An hour later, he was still staring at the embers of the fire, now turned to ash.
* * *
In the light of day on the long drive home, he tried to look at his past as dispassionately as possible. By the time he was back on the highway, he had decided that he finally had it figured out as well as he ever would. First loves, he reasoned, gave rise to a unique kind of fallacy. They left you with the lifelong, abiding conviction that both you and your first love still existed somewhere, just as you were, ready to reunite. Perhaps you both continued to exist in some parallel universe or maybe on some sort of psychic spaceship traveling at the speed of love, never changing while your corporeal self continued to age and emotionally fade decade after decade back here on Earth. If you and your prima amore could somehow meet your time-traveled selves again, you could miraculously merge back into them and pick up again just as you were, right where you had left off. Otherwise, what would be the point of continuing to feel the way he did?
But that was nonsense. He was a different person now than he had been then, and thank goodness, for that. And Clare certainly would have moved on as well. If only he could stop his rebellious thoughts from returning to his first romance.
Still, at least he had discovered one thing of value as a result of his uncomfortable hours with Clare’s letters. He had always wondered why he had responded so furiously when she had left him; he doubted he had ever reacted to anything so violently before or since. He liked to think of himself as being introspective and logical, but he had been anything but that over the years that followed their separation. It was clear to him now that when she had decided for the third time that she no longer needed him, it had overwhelmed his emotions and everything else.
He emerged from the mountains and traded his deserted secondary road for the busy highway, transitioning back into the present and the complicated world he now inhabited. What had he been thinking when he decided to read those letters? Clare was now as alive as ever in his mind. He remembered that he used to enjoy watching her play the piano. He could see her now in his mind’s eye, her head inclined downward and tilted slightly to one side, as if she was reading her music over the tops of invisible glasses. She concentrated so deeply as she played that she never noticed as he watched her large, brown eyes, set beneath perfectly curved eyebrows, follow the music, and absorbed the cadence of her hands as they rose eloquently high and fell confidently low onto the keys with smooth and steady grace. He wondered whether her balletic approach to the keyboard reflected the instruction of an early music teacher or was instead an unconscious manifestation of her intense involvement with the music. It had never occurred to him to ask her then, but now he was curious to know the answer.
And he heard once again the husky, deep-throated chuckle she often favored him with when they were together. That conspiratorial laugh seemed always to be lying just below the surface, waiting to escape.
When he reached the next town, he pulled over and Googled her name for the first time in years. He had always avoided asking Marla anything about her mother’s activities, at first out of obstinacy, and later so she would not feel uncomfortable or caught in the middle between her parents. For her part, Marla had avoided mentioning her mother at all, all too aware of her father’s obvious sensitivity.
The last time he had looked, Clare’s web presence was minimal. Now he found many hits. And look at that—she was back at U Penn. He clicked on her faculty bio, finding a list of scientific publications that went on and on. Clare had obviously plugged away at her career, year after year, despite the challenges of being a single mother. He saw that she’d moved on quickly from the last post he’d been aware of, an assistant professorship at a small college. That was followed by an associate professor position at a well-regarded university, where in due course she was granted tenure. And two years ago, she’d achieved the ultimate—appointment to an endowed chair at an Ivy League school and head of her own lab to boot. How about that.
He set his laptop aside and resumed his drive, wondering what kind of person his first love had grown up to be.
* * *
24
It’s Showtime!
President Yazzie was seething as he approached the Situation Room, accompanied by his chief of staff. Here he was, nominally the most powerful man in the world, and yet only a few months after being elected, he’d been cornered and emasculated by the lesser powers that really ran Washington. He’d been particularly appalled when his cabinet voted unanimously not to reveal the Caliphate’s attack, maintaining that the political cost would be too high—some even threatening to resign if decided to act otherwise. He’d been infuriated when the speaker of the house informed him in no uncertain terms that not a single administration bill would be passed by Congress for the duration of his time in office if word of the attack leaked to the press. His press secretary hadn’t even tried to put any lipstick on that pig.
Now Yazzie wondered why he was bothering to go to the Situation Room to witness the events as they unfolded. Clearly, he was just a paper tiger—or perhaps a marionette—seemingly possessed of unparalleled power, but in fact only trotted out and manipulated for public consumption, powerless to control anything in fact.
This would stop. He did not at this point know how he would accomplish that, but stop it he would, and soon.
* * *
Tim barely spoke at all on the drive out to Langley, and when he did, it was in a monotone. Most of the time, he just sat still with his arms crossed, staring zombie-like into the blackness outside the car. Frank was worried but decided to keep his distance; Tim looked like he hadn’t gotten a minute’s sleep the night before, and given the argument he’d had with Marla, maybe that was the case. Or maybe it was just nerves. This was the big night they’d worked toward for weeks, and the stakes were about as high as you could get. Maybe Tim was worried that all the data he’d presented to the Agency might not hold up. That would make sense. After all, it wouldn’t take much of a slip-up to result in disaster. Frank wondered whether maybe he should be worrying more himself.
When they reached the mission control room at CIA Headquarters, Frank saw that Tim wasn’t the only one who looked haggard from lack of sleep. Each of the data teams had been working desperately over the preceding days to unearth as much as possible about the web of actors laboring behind the scenes to pull off the attack. An hour and a half from now, SEAL teams acting alone in the Atlantic and Pacific and in concert with their NATO counterparts in the Baltic, Irish, and Mediterranean Seas would spring into action. Simultaneously, CIA personnel and their coalition partners would burst into the offices of manufacturing plants, shipyards, and financial firms in multiple countries around the world and seize every piece of paper and computer that might contain a shred of data relating to the Caliphate’s secret plan. Before the day was out, all evidence of the attack, as well as every individual outside the territory controlled by the Caliphate believed to be involved in planning, enabling, or executing it, would be under coalition control.
As the clock ticked down, a sense of tense aimlessness permeated the room. Despite the feverish activity of the past week, most of those assembled now had nothing to do for a while but watch the blips representing Caliphate ships inch forward on the huge display in the front of the room, hoping nothing had been left to chance.
A large screen on the side of the room winked to life, revealing a grim-faced President Yazzie sitting at the head of the meeting table in the Situation Room beneath the West Wing of the White House. Frank guessed that the half-dozen people surrounding him were the members of the National Security Council.
Captain James Lugar, the Joint Special Operations Command officer assigned to oversee the interceptions, stood up and faced that screen, and Frank realized everyone in the control room must be visible to the president.
“Greetings, Mr. President. Sorry to be keeping you up so late.�
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“Quite all right. What’s the current status?”
“Excellent, Sir. All of the SEAL teams are in place on vessels on courses that will bring them within six miles of the Caliphate’s ships while they are still approximately twenty-five miles off shore.”
“Why so close to shore?”
“Unfortunately, Sir, we’ve had to take this right down to the wire. It was quite a challenge to get all of the units trained and in position, and then there’s the constraint of intercepting the vessels at night in all locations. We weren’t quite able to get all of our units in place to conduct the operation last night. Meanwhile, the Caliphate’s ships have continued on course.”
“I see. What chance is there that the target ships will realize they are being intercepted?”
“We believe the risk to be quite low. On a radar screen, the profiles and speeds of our vessels will resemble those of the fishing boats and other coastal traffic the Caliphate captains will be seeing on their radars. These are all pretty busy waters, so our forces shouldn’t attract any particular notice from friend or foe.”
“I thought you were going to use helicopters or Ospreys. Why boats?”
“You’re correct, Sir, but not for the first phase of the operation. Helicopters are loud and relatively slow. We’re afraid they might be spotted before they could attack. Ospreys would arrive over their targets very quickly, but we can’t know for sure what kind of defensive capabilities the enemy ships may have. If they’re keeping a sharp watch and are well armed, they could down one of our aircraft before its assault team could reach the deck.”
“Don’t boats make noise, too? And what about their radar?”
“Good points, Sir. We won’t be approaching using the large craft the SEAL teams are currently on. When we give the word after the quarter moon sets on the west coast, each of our ships will deploy small stealth speedboats with muffled engines. They won’t show up on radar and will be able to close on the Caliphate’s ships within a short period of time. Using ropes and cushioned grapnels, the SEALs will be able to get on deck quickly and quietly under cover of darkness. If there are any lookouts, they’ll take care of them before they can sound the alarm.
“After that, some team members will take control of the bridge while the rest lock down the crew quarters and take up positions where they can pick off anyone that might be able to come on deck from another location on board. Only after everything is secure will they call in the helicopters. Those aircraft will drop additional troops and specialists on board to help complete the operation. With twelve ships to seize stretching across a third of the northern hemisphere, this will be the largest number of SEALs that has ever been involved simultaneously in a single operation.”
“Very good. How long should all this take?”
“We’re figuring ten minutes for the speedboats to get alongside, and an hour for the SEAL teams to take control.”
“That sounds like a long time.”
“It is a long time, Sir. In point of fact, we don’t expect any team will take longer than a half hour to assume control of its target vessel, and some may be in command in as little as fifteen. But we don’t want to run the risk that someone on one of the ships gets a chance to alert the other ships that they’re under attack. Otherwise, some ships might begin launching their drones before we can seize control. That’s the reason that every team has been instructed to proceed cautiously and take as much time as they need. And of course we want to be sure that we’ve got total control of the bridges and the decks so we don’t expose the helicopter-borne teams to hostile fire.”
“I see.” The president crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.
His chief of staff took advantage of the pause. “And are you certain that this entire operation will go undetected by civilians?”
“We can’t be totally sure, Sir. But our munitions people will be placing substantial charges below the waterline in multiple locations throughout the vessels. Once the helicopters have everyone off and we trigger the charges, the ships should go down in less than fifteen minutes.”
“You said that those were busy waters. Won’t there be a chance that another vessel in the area will see the ships go under?”
“We think we’re in pretty good shape there, Sir. We lucked out with the phase of the moon and the time of year, and as it happens, the skies are overcast all across Europe; it should be pitch-dark in all locations. And we’ve been keeping an eye on the target ships at night by high altitude surveillance. For the last two nights, they’ve been operating without any deck lights, and, of course, all of our boats and helicopters will be blacked out. We’ll be doing our best to time the attack so there aren’t any other vessels too close, but we don’t have too much flexibility there. Even though it’s mid-winter, with ship locations spanning seven time zones, our launch window is only a few hours long.”
“What happens if someone does notice?”
“If they do, the public story will be that Coast Guard helicopters rescued the crew after a vessel suffered a sudden emergency. Since no one is expecting any of these ships to land with a cargo and the crews are all Caliphate loyalists, there won’t be anyone to ask any follow-up questions.”
The president touched the arm of his chief of staff, and they held a muffled conversation before the president turned back and spoke.
“Very well then. I want to be informed immediately if anything unexpected happens, no matter when that might occur. How close are the ships to their destinations now?”
“If you look at the left side of the big screen in the Situation Room, Sir, you’ll see all of the ships displayed on a map of the U.S. and Europe. Each white blip represents one of the Caliphate’s ships. Now if you look to the right, you’ll see inset maps of all of the twelve target areas. The red blips you see are our ships, and the white and red dotted lines indicate the courses of the various vessels.”
The president had another side conversation.
“Very good. And the projected time until you begin the operation?”
The admiral looked to a technician sitting at a terminal at his elbow. “Approximately twelve minutes, Sir.”
“Good. When the boats are almost alongside the ships, bring us back in.”
“Of course, Sir.”
“And one thing more.”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Good luck.”
“Yes, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
The side wall video screen went blank, and everyone in the room refocused their attention on their own monitors. With the counterattack now only minutes away, everyone had a task to perform. Everyone except Frank and Tim, who had only been included in case something unexpected arose that only one of them might be able to address.
Frank leaned back and looked at the maps on the big screen at the front of the room, trying to imagine what it might be like to be a SEAL getting ready to move out. He had a Hollywood-inspired mental picture of burly men in watch caps and blackened faces, using their thumbs to test the edges of brutal-looking knives worn at their hips, wondering how many throats they might need to slit before the night was over. But then a different thought occurred to him: Captain Lugar had referred to twelve ships when he was speaking to the president. Frank counted the white blips and confirmed there were only twelve. And he distinctly recalled the captain saying each white blip represented one Caliphate ship. Weren’t there supposed to be thirteen?
He scanned the inset maps, and all of the presumed target locations were accounted for. Then he remembered—Tim and he had assumed it would take two ships to take out all of the data centers near Silicon Valley. And the inset map for San Francisco showed only one white blip heading for that location. He turned to Tim to get his reaction. But his chair was empty. Crazy time to visit the john, Frank thought.
He opened the latest a
ction summary and found the list of targets and ships—there were twelve in all. Was his memory just off? Or perhaps Tim and he had simply made a mistake? What else could he check to find out? He stared at the list and scanned it, looking for inspiration, and noticed that the names of the ships were included. None of them sounded familiar. But he was sure they had glimpsed the name of the ship in Myanmar. What was it? He couldn’t remember. He looked at the list of ship names again, and still none of them sounded familiar.
Was he just off on a toot? Probably. Maybe. But he could at least go back to the drone video to check for that name.
He pulled the original drone video up on his laptop, remembering just in time to mute the sound. He tapped the fingers of both hands on his knees, hoping he rightly recalled that some part of the video had captured the name of the ship. No luck as the drone rose up the bow; the field of view wasn’t wide enough. That was probably the end of it, but he might as well fast-forward through the rest of the video just in case. Then, as the drone pulled back, he saw the name of the ship and hit the pause button: Ninotchka. He toggled back to the list, and there it was: the ship was heading to San Francisco. So much for that. He hit the run button and watched as the drone returned to its owner. And then he hit the pause button again. Was that another ship with bow doors?
He rewound until the brief glimpse was on his screen again and then zoomed in. The bow doors were clear, but the name was hard to make out because the angle was oblique. His best guess was that it read Dohna. He went back to the ship list and saw no vessel with that name or even one that was close. Hmmm. Maybe the CIA had enhanced their copy of the video? He was sure they would have, looking for as much information as possible. He hunted up the official version on the CIA server and fast-forwarded it. But it ended just before the second ship came into view.
The Doodlebug War: a Tale of Fanatics and Romantics (Frank Adversego Thrillers Book 3) Page 24