by Jeff Edwards
Doyle pursed her lips for a half-second. “Germany was moving in that direction anyway. Now they’ll have to do it a little faster.”
“Not a little faster,” Brenthoven said. “A lot faster. In less than a year, the Germans are going to have one hell of an energy crunch. Nearly thirty-five percent of their electricity comes from nuclear power, and their per capita usage is through the roof. Over six thousand kilowatt-hours per person, per year.”
“How bad is it going to get, Greg?” the president asked.
Brenthoven checked his notebook again. “Bad, sir. Catastrophic. We could conceivably be looking at the collapse of the entire German economy.”
Doyle curled a finger under her chin. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would the German people vote for a plan that could bankrupt their economy?”
“It’s a classic argument,” the president said. “The pro-Earth lobbies push for environmental safety at any and all cost; they try to frighten people with dire predictions of impending ecological disasters. The pro-industrial lobbies counter with their own brand of scare tactics. Factory shutdowns, loss of jobs, and the crippling economic impact of tighter environmental restrictions. Both sides run around screaming that the sky is falling, and the only way to stop it is to vote the way they tell you to.” He smiled. “And the irony of it is, both sides are probably right. We are poisoning our planet at an alarming rate. And the cost of stopping this catastrophe-in-progress may well be higher than we can afford to pay.”
He sighed. “It comes down to a tug-of-war between the tree huggers and the polluters. Most of the time, industry wins out. People have a hard time picturing ecological catastrophe; but they can picture themselves unemployed. It’s hard to get the man on the street to see past his job. Usually, the only way to do it at all is to scare the hell out of him. I would guess that the Green Party has been capitalizing on the recent spate of accidents in the German nuclear power industry.”
“I would call that an understatement, Mr. President,” Brenthoven said. “A group called Leben Zuerst, Life First, has blitzed the German media with grisly commercials. One of them, the so-called Dance of the Condemned, uses movie-quality special effects to morph a playground full of laughing children into a pile of smoldering corpses, with a voice-over of German children reading the names of people killed in and around Chernobyl.” He shuddered. “Nasty stuff, sir. The more so because there’s a grain of truth in it.”
“I get the picture,” the president said. “But I have to admit that I’m a little puzzled by your sudden interest in German politics.” He stared at his national security advisor. “There’s more to this, isn’t there?”
Brenthoven nodded. “Yesterday morning, British military intelligence intercepted what they believe to be an internal memorandum from German Chancellor Shoernberg to his chief attaché officer. The memo alludes to a letter-of-intent from the German government to Abdul al-Rahiim, the president of Siraj. The CIA and British MI-5 are trying to get their hands on a copy of the letter itself. If the Brits are right, the letter formalizes a secret deal between Germany and Siraj.”
The president leaned forward slowly. “What kind of deal?”
“British intelligence thinks it’s an exchange: military hardware for oil. The boys at Langley think the Brits could be right.”
“Shoernberg will never be able to get the UN Security Council to lift the standing embargo against Siraj,” Doyle said. “Abdul al-Rahiim may call himself president of Siraj, but everyone knows he’s a dictator and a thug. His regime can be linked to half the terrorist organizations in the Middle East. The last thing anybody wants to do is arm the bastard. If Germany brings this up before the UN, there’s going to be a very loud splat when it hits the floor.”
“I agree,” Brenthoven said. “The Office of Naval Intelligence thinks the Germans might just sidestep the embargo.”
“You mean ignore it?” the president asked.
Brenthoven nodded. “Yes, sir. They may just try to deliver the goods in broad daylight and dare anyone to do anything about it.”
“I don’t see that happening,” the president said. “But we’ll worry about that part later. Do you have any details on this supposed deal?”
The national security advisor shook his head. “Not anything concrete, Mr. President. But ONI has thrown together a rough projection, mostly based on production figures from the German military-industrial complex. Recently, quite a bit of hardware has been earmarked for sale to the German military. I asked State to have a look at the German federal budget and any recent appropriations bills. They couldn’t find any sign at all that the German government has plans to allocate money for upcoming major military purchases.”
The president’s eyebrows furrowed. “So the German military never intended to buy all this new hardware they’re building?”
“Not as far as we can tell, Mr. President.”
“What’s ONI’s best guess on this?” the president asked. “How much hardware, and when does it get delivered?”
The national security advisor tugged at his collar. “Uh … again, I remind you that these are rough figures, sir. But right now, we’re looking at something like four Type 212B diesel submarines, to be followed by at least three Type 214s when those start rolling off the block.”
The president frowned. “Obviously we don’t want any new military hardware going into Siraj at all, but why are we getting so bent out of shape over diesel submarines? Nuclear subs I could understand …”
“With all due respect, Mr. President,” Brenthoven said, “your information is about a half a century out of date.”
The president whistled. “I’ve been accused of being behind the times before, but never a half century.”
Brenthoven smiled. “Sir, when I say diesel sub, you’re picturing something out of an old black-and-white war movie—back when diesel subs had no real speed or endurance, and they were easy prey for surface ships. But those days are ancient history.
“Over the past three decades, there have been about a hundred quantum leaps in diesel submarine design and engineering. The new boats are equipped with air-independent propulsion systems and hydrogen fuel-cell technology straight out of the aerospace industry. They can run submerged for weeks without having to snorkel or come up for air. Their hull metallurgy is incredibly advanced, giving them operating depths comparable to our nuclear subs.
And the new Austenitic steels are non-magnetic, making the most advanced diesel subs difficult or impossible to detect with magnetic sensors. To top it all off, nearly all of the new diesel subs are capable of firing Exocet anti-ship cruise missiles, as well as highly advanced acoustic homing torpedoes.”
The national security advisor looked at the president. “Sir, I could go on for an hour.”
“You make them sound better than our nuclear attack subs,” the president said.
Brenthoven shook his head. “Not better, sir. Nuclear subs can still stay down longer. But when you’re chasing a diesel boat that can stay submerged for a month at a time, the difference starts to seem academic. And in a reasonably confined body of water, like the Persian Gulf, an advanced diesel submarine is every bit as deadly as one of our nuclear fast-attack subs.”
“Jesus,” Doyle said softly. “The Germans are actually thinking about selling these things to Siraj? Abdul al-Rahiim has stirred up enough trouble with obsolete Soviet hardware. I don’t even want to think about what a madman like that can do with cutting-edge submarines. What little stability there is in the Middle East will go right down the toilet.”
“I’m afraid that subs aren’t all of it.” The national security advisor swallowed before continuing. “It looks like the deal may include somewhere between thirty and fifty of the new Joint European Strike Fighters.”
The president took a breath and let it out slowly. “Are we certain about this weapons deal?”
“Not yet, Mr. President. The CIA and ONI are both out shaking the trees for independent corroboration.�
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“So this whole thing could turn out to be a pig in a poke?”
Brenthoven nodded. “It’s possible, sir. But the intelligence boys don’t think so, and neither do I. Do you want me to bring the Joint Chiefs in on this?”
“Not yet,” the president said. “Let’s push this one onto the back burner until we get some sort of corroboration. Right now, Germany rates about a zero-point-nothing on my threat scale. I’m worried about China. Those boys have stuck their dick out, and I’ve got a bad feeling that they’re not going to be really happy until they’ve stepped on it.”
CHAPTER 5
BRITISH EMBASSY
WASHINGTON, DC
MONDAY; 07 MAY
2:14 PM EDT
Sarah Bexley leaned on the sink basin and rested her eyes for a moment. Here, in the quiet coolness of the ladies’ toilet, her throbbing headache seemed to recede to something approaching a bearable level. It had to be the flu—some nasty little American variety of the virus with a particular taste for fair English flesh. At least it seemed that way, since everyone in the office appeared to be catching it. A third of the staff had already gone home ill.
Sarah felt for the handle of the cold-water tap and turned it on, cringing instantly at the sound of the water cascading into the marble basin. Her head was killing her. The two Motrin she had taken had done a bit to ease the body aches, but they weren’t doing much for the pounding symphony of pain behind her temples. Why couldn’t the Yank pharmacies stock a decent painkiller, like Nurosen? Oh they said it was all ibuprofen, didn’t they? But it wasn’t really the same, now was it? A couple of Nurosen would have had this headache on the run by now, whereas the bloody Motrin wasn’t doing a thing.
She opened her eyes and looked at her reflection in the mirror. It took a few seconds to force her eyes to focus. She barely recognized the face staring back out of the glass; it was flushed, puffy looking, and inhumanly tired. Her eyes were the worst: red-rimmed and bloodshot. There were dark circles under them that her makeup couldn’t disguise.
Sarah was twenty-eight, and she prided herself on having inherited something of her mother’s Anglican beauty. Not that you could see it at the moment. The face in the mirror might have belonged to a forty-year-old barfly after a month or two of pub crawling.
She pulled a hand towel from the neat stack next to the wash basin, moistened a corner of it under the running water, and then folded it and dabbed it against the back of her neck. The cool wetness felt good against her overheated skin.
She swallowed with a painful effort. Her throat felt raw and swollen. This was ridiculous. She couldn’t work like this. She needed to go home and curl up on the couch with a blanket and a cup of tea. Maybe she would go home. She sighed, and something rattled deep in her chest, a burbling, phlegmy sort of sound. She really couldn’t go home, could she? Sir Anthony had the economic conference on Wednesday, and his presentation materials weren’t ready yet. Or rather, they were ready, but Mr. Nitpicky-Hammersmith wasn’t through fussing over them yet. She could already hear his voice … “Nothing reaches the ambassador’s desk until it is letter perfect. Let-ter per-fect. England’s hopes ride on Sir Anthony’s shoulders, and his hopes ride on our shoulders.”
Hammersmith was a grumpy old bastard. If she tried to leave before he was happy with her presentation materials, she might as well pack up her desk and move back down to the second floor.
She sighed again. Back to the desk, old girl. Don’t give Hammersmith an excuse to shuttle you back to the administrative pool.
Her bleary eyes came to rest on the delicate curves of the marble sink basin with its sculpted supporting column and the elegant fluting of the water spout and tap handles. It had taken her five years to make it to the fourth floor—up here, where the desks were polished mahogany, the floors were tiled with exquisite mosaics, and the fluffy hand towels were emblazoned with the Royal Crest. Up here, where Sarah’s opinion mattered, where influential people depended upon her work and listened to her words with interest. Up here, where men found her ideas more compelling than her breasts.
She laid the towel on the countertop and turned off the water tap. She stood up straight, doing her best to ignore the surge of pain her movements sent coursing through her aching muscles. She nearly had to lean on the sink again as her knees trembled and threatened to give way. But the weakness passed after a few seconds—most of it anyway. She could tough it out. Another hour or two, at least. Perhaps long enough for Mr. Hammersmith to admit that her economic presentation was ready for the ambassador’s desk. Or at least long enough for Hammersmith to throw in the towel himself and go home sick. He looked even worse than Sarah did. She suspected that he was running more on his stiff upper lip than he was off of any internal reserves of strength.
Well, if he could do it, Sarah could do it. She squared her shoulders and turned away from the sink.
She pulled the door open, stepped into the corridor, and immediately tripped over a heavy bundle of rags lying on the floor. She lost her footing and pitched forward, just managing to turn her face to the side as she half-stumbled, half-fell into the far corridor wall. Her shoulder banged painfully into sculpted plaster and she nearly fell down entirely. Still swaying and half-dazed, she looked over her shoulder at the bundle of rags.
But it wasn’t a bundle at all. It was a person … A young woman, lying on her side with her arms and legs sprawled limply in impossible directions, like a rag doll dropped on the floor and forgotten. She wasn’t moving. Was she breathing?
Sarah tried to bend over the woman, but the pain in her head ramped up so violently that she thought she was going to lose consciousness. Her blood roared in her ears, and her vision seemed to shift and waver. A hot flash swept over her like a gust of air from a blast furnace.
She slumped against the wall, panting and praying for the pain in her head to subside just a little. Through the nauseous fog of her pain, she could see the young woman’s face. The woman’s eyes were open, staring vacantly into the distance. Her lips were parted, and a trickle of blood-tinged saliva dropped from the corner of her slack mouth to a spreading pool on the floor. Another trickle ran from her right nostril and down her cheek.
Oh god! What was wrong with this woman? Was she … dead? Sarah opened her mouth to scream, but all that came out was a hoarse croak. She looked around for help. Someone. Anyone. She was alone in the corridor with the dying woman.
Sarah began staggering toward the door of the closest office. She couldn’t remember whose office it was, but it didn’t really matter. She needed to call someone. Call for help.
The door couldn’t have been more than seven or eight meters away, but the distance appeared to stretch and then contract in a dizzying manner that seemed to be keeping rhythm with the pounding in Sarah’s head. Leaning against the wall, Sarah made for the door, step after trembling step, her knees becoming weaker with every movement. The door … the … door … She stumbled and nearly went down. It was becoming difficult to breathe.
There was something in her throat. Some sort of hard knot. She tried to swallow and tasted something strange but distantly familiar. Her nose was running. She swiped at it blindly with one hand. Her fingers came away red. She was bleeding … Oh God … What was happening to her? What was happening to all of them?
She reached the door, fought with the knob for a desperate second, and then stumbled through. “Help me …” Her voice sounded feeble in her ears, guttural and strangely distant. “Help … me …”
It took a few seconds for her eyes to focus on the contents of the room. It was a charnel house. Bodies lay scattered about like so much wastepaper. Men. Women. In chairs; collapsed on the floor; slumped over desks. Sightless eyes staring into infinity, blood streaming from noses, ears, and mouths.
Sarah stood in the doorway, her lungs laboring for air, her mind refusing to take in the reality of what she was seeing. They couldn’t all be dead. They couldn’t …
Her legs gave way, and she c
ollapsed to her knees. “Somebody … help …”
A man was lying face up on the carpet, his head a few centimeters from her left knee. An older man, his lower face a mask of blood and sputum. In some dark recess of Sarah’s brain, the man’s face connected with a name. Hammer … smith.
And then Sarah did scream, the sound wrenching itself free from somewhere deep in her chest, clawing its way up her tortured and swollen throat like a wild beast rending flesh. She screamed until the last of the air was gone from her lungs.
CHAPTER 6
WASHINGTON, DC
MONDAY; 07 MAY
2:46 PM EDT
The president finished the article and dropped the newspaper on his desk with a sigh. What did the Sirajis think they stood to gain by making up stories like this? Did they think there was some political edge to be had? Was it just the need to see their names in the paper? Or were they just full of shit?
The door opened and Agent Allain LaBauve walked in. “Excuse me, Mr. President, we have a Condition Firestorm.” LaBauve’s voice was cool and professional. The two agents who had followed him into the room stood behind him without speaking.
President Chandler glanced up at LaBauve. The Secret Service agent’s poker face was firmly in place. His neutral expression gave no clue that he had just barged into the Oval Office without knocking, dragging a pair of agents in his wake. “Say again, Alan?”
LaBauve was the head of the President’s Personal Security Detail, his so-called body man, because he was never more than an arm’s length away when the president was in a non-secure location. The president called the big Cajun man Alan, LaBauve’s preferred version of his first name.
LaBauve had a talent for languages; he spoke French, German, and Russian—all with near-perfect accents. He had a master’s degree in criminal justice from the University of Virginia, and double bachelors in systems theory and political science. His speech was clipped, precise, and bore no trace of his dirt-poor southern Louisiana upbringing. And still he couldn’t escape nicknames like Swamp Thing and Gator. The last came from a persistent rumor that LaBauve—in his young and wild days—had once beaten an alligator to death with a half-empty jug of moonshine.