“Return to your posts.”
“But sir—”
“Dismissed.”
The MPs pivot and head back down the hall.
General Jackson stares at his former commando. “Glad you’re here.” “Didn’t have much of a choice:”
“The president’s inside waiting. We’ll talk later. For now, keep your ears open and your mouth shut, and don’t allow anyone to provoke you.”
“Maybe you ought to mention that to your daughter.”
Ignoring the comment, Jackson opens the door, motioning Gunnar inside. The newly appointed commander in chief of the United States Special Operations Command feels as if he is leading a lamb to slaughter.
Rocky is standing off to one side. Her father signals her over as a gangly civilian with tight wavy hair steps forward to greet them.
“Commander Jackson, meet Gray Ayers, Secretary of the Navy. Mr. Secretary, this is my daughter, Commander Rochelle Jackson-Hatcher.”
Thomas Gray Ayers, Jr. extends his hand. “We’re all sorry for your loss, Commander, and I’m sure there are places you’d rather be, but this briefing singularly requires your presence. When answering the president, keep your responses short and to the point. Nothing too technical, but don’t hold back either. Edwards has been around the block a few times and doesn’t like to be bullshitted.” Ayers turns to face Gunnar, a grimace pulling on his long face. “Mr. Wolfe, I’m not quite sure what to say to you. The general feels you can shed some light on what’s happened, and I respect his opinion, but frankly, I’d just as soon see you shot for treason.”
Ayers nods curtly to General Jackson, then walks away, taking his place at the conference table.
Gunnar grits his teeth. “Nice to meet you, too … asshole.”
Jackson grips Gunnar’s elbow, leading him and his daughter toward three vacant chairs.
Two more men enter. The Bear leans over to Gunnar, informing him that the man with the black hair and piercing blue eyes is Austin Tapscott, the new Secretary of Defense. The former Army Airborne sniper offers a curt nod. The general with the receding hairline is Marc Ben-Meir, Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff. He offers his condolences to Rocky, pointedly refusing to so much as glance at Gunnar.
A short man enters the Situation Room, pushing his way past the general.
President Edwards’s newly appointed Secretary of State takes a seat at the conference table and ceremoniously begins reviewing his notes. Nick Nunziata, Jr. is a former senator from Georgia who lacks the jovial personality of his late father, Democratic congressman Nicholas Nunziata, Sr. At five-foot-seven, Nunziata’s short stature belies a fierce reputation. A straightforward, no-nonsense guy bearing a bit of a Napoleon complex, the man is not one to be trifled with.
The President of the United States enters through a paneled door, followed by CIA Director Gabor Pertic. The steely look behind Edwards’s fierce hazel eyes reveals the seriousness of the meeting. A staunch conservative Democrat, Jeff Edwards’s middle-aged looks are already showing signs of wear and tear from his first years in office, the most recent events causing the dark brown hairs along his temples to turn gray almost overnight.
The president takes his place at the center chair.
“All right, let’s get at it. For those of you who don’t know, Director Pertic and I have spent most of the last forty-eight hours in conference with Li Peng. It took a lot of balls for the Chinese president to come forward. Then again, had he not, our retaliatory actions against his nation would have started World War III.”
Edwards’s last words hang in the air. Rocky feels her intestines crawling inside her stomach.
The president signals to his CIA Director, who removes a minidisk from his jacket pocket and inserts it into a volume display located at the center of the conference table. It’s an advanced model, one that can render opaque objects, or show the same 2-D image to a 360-degree audience.
The ghostly image of a Chinese coastline appears, the aerial view closing on the concrete roof of a massive factory. “This is the Jianggezhuang Submarine Base, an underground facility located on the southern coast of the Bo Hai Gulf, on the opposite side of the Shandong Peninsula from Qingdao. Seven years ago, one of our CIA operatives reported that former president Yang Shangkun had met in secrecy with Jiang Zemin and members of China’s military leaders in an attempt to bolster his political standing. Shangkun bragged to the commission that he had connections with a high-level operative who had worked in our Special Warfare Division in Keyport. This operative claimed he had access to the schematics of an experimental weapon that could render the United States fleet helpless.”
Secretary of State Nunziata shakes his head. “I’ve met Shangkun. Bastard was the military strongman who attempted to use his connections in China’s armed forces to take supreme power back in the late eighties. Although he failed, he did play a crucial role in suppressing the pro-democracy demonstrations that swept China back in ’89.”
Pertic nods, then continues. “Although he was forced into retirement, Shangkun still remained a power broker in Chinese politics. Several years had passed since the Chinese had stolen military secrets from Los Alamos, and most of the ineffective political pressures imposed by the Clinton administration had subsided. The Chinese agreed to finance Yang Shangkun’s operation. The schematics were stolen, along with key components of a biochemical computer, called Sorceress. Seven years and $18 billion later, the Chinese Navy covertly finished construction on the Goliath, the most lethal killing machine ever designed—a weapon, as we’ve seen, that is capable of changing the balance of power.”
Director Pertic looks Gunnar squarely in the eyes. “Evidence concerning the theft of the Goliath’s schematics had pointed squarely at Captain Wolfe, who headed the project’s weapons department.”
Gunnar starts to say something, but the Bear is quicker, gripping his forearm tightly in one paw, the glare in his hazel eyes warning the ex-Ranger to remain silent.
Pertic continues. “Of course, we now know the operative was not Captain Wolfe but a close friend of his at Keyport. Want to tell us who your friend was, Captain? Or do you prefer I reveal his identity?”
Gunnar’s pulse pounds in his ears. “It’s your party, I’m just an invited guest.”
“But you know who did it, don’t you?”
Gunnar nods. “I have my suspicions.”
“Dammit, man, where were your loyalties?” Secretary of Defense Tapscott says, ripping into him. “We both served in the Gulf. You were one of our best commandos, you risked your life for your country at least a dozen times. If only you had revealed the traitor’s name years ago, none of this might have happened!”
Gunnar feels the knot in his throat tighten. “Sir, at the time, I had no idea Simon had stolen the schematics.”
“Simon Covah?” Rocky groans.
Pertic slides a new disk into the volume display’s control box. A rotating image appears. It is a man’s face, heavily scarred. The head is cleanly shaved, the skin along one side showing evidence of numerous grafts. A thick auburn mustache and goatee cover most of the burn marks located along the mouth.
“Simon Bela Covah. Born in Russia in 1956, the oldest of six children. Covah’s father was a submarine commander who served in the Soviet Navy during World War II. The mother was left to raise six children in a small farming village while her husband was at sea. Young Simon, who possessed an IQ of 182, was enrolled in Moscow State University at the unheard-of age of fourteen. Three years later, he graduated at the top of his class and received a high-ranking position at the Sevmash Naval Yard in Severodvinsk, where he served as an apprentice and aide to Sergey Nikitich Kovalev, the chief designer for the Typhoon-class ballistic missile submarines. Covah’s interest turned to computers, and his eventual expertise helped the Soviets close the technological gap between their submarine force and ours. The Company first took an interest in him several years later, during the design phase of Russia’s new Borey-class missile submarine.”