“We caught him sending an encrypted classified message. We found the SatPhone in his safe. What’s circumstantial about that?”
“All we know is that the message was on his computer. We don’t know how it got there, or whether he sent it. As for the SatPhone, that’s incriminating, but no one has actually proved that he owns the thing or that he used it for any purpose.”
“Look, Mr. Korchek, you sound more like a lawyer than an investigator.”
“I am a lawyer, pal. Don’t presume to tell me how to do my job.”
At this, Morse’s eyes widened and his chin tilted upward.
Korchek recognized the look. It was the same look the military intelligence twits always wore when they had just lost a round with him.
Korchek was enjoying himself. Being a civilian, he made it a point not to take shit from officers, especially officers like this asshole Morse. Korchek was a Chicago cop before going to law school and being recruited by the FBI. He seized on the cryptology job when it came along because he loved messing with computers, and, besides, it got him out of the grunt work regular agents had to do.
Korchek said, “It isn’t an airtight case. Maybe Parsons is your guy, maybe not.”
“Parsons fits all the profiles,” said Morse.
“What do you mean by that?” said Admiral Fletcher, watching the exchange from the end of the conference table.
Morse tossed a thick manila file folder onto the table. “This is his background file. Top of his NROTC class at Michigan. Ditto at the Navy postgrad school in Monterey. BS in electrical engineering, master’s in industrial management. Served two previous shipboard tours as comm officer — one aboard the South Carolina, then a WestPac cruise on the Lincoln. Here’s an interesting part: He put in a long tour — four and a half years — at NATO Forces South Command in Naples as a liaison officer. Had top-secret clearance and, according to this report, had contacts with foreign military counterparts all over southern Europe.”
“Is that when you think he was compromised?” Fletcher asked.
“Nothing turned up in any of the security checks they ran on him — except one glaring susceptibility. He’s subject to blackmail.”
“Because of…?”
“His sexual orientation.”
Fletcher nodded. “He’s gay, you mean?”
“It came to light back when he was at grad school. Seems he’s always had a companion. Several, actually.”
Fletcher shook his head. “How did he get a top-secret clearance? I thought homosexuals were considered a security risk.”
“Not in the new military. There was a legal challenge to that one back in the last administration, and the Defense Department backed off. You can’t yank someone’s clearance for that specific reason.”
Fletcher looked at Morse, then at Korchek. “That makes a pretty good case that Commander Parsons is our spy.”
“I’m certain of it,” said Morse.
Korchek lowered his feet to the floor. He spat his toothpick on the deck and left the room.
“Babcock?” said Boyce.
He sat at the small conference table in the air wing office, gnawing on a cigar. Claire had finished telling her story. “You mean that’s what this circus in Yemen is all about? Whitney Babcock and Yemen’s oil?”
“That was Vince Maloney’s take on it. The same oil reservoir that Saudi Arabia is tapping apparently extends somewhere past Yemen’s border, wherever that is. He said that no one has ever officially determined the border.”
“But you’re saying that someone will? Like Al-Fasr, if he takes over the country?”
“Not if. When. It’s supposed to happen very soon.”
“And it’s supposed to happen with the collusion of…” He left the sentence unfinished.
She nodded.
He removed the cigar and stared at the bulkhead for a moment. “I’m not saying that I believe it — not yet — but if it’s true, it means our battle group is being used not to fight a terrorist, but to accommodate the sonofabitch.”
“Worse than that,” said Maxwell. “It means we’re letting him keep our marines in Yemen just so he can have a bargaining chip.”
Boyce thought for a second. “Claire, we have to get this guy Maloney out here and report this to—”
“Too late.”
“He won’t talk?”
“He was killed by a car bomb.” As Boyce listened in amazement, she told him about the Toyota and the killers in the street.
“Holy shit.” He shook his head. “You nearly went with him.”
She nodded.
“You know, Claire, without your guy to give us testimony, all we have is conjecture, nothing more.”
Maxwell spoke up for the first time. “We can pass it to Admiral Fletcher.”
Boyce snorted. “You mean Babcock’s lapdog.”
“Maybe he doesn’t know the real story about Babcock.”
“There’s no limit to what Fletcher doesn’t know.”
“He’s still a naval officer. He’s the guy who’s supposed to be our boss.”
“He’s supposed to be a lot of things that he’s not.” Boyce couldn’t contain the disgust in his voice. “Just what do you think Fletcher’s going to do?”
Maxwell shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s possible that the man has a tiny speck of integrity left in him.”
“I doubt it. But what the hell, I’ve been wrong about everything else in this operation.” He picked up the phone on the yeoman’s desk. He punched a number, listened for a moment, then said, “This is Captain Boyce. I need to speak with Admiral Fletcher.”
Manilov hated moving at this slow speed. Even though they were ninety meters deep, the Mourmetz was swaying like an unsteady barge.
He stood behind the two technicians — Borodin, the sonar operator, and Keretzky, the combat information computer specialist. By the heavy acoustic mass in the sonarman’s screen, Manilov knew he was seeing the passive return of the aircraft carrier. Cruising between the Mourmetz and the Reagan were two escort vessels. Frigates or destroyers? He couldn’t tell. Beyond the carrier he saw the shape of another heavy ship. A supply ship? A cruiser?
Again Manilov wished that he had a full arsenal. With wake-homing torpedoes or, even better, the new video-guided weapons, he could steer the warhead around the interfering ships, select his target, punch the hull of the big carrier at any place or depth he chose.
Not today. Not with his complement of torpedoes. But even though the SET-16s were old, they possessed the same advantage as the aging submarine — stealth. For the first portion of their journey, the SET-16 emitted no signal, gave no clue to its presence. Even its low-noise propulsion system was difficult to detect, especially at its initial running depth of a hundred meters. Not until the torpedo was within a thousand meters of the target would Manilov activate its active sonar homing system.
He had another reason to like the SET-16. He had fired dozens of them in training, and by now he understood each foible of the torpedo. As with every primitive weapon, the trick was to get close. Very close.
They were eight kilometers from the Reagan. Close enough for a shot. He didn’t want to rush and miss. A torpedo meandering through the midst of a battle group only meant quick and certain death for the submarine.
All these years he had waited. Another twenty minutes didn’t matter. the Reagan was coming to them.
No one in the submarine’s control room was speaking. Borodin and Keretzky were hunched intently over their consoles, filtering and refining their data. Popov, the former dissident and newly promoted executive officer, was supervising the planesman, monitoring the boat’s progress.