Amanda turned and started for her cabin. "Advise all division heads that there will be an O group in the wardroom as soon as I've gotten the word."
The captain's quarters of a Cunningham-class DDG were a compromise that satisfied no one, especially the generation of naval officers who would occupy them. The intent had been to consolidate the traditional in-port and at-sea cabins into a single convenient suite. Accordingly, they were located one level below and directly underneath the bridge, leaving the sleeper totally at the mercy of a heavy-footed night watch.
Divided into equally minute office, sleeping quarters, and head, the forward bulkhead of the cabin followed the curve of the superstructure faring, rendering almost impossible the efficient and comfortable use of what space there was. Finally, the waste heat radiating in from the surrounding systems bays overwhelmed the air-conditioning, making the cabin stuffy in anything short of a North Atlantic blizzard.
Perspiration and a few missed grains of sand began to prickle under Amanda's clothing almost as soon as she had entered. For a moment, she wondered if the security of Western civilization could be left hanging in the balance long enough for her to take a quick duck under the shower. In the end, she compromised by undoing the top button of her blouse as she squeezed in behind the combination desk and workstation. Even as she did so, the interphone trilled.
"Captain here."
"This is Chris, down in Raven's Roost. My guys are starting to produce. I can confirm we have something big, local, and quiet, including or centering around Argentina."
"Particulars?"
"We've just finished rough-graphing the local military communications traffic, and there's a definite upsurge on the standard Argy bands. It's not a general mobilization, but the load is building."
"Anything from the Brits down at Mount Pleasant?"
"Negative, Skipper, that's beyond our effective monitoring arc. This stuff is signal intelligence coming in from the northern Argentine bases and the sidelobe off of their comsat links. We haven't interrogated any of our Elint sats yet.
"That's another thing, though, we're getting a whole shitpot full of orbital traffic pattern updates down here. It's all across the board: Air Force, Navy, National Security Agency, Elint, recon, weather, and communications. It looks like they're optimizing for Southern Hemispheric coverage. You just don't retask satellite assets like this unless something pretty important is going down."
"How about the other locals?"
"No load-pattern changes noted on the Uruguayan or Brazilian nets. All quiet."
"How about the global media? Are they showing anything?"
"Nope, nothing on the local or international wires. Whatever it is, the lid's still on."
"Could it be the Falklands again?" Amanda inquired.
"Possibly, or something related. The only other thing showing on the graphs is that the civil sideband channels used by the United States Antarctic Research Program and the British Antarctic Survey threw one heck of a spike yesterday morning. Then they seem to have dropped off almost into radio silence. I don't know if this is significant or not. I'll be able to say better when we actually start listening to some of this stuff."
"Okay, stay on it, Chris. I'll see you at the O group."
Dropping the phone back into its cradle, Amanda tilted her chair back the few inches that it would go. She bit her lower lip as she reflected on what she knew of recent events in these waters and what role her ship might conceivably have in them. A faint shiver rippled down her spine, like the promise of an encounter with a new lover, half excitement, half fear.
She let the chair rock forward and reached for the phone again. "Communications, this is the Captain. I'm ready for that channel to CINCLANT."
She waited for the access tone, then spoke slowly and deliberately. "This is Commander Amanda Lee Garrett, authenticator Sweetwater-Tango-zero-three-five."
Her words were carried by an optical fiber link down to the radio room, and from there back up to a gyrostabilized laser projector at the crest of the Duke's antenna array. Via a modulated beam of coherent light, they were fired up to a Milstar B communications satellite holding in synchronous orbit high above the South Atlantic and then across to a sister sat hovering over the Northern Hemisphere. From there, they were aimed down to a receptor on the roof of a certain building within the vast United States naval operations complex at Norfolk, Virginia.
As they were received, a security monitoring system matched Amanda's words against her digitized voiceprint held in a computer file along with similar prints from every other active and reserve naval and marine officer in federal service. A single glowing word appeared on a terminaclass="underline" "Verified."
The reply began its return journey.
"Acknowledged. This is Vice Admiral Elliot MacIntyre. Authenticator, Iron Fist-November-zero-two-one.
"Good afternoon, Captain Garrett. We have a job for you…."
3
For Secretary of State Harrison Van Lynden, the ending of one long journey marked the beginning of another.
He had disembarked from the United jetliner he had ridden from New Zealand to find Marine Three waiting on the tarmac for him, its rotors already turning. A ten-minute helicopter flight had transferred him from Dulles International to Andrews Air Force Base and to yet another waiting aircraft — in this case, a huge Boeing Seven Century SST.
It was the Air Force VC-31 variant, a VIP transport in the blue and white livery of the Executive squadron. Frequently assigned to the State Department's shuttle-diplomacy operations, they had earned the collective nickname "The Kissinger Express."
The Secretary was a spare and generally amiable New Englander. Into his mid-forties, he moved with the ease and vigor of a much younger man even when, as now, he was carrying a thirteen-hour accumulation of jet lag. Except for a short stint as a Marine officer, he had spent his entire adult life in the diplomatic service of the United States. He had reached the peak of his chosen profession because he was good at his job, and he was good at his job because he loved it.
To Van Lynden, international diplomacy was truly "The Great Game." The give-and-take of high-stakes negotiation, the formation of international policy, the creation of history around the conference table, he relished it all. It beat even a good hand of stud poker, his second passion in life.
Now, as he began to climb the mobile stairway to the transport's door, Van Lynden felt a familiar surge of adrenaline. Like a bird dog catching the first trace of a scent, he sensed the beginning of a challenge.
The Assistant Secretary of State for Latin American Affairs, Steven Rosario, was waiting for him just inside the hatchway.
"Good evening, Mr. Secretary. Sorry about your vacation being interrupted."
"No problem, Steve," Van Lynden replied. "I just hope someone was able to scare me up some fresh laundry. Other than this one suit, all I've got in my luggage is a week's worth of dirty fishing clothes."
"Taken care of, sir. Mrs. Van Lynden sent you a couple of suitcases. She also instructs me to tell you that she sends her love as well. She would have come down herself, except that she knew that you'd be making a fast turnaround."
"Ah, I guess I'm at her mercy when it comes to my selection of ties, then. So be it. I'll give her a call after we get airborne. Do we have a full crisis team on board?"
"Yes, sir. We're ready to roll."
"Good. Since you seem to be running the show, Steve, I suppose we must be bound for South America."
"Sir?"
Van Lynden chuckled at the younger man's puzzlement. "The inn I was staying at was on a party line, for God's sake. Thanks to having a madman as a driver, I was just barely able to catch the last direct flight stateside from Wellington this week. Since my recall, I haven't had a second's access to a secure phone or terminal. I don't have the faintest idea where I'm supposed to be going."