“And if word got out that we were increasing my personal security, it could send the wrong signal,” she continued. “It’s more of the challenge, you know — to prove that you can break through anything. But what glory is there in coming after me while I’m alone? None. Indeed, if anything, they’d look foolish attacking a defenseless woman.”
“Just contingencies, Ambassador,” Brad continued doggedly. “That’s all.”
She eyed him for a moment, and then said warily, “And what would it involve in terms of my personal freedom?”
“Nothing. I need a small operating budget, probably from petty cash, to make certain arrangements. I would ask you to memorize a couple of code words and one or two safe locations. That’s it — that’s all.”
“That’s all?” She laughed. “Code words and safe houses to memorize… nothing like having to learn by heart an entire welcoming address in Arabic.” And to this day, she had no idea what she had truly said to the League of Arab Women that had held its international convention there in New York. Whatever it had been, it had been received favorably.
“That’s all, I promise you.” There was a new look of fervor in his eyes. “I would hold myself personally responsible if anything ever happened to you. You do realize that, don’t you?”
Wexler studied him for a moment. “Low blow, Brad. You knew that would get me.”
“Nevertheless, it’s true. And you know it.”
Suddenly weary of the discussion, and tired of going over the issue again and again, she waved him off. “Okay, you’ve worn me down. Make your arrangements. I’ll be a good, obedient ambassador and cooperate.” She gave him a sideways look, and said, “As long as it doesn’t involve cameras and two-way mirrors in the bathroom, okay? I draw the line at that.”
A look of relief crossed Brad’ face. “Thank you, Ambassador.”
She waved him off. “Oh, posh. All you people fussing about me — I guess the only way to get you to stop is to give in.”
FIVE
CVIC was located perhaps a hundred feet astern of TFCC, but the distance between the two was more than merely a matter of hatches and knee-knockers. As Lab Rat walked down the passageway and moved from the highly polished white tile, through the blue plastic curtain and into the blue-tiled flag spaces, he wondered how many times he had made this trip.
And every time he walked through that blue plastic curtain, he shifted hats from his role as part of ship’s company to his role in the battle group. On the ship’s side of the blue curtain, the primary considerations were internaclass="underline" the care and feeding of the air wing on board, the machinery that kept the carrier cruising safely through the water, self defense against sea-skimming missiles, and station-keeping with the other ships in the battle group.
But once you crossed over into the blue-tiled passageway, you were in a different ballgame. No longer were the concerns merely about the carrier. No, Admiral Wayne commanded the entire battle group from this passageway, and that staff dealt with far-reaching strategic objectives: the safety and well-being of every ship, aircraft, submarine, and support service in the theater. Their concerns were global, not limited to the area around the aircraft carrier. They maintained a broader perspective, a higher level of focus.
But knowing the different orientation of the battle group staff didn’t mean that Lab Rat’s role in CVIC was any less important. Without a coordinated intelligence picture, the battle group staff could not function effectively. Yet it was interesting that the primary intelligence coordination organization within the battle group was housed in ships spaces rather then along the blue-tiled corridor.
Perhaps, Lab Rat thought, as he pushed aside the blue plastic curtain, it was more a matter of how easy it was to move around the ship. Personnel were supposed to avoid the blue passageway, the flag passageway, unless they had business with a battle group staff. To have extended the blue tile down to CVIC would have meant placing another of the short passageways that ran across the ship off limits.
Lab Rat walked through the admiral’s conference room into the small foyer that led to both TFCC and SCIF, the Specially Compartment Intelligence Center. The hatch to TFCC was standing open, as it often was during underway operations. He stepped over the knee-knocker and searched in the darkness for the admiral.
As he had suspected, Batman was pacing in the small space, stopping from time to time to talk to a sailor or an officer, signing messages and papers that were thrust at him, occasionally conferring with his chief of staff. Most of these matters could have been handled more easily in his cabin, but Lab Rat had noted over several cruises that Batman was almost incapable of remaining in one place for very long. How he had survived in the Pentagon was beyond the intelligence officer’s understanding, given Batman’s fondness for pacing.
And why was he spending so much time in TFCC? Did he feel that same uneasiness that Lab Rat and the chief felt, the lingering sensation that things were not as they seem to be? Perhaps — Batman was an extraordinarily intuitive individual, Lab Rat had found, and seemed to have a sixth sense for trouble.
“Lab Rat,” Admiral Everette “Batman” Wayne’s voice boomed. “What you got?”
“I’m not certain, Admiral,” Lab Rat said. With other officers, he might have to try to appear more confident than he actually was, but his experience with Batman told him that the admiral preferred the straight scoop. “There are some alterations in patrol fly-by altitudes, some unusual activity along the border between Iraq and Iran. I’m not sure what they’re up to, but it all seems focus on a desert area next to those abandoned aircraft hulks.”
Batman eyebrows shot up. “You think they’re going to try to fly them? Is that even possible?”
“I don’t know. All I know is there’s a change in the activity patterns, and that worries me. That, coupled with the latest political reports — well, take a look yourself. You’ll see what I mean.” Lab Rat passed the admiral the pictures of the construction taking place in the desert.
Batman immediately saw the significance to it. “It’s going to be an airfield,” he said, his voice quiet. “I don’t like the looks of this at all.”
“I recommend we increase our CAP,” Lab Rat said. “Just as a precaution, Admiral. Not that I really think anything is about to happen, but—”
“—but if it does, there’s no time to get ready. Yes, let’s do that. I don’t like the way this is shaping up at all.”
The rest of the TFCC watch team had been surreptitiously eavesdropping, and Lab Rat saw the flag TAO already picking up the white phone to speak with the ship’s TAO further forward along the 0–3 passageway.
“Launch the alert-five Tomcats,” Batman said to his TAO. “And bring everybody else up a notch.” He cocked his eyebrows at Lab Rat. “Anything else?”
“Are all of our close-in weapons systems already in full auto?”
“Yes, Admiral,” the TAO answered immediately. “I’m not sure about the cruiser, though.”
“Tell them,” Batman said. “Captain Henry is a sharp guy — he’ll understand.”
Captain Frank Henry, the commanding officer of the Aegis cruiser USS Lake Champlain, was indeed no dummy. A graduate of the Naval Academy, with postgraduate work in nuclear engineering at Stanford, along with a host of military higher education including the Naval War College. Lab Rat had found him to be an extremely down-to-earth officer, one equally capable of handling himself in the Pentagon or on the deck plates with his sailors. He would get the message immediately — something was up, even if no one knew what it was.