But as an intelligence officer, Lab Rat was in his natural element. Deception, obfuscation, the fog of war — he sliced through them as easily as Batman could peel out of a formation and do a barrel roll. And now, he was worrying at the problem of shifting alliances, listening to Pamela’s words to detect any false notes — for if truth be known, Batman was not entirely sure he was doing the right thing, taking her up on her offer to contact the Macedonians.
But what choices did he have? With the SAR helo leaking hydraulic fluid and the shifting alliances being sorted out in the air, Batman was out of options.
Finally, Pamela finished her broadcast. There was a moment of silence, then, clearly prompted by the military men in the helicopter, she added, “Over.”
More silence. Lab Rat was motionless, his chest barely moving as he took shallow breaths. Outside the compartment, someone laughed, the noise oddly alien as it seeped into the secured compartment. Inside TFCC, no one moved.
Xerxes stared up at the speaker, a puzzled expression on his face. He turned to the radio operator. “Where is the signal coming from?”
The radio operator leaned across the room and tapped on the blip on the radar screen. “I am not certain, sir, but it appears to be correlated with this airborne contact. The American helicopter.”
“SAR, they say.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Hmm.” Xerxes felt the tension begin to drain out of his face. Was it possible she was telling the truth? And just how far did he dare to trust her? “What are the American fighters doing now?”
“They’re flying CAP stations, sir. In between us and the Greeks. Nice, tight orbits, unless one of the Greeks tries to break through. They’ve used their guns a couple of times, mostly as a warning it looks like. No missiles in the air yet.”
Xerxes picked up the microphone. “Miss Drake. This is not an encrypted circuit, so I’m not going to pass any sensitive information over it. Do you remember where I took you the first time?”
“Yes.”
“Could you find it again? From the air, I mean — things often look different when you’re airborne instead of on the ground.”
“I’m pretty sure I can.”
“Good. Land your aircraft there. I can’t have you flying directly into the camp, not just yet. They’ll track you by your transponder. Have you told them where it is?”
“No, I haven’t. Not yet.”
“Don’t. Go to — that place — and I’ll have aircraft technicians and someone from my staff meet you.”
Silence for a moment, then, “If I can, I won’t tell them. Unless it endangers the safety of this crew or any American forces.”
Xerxes heard new steel in her voice, and in a flash, he knew what it meant. She’s chosen sides. Finally. Now maybe she can understand.
Lab Rat opened his eyes. The pale blue irises shone in the dim light. He looked across the room and into Batman’s eyes. The intelligence officer nodded once, then appeared to break the spell that had held him motionless for the last fifteen minutes.
“You think it’s legit?” Batman asked, already knowing what Lab Rat would say but having to ask the question anyway.
“Yes, Admiral, I do. I suggest we get that helo vectored in ASAP. They’re going to need some time for that hydraulics line. There’s no telling when we may need her back in the air.” A flurry of increasingly frantic calls over tactical provided an unintentional emphasis to his words.
Batman grimaced. “Okay.” He turned to the TAO. “Send her in.”
“One other thing, Admiral,” Lab Rat continued. “The Macedonians — we may not be able to choose up sides in this fight just yet.” He paused for a moment, and Batman understood what he was asking.
“I’m going to enforce status quo for now. Nobody dies, not if I can help it. No Greeks, no Macedonians, and most of all, none of our people. And if that means shooting down Greek aircraft while we’re waiting for word from Washington, I’ll do it.”
Lab Rat nodded, an almost cursory motion as though he’d already known what his admiral would decide.
And of course, Batman thought, he did.
EIGHTEEN
Sarah Wexler gazed across the desk at the man she’d come to regard as a friend and mentor over the years. She could see the tension in his eyes, the toll this was taking on him. For a moment, she felt the surge of sympathy.
But hadn’t it been that way for them all? The waiting, knowing something was terribly terribly wrong, the eternal waiting — it seemed to her at that moment that waiting was at the crux of any career in politics.
The president was leaning back, his hand interlaced in front of him and resting on his stomach. He had gained weight since the college days, not much, but it showed in his midsection. The middle finger of his right hand was tapping out a rhythm against the knuckles of his left hand, and she tried to discern the order to it. The president was a particular fan of jazz music, and on occasions that she caught him humming in time to the tapping, she was generally able to recognize the song.
He caught her staring at his hands, and smiled sheepishly. The index finger stopped its tapping.
“What was it?” she asked. Because of their long friendship, the president knew exactly what she meant.
“Rhapsody in Blue,” he answered. “I can hum a few bars to help pass the time.”
Sarah shook her head. “No, it won’t be much longer now.” She was certain of that, although she could not have explained how she knew it. Perhaps it was from years of keeping her finger on the pulse of the communications between nations, of weaving these webs of intrigue and competing interests that made up the body politic. Whatever it was — call it intuition if you had to — she could feel things moving to a head. And so could the president. She could see it in his eyes, in the slight tensing of his muscles as he steeled himself for the decisions he must make.
“They’re all airborne,” she said softly, repeating the fact that they both knew. “It is just a matter of time.”
“Time for us. Fuel for them.” Suddenly, he seemed to reach a decision. He reached for the telephone on his desk, paused for moment, and looked across at her. “There will be hell to pay for this, you know.”
She nodded. “There always is.”
The president drew in a deep, slow breath, and punched in a two digit number. “Mr. President,” he said without preliminaries. “You have two minutes to order your forces to return to base. Otherwise, it is weapons free.” He listened for moment at the angry babble of words spewing out of the receiver. Then he moved the telephone away from his ear and replaced it gently in the cradle without further comment.
“When was the last time you hung up on anyone?” the president asked. “It’s been years for me.” He leaned back in his chair again, looking suddenly years younger. “I’ll have to try that more often.”
Thor kept the Hornet in a tight spiral, heading up to assigned CAP altitude. To the south, clusters of radar returns merged, split apart, and then circled about each other. Gradually, out of what looked to be a massive circle jerk, the Greek aircraft were splitting off into pairs, transitioning from a bombing run formation into combat spread high-low fighting sets.
They had the right idea, he supposed. But they were damned slow about it. The possibility had been briefed, he knew, and the Greek formation ought to have been ready for it. After all, they had guys on the ground that knew what the hell was going on, that had to have known that this friendly joining of forces with the Americans was all for show.