Brink of War c-13

by Keith Douglass

  Any admiral in the Navy has enough classified material floating around inside his head to set back national security about fifteen years. Me more than most, given the amount of time that I'd spent on the front combat lines. If I wanted an excuse, I had a built-in one.

  Then there was the small question of the rest of my detachment.

  Theoretically, we were in the middle of a goodwill airmanship contest. If I left, that would leave Gator Cummings in charge as the senior officer in the detachment.

  Gator was a good man, no doubt about that. Smart, canny in a way that his hotheaded pilots Bird Dog and Skeeter would probably never recognize.

  But even though he could handle Bird Dog's ego in the cockpit, dealing with Russians and diplomatic relationships on the ground required different skills, ones I wasn't sure he was senior enough to have mastered yet.

  Could he handle the Russians? Under normal circumstances, yes.

  But these weren't normal circumstances. Lab Rat's daily wrap-up message had mentioned increasing tensions in the water to the north of us, and I was feeling increasingly uneasy about even being on the ground in Russia. If things fell apart, it would be a hell of a lot more awkward for the Russians to make an American admiral disappear than some more junior officers. Not to mention the two Tomcats we brought with us.

  No doubt about it, there were plenty of reasons for me not to go. Any one of them would have been sufficient.

  The only hard point was that I could see no way that I would be able to live with myself afterward. My uncle understood that, and it had been the only reason that he had authorized this mission at all. Uncle Thomas was made of stronger stuff than his nephew ― I knew in that moment that he could have lived with the knowledge that his brother was still alive.

  I couldn't. Whether it was because I was his son, or that I had some weakness Uncle Thomas did not, I could not say. Nevertheless, there was simply no way I could not go.

  But that didn't mean I couldn't have a contingency plan. The resources available to me in this country were scant, to be sure. But I had a couple of tricks up my sleeve that I was relatively sure the Russians didn't know about.

  I pulled my black leather briefcase up onto my lap, and paused a moment before opening it. If there was video camera surveillance in this room, then I was well and truly screwed.

  I picked up my briefcase and walked over to the bed. It was still rumpled and unmade since I had not left the room long enough for the maids to take care of it. I lifted up the heavy comforter that was the top layer and pulled it over my head while still sitting on the edge of the bed.

  I slid the briefcase on the bed and under the cover. If the Russians were watching, they would undoubtedly be suspicious.

  Suspicious ― and ignorant. They might think I was carrying classified material, drugs, or almost anything else. They might even suspect the truth.

  I unlatched the briefcase and pulled out the pistol. Still under the covers, I tucked the pistol into the special pocket concealed just under my armpit. I had spent hours at the tailor making sure it would fit without showing. It would not survive even the most routine pat down, and certainly not a metal detector, but at least it wouldn't advertise its existence to a casual observer.

  It might not do me any good but I felt better having it on me. And with any luck, I wouldn't need it. After all, luck had gotten me this far.

  If I hadn't been onboard USS Jefferson when Yuri had been there, I never would've heard about my father in the first place.

  I paused for a moment and considered that proposition. Had it been luck and nothing more? The same capricious factor that had put my father over the bridge just as anti-air search radar came on? The same thing that had kept him alive through the ejection and perhaps the countless years in Russian custody? That luck?

  Or had it been something more sinister? Could the Russians ― and the Ukraine for that matter ― have known I was going onboard Jefferson that very day? At that time, I had no longer been in command of either the ship or the battle group. Predicting my presence onboard Jefferson would have required an intelligence gathering capability far greater than I wanted to believe they had.

  But it was hard to go wrong overestimating the capabilities of your opponent. At best, it would keep you prepared for disasters that others had failed to anticipate. At worst, you simply had an additional edge on them.

  Did it always come back to this, then? Thinking and rethinking, anticipating and planning, almost to the point of outguessing yourself?

  I patted down the gun again, finding a way out of the circular reasoning by feeling its hard outline under my fingers.

  My escort arrived precisely on time. I opened the door, expecting to see the military police, the translator assigned as my aide, and a few other pilot fish with them for good measure. Who I didn't expect to see was my counterpart Admiral Ilanovich.

  "It would be my honor to accompany you," the admiral began. "And perhaps to expedite this trip should unexpected difficulties arise." He stepped across the threshold, held up his hand in American fashion, then apparently changed his mind and gave me a quick, hard Russian hug.

  I started to endure the unwanted familiarity with diplomatic grace.

  Then I remembered the gun. I drew back sharply, the classic American startled by customs that were not his. I feigned a look of discomfort, followed by an apology of a smile. With any luck, they would buy it.

  The admiral looked slightly offended for a moment, then his face moved over into a diplomatic mask similar to my own. "I forget," he said. "Our customs, they are so different. And we Russians are an emotional race.

  That you'll see your father today, after so many years ― please, forgive my intrusion." He touched one finger to the corner of his eye, a move that I found over-the-top. From this man, this admiral, I did not buy an excess of emotion that drove him to tears. And I was slightly insulted that he thought it would work.

  We left the visiting officers quarters in one of those ubiquitous black Zil limousines that are the hallmark of power and prestige in this part of Russia. I heard that Mercedes-Benz were replacing them in Moscow and other large cities, but that innovation had not made it this far north yet. Besides, there were no doubt more Zil automotive technicians than Mercedes this far north. There was something about the native Russian construction of the engine and the suspension that was peculiarly more adapted to this harsh northern climate.

  Traffic was light, as it always is in most Russian cities. The average Russian citizen does not own a car, uses public transportation, and traffic jams are one of the innovations of the late twentieth century that had not yet come to Russian cities. Not that the roads would have supported them. Except for main thoroughfares, the roads were generally in bad repair, potholed and tortured by the brutal winter climate.

  The buildings on either side, apart from the military installations, had a dirty, neglected look to them. Row after row of featureless cinder-block apartments, some looking half-occupied. There were few signs of human habitation ― no plants in the windows, no decorative curtains, nothing to indicate who actually lived there. Combined with a lack of traffic on the roads, it gave the entire area a deserted, forlorn look.

  And why should the average citizen do anything to personalize his or her living quarters? After all, they didn't own them ― didn't even pay any rent, at least not in most areas. The facilities were owned by the state, provided to the citizen along with food ― scarce and in poor quality ― and utilities ― intermittent at best and sometimes consisting only of dirty-burning coal ― as a benefit of Russian citizenship. As much as anything, that is the difference between a communist economy and our own system of free enterprise. In America, you decide who you want to be and then work to earn it. In Russia, the state decided.

  Finally, we pulled to a stop in front of a building only slightly less derelict than the others. It was constructed of a lighter shade of concrete, with the same small windows and forbidding construction as the apa
rtment buildings. A Russian bus was parked in front, rust streaking the sides and with two windows missing. It pulled away belching dark smoke, the jerky motion indicating that the transmission was barely operating.

  The admiral pointed at it and said, "What you call mass transit. Very highly developed here in Russia. You notice how clean the air is? We do not have your reliance on Middle East oil for private automobiles."

  "And your domestic resources are sufficient for all of your heating and industrial purposes, I take it?" I asked. Bragging. The Russian economy was in an abysmal state. The oil producing fields around the Black Sea hardly made Russia self-sustaining. Indeed, if anything, their reliance on foreign oil was even stronger than our own. And with the recent construction of a pipeline between a few independent former Soviet Union states and Turkey, with Turkey undertaking refining of the crude, Russia was surely to be hit worse than before. Only several years ago, utilities to most major naval installations had been terminated in Ukraine when Russia failed to pay for heating oil. Critical in the south ― deadly here in the north.

  "Our distribution system is most efficient," the admiral replied, and left it at that.

  The car pulled to a stop directly opposite the entrance, taking the place of the bus I'd seen pull away. A man darted out and opened the back door for us to disembark.

  The wind was muted here, undoubtedly blocked by the massive rows of buildings. The cold still bit immediately, and I could feel it etching lines in my face.

  It was but a few short steps into the building. I passed through a double layer of doors intended to retain as much of the building heat as possible against the icy climate, and was immediately uncomfortably warm in a long winter coat. I shucked it off and was then conscious of the thickness under my arm and the pistol snuggled there. Was it noticeable?

  I slid my hands over my body, as though checking for wrinkles in my jacket.

  Yes, I could feel it ― it would be immediately discernible to anyone who wanted to pat me down, but the odds of that happening in a Russian hospital were not high. Or so I hoped.

  We were met by a Russian civil servant, one of the institutions that Russia shares with us. In some strange way, he resembled his building ― an institutionalized look, closed off and inaccessible. There was no telling how long he had held the position. Russian civil servants earn their positions by party membership and political patronage and, once in place, tend to be as long-lived as their American counterparts. Even in the post-Soviet Union era, party membership still counted for something.

  Introductions were exchanged, the translator moving quickly to my side. I murmured something polite about the facilities. It was as though I could feel my father's presence radiating down from the floors above, calling to me, insisting that I see him. I glanced up involuntarily, almost expected to see the summons flooding in the air.

  After I refused the traditional offer of tea and refreshments, the hospital administrator nodded understandingly. He said something quietly to the admiral, which my translator did not repeat. I turned to him. "I'd like to see my father now." I did not have to force the note of real longing in my voice ― not for the man they were going to try to pass off as my father, but for the man I'd barely known as a child.

  One elevator out of four worked. I boarded it with some trepidation, noting that most of the staff opted for the stairs. The hospital administrator punched a button, and, after a moment of indecision, the doors slid shut. With a shudder and mechanical groan, the elevator jerked upward.

  Two minutes, much longer than the trip would have taken at an American hospital. Finally, the doors slid back, to reveal that the elevator was almost even with the floor. I stepped out hastily amid nightmares of the elevator cable breaking and plummeting to my death in that dingy hospital.

  The hospital administrator said something that could only be "This way," and then led us down the passageway to a nursing station, notably cheerful and efficient-looking in the midst of so much disrepair. Both male and female nurses were standing there, evidently staged in position by an advance party. They wore stark black name tags on their shirts, quasi-military white jumpsuits. A professional-looking organization. I noted a bouquet cut out of construction paper pasted on one wall, the sole evidence of an attempt to make their surroundings look more human and less institutional.

  It smelled clean and like a hospital, and the medical equipment I saw all seemed to be in good repair. There were rooms lining the corridor, not the large, open ward I expected. Perhaps just for my sake?

  The hospital administrator rapped out a question to the admiral, who shook his head in reply. The administrator turned his eyes to me, his look warm and oddly full of compassion. He spoke a few sentences in a gentle voice, and waited for the translator.

  "Your father is not well, sir," the translator said, speaking softly.

  "He suffers from dementia, the type associated with advanced age. The years have not been gentle to him." The translator paused, waiting for more. Another burst of quiet words, and a guilty, half-apologetic look from the administrator. "His injuries when he arrived in our care so long ago, they were considerable," the translator continued. "You must understand, there are some things that are very difficult to recover from.

  Mentally, he is often confused."

  The anger again, harder and demanding now. No matter that it might not be my father, the idea that they'd expect me to understand, perhaps even forgive, the unspeakable acts they'd committed.

  It took all my self-control to keep my face neutral and composed. I took a deep breath, and said, "Tell him I understand. And I am most grateful that he has warned me, and he has given my father excellent care here. There are some things even the finest medical science cannot cure, I know." Like the sickness in your soul that could allow them to break bones, listen to the screams, and then pretend that it was simply a normal Part of warfare. Nothing personal, you understand.

  They were wrong. This was very personal.

  The hospital administrator nodded, a ghost of relief crossing his face, so I must have succeeded in keeping my thoughts from my expression.

  Ilanovich scowled, but made no comment.

  Without further remarks, the administrator pushed open the door. He called out a soft greeting in Russian, then stepped aside, holding the door open with his body to allow us to precede him into the room. Ilanovich motioned me forward.

  I stepped into the room.

  It was warmer air, distinctly warmer than the hallway outside. I spotted a small space heater in the corner. The walls were blank, clean and pristine. The hospital bed itself looked new, the metal shiny and unmarked. The room smelled of starch and disinfectant. The sheets on the bed were gleaming white, partially covered by a light blue blanket.

  The details of the room itself distracted me from focusing on the figure in the bed. Or maybe I was avoiding it. After all these years, the thought of seeing the father I thought long dead was simply too much. I was surprised to find I still harbored a lingering hope that it could be him.

  I took another two steps into the room, then moved swiftly to the side of the bed as though jet-propelled. I stood there, looking down at the man, my vision now clouded with unchecked tears.

  The face was Caucasian, with pale, thin skin drawn tightly over prominent bones. His eyes were shut. Ragged curls of dark brown and gray were clipped close. The ears stuck out from his head at slightly different angles from each other. The lips were dark and wrinkled, slightly closed over strong, yellow teeth. He was clothed in serviceable yet unremarkable long johns, not a hospital gown.

  He was sleeping ― or unconscious. Whichever it was, his breath came in long, shallow gasps. There was no trace of rapid eye movement, nor any other indication that he was dreaming. Only the slight pink flush tinting his cheeks and the regular rise and fall of his chest assured me that he was not dead.

  The hospital administrator had entered the room behind my entourage, and now crossed the room to stand on the other si
de of the bed from me.

  Light streamed in from the window, back-lighting him and casting a long shaft of pale yellow on the figure in the bed. The hospital administrator's face was composed, but I could hear the soothing tones in his voice as he touched the man in the bed on the shoulder. A few words ― the equivalent, I assumed, of

  "Wake up. You have visitors."

  The man came awake instantly. His breathing pattern changed, a sudden, sharp intake of air, followed by a quicker pattern of respiration.

  Yet his eyes remained closed, although the muscles in his face tensed slightly.

  "Voy cyn." Your son, if my elementary Russian vocabulary served.

  Then his eyes snapped open. They were alert with hard, cold intelligence lurking behind them. Dark brown, extra white at the edges of the iris now, almost the same color as my own. He must have seen something in my face, the recognition or confusion, because the expression quickly changed to one far less alert.

  I stared at him, trying to see the man I knew only from photographs, inside the weathered husk.

  The eyes, those were certainly right. How many times had I heard that my father's eyes were exactly like mine? The build looked right, too.

  According to everything Mother had said, my father and I were roughly the same size. We had the same coloring, the same long bones and lanky bodies.

  But in him, the dark shock of hair that was the Magruder family trademark had been wavy, flattened out only by a short military haircut and diligent application of greasy hair cream. My mother had laughed at that, at my father's eternal battle with his curls.

  There were other differences as well, more in emotional and mental makeup than in physical appearance. According to my mother, my father was far moodier, given to those dark, impenetrable moods that I knew in myself, but also capable of wild, childlike enthusiasm. He had had a certain insouciance and an outgoing, cheerful side to his character that seemed to have passed me over. My uncle, although he had poo-poo'd my mother's description, had finally admitted that there was something to it. My father had, after all, been his younger brother.