MRS. MACLAY. Captain Lenson? Will you respond to the question?
CAPTAIN LENSON. To my knowledge, attacks on population centers are not part of our war planning.
ADMIRAL NILES. If I may? This is a speculative question based on a highly unlikely hypothetical. It’s unfair to pose this as some kind of litmus test, without first providing the ROEs and guidance from higher authority we are discussing in this subcommittee.
MRS. TREHERNE. But we attacked cities in World War II. If we do it again, whose side will you be on, Captain Lenson? I ask once more, yes or no: would you shoot down our own missile?
DR. SZERENCI. I must protest. I understand this is closed session. But this type of discussion, on the record in any way… if made public, it could seriously compromise our deterrent posture.
MRS. TREHERNE. I see he’s avoiding the question. Hiding behind his superiors. Or is he taking the Fifth?
Dan sat with his head propped on his right hand. Answer the question, then shut up… and, by the way, don’t make news. Unfortunately, it wasn’t turning out that straightforwardly. Each second seemed to stretch out even longer than it had when a missile had been burning its way down toward Savo Island. And only flawed engineering, or too-hasty assembly, had resulted in its not tearing through steel and flesh to explode at last deep inside her hull. He’d put his crew’s life on the line, to defend others. Just like any cop on the street, any day, in any city.
There had to be rules. But there had to be something above, or behind, the rules of the job, too.
A poke and a note: Don’t answer this bitch. Don’t fall for her tricks. Blair’s handwriting again.
But he couldn’t just sit here. That would be admitting her accusations. Hiding behind silence.
CAPTAIN LENSON. I will answer the congresswoman’s question.
MRS. TREHERNE. Good, at long last.
CAPTAIN LENSON. In the circumstances you cite, such a weapon would have to have been launched in defiance of established U.S. policy: that we limit collateral damage, that we don’t target enemy populations as such. Therefore, the answer is: yes, I would shoot it down.
MRS. TREHERNE. You see? He’d sell us out, based on some kind of skewed personal softheartedness. What good are our weapons, when we have men like this in charge? There’s a rottenness here. A lack of commitment to the principles that made this country what it is. And it goes very deep, into all kinds of—
MRS. MACLAY. The congresswoman is out of order. This is not the occasion for a stump speech. I would like to return to the issue at hand: defining national-level antimissile policy. Mrs. Treherne, I must ask you to leave.
Dan adjusted his tie, feeling sweat trickle under his dress blues, as Sandy Cottrell Treherne fired a last venomous parting glance down at him. She rose unsteadily, nearly knocking her chair over, and tottered off. He eased a breath out, conscious that every word they’d traded was now part of the record. He caught Niles’s glance, resting on him like a lead carapace; Szerenci’s elevated eyebrows, regretful shake of the head. The junior staffers stared with wide-eyed horror. Only Blair regarded him levelly; then, after a moment, winked and grinned.
MR. LA BLANC. Should we perhaps strike that exchange from the record?
MRS. MACLAY. I think it serves a useful purpose. Let’s leave it. But it does seem that the executive branch needs to devote more attention to the guidance furnished to commanding officers in the field. Now, returning to funding of an additional increment — remember? — we will take a short adjournment, after which we will hear on the topic from the deputy undersecretary of defense for strategy, plans, and forces.
The gavel came down. Sucking air bereft of oxygen, Dan hoisted himself to his feet. His neck felt as if someone had been mining for silver between his cervical vertebrae. A worried murmur rose from the back of the hearing room. Edging between the chairs, he caught Niles’s brooding glance as the admiral slipped a small object into his cheek, where it bulged. An Atomic Fireball, no doubt. Dan cleared his throat. “Um, hope I didn’t screw the pooch, there.”
Niles said heavily, “You were doing reasonably well until that woman started holding your feet to the fire. It would’ve been better to obfuscate, Lenson. Lay a little smoke and sneak away. Didn’t the murder board tell you…”
“Don’t make news. I tried not to, sir.”
Blair slid through the crowd. She patted his back. Szerenci leaned in to shake his hand and offer a consoling word before heading for the door. It was like a party breaking up, almost.
“So what happens now?” Dan asked Niles.
The admiral sighed. He started away, shaking his head, then looked back. “You know, I think keeping you out of Washington was a good idea.”
II
INTO THE LABYRINTH
5
The helicopter ride out was hot and smoky, the rising sun baleful on a bloody horizon. As they slid into position over the green-and-white turbulence of the wake, Dan reached for a handhold. Ever since he’d seen one explode in midair, helos made him nervous. From the cockpit, Ray “Strafer” Wilker glanced back, and mimed pulling his seat belt tighter.
Red Hawk 202, Savo Island’s SH-60, dropped from the sky in a weave that left Dan’s semicircular canals tumbling. Some kind of evasive maneuver, but why execute it now? The violet line of land off to starboard was Egypt. Friendly territory, last he’d heard. Though in this part of the world, one year’s enemy could be the next’s ally.
A powerful argument for a navy that could shift its positions within days; off one coast one week, but thousands of miles away the next.
That was happening now. Savo was redeploying, part of an unannounced, yet undeniable, pivot of force eastward. Below the helo, the cruiser’s stern came into view. The white circle-and-cross of the landing pad grew. The nose tipped up and the turbines whined, husbanding power for an emergency waveoff. Was the crisis both Niles and Szerenci had warned him about coming to pass? Probably not. There’d always be threats, and rumors of war. Nothing to do but be ready, as best he could.
But was he? Sandy Treherne hadn’t seemed to think so.
Not for the first time, he wondered if he was really the guy for this job. His shiphandling was above average. And he was pretty sure he could fight the ship to her limits in a multithreat air-surface-subsurface scenario. But the great names they’d read about at Annapolis — Nelson, Jones, Farragut, Spruance, Nimitz — hadn’t gone in for much self-questioning, at least according to the biographies. “Don’t give up the ship.” “Damn the torpedoes.” They’d known exactly what to do, and had been utterly determined to do it. Gut fighters, bruisers, eager to close for the kill.
Survivor guilt, a civilian psychiatrist had called it. Maybe. Sometimes the faces of the dead, and their screams, startled him awake in the depths of the night. Had Farragut and Nimitz heard those screams? Did every commander have to wall off this self-doubt, and buckle the iron mask of command tight over the human features beneath?
A double thump, a lurch, and they were down. He unbuckled the stinky cranial, checked that his pisscutter was tucked in his belt, and grabbed his briefcase. Actually, Blair’s; she’d given it to him, saying she needed a new one and he might as well replace his battered antique. Sunlight cut a rectangle from the fuselage. Wilker yelled something unintelligible and pointed to the exit. Dan groped his way down the wire that lowered the access ladder to the rough gray nonskid.