“No argument from me.”
“Then you have to realize the United States government is talking about allowing a small group of people to take a flip on all the cards that exist. Every living thing on earth is at the mercy of this decision, with no ability to object or even understand the power that might be unleashed. Is it right for just a few people to sign the potential death warrant of seven billion people, not to mention the untold trillions yet to be born?”
Out of reflex, Joey was about to speak, but didn’t know how to respond. The priest made some sense. What gave the president, Bill, and an egghead scientist the right to risk the lives of every living thing on earth on a scientific bet?
Bill’s G5 was late leaving Logan. He had delayed the flight so he could transport the two leaders of the Boston cell to D.C., to give the FBI, CIA and NSA a crack at them. It was a small sign of contrition from Bill, after the blistering phone call he had gotten from his friend, Joey. When Bill interviewed the leaders on the plane, he came to understand that they were convinced the government was acting in direct opposition to God. Unfortunately, he was not able to discern where their counterpart who blew up the chopper got the shoulder-fired missile, but suspected the various agencies would connect the dots in short order.
He was met at the airport by a replacement driver, since Steve Moskowitz was being held for observation at Massachusetts General overnight. Although the bullet had been stopped by his Kevlar vest, a blood clot arising from the deep bruising caused by the impact of the bullet was always a concern. Bill remained silent for the forty-minute trip through Maclean, past the CIA to his home. As he emerged from the car, he took a long moment to just look at his house. It looked like a postcard, with the bluish cast on the house from the moonlight, the reddish glow from the downstairs den light filtering through the sheer curtains, and the whole scene set against a starry night backdrop. He walked toward the front door, grabbed Richie’s toy fire engine off the lawn, and brought it into the house.
He tiptoed in well after 11 p.m. and went right to Richie’s room. He placed the toy on top of the Star Wars toy chest and stood looking at his sleeping son. In the crack of hallway light coming through the door ajar, he studied the little boy’s features. He had never realized how long his eyelashes were; how he had the beginnings of a well-defined jaw line emerging from baby fat. He got real close, stroked his son’s head, and spoke in low tones. “You father did something really stupid today, son. I acted without thinking. I didn’t think of you or your mom. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, son.” He lingered a bit longer, then bent over and kissed the boy’s forehead, breathing in a hint of baby powder. He backed away and silently closed the door.
Joey didn’t sleep all night, as he couldn’t heal the rip down the middle of his brain between his duty to country and his obligation to humanity. The rift was freshly revealed because up until now he hadn’t doubted for a minute that his duty and humanity were one and the same. Suddenly, science was emerging as the perpetrator-in-waiting of a potential crime, and he worked for science guy number one. But Bill was also his best friend. They had grown up together, and Bill had saved his bacon when Joe’s sense of right and wrong got him on the bad side of the FBI director. Plus a million other things that friends consciously and unconsciously do for one another. No matter how much he turned and tried to rinse his brain, the dilemma was inescapable. He finally found peace at 4:30 a.m. when he remembered that the first thing he had done upon entering the Cathedral at Notre Dame was to pray for, among other things, guidance in the work he and Bill were doing. Next thing he knew there was Father Frank Mercado preparing mass and engaging him on the priesthood and choices in life. Could it be? The tantalizing nature of the situation also brought calm and allowed him to settle on a plan.
There was a stain on her uniform skirt. Damn it. She went to the hall closet and pulled out a duffle bag that had rested undisturbed in the corner of the closet for nine years. The smell of mothballs brought thoughts of her mom front and center. If her mother were here now, she’d know. She’d break right through Brooke’s gung-ho attitude and disarm her with soft words like, “What’s the worry on your mind, dear?” Brooke knew she would reflexively answer, “Nothing.” But Mom would go right by that, right to the heart of the matter, as she always could. Brooke heard the internal dialogue in her head as she gave in to the only person she could never defend against. Her mom knew her and still saw her as a ten year old, as though she never survived high school, college, her training at Quantico, and the Survive, Evade, Resist, Escape course at Fort Bragg.
“I am not crazy about going back to the Indian Ocean, okay?”
“I know, dear,” she could hear her mom say. “You are afraid.”
“No, Mom, I’m not…”
She couldn’t lie to her mother, even when her mother wasn’t there.
She was afraid. In a recurring nightmare, the sharks were out there, circling, waiting for her, the one that got away.
She unhooked the clip and opened the top of the bag. She pulled out all her old dress shirts and dug down deeper through the khaki slacks and finally got to three skirts. She examined them quickly, eliminated the one with the pull, and weighed the two she now held in her hands. The one in her right seemed fresher; she placed the other in the suitcase next to the Navy regulation shoes. She closed it, hauled it off the bed, and rested it by the front door. On a hanger on the hook over the door, she hung the newly dug out skirt next to her uniform blouse with her cap resting on top.
It had been a while since she deployed on a Navy ship. I’ll be on a Navy ship. I won’t be alone — like last time. She found reassurance in that last thought, then struck the entire conversation from her mind as she decided to open the suitcase again to hit the shoes with the shine cloth one more time and run an iron over the skirt. Be Neat, Be Clean, Be Navy.
XVII. LITTLE CHICK
Brooke had never been too bothered by seasickness, but tonight was woozily different. She had choppered out to a U.S. sub tender in the Indian Ocean and then transferred by launch to a commercial fishing trawler. Although sailing under a Japanese flag, it was actually a U.S. Naval command and control ship, under the helm of Commander A.E. Randell.
Below deck in the operations hub of the boat, a whole lot of equipment including sonar, radar, satellite, and something called VLF was being used to track the progress of an ancient atomic-powered submarine. It was one of the first and was now deeper than deep and dispatching a deep-sea submersible to the site of the ship Brooke had been blown off of two months before. There were live video streams from the submersible on one of the screens in the hub. “Commander, how sure are we that we are in the right area?” Brooke said.
“The Halibut’s magnetometers have indicated a high deviation in this sector, and as best as can be reckoned from maritime logs, no recent shipwrecks besides yours happened here. Of course, it could be some non-recorded wreck or from a time before they kept such records.” Commander Randell said.
“That blip on the radar?”
“That’s target designate ‘Lana.’ We know all about her; she’s a Russian trawler not unlike us. We figure it’s a good sign, ’cause it means the Russians think this is the area also.”
“How do you know the Russian captain isn’t saying the same thing about you?”
“That’s the rub. You live and die by what you think the enemy knows about you, until somebody fires a torpedo up your a… rudder. That’s when you’ll know he said exactly what I said. Besides, the Russians have been using trawlers since the ’50s. We aren’t known for using a boat like this, and because we have more sensitive equipment, we can be far enough off so as not to raise suspicion.”