Davenport ventured a rare smile. “As they say in the movies, if you want in, fine; if not, you may leave at this point, and nothing will ever be said. It is asking a lot to expect men to walk into a potentially dangerous assignment blindfolded.”
Of course nobody left; the men who had been called here were not quitters. Besides, something would be said, and Davenport had a good memory. These were professional officers. One of the compensations for wearing a uniform and earning less money than an equally talented man can make in the real world is the off chance of being killed.
“Thank you, gentlemen. I think you will find this worth your while.” Davenport stood and handed each man a manila envelope. “You will soon have the chance to examine a Soviet missile submarine — from the inside.” Four pairs of eyes blinked in unison.
33N 75W
The USS Ethan Alien had been on station now for more than thirty hours. She was cruising in a five-mile circle at a depth of two hundred feet. There was no hurry. The submarine was making just enough speed to maintain steerage way, her reactor producing only ten percent of rated power. The chief quartermaster was assisting in the galley.
“First time I’ve ever done this in a sub,” one of the Alien’s officers who was acting as ship’s cook noted, stirring an omelette.
The quartermaster sighed imperceptibly. They ought to have sailed with a proper cook, but theirs had been a kid, and every enlisted man aboard now had over twenty years of service. The chiefs were all technicians, except the quartermaster, who could handle a toaster on a good day.
“You cook much at home, sir?”
“Some. My parents used to have a restaurant down at Pass Christian. This is my mama’s special Cajun omelette. Shame we don’t have any bass. I can do some nice things with bass and a little lemon. You fish much, Chief?”
“No, sir.” The small complement of officers and senior chiefs was working in an informal atmosphere, and the quartermaster was a man accustomed to discipline and status boundaries. “Commander, can I ask what the hell we’re doing?” “Wish I knew, Chief. Mostly we’re waiting for something.” “But what, sir?” “Damned if I know. You want to hand me those ham cubes?
And could you check the bread in the oven? Ought to be about done.”
The New Jersey
Commander Eaton was perplexed. His battle group was holding twenty miles south of the Russians. If it hadn’t been dark he could have seen the Kirov’s towering superstructure on the horizon from his perch on the flat bridge. Her escorts were in a single broad line ahead of the battle cruiser, pinging away in the search for a submarine.
Since the air force had staged its mock attack the Soviets had been acting like sheep. This was out of character to say the least. The New Jersey and her escorts were keeping the Russian formation under constant observation, and a pair of Sentry aircraft were watching for good measure. The Russian redeployment had switched Eaton’s responsibility to the Kirov group. This suited him. His main battery turrets were trained in, but the guns were loaded with eight-inch guided rounds and the fire control stations were fully manned. The Tarawa was thirty miles south, her armed strike force of Harriers sitting ready to move at five-minute notice. The Soviets had to know this, even though their ASW helicopters had not come within five miles of an American ship for two days. The Bear and Backfire bombers which were passing overhead in shuttle rounds to Cuba — only a few, and those returning to Russia as quickly as they could be turned around — could not fail to report what they saw. The American vessels were in extended attack formation, the missiles on the New Jersey and her escorts being fed continuous information from the ships’ sensors. And the Russians were ignoring them. Their only electronic emissions were routine navigation radars. Strange.
The Nimitz was now within air range after a five-thousand-mile dash from the South Atlantic; the carrier and her nuclear-powered escorts, the California, Bainbridge, and Truxton, were now only four hundred miles to the south, with the America battle group half a day behind them. The Kennedy was five hundred miles to the east. The Soviets would have to consider the danger of three carrier air wings at their backs and hundreds of land-based air force birds gradually shifting south from one base to another. Perhaps this explained their docility.
The Backfire bombers were being escorted in relays all the way from Iceland, first by navy Tomcats from the Saratoga’s air wing, then by air force Phantoms operating in Maine, which handed the Soviet aircraft off to Eagles and Fighting Falcons as they worked down the coast almost as far south as Cuba. There was not much doubt how seriously the United States was taking this, though American units were no longer actively harassing the Russians. Eaton was glad they weren’t. There was nothing more to be gained from harassment, and anyway, if it had to, his battle group could switch from a peace to a war footing in about two minutes.
The Watergate Apartments
“Excuse me. I just moved in down the hall, and my phone isn’t hooked up yet. Would you mind if I made a call?”
Henderson arrived at that decision quickly enough. Five three or so, auburn hair, gray eyes, adequate figure, a dazzling smile, and fashionably dressed. “Sure, welcome to the Watergate. Come on in.”
“Thank you. I’m Hazel Loomis. My friends call me Sissy.” She held out her hand.
“Peter Henderson. The phone’s in the kitchen. I’ll show you.” Things were looking up. He’d just ended a lengthy relationship with one of the senator’s secretaries. It had been hard on both of them.
“I’m not disturbing anything, am I? You don’t have anyone here, do you?”
“No, just me and the TV. Are you new to D.C.? The night life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. At least, not when you have to go to work the next day. Who do you work for — I take it you’re single?”
“That’s right. I work for DARPA, as a computer programmer. I’m afraid I can’t talk about it very much.”
All sorts of good news, Henderson thought. “Here’s the phone.”
Loomis looked around quickly as though evaluating the job the decorator had done. She reached into her purse and took out a dime, handing it to Henderson. He laughed.
“The first call is free, and believe me, you can use my phone whenever you want.”
“I just knew,” she said, punching the buttons, “that this would be nicer than living in Laurel. Hello, Kathy? Sissy. I just got moved in, haven’t even got my phone hooked up yet … Oh, a guy down the hall was kind enough to let me use his phone … Okay, see you tomorrow for lunch. Bye, Kathy.”
Loomis looked around. “Who decorated for you?”
“Did it myself. I minored in art at Harvard, and I know some nice shops in Georgetown. You can find some good bargains if you know where to look.”
“Oh, I’d just love to have my place look like this! Could you show me around?”
“Sure, the bedroom first?” Henderson laughed to show that he had no untoward intentions — which of course he did, though he was a patient man in such matters. The tour, which lasted several minutes, assured Loomis that the condo was indeed empty. A minute later there was a knock at the door. Henderson grumbled good-naturedly as he went to answer it.
“Pete Henderson?” The man asking the question was dressed in a business suit. Henderson had on jeans and a sport shirt.
“Yes?” Henderson backed up, knowing what this had to be. What came next, though, surprised him.
“You’re under arrest, Mr. Henderson,” Sissy Loomis said, holding up her ID card. “The charge is espionage. You have the right to remain silent, you have the right to speak with an attorney. If you give up the right to remain silent, everything you say will be recorded and may be used against you. If you do not have an attorney or cannot afford one, we will see to it that an attorney is appointed to represent you. Do you understand these rights, Mr. Henderson?” It was Sissy Loomis’ first espionage case. For five years she had specialized in bank robbery stakeouts, often working as a teller with a .357 magnum revolver in her cash drawer. “Do you wish to waive these rights?”
“No, I do not.” Henderson’s voice was raspy.
“Oh, you will,” the inspector observed. “You will.” He turned to the three agents who accompanied him. “Take this place apart. Neatly, gentlemen, and quietly. We don’t want to wake anyone. You, Mr. Henderson, will come with us. You can change first. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. If you promise to cooperate, no cuffs. But if you try to run — you don’t want to do that, believe me.” The inspector had been in the FBI for twenty years and had never even drawn his service revolver in anger, while Loomis had already shot and killed two men. He was old-time FBI, and couldn’t help but wonder what Mr. Hoover would think of that, not to mention the new Jewish director.