The Defense Minister paused long enough to drain a glass of vodka. The President recognized his longtime friend’s angst. “It’ll be all right,” the President said softly.
“We could lose it all,” the nervous minister reminded Vladimir.
The President had decided and wouldn’t change his mind. “Better to lose it all in a gambit for greatness than watch it slowly rust into oblivion.” He watched his friend place the empty glass back on the serving tray, adjust his suit coat, and then nod in agreement.
Chapter One
Rear Admiral Mark Beagler didn’t normally deliver messages around his headquarters building. As the commanding officer for all of the US Navy’s submarine forces in the Pacific, he was normally far too busy to be troubled with anything so mundane. But on occasion, when news presented itself that was particularly significant to a member of his command, he often tried to deliver the news personally. At times it was good news, such as the birth of a child, although quite often it was the reverse, and he would personally deliver the sad news of the loss of a loved one. Most commanders of his rank didn’t trouble themselves with such things, but Beagler had always believed it was his people that made the difference, and he’d spent a career seeking out the exceptional and cultivating loyalty.
Because of the sensitive nature of the submarine service, the security at his headquarters was especially tight, with identification badges needed to access many office spaces and armed security in the building. Not that Beagler had to concern himself with access anywhere in the building. His position allowed him access anywhere at any time. He descended the steps to the basement level. Just who thought a basement was a good idea at Pearl Harbor, Beagler could only guess. The close proximity to the ocean and the elevation made a basement all but uninhabitable. A relic of the Cold War, it had been intended as a fallout shelter in the event of nuclear war. As if anything might have been left of his headquarters if there ever had been such a calamity. Intelligence estimates varied on just how many nuclear-tipped ICBMs had been designated to rain down on Pearl Harbor in the event of war with the — now defunct — Soviet Union, but one thing everyone had agreed upon was that there would have been enough to turn this part of Hawaii into a radioactive wasteland. But with the Cold War long over, the basement was now mostly used for storage and smelled of mold and mildew despite dedicated dehumidifiers that fought a losing battle to keep the basement level moisture free.
There was a patch of standing water on the concrete floor, and the light in the hall was poor, giving the basement level a dark, gloomy feel. Beagler had toured the basement once, eighteen months earlier when he’d first taken command, and hadn’t returned. “We have her down here?” he grumbled, more to himself than anyone else.
Beside him, his ever-present aide, Lieutenant Parson nodded, “She was assigned here last year, sir. It was the only space available.”
“Not fit for man or beast,” Beagler grumbled, knowing that he should have taken a closer interest in this particular officer’s assignment. She’d been through a lot — even he wasn’t sure just how much. He’d been supportive; he’d sympathized and tried to help her. But the fact she’d been relegated to a dungeon for the last twelve months was his fault. An oversight for certain, and something other officers should have made certain didn’t happen. After all, he was an Admiral who had an entire fleet of submarines to run and didn’t take a direct hand in the assigning of office space.
“No, sir,” his aide said automatically. With or without feeling Beagler couldn’t be certain. It wasn’t a secret that the woman he was coming to see wasn’t very popular. Infamous might have been a more apt description.
He reached the secured door, noting the badge access panel. The door was marked with a sign making it clear the office space contained classified information and access was restricted. Beagler knocked on the door and waited. But there was no answer. He knocked again, then looked at Parson. “She is in, isn’t she?”
“Yes, Admiral,” his aide replied. “I saw her myself earlier this afternoon when she came back from the pool.” Beagler knew she’d been a swimmer at the Naval Academy… a pretty good one.
After waiting a few more seconds without his knocks being answered, he swiped his security badge across the card reader and heard the electronic lock click as it disengaged. He opened the door and stepped into the dark room. More like a cave, the room was barely larger than a broom closet and packed with equipment. His first thought was that he’d stepped into the sonar room of a submarine. The equipment lining the walls and filling the space had come from various contractors and replicated, nearly exactly, the equipment used on an actual submarine. Which was fitting, considering the work being conducted here.
The only light in the room came from the soft red glow of the lights from the computer panels and displays, but it was enough to illuminate the room’s sole occupant. Dressed in khaki, seated in a standard office chair, her back to the door, and crouched over a panel with headphones in place, was the woman he’d come to see. Light from the hallway filled the small room and alerted her to the unexpected visitor, and she turned abruptly. For a brief moment, as she turned, he thought he saw a flicker of fear on her face. Her arms were tense, her fists clenched tight.
Just what had happened in her past that caused this reaction, he couldn’t be certain. She had never been loquacious; in fact, she was downright tightlipped. Prim and proper, he’d never seen her in anything other than the service uniform, even though the rest of his staff routinely wore the new camouflage utility uniform. He’d briefly seen her at the handful of mandatory staff parties he’d held over the last year, but at those she’d always come in uniform, and — now that he thought about it — she’d always been alone. No colleagues. No friends. At the weekly staff meetings which she dutifully attended, even though she never uttered a word at any of them, she was always as stiff and on edge as she now appeared.
His aide clicked on the light. Recognizing Beagler, the woman rose from her seat as she removed the headphones leading to the computer behind her. She automatically came to attention — the only officer in his headquarters who routinely did so. “Good afternoon, Admiral,” she greeted him automatically, sounding more like a machine than a human being. This too was normal. Her tone of voice — on the rare occasions when she did speak — was always professional and emotionless. “I was not expecting you.”
“At ease, Lieutenant,” he responded, preferring his officers to be relaxed around him. “Low stress equals high performance,” was a mantra of his. But she never let her guard down.
Quite tall for a woman, she was a good two inches taller than his 5–8 frame. Athletic in build, she had shoulders that were a bit broad like a man’s might be. Her face was rather plain without a trace of makeup. Neither did she wear earrings or nail polish. Other than the long hair she kept tightly concealed in braids, there was nothing feminine about her appearance.
“Is there something I can do for you, Admiral?” she asked as her posture changed slightly to a more relaxed position. Her tone however, stayed cold, distant, controlled.
He glanced at the rows of computers, sound synthesizers and other sonar equipment. She’d been down here nearly a year analyzing raw sound data from Chinese submarines. Her initial report had been presented nearly a month earlier and was now making its way through Naval Intelligence. “Still at it, I see,” he commented, wishing she might loosen up.