Alternities

by Michael P. Kube-Mcdowell

  “Then I don’t understand—”

  “The government that compromised me is our own. The man I went along with is the President.”

  “This is scaring me, Gregory.”

  He brushed her cheek with his curled fingers. “It scares me, too, sweetheart.”

  “Is there going to be a war? Is that what you’re talking about?”

  “Yes. I thought I would be able to make myself heard. But he’s slammed the door on me. He doesn’t want to hear ‘No.’ ”

  “Then there doesn’t have to be a war,” she said.

  “No.”

  She returned to his shoulder and the comforting embrace of his arms. “It’s all right to put our family first. But you can’t stop there,” she said finally. “You can’t stand and watch while other parents’ babies burn.”

  “I know,” he said. “That’s why I’m sitting here in the middle of the night. Trying to find a way back in.”

  “Isn’t there anyone else who feels the same as you? Someone who’s still on the inside?”

  He was a long time in answering. “I don’t know,” he said dolefully. “I just don’t know.”

  Bethel, Virginia, The Home Alternity

  The woman’s body carried a hundred marks from its encounters with whip and needle, flame and blade. Cigarette burns decorated the curves of her breast and the soft roundness of her belly. She wore Endicott’s initials carved into her right buttock and the bruise shadow of his hands on her throat. Welts of varying vintage were everywhere, from pale scars to the neat crisscross pattern of bright red ridges across the backs of her thighs from that night’s session in the basement bedroom.

  It was harder to find marks on her spirit. Like Scheherazade, Rachel seemed to believe she had struck a bargain that would keep her alive, buying the next day with her nightly screams. She no longer believed he would kill her, he thought. She was wrong, of course. He would kill her, in time.

  But even he was surprised at how long he had kept her, how he had broken all his own rules with her. Even to taking her into his own bed. She lay naked atop the blankets, an ankle chain securing her to the footboard, her folded arms her only pillow. Sleeping peacefully, the sleep of the exhausted, the cleansed. He had made her life simple as a child’s.

  In return, she stole his sleep from him and made his life ever more complex. She had learned not to lecture him, not to argue with him, not to whine or fight, but still she found ways to manipulate him. Give me beautiful marks, she had begged tonight, and he had, with the care of an artist working a canvas. As if what she wanted mattered. As if she mattered. Everything she said, everything she did plucked at the knots held his selfness together.

  The closer she came to unraveling them, the more cruelly he punished her. He had nothing to explain, no one to account to, and he would not let her make him think otherwise. The two worst beatings he had given her, savage mindless maulings that had left her half dead, followed the time she forgave him and the time she gave him permission. There was nothing to forgive, and he did not need or permission.

  And yet she worked on him, always holding that one little piece of herself back, watching him and keeping silent secrets. She was changing him, and he did not understand how. He had made love to her and even given her pleasure. Another rule broken, another mistake. A repeated mistake. He knew he should kill her now, before her web was complete and he was helpless. And knew he would not, not yet.

  Not until he had pierced that final veil. Not until be knew what it was she knew about him.

  Washington, D.C., The Home Alternity

  The meeting in the White House Situation Room had been originally scheduled for 1:00 p.m., postponed until 4:00 and again until 7:00. It had finally convened at 10:00 with one of the principals absent.

  All the trouble had begun when the British Airways plane from Glasgow carrying a CIA courier had been diverted by mechanical trouble to Halifax, Nova Scotia. When it became clear that the delay was going to be a lengthy one, a two-seat jet trainer was dispatched from the Air Force station at Bucks Harbor, Maine, to pick up the courier and ferry him to Washington.

  Madison had gone personally to Boiling Air Force Base, on the Potomac, to await its arrival. In his absence. Admiral Fisch, the Chief of Naval Operations, took center stage to address the group.

  Fisch was a round-shouldered, chain-smoking, bulgy-cheeked veteran of the surface fleet—captain of a cruiser in the Pacific War and a task force commander during the Cuban intervention. His uniform was stretched tight at the buttons, and he walked with a rolling gait which made it seem as though he had never quite regained his land legs.

  But Fisch spoke simply and authoritatively, a businessman in the business of war. “Mr. President, I was asked to brief you on our ability to carry out a peacetime attrition campaign against the Soviet submarine forces operating in international waters off our coasts,” he said, standing in front of a wall covered with maps.

  “That’s correct, Admiral,” said Robinson.

  “Before we discuss tactics, I want to make sure you understand some of the conditions under which our ASW forces will be operating. With your permission—”

  “Go ahead.”

  Fisch nodded to his tactical aide. “Wally?”

  Slender and hoarse-voiced, the aide stepped forward. “Mr. President, the Foxtrot-class vessels are fuel-cell-powered and very quiet—they emit less than one milliwatt of broadband acoustic energy when underway. Cyclops has to pick that up against an ambient noise background caused by ocean turbulence, vessels and storms up to several hundred miles away, surface waves, even sea life.”

  “Whales,” Clifton remarked. “Amazing sounds.”

  “Many smaller animals, too, sir, even certain species of shrimp. Cyclop’s East Coast ASW element alone includes nearly twenty thousand hydrophones—between ten and twenty per nautical mile—connected to twelve shore stations, each of which directs fire control for six to twelve Javelin batteries. Even with all that hardware, detection is often marginal, especially on the outer shelf where the subs are now operating.”

  The aide turned to the map behind him. “This is a composite plot of contacts in Sector Five for the twelve hours ending midnight yesterday. Sector Five extends roughly from the Delaware Bay to Cape Hatteras, North Carolina. The blue tracks are confirmed sub movements; the red tracks are guesstimates. As you can see, even when a Foxtrot is on the move we lose contact periodically.”

  Robinson leaned forward. “Am I reading this correctly, that there were five subs in the sector?”

  “Five confirmed, sir. There are other contacts which may or may not have been subs. They do a lot of station-keeping, and there are shadow zones and submarine canyons to hide in. You could have a big sixteen-tube Hotel-class sub sitting on the bottom anywhere along here,” he said, pointing, “and Cyclops would never know. That’s where the coast patrol and the ASW aircraft come in, trying to fill the gap with sonar and magnetic detection.”

  Robinson was growing impatient with the detail. “So it’s not easy to find them. Obviously you can, or that map would be blank. So why is any of this relevant?”

  “I wanted to address one other matter,” the aide said, hurrying his words. “The subs can take active countermeasures if there’s reason to believe they’re under attack or likely to be under attack. Obviously, any system as sensitive as Cyclops can be jammed rather easily. Also, the Foxtrots have long-run decoy torpedoes which carry recordings of sub noises. They have growlers which can be towed—”

  “Enough,” Robinson said irritably. “Admiral, maybe you can answer the question your aide ignored. Why is any of this relevant? I didn’t ask you to make me an antisubmarine warfare expert.”

  “No, sir,” Fisch said, coming forward as the aide retreated to a chair. “It matters because it affects the tactics we choose to use and the chances of success.”

  “Let’s talk about that, then,” Rodman said.

  “Gladly,” said Fisch. “We have four ASW p
latforms available to us—the Javelins, the Rogers-class destroyer escorts, the P-5 patrol plane, and the Sea Devil helicopter. Of the four, the only one which satisfies the requirements of a program of deliberate accidental incidents are the missiles. They’re quick-hitters, which gives us a reasonable chance of cloaking the truth of the event.”

  “That seems simple enough. If we go forward, that’s the way we’ll go,” Robinson said. “What’s all the fuss about? Or was your aide just trying to show me what a good student he was at the Naval War College?”

  “Wally was doing what I asked him to,” Fisch said. “For all the reasons he outlined, the chances of success are no better than one in five for a single missile against a single target, or three in five for a salvo. The Javelin carries an acoustic homing torpedo, and the moment it hits the water all the boards on that sub are going to light up. If we miss, there’ll be no second chances and no ‘accident’ cover. He’ll have the spoofers and jammers on, and the first chance he gets the wire will go up for a bulletin to Moscow.”

  Though the news was discouraging, Robinson showed no sign of distress. “The truth is. Admiral, I want Moscow to know. This isn’t a military operation so much as a diplomatic one. I have a card I want to play, and I can’t do it until they raise the stakes. So tell me, isn’t there some way to make a sure kill?”

  The tactical aide and the Admiral exchanged glances. “Depth charge,” the aide said tentatively.

  “No,” the Admiral said, shaking his head.

  Robinson pounced. “What does he mean, depth charge?”

  “Mr. President, I don’t think—” Fisch started.

  “Don’t say no to me. You—Wally—explain,” Robinson said sharply.

  Whipsawed between two superiors, the aide drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. “The Javelin can deliver either a torpedo or a nuclear depth charge. The DC makes very little noise on entry, no noise on the way down—”

  “And a hell of a lot of noise when it goes off,” the Admiral said. “Kondratyev will never let you get away with nuking one of his subs, Mr. President. I know you haven’t asked for my opinion of the consequences of this kind of operation—”

  “That’s right. Admiral,” Robinson said. “I haven’t. And please don’t offer one. You’re not fully in the picture on this.”

  But the Admiral had a bit of bulldog in him. “Mr. President, is Secretary O’Neill in the picture? It seems to me that he ought to be involved in this decision.”

  Rodman intercepted the question. “The Secretary has been consulted,” he said. “He is fully informed.”

  The arrival at that moment of Dennis Madison precluded any further explanations. Madison carried a slim briefcase in his left hand, a cup of coffee in his right. “Got it,” he said simply.

  “Good,” Robinson said. “Admiral, what are the odds of success with the depth charge?”

  “Maybe eighty percent,” Fisch said reluctantly.

  “Thank you. Admiral. That’ll be all for now.”

  While the Admiral and his aide reluctantly gathered up their maps and exited, the four remaining men gathered around one end of the elongated octagonal table. “Did you have a chance to look at it?” Robinson asked when they were alone.

  “Just a minute or two, in the car on the way up from Bolling,” Madison said, unlatching the case. “But it was enough. You were right, Mr. President. The British have A-bombs of their own, at least a hundred warheads and maybe twice that.”

  “I knew it,” Robinson said with grim triumph. “Sons of bitches, I knew it.”

  “I would never have believed it,” Clifton said, shaking his head.

  “They’ve been in violation of their bilateral treaty all along.”

  “It’s the only thing that made sense,” Robinson said. “I never did think Somerset would do all this, take that kind of risk, just to twit us. Especially walking into the situation cold. Not unless he knew that they were already in violation.”

  “It does seem that their threshold resistance should have been higher,” Clifton agreed. “I am astonished, I truly am.”

  “He used us pretty good,” Rodman said. “Used us to protect his own hole card.”

  “Just so,” Robinson said.

  “What’s the delivery platform?” Rodman asked Madison. “You can’t tell me they’ve managed to hide silos or a bomber fleet for twenty-five years.”

  “No doubt they hid a submarine in Loch Ness or something equally outrageous,” Clifton said under his breath.

  “French-built cruise missiles,” Madison answered. “Air-launched from a Wasp interceptor.”

  “What was the price of the intelligence?” Rodman wanted to know.

  “High. We had to kill one and buy a couple.”

  Nodding, Rodman turned to Robinson. “This is what we wanted, Peter. It’s all fallen in place.”

  “Yes,” the President said. “Yes. We can take care of our British problem, and at the same time take the measure of the Kremlin. Bill, will you see that our people in England receive instructions to sit tight and leave the missiles in place?”

  “I will. What about Fisch?”

  Robinson’s eyes were thoughtful. “I’ll tell the Admiral myself.”

  Bloomington, Alternity Blue

  January was usually the coldest month in Indiana, but this year someone had forgotten to tell the Elemental Engineers. The pattern of bitterly cold days and even colder clear-skied nights which had settled on the state just before Wallace left had held through to his return. Three weeks into February, the wind whipping around the corner of the Five Friends building had as much bite as any yet that season.

  The back stairs to Shan’s second-floor apartment reminded him of the apartment in Richmond. The moment he noticed the resemblance, he pushed it out of his mind. He did not want to think about Ruthann or anything connected to her. He did not want to live in what felt like the past.

  The wind blew tiny ice crystals off the roof and railings and into Wallace’s face as he climbed in the dark. There was no light at the top except for a faint glow from a curtained window. Shivering in a sudden gust of arctic air, he pulled back the screen door and knocked heavily on the windowless wooden door.

  A few moments later, the overhead light came on and a face peeked briefly out through the curtains. The door opened to reveal Shan, barefoot and wearing a flowing caftan and an expression which was less than fully welcoming.

  “Hi,” he said. “Can I come in?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I was beginning to think I was wrong about you.”

  “The apology is short, but the explanation takes a while,” he said, showing a sheepish smile. “I don’t mind doing them here if your feet are up to it.”

  Her face warmed slightly. “I don’t think they are,” she said, stepping back to admit him. “I can always throw you out when you’re done.”

  An open book and a cup of steaming tea marked the chair where Shan had been seated. Pharaoh, the big gray-furred cat, was curled up in the warm depression she had left in the cushions. Wallace dropped his coat on the edge of the bed and tried to cover the flat, square package which he had been concealing under it in the same motion, but without success.

  “Is that part of the apology?”

  “No,” he said. “Just a late Valentine’s Day present. It needs to warm up.”

  “Mmm, frozen chocolate,” she said. “My dentist will be doubly fond of you.”

  “Not chocolate. Too predictable.”

  “That is one of the seven deadly sins, being predictable.” She reclaimed her chair from Pharaoh, gathering him up and offering him the hollow of her crosslegged lap when she was settled. In true cat fashion, he disdained the substitution and leapt off. “What happened, Rayne? Why didn’t I hear from you?”

  He knew already that she would let him keep secrets, but she would not let him he. “I was going to try to convince you that I’ve just been busy, traveling,” he said, looking down at the floor, avoiding her e
yes. “That’s even partly true. This whole last week, I couldn’t have reached you, no matter how much I wanted to.”

  Having waited long enough to consider it his idea, Pharaoh jumped lightly up onto Shan’s lap. “But you didn’t want to.”

  “Shan—you made me feel wonderful. Here, and here,” he said, tapping his temple and the middle of his chest in turn.

  A mischievous smile fought its way onto her face. “Nowhere else?”

  “All right,” he said, patting the bed. “Here, too.”

  “Thank you. I didn’t want to think I’d read everything wrong.”

  “You didn’t read any of it wrong,” he said. “Being with you—it kind of lights me up inside.”

  “But—” she prompted.

  He answered haltingly, partly a struggle to edit his thoughts, partly a struggle to understand them. “But the only long-term… relationship… I’ve ever had, just blew up in my face. As special as what happened between you and me was, when I got away from here I got scared. I don’t—trust—my feelings. My judgment.”

  “Are you afraid of being hurt?”

  He looked up from the floor. “Maybe more of hurting you.”

  “That’s not for you to worry about,” she said, scratching Pharaoh between the ears. “The risk is mine. The decision is mine. And I thought it was a good risk.” She smiled and it was like a flower opening to the sun. “I guess I still do.”

  “Shan—I’ve never done this before.”

  Again the twinkle. “It didn’t seem that way to me.”

  “I mean this is special for me—this feeling. You’re the only one I’ve ever wanted to break the rules for.”

  The cat’s deep-throated purring was audible across the room. “Will you talk to me next time? When you’re thinking about things you don’t think you can tell me, or you don’t want to admit to yourself? Instead of disappearing inside yourself?”