"The CIA trained this crew?"
"What crew?"
"The crew that hijacked America."
"I don't know who hijacked that ship. Do you?"
"The FBI agent in charge has informed us that these were the men."
"But you don't know for a fact."
"I am not going to split legal hairs with you this morning, sir, or debate the meaning of 'is.' Did or did not the CIA train a team to run a sub with minimum manning?"
"I have answered that question. Yes."
"Why?"
"The operation was properly authorized and funded. We did what we were told to do."
"What was the objective of the operation?"
"To steal a Russian submarine."
"Was that Operation Blackbeard?"
"Yes."
"Why did the CIA want a Russian submarine?"
DeGarmo shifted his weight in his chair. He leaned forward, played with the letters, tapped his fingers on them. Both men were well aware that this information was available elsewhere. Finally DeGarmo said, "For several years the Russians have been working on revolutionary new torpedoes. The technology, we believe, uses supercavitation and rocket propulsion to drive a torpedo through the water within a bubble, reducing drag dramatically. Our theoretical physicists think the technology might ultimately yield a torpedo capable of a thousand knots. The Russians aren't that far along yet. We hope. They have produced a torpedo that uses the first generation of this technology, we believe. They call it the 'Shkyal' or 'Squall.' The Kurst{ was testing this torpedo when the thing exploded, fatally damaging the submarine."
Jake had seen classified summaries speculating that this was the case. So far, DeGarmo hadn't told him anything he didn't know. "We are doing similar research and having our problems," DeGarmo added. This Jake didn't know. "We wanted to see what the Russians really have, if anything."
It went on like this for five minutes before DeGarmo agreed to make the complete, raw files on the men the CIA trained available that afternoon for Commander Tarkington to study. "We'll need copies of those files," Jake added, "and I would appreciate your staff making them and sending the copies over. For now, however, a look at those files will be sufficient."
It took another minute to persuade DeGarmo to have his staff run the copy machine. Then Jake asked who authorized the operation to steal a Russian sub.
"The national command authority, of course."
"Who wanted this information?"
"The navy, primarily. The planning people at DOD. My staff. Everyone was interested."
"Admiral Stalnaker?"
DeGarmo nodded.
"Why a team of Russians and Germans? Why not Americans, who presumably would have been more trustworthy?"
"The committee thought that the difficulties involved in getting Americans onto a Russian naval base where they could get access to a submarine with Shkyal aboard lowered the probability of success to an unacceptable level. If the Russians caught these people, the fallout would be manageable if they were former Soviet-bloc sailors but damn near catastrophic if they were Americans. And of course there was the deniability issue, which I think was crucial to getting it approved."
"How were these men recruited?"
"We went after ex-submariners who spoke Russian. The Germans served in the East German Navy and spoke fluent Russian."
"Were they reliable?"
DeGarmo's habitual frown deepened. "In my opinion, Blackbeard was flawed from the start. The minutes of those meetings will prove that I was against it from the get-go. These people couldn't be trusted. That risk was significant." He went on, explained how the crew was isolated, held incommunicado during training.
"The operation was ultimately scrubbed."
Another nod.
"Why?"
DeGarmo shrugged, shifted his weight while he considered what to say. The thought occurred to Jake that this was one of the least loquacious men he had ever met.
"I am not going to respond to that. Suffice it to say that Black-beard was canceled. The reason is not germane to your investigation, in my opinion."
"Who canceled it?"
"The intelligence committee."
"Did the Russians find out about it? "I'm not going to comment." DeGarmo looked at Jake as if he were an obtuse child. "Ask someone else."
Jake studied DeGarmo's face. "If someone else can tell me, why not you?"
A low growl. The CIA director pursed his lips. "That fact couldn't conceivably be relevant to your investigation."
Jake Grafton stared into the director's eyes, unwilling to break contact. "How good is your information?"
The director leaned forward and waggled a finger. "You are in an area that… is… not… relevant to your investigation."
"But the operation was canceled for a credible reason? Or reasons?"
"Obviously."
"Why didn't the CIA seek other ways to get information on the Shkyal and supercavitation?"
"We tried, obviously. And continue to try. The difficulty is that credible intelligence about Russian research is practically impossible to obtain. Under the Communists, Russia was a society as closed as a locked bank vault, with half the population employed in watching the other half. That's changed since the collapse of communism. In Russia today there are countless people anxious to sell all sorts of technical information. Everything is for sale. You can buy boxes full of secrets on Moscow street corners. Criminals and con artists are busy as beavers. Since the Foreign Intelligence Service can't plug all the real leaks, they are also busy selling bogus stuff. Apparently creating classified files to sell to credulous foreigners is the only growth industry in the country. So you negotiate like hell and fork over and take home your nifty treasure map and add it to the pile you already have.
"Consequently, stealing a submarine looked like a risk worth taking. If we could pull it off, the payoff would be real hardware that could be properly evaluated, not boxes full of fiction. The decision makers thought that, all things considered, the potential payoff justified the risk." He stopped speaking, yet since he looked as if he might say more, Jake remained silent.
After a moment's thought, DeGarmo added, "In an era of tight defense budgets worldwide, those countries doing research are trying to make every dollar count. It isn't enough merely to improve weapons, to spend billions for five or ten or twenty percent more capability; the dollars are too hard to come by. This reality forces us to search for technologies that have the promise of leapfrogging whole generations of weapons development. The Shkval is a quantum leap in torpedo technology, five times faster than any other existing torpedo: If it becomes operational we have no defense against it. Whoever possesses it will have a huge military advantage. Perhaps an overwhelming one, unless we can find out exactly how it works and develop defensive countermeasures."
Here DeGarmo leaned forward. "This isn't a game, Admiral. We can't take the risk that potential opponents might bring weapons to a future battlefield that give them a winning military advantage. The atomic bomb was such a weapon; jet fighters would have been if Hitler could have deployed a sufficient quantity. Our way of life is on the table, Admiral. The stakes are too high."
"And Revelation? Is it a quantum leap? A new paradigm?"
"I think so, yes."
"Did the Russians steal it? Is that why America was hijacked?"
"I don't know."
"What do your Russian sources say? The ones who told you the Russian government knew about Blackbeard, about your sub-stealing team?"
DeGarmo didn't even glare. He merely waggled a finger at Jake. "Don't leap to conclusions. Blackbeard was canceled for reasons that do not touch on this investigation."
Jake Grafton refused to be intimidated. "If the Russians didn't swipe that boat, who did?"
"I don't know," Avery Edmond DeGarmo said bitterly. "I wish to Christ I did."
Jake Grafton stood up. "If there is a mole in the United States government, sir, we are going to discover tha
t fact. Then I'll be back to see you with more questions. A lot more."
DeGarmo let out a roar. "Goddamn it, sailor. You are in way over your head. I feel like I am explaining the facts of life to Inspector Clouseau." He sprang from his chair with a grace that surprised Jake. "It's not just torpedoes! Supercavitation could revolutionize naval warfare. Antisubmarine bullets fired from airplanes, two-hundred-knot submarines… Think of it! A two-hundred-knot submarine! A half dozen of those might well obsolesce the entire world's fleet of surface combatants. What the hell do you think Stuffy Stalnaker worries about in the middle of the night? Everyone wants this! Everyone! The British, the Chinese, Germany, France, the United States…"
DeGarmo sat down and leaned forward in his chair. "And it is not just submarines. There is a parallel technology that might have aerodynamic applications. There are rumors that the Russians are working on plasma research, firing a beam of microwaves ahead of an aircraft, ripping the air into a plasma of ions and electrons. Flying in plasma would dramatically reduce the drag on an aircraft, allow hypersonic speeds, kill the sonic boom. And yes, plasma absorbs radio waves, so plasma fighters would be invisible to radar. Think stealth at Mach five." Words failed him and he fell silent.
"Tell me what you think," Jake Grafton prompted. "Is supercavitation real? Or magnificent fiction? Complex, fascinating disinformation?"
DeGarmo took a deep breath, gathered himself, and levered his bulk out of his chair. He came around the desk, casually took Jake's elbow, and began steering him toward the door. Jake had run out of questions, so he was willing to go.
"Maybe there's hope for you after all, Admiral. Good luck with your investigation. Keep me advised on what you find out."
With those parting words DeGarmo eased Jake through the door and pulled it firmly closed.
Out in the hallway Jake remembered that he had wanted to ask the director about Janos Ilin. Too late now, but he would be talking to DeGarmo again soon.
"Yes, Carmellini, what is it?"
Two floors below and a light-year away from the director's office, Tommy Carmellini stuck his head into his department head's office and asked if he might have a few minutes. Now he stepped inside, pulled the door shut, and seated himself across the desk from the great man, whose name was Herman Watring.
"Mr. Watring, I wanted to discuss the reasons why you didn't give me a performance bonus this year. I think I deserve one and so did my supervisor, who gave me the highest recommendation in the department."
"I saw his recommendation. Ridiculous!"
Carmellini wrapped his hands around the arms of the chair he was seated in and squeezed. "I have done an outstanding job all year. In addition, I invented the energy grenade, got a classified patent and assigned it to the agency. If I hadn't invented the thing and financed the prototype, they wouldn't exist."
"The agency is reimbursing you for your expenses," Watring said without enthusiasm. "I don't think you are entitled to anything else."
"I think I'm entitled to reimbursement and a performance bonus for my efforts, and so does my supervisor."
"Energy grenades! Pfft! You read classified summaries about the research into directed energy weapons. Your so-called invention was nothing new. The patent office should never have granted you that patent."
Tommy Carmellini struggled to keep his voice under control. "I'm not going to argue with you about what the patent office should have done. They did grant a patent, and I did assign it to the agency."
"As the law requires."
"Yes, sir. And the regulations contemplate that I will be rewarded for my industry and diligence. After all, I could have just sat on my ass like most of the people around here, swilling coffee and waiting for the eagle to shit me a paycheck." Watring's fondness for gourmet coffee was legendary.
Now Herman Watring leaned forward in his chair and a finger shot out, one pointed at Carmellini's chest. "I'm not going to take any more insubordination from you, foul mouth. Your supervisor made the bonus recommendation and I turned it down. That's the way it was and the way it's going to stay. I don't think you deserve a bonus. You aren't a team player, Carmellini. You're a thief. A burglar. A criminal. You are fortunate that you aren't in jail. Personally I find it difficult to understand why the agency keeps you on the payroll."
"So fire me! Send me out into the big wide world to starve on the sidewalks, to beg for quarters from employed civil servants on their way to their offices to earn their daily crust. Fire me! If you have the guts."
"As much as I'd like to, you know I haven't the authority."
"Okay, okay! I'm the cross you have to drag through life. My heart bleeds. Let's cut through the personal animosity, shall we?
What about the energy grenades? Surely you see how valuable they are?"
"Valuable to thieves and terrorists, perhaps. Not to an agency of the United States government."
"You say that like the CIA was the post office." Keeping himself under tight control, Tommy Carmellini rose from his chair and headed for the door. "You're a foolish, incompetent, vindictive knave, Herman."
"You can't call me names! Who the hell do you think you are? You can't march into this office and insult me!"
Why was he wasting his life conning women and picking locks for these pinheads? "Fire me!" he told Watring again. "Knave, varlet, fathead, toady, gossip, brownnoser, nincompoop—"
"Out!" Watring shouted, pointing toward the door, his face beet red and jowls quivering. "Out! Don't ever come through that door again unless I send for you. Understand?"
Carmellini went. He was in the hallway when the thought occurred to him that perhaps he should try quitting. Just turn in a letter of resignation and wait to see what happened. After all, this is America, he reminded himself. You gotta admit, it's a helluva country — people quit jobs every day. The CIA had had its pound of flesh: They wouldn't prosecute him for those old burglaries. Would they?
When he was a young man, Flap Le Beau never went anywhere without two knives secreted under his clothes, a throwing knife that he liked to keep in a sheath hanging behind his neck, and a fighting, or slashing, knife that he often wore behind his belt or up a sleeve. "Without the knives I feel sort of naked, you know," he had once explained to Jake Grafton, who met Flap and flew with him after the Vietnam War when Jake had the misfortune to be sent to a marine A-6 squadron aboard an aircraft carrier. That was long ago, Jake reflected ruefully as he shook hands this morning with Flap and lowered himself into a stuffed leather chair at the end of the commandant's desk.
Of course the room was outrageously decorated in red and gold, with the marine's globe and anchor emblem plastered on everything, from the paperweights to the carpet and furniture. Jake related the substance of the conversation with Director DeGarmo. Flap tapped a pencil on the desk as he listened, asking no questions. When Jake was done, he said, "Come on," and bolted for the door. Grafton trailed along in his wake as Flap strode through the outer office, not even breaking stride to talk to his executive assistant, a colonel. "We're going to see Stuffy Stalnaker. Be back in a bit."
Stalnaker was in a meeting, but he stepped into an adjacent meeting room to spend a few minutes with the marine general. "We need some background on this CIA operation that didn't fly, Operation Blackbeard. Why was it canceled?"
Stalnaker looked at each man, then pulled a chair around and dropped into it. He glanced at the door to ensure it was closed before he spoke. "The Russians got wind of it," he said.
Flap glanced at Jake, then pulled a chair away from the table and sat in it. Jake dropped into one against the wall.
"How do you know that?"
"DeGarmo told me. Apparently he told the intelligence committee too. They canceled the operation."
"Any idea how the CIA learned that fact?"
"Of course not. DeGarmo would never share that kind of information. We have no need to know."
"What," Jake Grafton asked, "if he was lying?"
Stalnaker ducked his head, s
wung it ponderously from side to side as he considered his answer. He looked up, eyed Jake. "There are some rocks sailors can't look under, and that's one of them."
General Le Beau asked, "How valuable is supercavitation technology?"
"Until we see where it is, Flap, what's involved, I can't answer that. I can tell you this, the Russians have successfully launched at least one of those Shkyal torpedoes. That's classified top secret, by the way. The thing ran straight as a bullet for about twenty miles, did two hundred and eighty knots, as near as we can determine. We had two subs close enough to record this on sonar."
"Thing make a lot of noise?"
"No, it didn't. That is the intriguing part. Some noise, yes. If they shot it at you, that's the last thing you'd hear before you died."
"So you are still interested?"
"Very."
"DeGarmo said supercavitation might lead to two-hundred-knot submarines, which would obsolesce conventional navies."
"I don't know where it would lead — far too early to tell. That's what's so tantalizing about it. But sure as God made Viagra, two-hundred-knot submarines would make scrap iron of every existing antisubmarine weapon and ship."
At this point, Flap glanced at Jake Grafton and raised his eyebrows in invitation.
"Admiral, if I might," Jake said, "let's talk about the technology aboard America. Who would want it?"
"Everyone," Stalnaker shot back. "Everyone will want it unless they got all the juice from the people who built the systems. In America that is the usual course of events. Espionage, industrial espionage… whatever you want to call it, someone buys the technology from someone in government or private industry while it's still in the blueprint stage. Or some twisted little bastard gives it away to save the human race from the evil military-industrial complex. The Russians, or Chinese, or Japanese, or Koreans — whoever — are usually a few years behind us turning the new tech into hardware, which is due more to manufacturing capacity and budget restraints than anything else. Anyone who thinks that competent, determined foreign intelligence services can't discover the secrets of Revelation is living in a fool's paradise. The circle of people with access is too darn big. All big secrets leak — in America that's a universal law."
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