The Devil's Waters (38 page)

“Whenever you’re ready, son.”

“I think the United States pulled off a swindle. A beauty, in fact.”

“Do you.”

“Yes, sir. Like you said, there’s no way our military would ever let Iran develop a railgun. Not before us, anyway.”

“That’s why it’s now in a thousand feet of water.”

“The gun, the drones, they were all just another cover, like us.”

“Oh, the Iranians wanted all that Israeli radar, all right, if just to piss off the Israelis. But you’re basically right. It was just a cover. Now, can you figure out for what? Ask me a question.”

“Good. Where is Iris Cherlina?”

“She was put on a chopper that left the
Nicholas
one minute after she stepped on board. She is at this moment at an undisclosed location inside the United States. Tech Sergeant.”

“You going to claim she drowned on the freighter?”

“No, Staff Sergeant. That was the original plan, but since your team killed all the pirates, we’ll just say she was murdered by the Somalis. Very few people are left to contradict that, and every one of them is on an American payroll. Let Yusuf Raage have it all. Tell me something, son.”

“I get a stripe back for every question you ask.”

“That’s fair. She talked to you a lot, I see. Why would she do that? She didn’t need to.”

“Actually, she did. She was hiding out in the cargo hold when the hijacking started. I was the best way for her to get information on the rescue, the timing. That explains why she acted scared, so she could be there when I called in to the JOC. And now I get why she wanted me to shoot Yusuf Raage in the back.”

“She’s clever, that one. Ruthless.”

“A lot of both. And you know, even though I’m sure she was playing me from the minute I met her, she acted like she dug me a little.”

“And a looker.”

“True that. And something else.”

“Yes?”

“I don’t think she was just accompanying that shipment, like she said.”

“No, she wasn’t.”

“You made her part of the bargain from the beginning. You wanted your hands on her. She was the prize all along.”

“Yes, she was. Right from the start.”

“Who is she?”

“You sure you want to know? Senior Airman?”

LB squinted, muttering, “Damn it.” He shrugged at Piper. “What the hell. Yes, sir.”

“Iris Cherlina was not simply a top EM engineer in Russia. She has become the leading electromagnetic launch designer in the world. She headed a Russian program that took the application of railguns in a whole new direction. It may speed the development of an EML by anywhere from three to five years. You understand that is immense, and could not be handed over to Iran.”

“Or left in Russia, for that matter.”

“Absolutely not.”

“What did she do? And sir, that is part of the same question.”

“Tell you what. I’ll give you this one for free. You may as well know the whole enchilada. I figure you got the right. Besides, you did rescue her for me.”

“I’m all ears, sir.”

“She schooled you on how an EM launcher works, I assume. And the problems.”

“Well enough.”

“Okay. A few years back, our Dr. Cherlina and her team at Molniya came up with a very smart idea. Instead of shooting a shitload of juice in one large force into two parallel metal rails, why not ramp up the power in increments? Accelerate the projectile repeatedly as it travels down the rails. Distribute magnets along the length of the launcher, pulse the charge. You cut way back on the thermal energy, and that minimizes erosion and warping. You reduce the G-load from thousands to under a hundred, so now you can use GPS-guided projectiles.”

“That’s impressive.”

“Not as impressive as this.” Piper clapped hands and rubbed them together. Then he pointed the pistols of two fingers at LB’s face. “At the Plesetsk Cosmodrome, Dr. Cherlina oversaw the design and construction of a one-mile-long elevated electromagnetic track. This big bastard railgun successfully accelerated a forty-ton load—that’s what I said, a forty-ton payload—to a velocity of two kilometers per second. The projectile reached an altitude of one hundred kilometers, then separated and punched a one-ton satellite into earth orbit with a booster.”

“Wow.”

“And here’s the kicker. Other than the obvious, do you know why this incredible technical feat is so important? Why would the United States care that a country with the biggest booster rockets in the world launched a forty-ton payload off a mile-long electromagnetic track? Can you figure that one out?”

“Because we couldn’t track it.”

“Because we could not goddamn track it. Exactly. There was no heat signature. It’s
Sputnik
all over again—the Russians beat us to the punch. We’re playing catch-up. Oh, we’ll figure out how to spot an EM launch at some point now that we know we got to do it. That’ll take a while. But this capability to put a load into orbit off a rail is not something we want the Russians or anyone else to corner the market on. Up to this point, our EML research has focused on the metallurgic and power problems of deploying one as a naval weapon. Frankly, we’ve paid no attention to sequential acceleration. But it looks like a damn ingenious approach, for orbital as well as weapons. That is why Dr. Iris Cherlina is now working for you and me, under an assumed name, of course, at an undisclosed location. She will get no credit for the intellectual property she will develop, she’ll have restricted travel under US supervision, and she’ll only be allowed to confer with a few of her old mentors face-to-face. This operation is blacker than black. But she’ll have unlimited funds to work with and will be our lead scientist in pushing railgun technology to the lunatic fringe. Iris Cherlina pounced at the chance, to be honest. And you are now one of the few people in the world who knows it.”

LB’s arm ached in its sling. His calf tweaked him, too. The team would be attending a service for Robey tomorrow morning.

“So that’s what she couldn’t tell me.”

“Beg pardon.”

“Iris. She said she was just accompanying the cargo to Iran.”

“That was a lie, Sergeant, one of several I’m sure you heard. No, she was going to re-create the whole shebang for the Iranians. In a couple of years, they’d be launching shit we couldn’t spot, too. The railgun that got sunk was a next-generation prototype of her acceleration technology. The woman is a pioneer.”

“I get the picture.”

“Do you? Enlighten me.”

“This whole operation was a scam. Everything my team and I went through on that ship was to cover your ass so you could screw the deal with Iran, fake Iris’s death, then steal her for yourself.”

Piper rocked back in his chair like a man who’d just enjoyed a performance.

“Dead center. That is what we did. Congratulations, my boy. What do you think of yourself?”

“I think, sir, that anything you take from me in this room, I can get back. The whole thing sucks, and I think you need to hear that perspective from one of the guys who did the bleeding.”

Piper stood, done with LB.

“Nothing new here, son. Old men make wars, young men fight them. It’s going to be that way in any future we make. Rely on it. Now I’m going to leave on that note. Got a long flight back.”

LB unlocked the door and twisted the knob. He pulled open the door to let the general out. Piper took a step into the common room and stopped. LB halted in the doorway.

Wally kept watch from the Ping-Pong table; the rest of the PJs paid no attention. The general whispered over his shoulder: “You did good in there. Smart-alecky, but you held your own. Go ahead and keep your stripes. I lost count anyway.”

Walking off, wrinkled and formidable, Piper lifted his voice to all the PJs in the Barn.

“Remember, boys. Mum’s the goddamn word.”

Jamie limped on two legs, LB on one, and neither Wally nor Quincy in slings could carry five bottles. Doc fetched all the beers.

Eleven Degrees North simmered after a hot day. April had lost its mildness, beginning the short slide into a Horn of Africa summer. Even with the sun down two hours ago, the patio’s concrete emitted warmth like a living thing under their boots, the metal chairs and table refusing to cool with the evening breeze off the gulf. LB wiped cold sweat from his beer on the back of his neck.

As usual after chow, the bar was crowded. One of the beauties of the place was that the men and women of the base did not clot by service. Sandy marine fatigues mingled with army-green camos. Pilots in flight suits, mechanics in overalls, anyone in T-shirts and shorts, all bought each other the next round, shared lighters for cigarettes. Japanese, French, Spanish, and British accents drifted past the PJs’ table. LB listened to those other conversations around him because none of the men with him were talking, just drinking.

Major Torres dropped by. She sat for five minutes of polite chat, making no mention of the mission, their bandages and slings, or Jamie’s crutches. Her presence at the table set the PJs on edge; Torres was the officer who’d started it all. Her smile at their wounds said everything for her; Torres knew less than any of them. All she could honor them with was blinks and that pretty smile.

Each of the PJs wanted to talk about what he’d done two days ago but couldn’t, not for solace or teasing. They wanted to recollect and honor Robey, a young man they hardly knew who’d laid his life down for them and whose sacrifice could never be spoken of. The memory of his death was ordered wiped away, no monument anywhere, reported as a training accident. Wally excused himself and the PRCC from the table.

Doc was the next to go. He bought one more round, delivered the bottles to the table. He dared the powers that be, saying, “These are for Robey,” then bid good night.

Quincy, Jamie, and LB finished their drinks silently. The bar’s lights didn’t blank out the African stars. All three leaned back in their chairs to study the pinpricks, using the Milky Way to stay at the table together a little longer without words. At last, with the bottles empty, Quincy rose to disappear into the crowd. He returned to tell Jamie he’d found them a ride back to the Barn. He stood one more bottle on the table, then the two left.

LB let the beer sit. He’d had enough, maybe more. He pushed it across the table when Wally sat.

Wally eased out of the sling to work his arm and slouch. LB gestured to the bottle.

“Go ahead.”

Wally waved it off, tired. “No, thanks. It’s yours.”

“I gave it to you.”

“I don’t want it. You drink it.”

LB lifted the beer. “That an order?”

“Don’t go there.”

“No, no. Don’t want to disobey an order.”

In one tip, LB guzzled half the bottle. Wally stretched his good arm for the second half, finishing it the same way. He set it down loudly, not between them but out of the way.

LB leaned on his good arm far across the table, less concerned with treason than loyalty. He checked to be sure no one else could hear him.

“Tell me you wouldn’t have fucking shot me.”

Wally took the same look-around for listeners. “Quit whining. You talked me out of it.”

“Why’d you come back over here?”

“You were by yourself.”

“Now I can’t sit by myself?”

Wally flicked his wrist, the same gesture he used to reject the beer. He kept his voice low. “Next time I will. I’ll just shoot you.”

LB stood, not sure why. He got to his feet because when someone says something like that, a man stands. Wally was drunk, too, and didn’t mean it, but when he slid his arm into the sling, he glared like he did.

Rising also, Wally bumped the table. The bottle toppled to its side and rolled to the edge. Both men could not stop it. The bottle hit the concrete but didn’t break.

LB tapped his own chest, mimicking a bullet there. “Shoot me? Because of bullshit orders? We both got Jolly Green Giant feet tattooed on our asses. Period.”

Wally pointed. “Sit down.”

“Why?”

“Because I can carry two beers. Then we’ll settle this.” Wally wove into the crowd. The night was too early to have drunk this much. LB thought to leave, let Wally return to an empty table. They wouldn’t settle anything; they were going to argue and drink.

But LB refused to disappear.

He sat, not because he was told to.

AFRICOM.
US Africa Command

BDU.
Battle dress uniform

cows’ tails.
Lanyards clipped to rings in the floor of a helicopter

C4I.
Command, control, communications, computers, and intelligence

CCS.
Command and control stations

CSAR.
Combat search and rescue

CQB.
Close quarters battle

CRO.
Combat rescue officer

CTF 151.
Combined Task Force 151, the international counterpiracy task force

DKAV
or
D=KAV.
Calculation for freefall and canopy drift, using several factors, including wind velocity, altitude, and direction

EML.
Electromagnetic launcher

ERQS.
Expeditionary Rescue Squadron

Guardian Angels.
Overall system name for US Air Force pararescue resources

IRTC.
Internationally Recognized Transit Corridor

JOC.
Joint Operations Center

IP.
Isolated personnel

IR.
Infrared

LRP.
Long range patrol

LT.
Lieutenant

LZ.
Landing zone

ODA.
Operational detachment alpha (formerly Green Berets)

PJ.
Pararescue jumper

PR.
Personnel recovery

PRCC.
Personnel Recovery Coordination Cell

PTT.
Press to talk

RAMZ.
Rigged Alternate Method Zodiac

SERE.
Survive, evade, resist, escape

SIE.
Self-initiated elimination

SF.
Special Forces

SSAS.
Ship Security Alarm System

target.
Jargon for “target”

TDY.
Temporary duty assignment

technical.
Armed pickup truck

UAV.
Unmanned aerial vehicle

UKMTO Dubai.
United Kingdom Maritime Trade Operations office in Dubai, UAE