Brink of War c-13

by Keith Douglass

  I nodded finally, acknowledging the truth of what he was saying. "I did find that. I had hoped ― but I was so young when he left. He couldn't have known-"

  The man was silent for a while, and let me work through it for myself.

  Finally, I said, "Can you take me to him?"

  "Of course. But it must be now, tonight. I had to wait until members of my unit ― the right members ― were on guard here. Another night, another watch section, and I will not be able to take you out unobserved." He pursed his lips for a moment, and looked faintly worried. "You realize, for a number of reasons, you will never be able to tell anyone about this.

  Never. Too much is at risk."

  "My mother. She has to know." It was not a request.

  He appeared to consider that for several moments, then nodded. "Your mother. But not your uncle ― not ever. He could not let it pass, you understand. He would be forced to take action. And then, those small bits of information I am able to pass to your groups, the thin trickles of information, will dry up. Silence, only silence."

  "And false hope is better?" I thought he was probably wrong about my uncle, but now was not the time to go into that.

  "Which would you prefer?" He saw the answer written on my face, and nodded. "As will most of the families. They would prefer a confirmation, even if they can never share it with the rest of the world, over that uncertainty that gnaws at them. Come, we must go."

  He made a motion with his hand, then turned and walked from the room without waiting to see if I would follow him. I hesitated for a moment, then gave up. If there was a chance of seeing my father's grave, his final resting place on this alien soil, then I owed him that much. Owed him that for the heritage of genes and family that had stood me in good stead, that had brought me to the Navy and to the fighters. I owed him.

  I followed, and the four soldiers fell in behind me. We moved quickly through the silent visiting officers quarters and out the front entrance to a parked, covered truck. The tailgate was down, and the four soldiers assisted me in jumping into the back. One moved around to the driver's side and the civilian slid into the passenger side in front of him. They were separated from the aft compartment by a sliding glass window that the civilian opened immediately.

  "It is thirty minutes away from here, more or less. We cannot move too quickly ― it would arouse suspicion. There is some slight danger associated with being out anyway, but I thought it would be a risk you are willing to take. The consequences ― well, if we're stopped, I will say that you wished to see the evening sky. They will not believe it, but it will give us enough time to think of something else. Agreed?"

  "Agreed." The truck started up then, a loud, rumbling diesel engine.

  It jerked into motion, rattling and thumping along the pavement, the motion getting worse as we transitioned to a potholed and rutted dirt road.

  It was too noisy inside the truck to talk, but I had enough to think about. While I'd brought my coat with me, the cold was quickly seeping in through it. One of the Russian soldiers observed that, and reached into a corner of the truck to pull out a thermos. He twisted off the top, then poured it full of dark, steaming liquid. I accepted it gratefully.

  Tea, hot tea, heavily laced with sugar. I drank it and appreciated the warmth that coursed down to my stomach. "Spacebo," I said, using my limited Russian to thank him.

  He nodded in acknowledgment, then passed the cup and the thermos around to the other men. They each drank sparingly.

  Finally, with one final jolt, the truck pulled off the road. The engine idled for a moment, then fell silent. The soldiers stood, stretching the kinks out of their cold joints as I did, then moved to the rear of the truck and jumped to the ground. One turned to offer me assistance in disembarking, but I refused it.

  The woods were a study in black and white, stark trees cutting a web across the moonlit sky. We couldn't be that far from the base, but there was no sign of the lights that surrounded its perimeter. There was utter silence, except for the faint keening of a chill, cutting breeze through those bare limbs. The trees themselves gave off faint groans and creaks as the wind blew through them.

  "It is down this path," the civilian said. He started forward again, once more not looking back to see if I'd followed.

  I had slipped on winter boots over my shoes, and they were far too thin for this weather. The cold ate through them, seeping from the ground and creeping up my legs. The cup of hot tea seemed like it had been hours ago.

  I fought the cold off. It was not important, not tonight. The only thing that mattered was the truth.

  We walked for maybe five minutes, then came to a small clearing.

  During the summer, there would probably be some light groundcover, and a few skeletal bushes surrounding the area. Overhead, the trees closed in, creating a solid canopy.

  The civilian knelt and brushed away the light coating of snow and winter debris that covered the ground. His fingers left deep, icy trenches in it. Within minutes, he had uncovered a dull steel marker.

  He stood, then guided me over to look down at the spot. "There. That is the number." He shook his head, then said, "That's all they were given, the numbers. No names." He shot me a sideways glance. "You understand the reason for that, I am certain. It would be evidence of a particularly damaging kind."

  I stared down at the marker. So little to be left of so great a man, one who'd loomed throughout my life as the ideal naval officer, the aviator who died in service of his country. Mom had kept it alive, occasionally reminding me. Her harshest rebuke would be simply

  "Your father would not have liked that." That one indication of his name alone had the power to stop me in my tracks.

  "How do I know it is him?" I asked.

  "You don't. Other than my assurances, there is no other proof I can give you. There is a roster, to be certain, but it is still held as a state secret. Even if I could gain access to it, it would be unreasonably dangerous to do so. I am sorry, but in this matter, you have only my word alone."

  Was it enough? I knelt down to the marker, stripped off my glove, and ran my hands over the freezing metal. My fingers stuck lightly as the sweat on the ends of my fingers froze to it. I pulled them off, leaving something of myself at the gravesite.

  It was as he said. I would never know for certain, but his words carried a chilling conviction, and instinctively I knew he was telling the truth. If twenty-five years in the Navy had taught me nothing else, it had at least taught me to generally be able to discern that.

  "We haven't much time. I'm sorry about that, too," he said. He motioned to the other soldiers. "As I said, it is a function of which men are on guard. Much longer, and they will be missed."

  I nodded, and stood. My knees creaked with the motion. This, then, was the end of that mystery.

  For so long, my family's obsession over my father's fate had seemed to drive almost every decision. Underlying every thought, every plan, every action was the possibility that someday, no matter how remote, my father might return. Mother had probably suffered the worst for it, refusing to consider remarrying or even dating again.

  Now, so many years later, I realized how strong our obsession had been.

  I bent down again, brushed away the remainder of the snow, and scooped up a handful of the frozen dirt. I crushed it between my fingers, having my imprint in it, then carefully pulled out my handkerchief and wrapped the ground up. So little ― but it might be all I ever had.

  I looked up at him, dry-eyed with an overwhelming sense of closure.

  "Why? Why did you do all this? The man in the hospital, the faked photographs, all of it? Can you tell me that much?"

  He shook his head. "Much of it would not make sense. Internal politics, jockeying for position. Amidst all of it, there are those of us who would do the right thing. Correct the errors of the past, make amends in what small ways that we can." "Why?" I asked again.

  "Isn't it enough that we do it?" he said. "It will have to be.


  Perhaps, sometime when Russia returns as a world power, you will remember that at least some Russians are not monsters. You will stop, remember this night, these stars, and there will be a chance that the man in your gun sights will do the same. We make what is wrong, right. And hope that it will not be necessary again."

  We left the clearing, walked back to the truck and took up our previous positions. The noise of the truck seemed almost blasphemous in the still, quiet woods.

  I wasn't sure I bought his explanation at all. The idea that there might be a group of Russians who simply wanted to do the right thing, to begin to heal those wounds so long ago inflicted ― well, it went contrary to everything I'd grown up with. Russia was the Evil Empire.

  Wasn't it?

  I remembered the kinship I'd felt with Ilanovich in the air, two old aviators dogging it during a competition just to steal a few more minutes in the air. If our positions had been reversed, if I had known that he was seeking a final truth to his father's fate, would I have done something similar? Arranged to lure him to America where he could be told the truth?

  And would there have been agencies in the United States that would have coached an imposter, hoping to gain a hold over a potential source in the Russian military? I thought I knew the answer to that one as well.

  As we neared the base, the lights came into view again. They were blazing now, all of them, not the few spotted security lampposts I'd seen when we left. Even over the noise of the truck, I could hear a siren wailing in the distance.

  There was angry, uneasy muttering among the men in the back. They were pointedly not looking at me. I rapped on the forward window. "What's happening?"

  The civilian looked back at me, his face a mask of worry. "I do not know. But whatever it is, it increases the danger. Quickly now ― we must have a story."

  We finally agreed on a plan. They would drop me and one guard off at a relatively deserted point on the base. The others he would take back to quarters. The story would be that I was unable to sleep, had decided to go for a walk, and, per his orders, one of the guards had decided to accompany me. It wasn't great, but it was better than nothing.

  As I left to follow my guard, the civilian caught me by the arm.

  "Tell no one. Especially not until you leave Russia. If they know that you do not believe that is your father, they will not let you live. They cannot. It would put everything at risk."

  "They'd kill me?"

  He nodded. "As they have undoubtedly killed the man who is supposed to be your father. They would never have let him go, you know. For the same reasons."

  The base was alive with activity, but all the noise was drowned out by the sirens' raucous bleat. Finally, I heard cut through it one other sound I recognized ― the deep throated roar of a combat aircraft preparing to roll out. There was a crowd in front of the visiting officers quarters, not a large one, but sufficient to worry me. I glanced over at my guard, saw him take a deep breath and compose his face. Now would be the acid test of whether or not our alibi would work.

  At least initially, it seemed to. The crowd parted and let us through, and my guard led the way down to my quarters.

  Inside my room was another story. The admiral was already waiting for me there, along with two aides.

  "Where have you been?" he demanded immediately. "It is not safe to be wandering around the base at this hour. I must insist on an explanation."

  The cold frost to his words made it clear that it was more than an explanation he wanted.

  I mustered up our cover story, passed it off as convincingly as I could. The admiral listened, then turned to my guard and rapped out a few hard questions in Russian. I was relieved to see that the man neither looked nervous nor fumbled his answers. I started to believe that they would believe. The admiral turned back to me. "You and your people will return to your carrier at once. There are… difficulties with you remaining at this station."

  "Difficulties? And what is the exact nature of these difficulties?" I demanded coldly, every inch an offended foreign naval officer on a diplomatic visit. "Aside from the weather, I am aware of no such difficulties."

  The admiral fumbled for words for a moment, then said, "Evidently your colleagues onboard the USS Jefferson have kept some matters from you.

  Earlier this evening, your fighters attacked six of our aircraft on a routine maritime patrol of our northern shore."

  "Attacked? What exactly happened?" It is always better to ask for more information than give immediate explanations when the situation is unclear. I could think of a large number of actions that would constitute an "attack" on the part of Jefferson, ranging from simply launching alert aircraft or lighting off fire-control radar, to maneuvering too close to another aircraft, to missiles off the rails. Until I knew more, I didn't want to speculate.

  The admiral was not about to clear up the ambiguities for me.

  "Fortunately, there were no casualties," he continued smoothly. "But, under the circumstances, I've been instructed to terminate the contest.

  You understand, we must take precautions."

  "Well, then, first thing in the morning we shall prepare to-"

  The admiral cut me off with a gesture. "Not then. Now."

  Now, that stumped me. As a fellow aviator, the admiral surely knew that it was not a good idea to fly combat aircraft without adequate rest and preflight briefing. Yet here he was, apparently suggesting that I fly north, roust my boys and girls, and that we get in our aircraft and just get the hell out of Dodge. Well, we could do that if we had to ― God knows I've flown tired and hungry more times than I care to think about. But given a chance, I choose safety over macho gestures now. "Tonight?

  Surely, Admiral, you're not suggesting that."

  He nodded once, then rapped out a series of orders in Russian. "I've instructed your other aviators to be awoken and told to pack. They will be waiting for you. You will be provided all assistance in your preflight briefings and in any service requirements for your aircraft."

  "But what about our maintenance crews?"

  "Your COD transport is waiting on the airfield with your people. All in all, I think we have taken everything into account."

  "Almost everything. What about my father?" I asked.

  He sighed heavily. "You understand, he was not a well man. In the last few days, we'd had hopes ― knowing that he would see you seemed to give him new life. But this afternoon, I am sorry to say that he passed away quietly in his sleep." His face made a pass at sympathy, but his eyes were hard and cold. "I am sorry."

  His words chilled me. If I'd needed confirmation of what I'd already known to be true, this was it. I mentally assessed my own readiness to fly. Sure, I thought I was good to go, but it wasn't a good idea.

  Nevertheless, it appeared that we were being offered no choice in the matter. I drew myself up to my full height. "Then, if you would be so kind as to grant me some privacy, I shall make my preparations."

  The admiral considered this a moment, then nodded abruptly. He made a gesture, and the aides marched out of my room. The admiral followed them, pausing at the doorway to say, "I would give very much to know exactly where you were this evening, Admiral Magruder."

  12

  Tuesday, 22 December

  1400 Local (+3 GMT)

  USS Jefferson

  Off the northern coast of Russia

  Rear Admiral Batman Wayne

  There was a knock on my door, then the chief of staff barged into my cabin. He's got the privilege, one of the few who take advantage of it, of surprising me in my bedroom area when I'm only half-dressed.

  "You're going to have to make the call on this one," he said, handing me the message. I finished poking my arms into the shirt and then took it from him. The chief of staff doesn't abuse his privileges lightly ― if he thought it was important enough to interrupt one of my few chances to escape for a workout, it was. And it wasn't like he hadn't seen me in my skivvies a number of times before.

  I scan
ned the message, then looked back up at him. "He sounds OK to me. So what's the problem?"

  The chief of staff shook his head gravely. "You have to read between the lines as an engineer, Admiral," he said. He wasn't arguing, just bringing his peculiar talent as a surface warfare officer and superb engineer to put the whole thing in context for me. "You know how those sub skippers are. He'd rather go to the bottom than quit, I think."

  I read the message again, then looked up at him. "It's that bad?"

  The chief of staff nodded. "Worse, probably. I'm only speculating, mind you. And it's not like he's not telling us the truth, sir," he added, seeing the look on my face. "Everything he says is true. But he's a smart man, they don't let the dumb ones go into submarines. He knows you're not going to understand all the context."

  I sat down on the bed and sighed. It looked like my workout was going to get pushed further away than I wanted, for the second day in a row.

  The message had been brief but to the point. It was short, as most submarine messages are, transmitted through the ELF network. Someone in CVIC has broken the code already, giving me a plain text translation beneath the sequence of apparently random letters.

  The sub's skipper said that they had gotten control of their engineering problems, had made the repairs required. The remaining damage was, to use his words, "within allowable limits for these mission perameters."

  Like a fat, dumb, and happy aviator, I'd taken that to mean there was no problem. Evidently, the chief of staff read it otherwise.

  "So translate for me, damn it," I said, handing him back the message.

  "Tell me all these details you're reading between the lines."

  "He's OK as long as we don't ask him to do anything fancy," the chief of staff said bluntly. "Remember, his mission was to accompany us and remain in a silent patrol observer role. For that, he's fine, which means he's not making a lot of noise." He hesitated for a moment, then added, "And I think that means that some of the damage is beyond repair. Quiet equipment ― that's been damaged ― is equipment that's off line, not in standby. So, say he has two out of four main coolant pumps left. He can do what we brought him here for ― but if we need a few days of full-power reactor runs, he's got a problem. That's what I think."