“Of course, as soon as we get the data to NSA, they will run it as well.” The chief shook his head admiringly. “The power they’ve got in their system — well, we don’t even come close.”
“I know.” Lab Rat had been on several tours of the NSA facilities himself. “But we’ve got something they don’t — motivation. It’s our asses that are on the line.”
They pored over the data for hours, comparing notes as digital and analog pictures revealed amplitude peaks that might or might not be significant. As their eyes grew strained, the pictures and the columns of numbers began to blur. Finally, the chief suggested that they call a halt to it, at least for a couple of hours.
“Everybody, get something to eat,” Lab Rat ordered. “Be back here in an hour. I think we’re closing in on it.”
And indeed he did. The Russians claimed that a fire control radar had illuminated them. Under the current rules of engagement, that was strictly forbidden by the INCOS agreement. Additionally, under most circumstances, training fire control radar on another military unit was considered a hostile act, an act of war. Immediate and appropriate response was clearly authorized. Waiting to demand an explanation or file protests meant taking the chance that you would be hit by missile.
“If the Russians are telling the truth, we’re at least partially responsible for this,” the chief said after the other sailors left the compartment.
“I know, I know. But we’ve got to know what really happened,” Lab Rat answered. “Everybody knows better than to illuminate the Russians with fire control radar.”
A strangely uneasy expression crossed the chief’s face. He looked away as though engrossed in studying imperfections in the paint job on a nearby bulkhead. Without looking at Lab Rat, he said, “Yes, sir. Everybody on the ship knows better than to spike the Russians with fire control radar. But there were a lot of people on the cruiser, sir. Contractors, technicians—”
Lab Rat interrupted him. “They all know better, too. They build the damn stuff.”
“—and the VIPs, sir,” the chief continued. “They were in Combat when this happened.” The chief nodded as he saw the look of horror on Lab Rat’s face. “Yes, sir. I checked. There were ten civilians in Combat at the time. Two of them were sitting at data consoles, getting a full brief by the watchstanders.”
“Live consoles?” Lab Rat asked, horror in his voice.
“They weren’t supposed to be,” the chief said. “But maybe somebody screwed up. Maybe one of them was capable of transmitting that fire control radar pulse.”
Lieutenant Strain broke in with “Yes, sir, but is that really going to be an issue? I mean,” he added hastily, “there’s no excuse for it, of course. If we provoked them somehow, we provoked them. But what’s really going to matter is who hit Montego Bay. Once that’s decided, everything else just falls by the wayside, doesn’t it?”
Lab Rat grunted. The lieutenant had a point. The cruiser may have inadvertently provoked the Russians. But no matter what had gone wrong, the Russians had targeted the cruise ship. As ghoulish as it might seem, that’s what they now had to focus on.
“Okay, back at it in an hour,” Lab Rat said. “In the meantime, we’ll let the computer run its correlation and analysis on its own for a while. Compare that with what we come up with and see if there are any clues.”
Just then, they heard, “Flight quarters, flight quarters. Now set flight quarters. Reason for flight quarters: launch of Greyhound COD.”
Lab Rat breathed a sigh of relief. Everyone would be a lot happier with Cary Winston off the ship. Maybe now they could get some work done without looking over their collective shoulders.
Lab Rat shuffled hastily through his in box. There were several CDs, each in its own jewel case, a computer label with date and time stuck in the middle of the lid. He collected them by the simple expedient of holding up the papers and letting the heavier CDs fall to his desk. He stacked them together, then began leafing through them to find the one he wanted. The disk covering the time and date in question was the third one down.
Lab Rat pulled it out, popped it open, and went to his CD drive. His computer was already running the data analysis program. He slid the CD into the drive holder, then shot that home.
The usual noises accompanied the drive pulling up the information. Lab Rat waited, growing more anxious by the moment. Finally, the screen displayed the data selection prompt. Lab Rat typed in a span of twelve minutes covering the missile launches and the beginning of the end for Montego Bay. Moments later, columns of numbers scrolled down the screen.
“Yell if you see something,” he said. He hit the printout button and simultaneously began scanning the data. It was detailed and rich. Every signal that pulsed through the electromagnetic spectrum was captured, recorded, broken down into its constituent parts, and then analyzed for threat characteristics. A minimum number of hits by the detector were required before the computer would decide that a signal was a valid waveform and not a bit of spurious noise. Only those signals meeting certain criteria were displayed. But this, the raw data, contained everything the sensors had seen during the time period, valid or not.
Coyote strode into the room, anger on his face. “Anything yet?”
Lab Rat glanced over at Lieutenant Strain, who shook his head. “No, Admiral. Not yet.”
Coyote swore quietly. “I need to know what happened, and I need to know right now. I just got a call from Third Fleet. The shit’s starting to roll downhill.”
“Sir?” Lab Rat asked, his stomach tightening up. He’d seen Coyote like this before, and it was never good news.
“They’re claiming we’re at fault. They say they’ve got proof and they are inviting every reporter in the world on board to see it. And, unless we ante up with an apology, they’re saying — I’m translating this from the diplomatic double talk — there’s going to be hell to pay.” Coyote looked suddenly weary. “We’re on the verge of a full-out shooting war, Lab Rat, unless we can come up with proof that they’re responsible. This has spun up some sort of internal Russian issue we don’t understand all that well, and it’s escalating faster than the diplomats can jaw it out.”
“The Russians have always seen this program as a threat,” Strain said quietly. “So has a lot of Europe.”
“I know, I know. But that’s way above our paygrades — mine included,” Coyote said. There were a few moments of silence, broken only by a slight click as the CD continued spilling its guts on Lab Rat’s screen.
“Stop,” the chief said suddenly. “Scroll back up, sir.”
“What is it?” Coyote demanded.
“I don’t know yet, Admiral,” the chief said. “I thought I saw somthing.”
Lab Rat scrolled up, going slowly line by line. He hadn’t noticed anything out of the ordinary, but he wasn’t the specialist. If the chief thought he saw something, then it was worth checking out.
“Right there,” the chief said, pointing out a line on the screen. He swore quietly, ran out of the compartment, and returned moments later with a manual in his hand. “Line 870, Commander. No doubt about it. If I saw that, I’d panic, too.”
“Talk,” Coyote ordered.
“What is it?” Lab Rat demanded. “Was someone targeting the Russians?”
“Yes, sir,” the chief said. A grim expression settled on his face. “Lake Champlain was.”
SIXTEEN
Drake, along with the admiral and his chief of staff, stood next to the island, watching the COD launch. It wasn’t until the COD was off the catapult and making her turn away from the carrier that the noise abated enough for them to talk.