Chapter Twenty-Six
The young fellow in civvies straightened and began to raise his hand into a salute. Richard Downing glanced sideways toward the tall man at whom the gesture was being directed—and who uttered a sharp, stentorian rebuke that turned heads at the far end of the wharf. “Belay that salute, rating!”
The young rating nervously snapped his bladed hand back down to his coveralled side.
“Son, do you want to lose the war for us?”
“Sir? Sir, no sir.”
“Good. Then remember this. We don’t own the skies anymore. They do. And their visual sensors are probably good enough to conduct a rectal exam on a gnat from low orbit. So if they’re watching us right now, and they see dockhands saluting civilians here on a commercial wharf, they’re going to get suspicious, don’t you think?”
“Y-yes, sir.”
“And what if they began to suspect that you aren’t loading grain on this ship?”
The rating looked nervously at the collapsible freight containers arrayed in single-height rows on the deck behind him. “This hull would be headed for a world of hurt, sir.”
“Not just this ship, rating: all of them. Even the ones that are still carrying nothing but grain.” Downing’s tall companion paused. “Now, unless I’m mistaken, each ship’s loaders become part of her crew. So when do you ship out to babysit the surprise package you’re readying?”
“Three days, sir.”
“You have family you want to see again? A sweetheart, maybe?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Then don’t be sloppy—here or when you get to Indonesia.”
“Yes, s—” The rating’s hand had started to come up again. He grimaced, snapped it back down. “Yes, sir,” he said apologetically.
Rear Admiral Jones shook his head, continued on down the dock. Downing matched his stride, waited until they were out of earshot. “A bit tough on him, weren’t you?”
“Richard, coming from you, that’s like blasphemy from a preacher. We’ve got all our chips on the table. This isn’t the time to take any chances or overlook any details.”
Richard smiled. He liked Bill Jones—Jonesy, as he was known and addressed by a favored few—and had from their very first meeting, thirty-four years ago. Their maternal grandmothers had been school chums in Johannesburg, cellmates during the violence and suppressions of the Forties, kept in touch when one fled to Toxteth in Liverpool and the other to the South Side of Chicago. Both rebuilt their careers, relocated to better environments, married, kept in touch, finally brought their families together in Nevis.
Jonesy had always been brash, assertive, and utterly sentimental. He physically resembled the local boys on the streets of Nevis, but it was Richard who found it much easier to meet them, and blend into their lives. Downing had been an outwardly quiet and cheerful child, behind which he maintained a careful, even detached, watchfulness. Not so Jonesy: he always led with his chin and wore his heart on his sleeve. And from the first, Downing had loved him for that. No less so today.
“So what’s all this cloak-and-dagger business, Richard? I’m a busy man. Or hadn’t you noticed?”
“Oh, I always notice.” Richard took Jonesy by the elbow, led him in the direction of an outsized truck trailer, painted a dull, lusterless gray. “How’s it coming, around here?”
“They’ll manage without me, wharfside. Which is good, since I’ve got to make port in Perth in nine days if I’m going to set up our forward command center in time.”
“Which is why I’m hitching a ride. They’ve given you a pretty rum ship.”
Jonesy grunted. “I could use a little rum about now. But damn it, Rich, don’t go dodging my questions. Why’re you coming along? Don’t you belong in DC, chatting with the president?”
“Yes, about that.” Downing waggled a finger at a man standing near the entrance to the trailer, hands folded. He was in his mid-fifties, wearing a somewhat worn civilian suit, and approached at a leisurely pace. “Jonesy, this is Gray Rinehart, ex-S.O.G. operative. He’s going to need your clearance to set up a temporary executive emergency line through your CIC.”
“An executive line? On my ship?”
Downing nodded. “As you observed, I may need to chat with the president. Wherever I happen to be.”
Jonesy nodded at Rinehart, jerked his head back toward the wharf. “My XO, Commander Ashwar, will set you up.”
Rinehart nodded and was gone. Jonesy looked after him, then at several other, older men who took Rinehart’s place near the entrance to the trailer. “Rich, no offense, but—these guys. Shouldn’t they be thinking about retirement instead of operational requirements?”
Downing nodded. “Most of them did think about retirement and took it. Some years ago.”
“Then what the hell—?”
“Jonesy, first of all, the bleachers are empty. Combat and security operatives are all committed. Secondly, I don’t need young bodies, or crack shots. I need dependable people. People who have not only proven that they can and will get a job done, but have demonstrated that they can keep secrets not for a month or a year, but for a decade, or two.”
“Or three,” added Jonesy, who was looking at one bearded fellow whose eyes were lost in craggy valleys of accumulated wrinkles.
“True enough. And that’s fine. Because we’re not going into combat, at least not directly. We’re just setting up a forward HQ and commo center in Perth.”
“Richard, I’ve gotta ask. Why the hell are you even doing that? The South Pacific is already crawling with forward-positioned command and control posts, all waiting for the word.”
“True. But mine is a special group overseeing just one operation—one very sensitive operation—and its very sensitive support staff.”
“What? These guys?” Jonesy stared at Downing’s Old Guard.
Richard smiled. “No, they’re just providing security. The support staff for this op possesses a unique skill set.”
“Which usually means they are being tasked to perform a unique job.”
“Yes.”
“Which is?”
“Jonesy, if I told you, then I’d have to kill you.”
“Huh. You and what platoon of Marines? But seriously, Rich, what’s the op? Since I’m setting up your links, I figure I’ve got to have the clearance to know.”
Downing smiled. “We have a number of critical strategic assets moving into proximity with a high-value target. We have to keep track of where those assets are. Exactly. At all times.”
“Huh. You should have come to my guys for that job. We track individual ships, planes, and rockets. Every day.”
“Our delivery systems are a little bit smaller than that.”
“Like how small?”
“Individuals.”
Jonesy leaned back. “Damn. Backpack nukes? How’re you getting them in? I hear the Roaches have rad sensors keen enough to detect the smallest warhead in our inventory at over fifty klicks.”
Downing shrugged. “This operation is far more important than any one—or any fifty—nukes. It’s extremely high risk, but extremely high payoff.”
“You never were a gambling man, Richard.”
“And I’m not now. This operation is giving me an ulcer. And costing me all my friends.”
Jonesy became a little less jocular. “So how do you get the assets next to the target?”
“On foot. They are to collapse on the target from multiple vectors. We hope.”