Alternities (40 page)

“Whales,” Clifton remarked. “Amazing sounds.”

“Many smaller animals, too, sir, even certain species of shrimp. Cyclop’s East Coast ASW element alone includes nearly twenty thousand hydrophones—between ten and twenty per nautical mile—connected to twelve shore stations, each of which directs fire control for six to twelve Javelin batteries. Even with all that hardware, detection is often marginal, especially on the outer shelf where the subs are now operating.”

The aide turned to the map behind him. “This is a composite plot of contacts in Sector Five for the twelve hours ending midnight yesterday. Sector Five extends roughly from the Delaware Bay to Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. The blue tracks are confirmed sub movements; the red tracks are guesstimates. As you can see, even when a Foxtrot is on the move we lose contact periodically.”

Robinson leaned forward. “Am I reading this correctly, that there were five subs in the sector?”

“Five confirmed, sir. There are other contacts which may or may not have been subs. They do a lot of station-keeping, and there are shadow zones and submarine canyons to hide in. You could have a big sixteen-tube Hotel-class sub sitting on the bottom anywhere along here,” he said, pointing, “and Cyclops would never know. That’s where the coast patrol and the ASW aircraft come in, trying to fill the gap with sonar and magnetic detection.”

Robinson was growing impatient with the detail. “So it’s not easy to find them. Obviously you can, or that map would be blank. So why is any of this relevant?”

“I wanted to address one other matter,” the aide said, hurrying his words. “The subs can take active countermeasures if there’s reason to believe they’re under attack or likely to be under attack. Obviously, any system as sensitive as Cyclops can be jammed rather easily. Also, the Foxtrots have long-run decoy torpedoes which carry recordings of sub noises. They have growlers which can be towed—”

“Enough,” Robinson said irritably. “Admiral, maybe you can answer the question your aide ignored. Why is any of this relevant? I didn’t ask you to make me an antisubmarine warfare expert.”

“No, sir,” Fisch said, coming forward as the aide retreated to a chair. “It matters because it affects the tactics we choose to use and the chances of success.”

“Let’s talk about that, then,” Rodman said.

“Gladly,” said Fisch. “We have four ASW platforms available to us—the Javelins, the Rogers-class destroyer escorts, the P-5 patrol plane, and the Sea Devil helicopter. Of the four, the only one which satisfies the requirements of a program of deliberate accidental incidents are the missiles. They’re quick-hitters, which gives us a reasonable chance of cloaking the truth of the event.”

“That seems simple enough. If we go forward, that’s the way we’ll go,” Robinson said. “What’s all the fuss about? Or was your aide just trying to show me what a good student he was at the Naval War College?”

“Wally was doing what I asked him to,” Fisch said. “For all the reasons he outlined, the chances of success are no better than one in five for a single missile against a single target, or three in five for a salvo. The Javelin carries an acoustic homing torpedo, and the moment it hits the water all the boards on that sub are going to light up. If we miss, there’ll be no second chances and no ‘accident’ cover. He’ll have the spoofers and jammers on, and the first chance he gets the wire will go up for a bulletin to Moscow.”

Though the news was discouraging, Robinson showed no sign of distress. “The truth is. Admiral, I want Moscow to know. This isn’t a military operation so much as a diplomatic one. I have a card I want to play, and I can’t do it until they raise the stakes. So tell me, isn’t there some way to make a sure kill?”

The tactical aide and the Admiral exchanged glances. “Depth charge,” the aide said tentatively.

“No,” the Admiral said, shaking his head.

Robinson pounced. “What does he mean, depth charge?”

“Mr. President, I don’t think—” Fisch started.

“Don’t say no to me. You—Wally—explain,” Robinson said sharply.

Whipsawed between two superiors, the aide drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The Javelin can deliver either a torpedo or a nuclear depth charge. The DC makes very little noise on entry, no noise on the way down—”

“And a hell of a lot of noise when it goes off,” the Admiral said. “Kondratyev will never let you get away with nuking one of his subs, Mr. President. I know you haven’t asked for my opinion of the consequences of this kind of operation—”

“That’s right. Admiral,” Robinson said. “I haven’t. And please don’t offer one. You’re not fully in the picture on this.”

But the Admiral had a bit of bulldog in him. “Mr. President, is Secretary O’Neill in the picture? It seems to me that he ought to be involved in this decision.”

Rodman intercepted the question. “The Secretary has been consulted,” he said. “He is fully informed.”

The arrival at that moment of Dennis Madison precluded any further explanations. Madison carried a slim briefcase in his left hand, a cup of coffee in his right. “Got it,” he said simply.

“Good,” Robinson said. “Admiral, what are the odds of success with the depth charge?”

“Maybe eighty percent,” Fisch said reluctantly.

“Thank you. Admiral. That’ll be all for now.”

While the Admiral and his aide reluctantly gathered up their maps and exited, the four remaining men gathered around one end of the elongated octagonal table. “Did you have a chance to look at it?” Robinson asked when they were alone.

“Just a minute or two, in the car on the way up from Bolling,” Madison said, unlatching the case. “But it was enough. You were right, Mr. President. The British have A-bombs of their own, at least a hundred warheads and maybe twice that.”

“I knew it,” Robinson said with grim triumph. “Sons of bitches, I knew it.”

“I would never have believed it,” Clifton said, shaking his head.

“They’ve been in violation of their bilateral treaty all along.”

“It’s the only thing that made sense,” Robinson said. “I never did think Somerset would do all this, take that kind of risk, just to twit us. Especially walking into the situation cold. Not unless he knew that they were already in violation.”

“It does seem that their threshold resistance should have been higher,” Clifton agreed. “I am astonished, I truly am.”

“He used us pretty good,” Rodman said. “Used us to protect his own hole card.”

“Just so,” Robinson said.

“What’s the delivery platform?” Rodman asked Madison. “You can’t tell me they’ve managed to hide silos or a bomber fleet for twenty-five years.”

“No doubt they hid a submarine in Loch Ness or something equally outrageous,” Clifton said under his breath.

“French-built cruise missiles,” Madison answered. “Air-launched from a Wasp interceptor.”

“What was the price of the intelligence?” Rodman wanted to know.

“High. We had to kill one and buy a couple.”

Nodding, Rodman turned to Robinson. “This is what we wanted, Peter. It’s all fallen in place.”

“Yes,” the President said. “Yes. We can take care of our British problem, and at the same time take the measure of the Kremlin. Bill, will you see that our people in England receive instructions to sit tight and leave the missiles in place?”

“I will. What about Fisch?”

Robinson’s eyes were thoughtful. “I’ll tell the Admiral myself.”

January was usually the coldest month in Indiana, but this year someone had forgotten to tell the Elemental Engineers. The pattern of bitterly cold days and even colder clear-skied nights which had settled on the state just before Wallace left had held through to his return. Three weeks into February, the wind whipping around the corner of the Five Friends building had as much bite as any yet that season.

The back stairs to Shan’s second-floor apartment reminded him of the apartment in Richmond. The moment he noticed the resemblance, he pushed it out of his mind. He did not want to think about Ruthann or anything connected to her. He did not want to live in what felt like the past.

The wind blew tiny ice crystals off the roof and railings and into Wallace’s face as he climbed in the dark. There was no light at the top except for a faint glow from a curtained window. Shivering in a sudden gust of arctic air, he pulled back the screen door and knocked heavily on the windowless wooden door.

A few moments later, the overhead light came on and a face peeked briefly out through the curtains. The door opened to reveal Shan, barefoot and wearing a flowing caftan and an expression which was less than fully welcoming.

“Hi,” he said. “Can I come in?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I was beginning to think I was wrong about you.”

“The apology is short, but the explanation takes a while,” he said, showing a sheepish smile. “I don’t mind doing them here if your feet are up to it.”

Her face warmed slightly. “I don’t think they are,” she said, stepping back to admit him. “I can always throw you out when you’re done.”

An open book and a cup of steaming tea marked the chair where Shan had been seated. Pharaoh, the big gray-furred cat, was curled up in the warm depression she had left in the cushions. Wallace dropped his coat on the edge of the bed and tried to cover the flat, square package which he had been concealing under it in the same motion, but without success.

“Is that part of the apology?”

“No,” he said. “Just a late Valentine’s Day present. It needs to warm up.”

“Mmm, frozen chocolate,” she said. “My dentist will be doubly fond of you.”

“Not chocolate. Too predictable.”

“That
is
one of the seven deadly sins, being predictable.” She reclaimed her chair from Pharaoh, gathering him up and offering him the hollow of her crosslegged lap when she was settled. In true cat fashion, he disdained the substitution and leapt off. “What happened, Rayne? Why didn’t I hear from you?”

He knew already that she would let him keep secrets, but she would not let him he. “I was going to try to convince you that I’ve just been busy, traveling,” he said, looking down at the floor, avoiding her eyes. “That’s even partly true. This whole last week, I couldn’t have reached you, no matter how much I wanted to.”

Having waited long enough to consider it his idea, Pharaoh jumped lightly up onto Shan’s lap. “But you didn’t want to.”

“Shan—you made me feel wonderful. Here, and here,” he said, tapping his temple and the middle of his chest in turn.

A mischievous smile fought its way onto her face. “Nowhere else?”

“All right,” he said, patting the bed. “Here, too.”

“Thank you. I didn’t want to think I’d read everything wrong.”

“You didn’t read any of it wrong,” he said. “Being with you—it kind of lights me up inside.”

“But—” she prompted.

He answered haltingly, partly a struggle to edit his thoughts, partly a struggle to understand them. “But the only long-term… relationship… I’ve ever had, just blew up in my face. As special as what happened between you and me was, when I got away from here I got scared. I don’t—trust—my feelings. My judgment.”

“Are you afraid of being hurt?”

He looked up from the floor. “Maybe more of hurting you.”

“That’s not for you to worry about,” she said, scratching Pharaoh between the ears. “The risk is mine. The decision is mine. And I thought it was a good risk.” She smiled and it was like a flower opening to the sun. “I guess I still do.”

“Shan—I’ve never done this before.”

Again the twinkle. “It didn’t seem that way to me.”

“I mean this is special for me—this feeling. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to break the rules for.”

The cat’s deep-throated purring was audible across the room. “Will you talk to me next time? When you’re thinking about things you don’t think you can tell me, or you don’t want to admit to yourself? Instead of disappearing inside yourself?”

“I’ll try,” he said.
I want to, anyway
—

“Then apology accepted,” she said. “Is that chocolate warmed up yet?”

He brought her the package and sat on the floor at her feet, watching her face expectantly as she dissected it. He was not disappointed. As the wrappings fell away, her expression moved from anticipation to surprise to open-eyed wonder. She turned it over in her hands twice before looking down at him for explanation.

“Something wrong?”

“This is a Judy Collins album.”

He nodded. “You don’t have it, I hope.”

The ten-inch-square cover bore a photograph of an antique scale against a white background and the title
Not Legal For Trade
.

“I’ve never even heard of it,” she said wonderingly. “I don’t know a single one of these songs.”

“They’re good songs. Play it.”

“You don’t understand,” she said. “I know everything she’s ever recorded. She has been my favorite for ten years.”

“Then I surprised you. Good. That’s what I wanted.”

“But I’ve never seen a record like this. It’s not an LP, it’s not a single. It’s in between.”

Wallace had been prepared for the question. “It’s a private release. A proof-of-concept pressing. They were going to test-market them and changed their mind.”

“How did you get it?”

Images of the truth flashed through his mind. Smuggling it into the Tower under his coat. Taping it to his abdomen to get it past the gatekeeper. His heart racing and his palms sweating every second every step. Jumping at voices. “I asked around. I have a lot of friends.”

She hugged it to her chest possessively. “I guess that means you
were
thinking of me.”

“Every day.”

“I want to play it.”

“I want you to.”

She climbed out of the chair, chasing Pharaoh for a second time. Halfway to the stereo, she turned and looked back at him. “If I let you stay, does that mean I won’t hear from you for another two weeks?”

“You’ll hear from me. Promise.”

“Then get your wet coat off my bed and onto a peg, all right? And maybe stack up the pillows so we have somewhere to sit together.” She took a half-step farther, then added, “I need to go downstairs and make sure the shop is locked up properly.”