutenant Commander Bishop, took a deep breath. “ONI thinks the bad guys have pre-staged explosives at various positions around the ice pack. Maybe there’s some way to detect them. If we can get some helos to over-fly the ice, they might be able to pick up infrared sources, or MAD signatures from the hardware attached to the explosives.”

“That’s a good thought,” Captain Bowie said. “We’ll borrow a couple of helos from Seventh Fleet to try it out.” He looked to the XO’s left. “Chief?”

Chief Sonar Technician Theresa McPherson pursed her lips. “I’m not getting any brainstorms, Captain. All I can think of is the obvious. We slip north, under cover of darkness, and get as close to the ice pack as we dare. We deploy the towed array, and run slow search patterns along the southern edge of the ice. About an hour before sunrise, we pull the tail in, and head south before we get caught with our fingers in the cookie jar.” She shrugged. “If we search three or four nights in row, we might get lucky and catch the sub down near the southern end of the ice.”

“That sub is going to be in creep mode,” the XO said. “Slow and quiet. You think you’ll be able to detect him?”

“It’ll take a lot of luck, sir,” the Chief said. “In these latitudes at this time of year, we’ve got about 14 hours of darkness every night. Over a few nights, that adds up to a lot of search time. If one of the Russian sailors does something careless, like leaning a broom handle against a pipe, it might create a sound-short. If we get lucky, that will put some vibration in the water where our tail can pick it up.”

“That sounds pretty iffy,” Captain Bowie said.

Chief McPherson nodded. “It’s extremely iffy, sir. I don’t think my lucky rabbit foot is going to be big enough to handle it. I just can’t think of anything else to do.”

The Anti-Submarine Warfare Officer, Lieutenant (junior grade) Patrick Cooper, cleared his throat. “Uh … Captain? Is there any way we could try using that Mouse unit without the help of the civilian technician? We’ve got a lot of smart people on this ship, including some pretty savvy computer geeks. Maybe one of them can figure how to program the Mouse unit to do what we want.”

The captain shook his head. “It’s tempting, Pat. And I’ve thought about it, believe me. But we can’t afford to get this wrong. We may only get one shot at that submarine. If we screw it up because we don’t know how to program that damned robot properly, we may miss our only opportunity to end this.”

“Then you need somebody who isn’t going to screw it up,” a woman’s voice said.

The words came from the entrance to the wardroom. The assembled officers and chiefs turned to see the civilian technician, Ann Roark, holding open the wardroom door. Standing in the passageway behind her was the other civilian, Sheldon Miggs.

The Roark woman nodded toward the captain. “Permission to come aboard your wardroom, or whatever. Sorry, I forgot to knock. I’m not exactly up on the finer points of military etiquette.”

Captain Bowie nodded. “Please, come in, both of you. Have a seat.”

The civilians entered the room and found chairs.

“Thank you, Captain,” Sheldon Miggs said.

Ann Roark leaned back in her chair. “I apologize for last night, Captain. I’m not a fighter, as you’ve probably figured out. And I have serious trouble with the idea of killing people.”

Her fingers drummed nervously on the table top. “But we’re here to help. Whatever you need Mouse to do, we’ll try to help you do it.”

Captain Bowie studied her for several seconds. “We’re going to try to destroy the K-506,” he said. “And that means killing over a hundred people. Are you sure you can handle that?”

Ann Roark swallowed heavily, but nodded. “I’m not going to pretend that I’m okay with killing the crew of that submarine. But I understand that it has to be done. And I can shelve my personal issues and do it. I guess it comes down to the choice between something bad, and something worse.”

“It does indeed,” Captain Bowie said. “That’s precisely what it comes down to.”

Chief McPherson raised her eyebrows. “If you don’t mind my asking,” she said. “What exactly changed your mind?”

Ann Roark looked at her coworker, Sheldon Miggs. “Something I read in the Boy Scout Handbook,” she said.

CHAPTER 40

WHITE HOUSE

NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISOR’S OFFICE

WASHINGTON, DC

MONDAY; 04 MARCH

3:12 PM EST

National Security Advisor Gregory Brenthoven looked up at the knock on his door. “Enter.”

The door opened, and Cheryl White from the National Reconnaissance Office walked in, carrying a brown leather briefcase. “Good morning, Greg. Can I bother you for a minute?”

Brenthoven motioned her to the chair on the other side of his desk. “Morning, Cheryl. What have you got?”

White sat down, and extracted a yellow folder from the briefcase. The edges of the folder were bordered with black diagonal stripes. She laid the folder on the desk top, and opened it to reveal a thin stack of photographs.

“Remember when you asked NRO to look for signs of Zhukov’s submarine communications system?”

Brenthoven nodded. “Of course.”

“We haven’t found hide nor hair of it,” White said. “Not yet, anyway. But what we did find was pretty interesting.”

She pointed to the top photo on the stack. “These were shot by Forager 715, one of the Air Force’s Oracle III surveillance satellites, as it passed over southeastern Russia on the twenty-sixth of February. The satellite’s primary surveillance mission was a nuclear reactor facility in Iran, so Forager was on the outbound leg of its orbit when these photos were taken. The altitude was about 500 kilometers and increasing, which is outside of the optimal range window for the satellite’s cameras. The clarity isn’t great, but the shots are readable.”

Brenthoven looked at the satellite photo. A pair of blurred oblongs were visible against a dark background of ocean. “These are ships?”

White nodded, and moved a different photo to the top of the stack. “This is the same shot, enlarged and digitally enhanced.”

In this photo, the two oblongs were clearly ships, with blocky white superstructures running most of the length of each vessel.

“The SAWS operator assigned to Forager 715 ran these enhancements,” White said. “His name is Technical Sergeant George Kaulana. He processed this image through silhouette recognition, and correctly identified both of these ships as car carriers. Specifically, they’re the Motor Vessel Shunfeng, and the Motor Vessel Jifeng. They’re 20,000-ton Roll-on/Roll-off vessels, or what we call Ro-Ro’s. Both built by HuangHai Shipyard in China.”

“I’m with you so far,” Brenthoven said, “but I don’t have any idea where you’re going with this.”

White shuffled another picture to the top of the stack. The oblong smudges of the ships were much smaller, and the large gray form of a dagger-shaped landmass dominated the upper part of the image. “Both ships were on a scheduled run from China to Mexico,” White said. “According to the voyage plans filed by the owners of record, the ships were supposed to deliver 4,00 °Chinese economy cars from Zhuhai to Veracruz. But both ships made an unscheduled course deviation. They turned north, out of the shipping lanes, and pulled in to Petropavlosk, Kamchatka instead.”

Brenthoven tapped a pencil against the top of his desk. “Hmmm …”

“Hmmm is an understatement,” White said. “Four thousand import cars don’t show up on time, and the Mexican importer doesn’t demand an inquiry, and he doesn’t file a complaint. Two merchant ships, worth several hundred million dollars apiece, sail off into Never-never land, and nobody files a piracy report, or sends out a presumed-lost bulletin. Not so much as an insurance claim. And nobody, and I do mean nobody, is asking where those 4,000 cars went. Not the exporter who shipped them. Not the importer who was supposed to receive them. Not the car manufacturer, who’s suddenly out two entire shiploads of shiny new product. Nobody.”