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They wanted the others to stay the night in case they’d drunk too much, but people gulped coffee, and O’Neill said he had to get back and pack. He went out the door, drawing the others like leaves in the track of a car. Then Rose and Alan stood together in the driveway, watching them get into their cars and start them up, and they told each other they were okay. The tail-lights diminished down the street and disappeared, and they held each other in the warm darkness.
“We’re all going our separate ways,” Alan said. It saddened him. “You blink and everything’s changed.”
She pulled him closer and then rocked them both with her shoulder and hip, as if shaking him to make him forget such things. “How’d you like to take a horny helo pilot to bed?” she said.
“Girls get pregnant that way.”
“Yeah, I’d heard that.” She tipped her head back. “I sort of had it in mind.”
“Really?” He smiled back. Rose wanted six children, she said, a houseful; he thought three, max. They had only one.
“It works out just right if we’re quick.” Motherhood and a naval career could be made to mesh, she meant. “We might have to work at it all weekend.”
“You’re on.” They walked into the house with their arms around each other’s waist. Inside, the six empty glasses stood in a circle.
Part Two Turning the Wheel (#ulink_8f803160-f819-5f5f-94aa-b6287b1b64c1)
4 (#ulink_7865e926-df7b-5789-b187-d07cab00dce1)
June – July
After the dinner that was supposed to have been O’Neill’s farewell but that became before it was over a farewell for everybody, they all went their ways. O’Neill was the first to vanish, into what he called “the wilds of Africa.” Dukas was suddenly too busy to answer his telephone. Bea Peretz had a long talk with her daughter and took her away for a week at Disney World, where she turned out to be the daughter she’d always loved.
Even Rose went away. Her new duty station was in Columbia, Maryland, a “new town” originally beyond the Washington, DC sprawl and now part of it, a suburb that was like stepping into some mediocre planner’s dream of about 1960, a small town the way a nature walk is nature. It was too far from Little Creek for her to commute, and so while Alan finished his tour with the air wing, Rose got herself a furnished apartment and tried to cover her lack of a home life with work. That was Rose’s solution to all problems—work.
Left to himself, Alan put their house on the market and got to know his son again. He drove around, too, getting his land eyes back, as he thought of it—learning that the world was not only gray p’ways and crowded rack rooms, and not only young people in blue and khaki, but that it had both the very old and the very young, the slovenly and the neat, the male and the gloriously, non-militarily female. The “boyz in the hood” look had really taken hold while he was away; every male under thirty and a lot of females, black and white, seemed to be wearing baggy pants and oversize T-shirts. He loved it. It was so different from the boat he wanted to sing and often did, just driving around with the radio on, singing and whacking his hands in time on the steering wheel.
In a little while, he would go to the new job at the Pentagon. He and Rose had agreed that they would take their time finding a new place to live, somewhere between his new post and hers. When he drew a circle on a map that touched Columbia and the Pentagon, the center was out there somewhere in Maryland. He figured it couldn’t be worse than Little Creek. Still, he wondered what it was like to live where you really wanted to.
She came home on weekends, and after several of them she said she was pretty sure she was pregnant. Mikey, Alan, and the dog were all delirious to have her around. He asked her if she felt like a queen and she said no, after all it was only what she deserved.
They saw Mike Dukas a couple of times before he went to Bosnia. Alan saw him in Washington when he was going back and forth between his old duty and the new, as well. Mike was rushing around, learning a little Serbo-Croat to go with his Greek, getting outfitted by the marines in something approaching combat gear, getting briefings at State and DIA. He was pumped. Alan felt the nipping of envy, morosely aware that he was heading into three years of briefing admirals and putting together dailies. It was a good career move, but it wasn’t action. He told Dukas so at their last meeting.
“You’re a fucking action junkie!” Dukas said to him. They were wolfing down crabcakes. “Where’d you get it from? Life isn’t a goddam comic book, Al!”
“I’m not an action junkie!”
“You’re an addict. An adrenaline-rush addict.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’ve seen you!”
“Well, I’m going cold-turkey for three years, okay? And you, you Greek slob—!”
Dukas picked a bit of shell out of his teeth and put it on his plate. He leaned his round head toward Alan and growled, “I don’t want action! I just want to do some good!”
The next week, he was gone.
O’Neill was apparently in Africa, but Alan didn’t hear from him.
He had almost three weeks’ leave, but when his leave time was up and he went back to the air wing, it was a ghost. There was a lot of cleaning-up to do, old reports and pubs and general crap, but the life was out of it. He haunted the offices for a few days, thought of reporting to his new job early, resisted that (already leery of it, flinching from it) and volunteered to fill in at Atlantic Fleet Headquarters to keep himself from going bats in an empty office.
It gave him several days on a different point of the great wheel. He was sent to the intel sections where they were planning the next battle group’s pre-deployment “fleet exercise,” called officially Atlantic Fleet Battle Group Exercise 3–96, known now to everybody in the place as Fleetex. It was an interesting point to intersect the next BG, he found—looking at it not from the point of view of somebody on the carrier, but of somebody one step away from the strategic thinking of the Joint Chiefs.
Fleetex 3–96 existed then as an idea, expressed in a two-inch-thick, ring-bound planning book, five subordinate planning guides, and a rapidly increasing roomful of transparencies, viewgraphs, computer projections, maps, and graphics. He worked on one detail, and one that tickled him: figuring aircraft fuel consumption for eight dispersed supply points, of which one was to be a deep-draft, ocean-going oiler whose skipper was already designated in one of the pubs—Captain John H. Parsills, who, as a then commander, had been the first squadron skipper under whom he had ever served.
Wow! Skipper Parsills on an oiler! Here was the great wheel in one of its odder turns. Between being commander of a squadron and the captain of a carrier, a new 0–6 had to have experience as a deep-draft-vessel skipper, and the battle group’s oiler was often that ship. Fifteen years in the air, three years in the water!
Alan smiled. He didn’t even mind totting up fuel-consumption projections. Parsills had been a great guy, perhaps the finest CO he’d ever known. Helping him out, even on paper, was good.
Fleetex 3–96 was like a vast war game, with real ships and real aircraft for counters. It could best be understood by placing its master transparency, BG3/96-LL1, over its wide-view map (Exhibit 5). The map showed the Western Atlantic down to part of the Caribbean and north to the Carolinas. The transparency showed the Mediterranean, from Tripoli, Libya, north to the Adriatic and Venice. You put the transparency over the map, lined up the registration points, and saw the game scenario: Libya’s Gulf of Sidra thus became a bay in the outer Bahamas; Gibraltar was a spot in the northern waters, Bosnia both somewhere out in the Atlantic and, for hands-on bombing, the island of Vieques south of Puerto Rico. Reference to one of the planning books would reveal that a Canadian frigate and a British destroyer were to play opposing (Orange, read “Libyan”) forces, along with four smaller Bahamian gunboats, out of Nassau. (Nice duty, he thought.) Opposing-force air strikes would come from Marine Corps and Navy F/A-18s at Cherry Point, Beaufort, and Jax, with refueling by USAF KC-10s, mostly reserves, flying from East Coast bases. The focus of two of the three phases of the exercise was a point in the Bay of Sidra that looked, to Alan, dangerously close to Libyan territorial waters. Designated merely “Alpha,” it had on at least one viewgraph a ship’s symbol. Without going through the stack of binders, he could see that what Fleetex 3–96 was going to mock up was some sort of provocative action involving a US or NATO vessel in Libya’s Gulf.
This was not merely a game. You didn’t get that specific in a game.
It looked to him to be an interesting undertaking—“interesting” understood to mean dangerous, with serious international implications. Not to mention military: the Fleetex Phase One and Phase Two were scripted to stage an event at Point Alpha while running opposing-force actions against the battle group from two directions, which might as well be understood as Libya and Yugoslavia. Yugoslavia? With a wild card thrown in for good measure, representing either other Islamic nations in the region or somebody with the ability to do force projection in the southern Mediterranean. Meaning, it’s going to piss a lot of people off!
On his third day at his desk in a big room full of desks, somebody suddenly shouted, “Flag officer on deck!” and Alan, like everybody else, jumped to his feet and braced. Moments later, a remarkably tall man came in with an urgency that carried him to the center of the room before he even looked around. He was trailed by a captain, two commanders, and a smarmy-looking jg with chicken guts on his shoulder—somebody’s nephew who had got staff duty instead of a destroyer. Flag puke, as his friend Rafehausen used to call them—not the ones who had earned their way there, but the ones who were doing it on Daddy’s nickel.
The admiral stared around him and then made for the big table where the master chart was. While he was turned away, the guy at the desk next to Alan’s mouthed “BG” to him, and then something that Alan figured out as “Newman,” the name of BG 7’s admiral. It was The Man himself.
Admiral Newman leaned over the big chart. He must have been six-six, Alan thought, towering over everybody else, a rather gangly man who looked somehow untidy even in a spotless uniform. He had tough eyes and a not very forgiving jaw, and as he leaned over the chart, Alan could see him in profile. He was not looking at a happy man, he thought. And he was right.
“Where’s the nuclear sub?” Admiral Newman said in a raspy voice.
Somebody said that was being handled over uh there, and they all walked over there, and a female jg started to explain that Libya had diesel subs and so they were working on the scenario that—
“I want a nuclear sub in the opposing force. Victor II. Do it.” But he may have said the last words to one of the O-5s with him, although the jg staffer almost wet himself trying to show how willing he was to do it if only somebody would explain what a Victor II was. Alan looked at the guy next to him and winked.
The admiral took an 0–6 by the elbow (either his flag captain or his chief of staff, Alan guessed) and came to the center of the room and said in a low voice, as if he thought they couldn’t be overheard, “—gotta have more Soviet-style Orange forces; these guys don’t get it. This is not acceptable!” Then he strode out.
The room relaxed. Everybody seemed to think this was a pretty funny scene. The guy next to him said, “Oh, he does that about once a month. He wants to fight Commies!”
A couple of days later, Alan went back to the air wing offices and began to wind up his affairs. A week later, he was to report to the Pentagon. The experience with Fleetex remained as an interesting sideways look at the wheel, at least until he discovered what Rose’s role would be in what was to happen at that dot in the Gulf of Sidra designated Point Alpha.
Dar-es-Salaam, Tanzania.
The Dar chief had a very fine job and thought he was a very fine fellow, one successful in an admirable line of work. He was clearly not so convinced of O’Neill’s worth, although willing to give him a little time before a final judgment, probably negative, was made. His name was John Prior, inevitably called Jack; he was white (hence not Black Jack); he had got as high as he would ever get in the Agency but didn’t yet know it. Fiftyish, lean, furrowed, he looked as if he might have a second career in modeling low-end fishing and hunting underwear.
“I understand you didn’t want to come here,” he said.
“Not exactly—”
Prior went right on. “Lots of people think they don’t want to come here. It’s stupid. You go where Uncle needs you, right? Well.” Prior had a very pleasant corner office in the embassy, with an American receptionist sitting outside (also Agency, minimally trained but capable). He had a good house and a fine car, and he lived in clear—that is, no assumed identity. O’Neill would not live in clear, at least some of the time.
“Locals’ll get on to you but not tight, you know? They live and let live, so long’s we share a little and pass some bucks along. That’s my bailiwick, dig? Don’t get into it. Leave it to me. They won’t hassle you much. How good’s your Swahili?”
“Excellent.” O’Neill had done a six-week immersion course.
“Bullshit.” Prior’s Swahili was terrible, therefore everybody’s must be. “Don’t get smart and try to go native or something. Black guys confuse them. Give yourself a year to fit in. Hey?”
“Well, I’ve looked at the files—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He shoved a pile of folders across his desk. “These are Requests for Information from DC. I’ve tagged five of them for my attention. You get six and seven; they’re softballs, so you can learn on them.” He stared at O’Neill. “Don’t recruit anybody until I say so. The word is ‘Go slow.’”
“I would have thought—”
“Don’t think yet. Go slow on that, too. Your predecessor tried to set the world on fire and all that caught was his own pants. I had to get him out of the country before the whole place went up. This is a country where we got things working good for us. I don’t want it screwed up.”
The whole western fringe, O’Neill knew, was in turmoil because of things that were going on in Rwanda and Zaire; there was a neo-Marxist, anti-Mobutu group of Zaireans that had been living in Tanzania for a decade and were supposed to be getting ready to invade their own country; Tanzanian military forces were supposed to be lining up behind them. This was to be ignored?
“Kabila and the Zairean Tutsis—” O’Neill started to say.
“You keep out of that. I’ve got that under control. I want you to focus on the economy. Secondary focus, trans-shipment of drugs from southern Asia.”
“My predecessor had some good contacts in Rwanda.”
“MacPherson inherited some contacts in Rwanda, and he blew them. They’re gone! He was an asshole, I told you. Let it lie.” Prior tried to stare him down, and O’Neill let him. His new boss, after all. “Rwanda is another country,” Prior said, his voice deep with significance.
“‘And besides, the wench is dead,’” O’Neill said. He smiled. Get it? No, you don’t get it. Oh, shit. But he was saved, because Prior didn’t listen to what was said to him by subordinates unless he had asked a direct question.
“Repeat, Rwanda is not in your domain.”
“You don’t want me to even try to contact them?”
“I want you to work with what you got. You got two good clusters of econ-intel contacts that MacPherson didn’t screw up; just stay with them. There’s a couple of business guys that I met socially I’m passing on to you; I want you to bring them along. Thank God, you strike me as the kind of guy might get along here if he behaves himself—you dress well, you talk well, you look okay.”
Okay? There was a compliment for you.
“You play tennis?” Prior said.
“Of course.”
Prior glanced at him. Prior, he guessed, had not grown up in such a way that “of course” he played tennis. “You got a doubles date tomorrow with Amanda and one of the business guys I told you about.” Amanda was the receptionist. “I was supposed to go but I’m going to say I’m suddenly down with a turned ankle and you’re taking my place. If you can beat them, do it; the guy’ll be impressed. He’s in the blue folder.”
“How real is my cover job?” O’Neill said.
Prior snickered. It was a beginner’s question. “Your job is being a case officer. Period.” So much for being the Deputy Attaché for Trade.
O’Neill hugged the folders to his chest and started down the corridor toward his temporary office. Go slow, read the RFIs, and play tennis. It wasn’t quite like being James Bond.
The Pentagon.
Alan Craik walked down the long, long corridor, past a stand of flags and a wall of framed photographs of admirals, past door after door after door. It was early; a hundred, a thousand other men and women were also walking this corridor and all the other corridors exactly like it in the concentric pentagons that gave the building its name. Now and again, through an open door, he could see right through to windows that gave on the vast inner courtyard, and, across it—over the trees, the walks, the tables—other windows, other walls.
He held his attaché case with his orders tight against his right side. His morning coffee burned in his throat. Christ, I’m all tensed up, he thought. Why? This is going to be a piece of cake. Tense because he had already persuaded himself he was going to hate it, he knew. All during that mostly sleepless night, he had told himself not to pre-judge it. Don’t anticipate. Be ready to be pleasantly surprised. Try to love it. If you don’t like your job, there’s something wrong with you, not the job.
He found the right door at last and turned his orders over to a yeoman, and eventually he was led to an office where a woman full commander with a pleasant face shook his hand and said Welcome aboard and Boy are we glad you’re here! We’re three slots short!
She took him around, introduced him. Sketched the roughest outline of the job—reading nine sets of dailies, compiling, writing five summaries, editing, briefing. A big smile. “Could you run a classified package out to the Agency for us? Got a courier pass? You get one up on four—Jackson’ll tell you how. Get it there before lunch, okay?” Big smile.
He had hardly settled behind a desk he was told was his (he was not sure; there was a brassiere in one otherwise empty drawer) when a woman in civilian clothes leaned in his cubicle door. “Hi. I’m Jan—I’m a plans editor. Not why I’m here. Subject: your turn to make the coffee.” Big smile. “Your turn started two minutes ago and the natives are getting restless.”
Not exactly James Bond.
IVI.
Suter had been away at the major contractor’s in Texas, and after that Touhey had had him trotting around congressional offices in Washington, so he hadn’t been at the Columbia location for almost two weeks. He was getting the feel of the job and the place, and he almost wished he had come there directly instead of by way of the Agency; the place had an enormous feeling of things happening, of energy. He found that he admired Touhey, even while his allegiance was to Shreed. Of course, that could change. But it was early days for any of that; for now, he was back, getting to know the offices, some of the people, getting to understand the complexities of the compartmentalization that kept Peacemaker’s secret-weapon function utterly separate from its public, intelligence function.
He had found early on why Han had rushed him through sub-level two. There were, in a limited-access lab, mockups of the modules that latched to Peacemaker’s main unit. Most people in the know referred to the main unit itself as Peacemaker, the modules as “the intel pack” and “the weapon.” Officially, these three were called the Low-Orbit Maneuverable Satellite, or LOMS; the Acquisition and Radiation Module, or ARM; and the Direct Application Module, DAM. Everybody agreed that the weapon module should somehow have had the ARM acronym, but that wasn’t the way it had worked out. Actually, DAM sounded not too shabby as the nickname of a weapon.
Part of the design problem of Peacemaker was Touhey’s requirement that ARM and DAM attach to the LOMS in exactly the same way and have exactly the same shell. Visually, it would be difficult to tell one from the other; the observer would have to get close enough to read the legends on the latches. Touhey had planned way ahead. What he wanted—and got—was a device whose artist’s renderings could go direct to the media without compromising its real nature. That was where they were now, releasing generalized pretty pictures and PR sweet talk, visiting pet congressmen (they were all men) and handing out information packets. They’d made the evening news as a “ground-breaking short-term satellite to plug holes in America’s surveillance grid.” Meanwhile, at a minor contractor in Indiana, the DAM module was being built in drop-dead secrecy.
Suter spent twenty minutes with Touhey, reviewing some of George Shreed’s questions about the project, and then he went up to the cafeteria for coffee. He tried to be seen up there, to get them accustomed to him as a real member of the team. As usual, the big, windowed space had young people dressed like athletes at most of the tables. Suter looked them over, thought they weren’t very interesting, then snapped his eyes back to a woman he didn’t recognize, who had been turned away. She was dark, shapely, truly pretty. Eye candy, he found himself thinking. She was sitting by the window so that the outside glare made him slit his eyes to see her. Nice.
He walked toward her, pretending to look for a place to sit and covertly looking at her again. Really nice. He was going to walk right up to her and ask to sit at her table because everything else was full (although it wasn’t) when somebody called, “Hey, Suter!”
It was Han. Suter smiled. It paid to stay on Han’s good side, he had found. People liked Han, God knows why.
“Hey, Colonel.” Suter sat down where he could look at the woman.
Han grinned. “This is a side of you I didn’t anticipate,” he said.
“Sir?”
Han grinned some more. “If your tongue hangs out any farther, you’re going to wet your tie. She’s married.”
“Who?”
Han laughed. Suter, he said, was something else.
Suter glanced at the woman. Married. Oh, well—so what?
Sarajevo.
Mike Dukas was standing by a window in the newly painted office of Sarajevo’s Associate Deputy Chief of Police for NATO Liaison. New office, new title, new man. The guy was a Bosnian Muslim, a desk cop, doing what he did best—managing information. In this case, he was briefing Dukas.
Dukas had been in Sarajevo for twenty-two hours. He was still groggy from jet lag and he didn’t have an office of his own yet. He was looking down into the courtyard of a small apartment building next door and wondering what the long heaps of earth like graves were.
When the Associate Deputy Chief shut up to take a breath, Dukas said, “What are those?” He pointed down. “The things that look like graves?”
The Bosnian hesitated a moment, then suddenly became human. “Those are graves,” he said quietly.
Dukas looked at him—disbelief, questioning.
Entirely human now, the Bosnian cop gave him a sad smile. “We couldn’t get to the cemeteries because of the bombardments. The snipers. We buried the dead where we found room. I buried my mother in her rose bushes.”
Welcome to Sarajevo.
