That one was a surface contact just inside UIR-ian waters, seven miles away and passing aft. Kemper leaned forward. A computer command showed the contact's course-track for the last twenty minutes. It had been moving along at mere steerage speed, about five knots. It was now doing ten, and had turned… toward the trailing decoy group. That data was linked to USS O'Bannon, whose captain was the senior officer for the group. The range between the two ships was 16,000 yards and closing.
Things got more interesting. Normandy's helicopter closed on the track from behind, keeping low. The pilots saw a green-white bloom as the unknown craft increased power, stirring the water and disturbing more of the organisms which somehow survived all the pollution here. A sudden burst of power meant…
"That's a gunboat," the pilot reported over the data link. "He just goosed it. Target has just increased power."
Kemper grimaced. He had a choice now. Do nothing, and maybe nothing would happen. Do nothing, and maybe give the gun/missile boat the first shot at O'Bannon and her group. Do something, and risk alerting the other side. But if the enemy craft shot first, the enemy would know something anyway, right? Maybe. Maybe not. It was a complex set of data for five seconds. He waited five more.
"Target is a missile boat, I see two launchers, target steadying down on course."
"He's got a direct line to O'Bannon, sir," Weps reported.
"Radio chatter, I have radio chatter on UHF, bearing zero-one-five."
"Take the shot," Kemper said instantly.
"Shoot!" Weps said over the voice channel to the helo.
"Roger, engaging!"
"Combat, lookout, sir, I have a flash like a missile launch on the port quarter—make that two, sir," a speaker announced.
"Give it a sweep—"
"Two more launches, sir."
Shit, Kemper thought. The helo carried only two Penguin antiship missiles. The enemy had gotten the first two off. And he couldn't do anything now. The decoy group was fulfilling its function. It was getting shot at.
"Two vampires inbound—target destroyed," the pilot added, announcing the destruction of the missile boat— confirmed a moment later by the topside lookout. "Say again, two vampires inbound O'Bannon."
"Silkworms are big targets," Weps said.
They watched the mini-battle imperfectly. The navigation-radar display showed O'Bannon changing course to port. That would be to unmask her point-defense missile system, located far aft. It would also provide a huge radar target to the inbound missiles. The destroyer did not fire off her decoys for fear that spoofing the in-bounds would only divert them to the replenishment ships she was guarding. An automatic decision? Kemper wondered. A considered one? Ballsy either way. The destroyer's illumination radar came on. That meant she was firing her missiles, but the navigation radar couldn't tell. Then at least one of the frigates joined in.
"All kinda flashes aft," the topside lookout said next. " Wow, that was a big one! There goes another!" Then five seconds of silence.
"O'Bannon to group, we're okay," a voice reported.
For now, Kemper thought.
THE PREDATORS WERE up, three of them, one each for the three corps encamped southwest of Baghdad, motoring through the air at only twice the speed of a tank. None of them got as far as planned. Thirty miles short of their objectives, their look-down thermal cameras showed the glowing shapes of armored vehicles. The Army of God was moving. The feed to STORM TRACK was instantly cross-loaded to KKMC, and from there all over the world.
"Another couple of days would have been nice," Ben Goodley thought aloud.
"How ready are our people?" Ryan turned to the J-3.
"The 1 Oth's ready to rock. The 11 th needs at least a day. The other brigade doesn't even have its equipment yet," Jackson replied.
"How long before contact?" the President asked next.
"At least twelve hours, maybe eighteen. Depends on where they're going, exactly."
Jack nodded. "Arnie, has Gallic been briefed in on all this?"
"No, not at all."
"Then let's get that done. I have a speech to make."
ALAHAD MUST HAVE gotten bored running a business with no customers, Loomis thought. He left early, walked to where his car was parked, and drove off. Tailing him on such empty streets would probably be fairly easy. A few minutes later, the subject was observed to park his car and enter his apartment building. Then she and Selig walked out of the unit they'd been in, crossed the street, and walked around the back. There were two locks on the door, which caused the junior agent to take ten minutes to defeat them, much to his own annoyance. Then came the alarm system, but that was more easily accomplished. It was an old one with a socket key and a very simple disarming code. Inside they found a few more photos, one, probably, of his son. They checked the Rolodex first, and there was the card for J. Sloan, with the number 536-4040, but no address.
"Tell me what you think," Loomis said.
"I think it's a new card, not dog-eared or anything like that, and I think there's a dot over the first numeral four. Tells him which number to change, Sis."
"This guy's a player, Donny."
"I think you're right, and that makes Aref Raman one, too."
But how to prove it?
THE COVER MIGHT or might not have been blown. There was no knowing. Kemper assessed the situation as best he could. Maybe the missile boat had gotten off a broadcast and received permission to fire… Maybe the young commander had decided to shoot on his own… probably not. Dictatorial countries didn't give much autonomy to their military commanders. If you were the dictator and you started doing that, it was a sure way to find your back to a wall sooner or later. The score to this point was USN 1 and UIR 0. Both groups were continuing, going southwest now into a widening gulf, still doing twenty-six knots, still surrounded by merchant traffic, and the electronic environment was alive with ship-to-ship chatter wondering what the hell had just happened north of Abu Musa.
Omani patrol boats were out now, and they were talking back and forth with somebody, perhaps the UIR, asking what was going on.
In confusion, Kemper decided, there was profit. It was dark out, and identifying ships in darkness was never an easy business.
"When's nautical twilight?"
"Five hours, sir," the quartermaster of the watch replied.
"That's a hundred fifty miles to the good. We continue as before. Let them sort things out if they can." Getting as far as Bahrain without detection would be miracle enough.
THEY LAID IT all out on Inspector O'Day's desk. "It all" amounted to three pages of notes and a couple of Polaroid photographs. The most important-looking tidbit was a printout of the phone records, duplicating Selig's scribbling. That was also the only legal piece of evidence they had.
"Not exactly the thickest pile of proof I've ever seen," Pat noted.
"Hey, Pat, you said to move fast," Loomis reminded him. "They're both dirty. I can't prove it to a jury, but that's enough to start a major investigation, assuming we have the luxury of time, which I don't think we do."
"Correct. Come on," he said, rising. "We have to see the Director."
It wasn't as though Murray weren't busy enough. The FBI wasn't exactly running the epidemiological investigation of all the Ebola cases, but the Bureau's agents were doing a lot of legwork. There was the ongoing, and practically new, case on the attack on Giant Steps, which was both criminal and FCI—and an inter-agency case to boot. And now this, the third "put everything else aside" situation in less than ten days. The inspector waved his way past the secretaries and walked into the Director's office without a knock.
"It's a good thing I wasn't taking a leak," Murray observed.
"I didn't think you'd have time for that. I don't," Pat told him. "There's probably a mole in the Service after all, Dan."