Straits of Power

by Joe Buff

  “And you’ve been following me?” Strange men had been brushing past Ilse, or walking into her, more than seemed normal recently. She’d sometimes wondered if they were pickpockets, or gropers.

  “Why do you buy things off base when the exchange and commissary have everything at better prices?”

  “I like brands they don’t carry here, okay? I like to get away from the job now and then. So what?”

  The special agent pointed to the message log and the photos. “Who taught you tradecraft? How did they get you the comm plan?”

  “You can’t possibly be serious. . . . Wait, are you two trainees? Using me for practice in some kind of exercise? You think you can get away with it because I’m a foreign citizen? Get lost. Go back to Quantico. I’m much too busy for this. And I intend to file a complaint.”

  “Oh no, young lady. This is not an exercise.”

  The two men stood abruptly, as if on cue. “Subject remains evasive and hostile. Interview terminated at eleven forty-three A.M.” The FBI agent spoke as if to the air. Getting it on the recording. Not even making a pretense now. The pair of them gathered the papers and photos and walked out the door.

  Alone, Ilse almost laughed. She’d been in vicious firefights against seasoned Boer and German troops, on missions deploying from Challenger. She’d even been involved in conducting nuclear demolitions.

  The FBI would have to work a lot harder than those two weenies to intimidate me.

  Wait a minute . . . Tradecraft? Controls?

  Fuming, Ilse went to see Captain Johansen, Admiral Hodgkiss’s senior aide.

  Five minutes later, Ilse was standing in Hodgkiss’s austere, immaculate office. Johansen, blond, prematurely balding, a gruff man with no sense of humor at all, sat unobtrusively in a corner.

  At Johansen’s insistance, Ilse had just given Hodgkiss a summary of her interview with the FBI.

  Make that an interrogation, not an interview. Interviews are supposed to be benign.

  Hodgkiss was frowning. “Lord, they don’t know when to quit.”

  “I thought I should tell someone, Admiral, right away.” Ilse sensed that Hodgkiss hadn’t expected the blatant confrontation either, but knew more about whatever it meant than she did.

  Before she could ask him for details, Hodgkiss turned to Johansen. “Get the CO of the marine battalion guarding the base. Tell him I need a platoon for special duty till further notice. I want to see the platoon LT right now, with a squad in full battle gear.”

  “Yes, sir.” Johansen reached for a phone. A marine infantry battalion held up to 1,000 men; a platoon, part of a company, would be about fifty.

  Hodgkiss reached for his own phone. “It’s Hodgkiss. . . . Yes, put me through.”

  Ilse stayed standing, taking everything in.

  Hodgkiss spoke into the phone. “No FBI allowed on the base, on my orders.”

  He paused. Ilse assumed the base commander, a two-star rear admiral, was at the other end of the call.

  “Correct. All gate personnel are to turn them away.”

  He listened.

  “Tell them all objections are to come to me, personally, through the FBI director only. I’ll speak to no one else.”

  He listened again.

  “Good. Thanks. You too.” Hodgkiss hung up.

  Someone knocked on the door of the office.

  Hodgkiss projected his reedy voice. “Come in!”

  Ilse’s eyes popped. A dozen marines, in black-and-white-on-gray urban-warfare camouflage, with helmets and body armor and heavy weapons, came into the office. They braced to attention in front of the admiral; their leader was a lanky African-American with an all-business attitude that was only heightened by the thick-framed eyeglasses he wore.

  “At ease,” Hodgkiss ordered. “Lieutenant, see this woman?”

  “Yes, sir!” Some of the younger marines tried not to gape, with mixed success. Ilse was used to this from men.

  “This is Lieutenant Reebeck, an important member of my staff. I want you to rotate your squads, and provide her with twenty-four-hour protection.”

  “Sir, yes, sir! Sir, what is the threat, sir?”

  “Some jokers from the FBI may try to have her arrested. I wouldn’t put it past them to go tactical and sneak on the base, use disguises or subterfuge. Anything.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Don’t let her out of your sight. Roving perimeter security, the war room, her sleeping quarters, wherever. When she needs to use the ladies’ room, I want two of you outside the door, and two more outside the windows. Nobody lays their hands on Lieutenant Reebeck without my permission.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Work with my aide on the details. Dismissed.”

  The marines snapped to attention again, then filed out of the office after Johansen. The regular guard in the anteroom pulled the door shut behind them.

  Hodgkiss smiled to himself, and murmured, “I love marines. They all have so much energy.”

  Hodgkiss glanced at Ilse, still standing in front of his desk. That was the first time she’d ever seen him smile; already he was sour again.

  “Just what we need. Now of all times. War with the FBI. Not surprising, after yesterday.”

  “Er, not understood, sir.”

  “Don’t worry, Lieutenant. This goes way, way above your pay grade.” Hodgkiss rolled his eyes. “They think you’re a spy, and I think their director needs a very long vacation. The stress is affecting his mind.”

  “Um, thank you, Admiral.”

  “Don’t thank me. The director can always try to go above my head. For a couple of weeks, at least, you better not leave the base.”

  “No problem, Admiral.”

  “If the Axis is trying to frame you, the FBI ought to focus on that.”

  Before Ilse could react to this, Hodgkiss had an afterthought and picked up his phone again. “Set up a call for me with the judge advocate general, at 1630.” He paused. “Herself, yes. . . . Say I need her best read on jurisdiction, clearances for foreign nationals working on my staff. . . . South African, ethnic Boer.” He hung up.

  Hodgkiss glanced at his wristwatch, then at Ilse. “Let’s move, we’re both late for a rather important meeting.”

  Chapter 7

  Back in Norfolk, Jeffrey wasn’t surprised when he was led deep underground at Headquarters, Commander, U.S. Atlantic Fleet. Admiral Hodgkiss had a large conference room right off his big war room, on an upper level, but everything going on so far used the highest security possible.

  An enlisted attendant showed him to the meeting room. “Go right inside, please, sir.”

  Just like the special meeting rooms at the Pentagon, this one had two marine guards, and two thick doors with an empty vestibule between them. Jeffrey was first to arrive.

  A minute later Admiral Hodgkiss and Ilse showed up. Jeffrey was surprised to see them accompanied by two more marines, who scanned the room with their eyes and checked under the table.

  Jeffrey and Ilse said hello, while Hodgkiss watched, unamused. Their breakup had been amicable, they’d met a few times since on navy business, and Jeffrey had far too much on his mind to feel emotional now. But Ilse was angry.

  “Wait outside,” Hodgkiss told the marines. “The meeting is classified. Lieutenant Reebeck will be safe enough.”

  What gives? Jeffrey thought better of asking. He didn’t know who was cleared for what, and he had to avoid giving something away by an inadvertent question.

  Hodgkiss took the head of the table. “Sit anywhere. This is an informal working session.”

  Two more people walked in. Felix Estabo was one of them.

  Jeffrey came around the conference table and shook Felix’s hand, a broad grin on his face. “It’s good to see you again. All recovered?” Jeffrey had commanded the mission on which Felix had been wounded.

  “I got the forms that say so.” Felix turned to the civilian who’d arrived with him. “This gentleman tells me he knows you, Captain
.”

  Jeffrey was puzzled. The man peered at Jeffrey, obviously enjoying the moment. There was something familiar about his eyes. Jeffrey never forgot a face, but he drew a blank on this guy. Then the man spoke.

  “We killed many Germans together, you and Ilse and I.”

  The voice was the giveaway. “Gamal? Gamal Salih?”

  “In the flesh. Except last time we met you were a mere lieutenant commander, and I don’t recall all those fancy medals on your chest.”

  Ilse came over and embraced Salih, who wasn’t the least bit shy in hugging her back.

  Jeffrey and Ilse looked at Salih up close. “Plastic surgery?” Jeffrey asked.

  “Yes. They did a good job, no?”

  “A very good job. But why?”

  “Since I spoke before the UN, the whole world knows my face. Or knew it, I should say.”

  Jeffrey and Ilse nodded.

  “Not that it made any difference in the end,” Salih said. “Lies, lies, so many lies. You know Churchill said that ‘in wartime, the truth must be hidden behind a bodyguard of lies’? The problem now is, nobody knows when you’re honest.”

  “Too true,” Jeffrey said.

  “But your government, at least, did keep their promise, the promise you made when you convinced me to come back with you.” He was referring to a mission to northern Germany, before Christmas the previous year.

  “That you could return behind enemy lines?” Ilse asked. She’d been right there at the time, as heavy machine guns and main battle-tank fire poured in at the team, and their position had seemed hopeless.

  “For that, I need a new face, and I’ve learned to alter my voice a little, and I’ve polished up my Turkish a lot.”

  Gerald Parker arrived. Introductions were made as needed.

  “Mr. Parker is my teacher,” Salih said to Jeffrey and Ilse. “At the farm.”

  “Got it,” Jeffrey responded. The “farm” was a secret installation where the CIA trained their field operatives.

  “Your English is a lot better than when we talked in the van,” Felix said, half accusingly.

  Salih’s dark eyes sparkled. He stroked his mustache, for effect. “In the land of spies, nothing is what it seems at first, my friend.”

  Others came into the room.

  Jeffrey recognized Commander Ralph Parcelli, CO of the Gold crew of USS Ohio. Jeffrey was impressed: Parcelli had been a commander for more than three years, and his ship was a very prestigious assignment. He’d probably make the rank of captain soon, and the grapevine had it that he’d already been tagged for early selection to rear admiral after that.

  The Ohio was an old SSBN, a boomer sub, one of four converted to a new hybrid configuration. The Ohio had started life with two dozen big vertical missile tubes behind her sail; those tubes were her raison d’être, the reason she and her seventeen sister ships had been built. Each tube originally held a long-range Trident C-4 ballistic missile, with multiple hydrogen-bomb warheads on each missile, as the ultimate survivable strategic deterrent. To maximize their deployment availability at sea, each Ohio sub had two captains and two crews, Blue and Gold, so one could rest and train on land while the other hid beneath the waves for ten weeks at a time. After the Cold War, when the world situation changed and the funding from Congress came through, Ohio and three others of her class were refurbished. Now each tube could hold a canister of seven Tactical Tomahawk cruise missiles, for high-explosive land-attack missions. Two of her tubes were altered to become SEAL lock-out chambers. Space was made for sixty-six SEALs to sleep comfortably, and also keep fit in an extensive physical-training area. Other spaces held their special ops equipment and mission planning facilities—now that the Trident support systems and special navigation center weren’t needed. Some of that SEAL gear could be stored in up to eight of her tubes, and the reborn Ohio, now designated an SSGN, could carry two Advanced SEAL Delivery System minisubs on her back. Each of these battery-powered minis could transport a team of eight SEALs to a hostile beach or underwater work site, in a warm and dry shirtsleeve environment.

  Jeffrey assumed Ohio was nearby, at sea, submerged for stealth, and Parcelli had sneaked into harbor via minisub for the meeting.

  Parcelli and Jeffrey shook hands. Jeffrey felt a bit self-conscious. He was wearing his workaday khakis, while Parcelli had come in dress blues.

  With Parcelli was another commander, in khakis like Jeffrey. He wore the Special Warfare qualification badge—a Navy SEAL, like Felix.

  “This is Commander McCollough,” Felix said to Jeffrey. “Commander McCollough leads the SEAL complement on Ohio.”

  Jeffrey and McCollough shook hands warmly. They had never met face-to-face, although Ohio and Challenger had worked together briefly. Felix and his team had come over from Ohio to Challenger in an ASDS, during a covert underwater rendezvous in the Caribbean.

  “I’m honored, Captain Fuller,” McCollough said. “I’ve been hearing a lot of good things about you and your ship.”

  “Thank you,” Jeffrey said slightly awkwardly. Praise always embarrassed him, especially when delivered in McCollough’s powerful voice and in front of so many senior people. McCollough was very tall, six-four easily, and his accent immediately gave him away as a Boston-area Irishman.

  One more person showed up, slightly breathless. “Sorry I’m late.” The newcomer was also a commander, but he was wearing combat fatigues. With practiced military eyes, he looked around, taking in ranks and subtly scanning shirts and jackets for ribbons. He saw Felix’s Medal of Honor and said hello and shook hands.

  Then he recognized Jeffrey’s face. “Captain Fuller, this is a privilege. Commander Kwan, Naval Special Mobile Construction Battalion Sixty-six.” Kwan was a Seabee—though strictly speaking, as an officer he belonged to the navy’s Civil Engineer Corps.

  “Where you in from?” Jeffrey asked.

  “I move around a lot.” Kwan seemed evasive, and Jeffrey guessed that his unit’s real purpose was something hush-hush.

  Hodgkiss did a head count. “Let’s get down to business. This is a final informational briefing. Certain details will be withheld, to compartmentalize for security reasons. But you need the big picture of what’s going on. Commander Kwan, thank you for attending.”

  “Of course, Admiral. Any way we can help.”

  “I’ll have to ask you to leave fairly soon.”

  “Good, sir. My men have a lot to do.” Kwan did look rather harried, but Jeffrey could tell he enjoyed his work and took satisfaction in what his Seabee battalion could do—whatever exactly that was.

  People took seats, except for Hodgkiss, who remained standing at the head of the table. Behind him was a large flat-screen display. His senior aide—whom Jeffrey hadn’t even noticed until now, so good was Captain Johansen at staying invisible within a group—connected a laptop to the screen.

  Since not everyone had been at the Pentagon conference yesterday, Hodgkiss first quickly brought them up to speed on things they all were cleared for.

  “New material,” he said. “Step one is getting Challenger to sea. The Axis are expecting this pretty soon; they’re keeping as careful an eye on her as we are on the von Scheer. Their own and Russian spy satellites, signals intercepts, pseudo-neutral observer informants, the works. Seawolf and Connecticut, our fastest and quietest steel-hulled fast attacks, have been pulled off other duty to sanitize the area well outside the Chesapeake Bay. Surface ships and seafloor hydrophones are helping too, and divers and robotic probes have checked the James River and Hampton Roads for mines or other enemy weapons and sensors. All this, however, still gives no guarantee that a class 212 U-boat might not sneak in range, and sacrifice itself to destroy Challenger. It would be a very good tradeoff from the enemy’s perspective.”

  Everyone nodded.

  “As some of you know, the 212s can launch subsonic cruise missiles with a range of a thousand miles. As many as a dozen missiles per U-boat, if they leave all torpedoes behind. The farther out they launch, t
he safer they are. To our disadvantage there’s an unavoidable flip side: Challenger is most vulnerable while in dry dock and as she gets under way. She’ll need several hours to reach water deep enough to submerge.”

  “Sir,” Jeffrey said, “just out of curiosity, why haven’t the Axis taken a shot at my ship already?”

  “We suspect they’re saving their worst for when they’re sure your reactor is critical and well into the power range. And under that infrared-proof shelter, they won’t know it until you come out. Or, until they get word from a mole inside, if there is a mole. They can always rationalize that you’re a legitimate military target. Our problem is, you’d also be one giant floating dirty bomb, if they could seriously breach your reactor compartment using high-explosive warheads while Challenger is still near land. At the rate they’ve been escalating, nothing would surprise me. Their propaganda machine is already poised, we expect, to blame the U.S. for basing nuclear subs in a populated area.” Hodgkiss turned to Parker. “Isn’t that right?”

  “That’s our assessment, Admiral. They know it’s been a hot button with some Americans for years.”

  Jeffrey pressed. “Then why haven’t they gone after one of our nuclear carriers when she’s been in port? You can’t possibly hide a carrier, sir, and at the pier they’re sitting ducks.”

  “Because they’re too big. Their reactors are too well protected.”

  “Then what about the steel-hulled subs based here?”

  “We have been taking careful precautions, Captain,” Hodgkiss said. “Some of that you’ve seen yourself, in New London.”

  “Understood.”

  “However,” Hodgkiss went on, “we do believe that this time it’s different. The Axis very badly want to disable Challenger once and for all.” Hodgkiss gave Jeffrey a wry smile. “You’re just too big a thorn in their side. Sink you, Captain, and von Scheer has a much easier job breaking out.”

  “Understood.” So that’s the next layer of cover story! I’m supposedly heading southeast, toward South Africa, to mix it up with von Scheer. . . . And one reason Peapod-Zeno sent Beck’s reports was so we’d all make a fuss over Beck, and distract pro-Axis spies in Norfolk or Washington from considering any other place as my target—like Istanbul. Klaus Mohr, you’re one clever bastard.