Tomahawk (51 page)

“What do you think, Neal?”

“Sir, there's a risk, but we can use something like this. It could deny that son of a bitch the opportunity to parade hostages around.”

Dan waited. Kidder fiddled with the papers. Finally, he said, “Work it up for defense suppression, the intel headquarters, and Sidi Garib. But back it up with air wherever you can.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said Friedman, and Dan followed him out again into the sunlight.

Stifling his desire for a swim, he went back down to the planning cell. He spent that afternoon huddled with the pilots and intel types, taking apart the air-attack plan and sliding in Tomahawk. They grumbled, but Friedman took the most vocal objectors out into the passageway. When they came back, they cooperated.

Midway though the afternoon, the jaygee brought him two folders in numbered orange jackets. One contained photos and technical data on the nerve-gas facility at Sidi Garib. The other held photos and layout of an office building in downtown Benghazi identified only as ‘Target 3-C.” He put in a couple of hours studying the plant and plotting the vulnerable points. When he turned to the office building, he noticed it was in the middle of a highly populated area. Looking at the damage overlays, it might be better not to target it. He finished the evaluation anyway and included it in the message. By then, it was midnight, and he crashed on a cot in sick bay.

When he woke the next morning and went back down to the cell, it was locked. No one was around.

He found Friedman and the other pilots drinking coffee and telling flying stories in the wardroom. He asked him, “What's up? I went to the strike cell. Nobody was there.”

“We got told around four this morning, it's off.”

“What's off?”

“The whole op plan. Somebody leaked it, and NBC decided the world had to know. Jim Miklaszewski reported on it. ‘Air strikes planned against terrorist camps in Libya.' Then the
Post
and CBS picked it up. Everything's there, all the details—F-one elevens, A-sixes, even which targets we're going to hit. There're some angry people today.”

He shoveled a tasteless charge of grits and eggs into a disgruntled stomach. It happened all the time. Everyone got all spun up, worked their tails off, and then at the last minute everything was called off. But it was especially bitter to have it happen because your own Side had screwed you. Who could have leaked something like that? Why? All this work, and to have it called off…. He remembered the office building. “Hey—that Target Three-C. What was that?”

“Libyan Domestic Intelligence. Some nasty things go on in the cellars there.”

“Well, it turned out to be right in the middle of a residential area. Any rounds that missed would hit apartment buildings, the streets, houses. You'd get collateral damage from the blast even if you impacted at point of aim;”

“Well, doesn't matter now.” Friedman pushed his plate back. “What're your plans? Gonna head back?”

“I guess so, if everything's canceled. I better call the office.”

“Going to want transport back to Germany?”

“No, I'll probably head right back to the States.”

“I can get you down to Sicily. You can hop a P-three back to Jacksonville from there.”

Dan said that would probably be okay. He sat there for a while longer, torn between regret and relief. Then he went off to make his call.

32

 

 

 

He landed at Andrews two days later, after a twelve-hour flight from Sigonella via Spain and Florida. Traveling in a P-3 was Spartan. Crew seats, no heat, box lunches, no rest rooms. When you absolutely had to whiz, there was a metal tube jutting up out of the floor plates. The whole way across the Atlantic, the big turboprops droned too loudly to talk, even if the others sitting on their luggage had felt like it.

When the hatches cracked open at last, he went down the access ladder feeling as if he'd just been let out of prison. He stopped on oil-stained concrete, raising his arms in a stretch, sucking in the sun-filled air. Then picked his luggage up again and trekked after the space-A passengers toward the terminal.

When he humped it into the office, the familiar faces looked good. As usual after a trip, his desk was covered with mail and routing folders. He parked his luggage and stripped his jacket off. He considered going over to the workout club, showering and changing there. Instead, he sat down and started through the mail.

The second envelope he opened was from the Bureau of Personnel.

AIRMAIL

BUPERS ORDER 005651

LCDR DANIEL V LENSON, USN

JCMPO, ARL VA 22246

REF. (A) BUPERSMAN 3810260

(B) YOUR RESIGNATION LETTER

ENCL: (1) APPOINTMENT IN US NAVAL RESERVE

(2) DISCHARGE CERTIFICATE

WHEN DIRECTED IN JUNE DETACHED DUTY; ACCORDANCE REF (A), REPORT PRESENT CO TEMDU CONNECTION SEPARATION PROCESSING. UPON COMPLETION AND WHEN DIRECTED DETACHED. BY DIRECTION OF THE PRESIDENT, THE SECRETARY OF THE NAVY HAS ACCEPTED YOUR RESIGNATION OF YOUR PRESENT COMMISSION IN THE U.S. NAVAL SERVICE SUBMITTED IN REF. (B), TO TAKE EFFECT AT 2400 ON DATE OF DETACHMENT FROM ACTIVITY AT WHICH SEPARATED.

YOUR DEDICATED SERVICE TO THE NAVY AND YOUR COUNTRY IS DEEPLY APPRECIATED, AND IT IS HOPED THAT YOU WILL ENJOY EVERY SUCCESS AND HAPPINESS IN THE FUTURE.

He sat motionless, holding the scalpel that would in not very many days sever him from everything he knew and had done since he was seventeen years old.

At last he put it in his drawer and tried to go on, but his eyes wouldn't focus. The trouble was, the Navy had been everything he'd ever wanted….

His phone rang. It was Lucille. “Mr. Lenson? Captain Westerhouse was wondering if you'd gotten back yet.”

“I just walked in.”

“Could you come up and see him? He has a meeting he has to go to in half an hour; he wanted to see you before he left.”

Dan said he'd be right there, then told Sakai where he was going. Sparky nodded absently, eyes welded to the computer screen.

Westerhouse was sitting with his seat tilted back, eyes closed. Dan stopped in the doorway, shocked. Every time he came back from a trip, his boss had looked thinner, more tired, sicker. Now he looked as if he might never wake. What was Niles doing, letting him keep on coming to work? He was dying before their eyes.

His boss stirred, blinked, and edged his chair erect. “Dan … good to see you back. C'mon in. Sorry the mission got scrubbed.”

“Too many leaks. All over the news.”

“Yeah, it's got a lot of people steamed.”

“Who leaked it? Anyone know?”

“The usual. ‘Informed sources.' “

“Could it be some way of sending a message? Back off the terrorism or we'll hit you for real?”

“I doubt it's that deliberate. Somebody just told the press to show off their access. Anyway, it's off now. We'd lose an awful lot of guys trying to strike an alerted air defense system. I was listening to NPR this morning driving in. The President's rejected the military option. Too many hostages left in Libya, too many Arabs who don't like whatever we do. So we let this asshole kick us in the nuts and get away with it again.”

“Well, it wasn't a total loss. I got in some face time with Admiral Kidder. They know they've got the capability now.”

“Did you get to
New Jersey?”

“No. She's off Lebanon.”

Westerhouse cleared his throat, looking awkward, and asked how everything else was going. Meaning, Dan supposed, how he was recovering from Kerry's death. He said he was coping, a response Westerhouse probably took the way he meant it, which was that he didn't feel like talking about it. His boss struggled up, throwing a look at his watch. “Well, sounds like you did all you could. Thanks for taking that on.”

“You want me to make any more posttrip briefings, sir? Colonel Evans, Admiral Niles?”

“I don't think so. Just do a trip report. Put in what you told me about briefing the flags. Going to the wettingdown tonight?”

Dan said he was going to go straight home after work and get some sleep instead. Westerhouse nodded and left.

He was at his desk when the phone rang. “Lenson,” he said.

“Dan.”

He searched his mind for the voice. Then remembered. “Special Agent Bepko.”

“Yeah. You ready? It's time for Operation Snapdragon.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Remember the package Li wanted? The stuff we were talking about? It's ready.”

“The guidance documentation?”

“That's right.”

“Where did you get it? Is this the real thing you're giving him?”

“You don't need to know that. All you need to do is to pass it to the colonel.”

“Look, know what I'm holding in my hand?”

“Your cock?”

“Funny. My detachment orders. The date is June. Hear me? June.”

“I heard you the first time. Where you going? Any plans?”

“Actually, nothing concrete. I was thinking computers on the West Coast.”

“Well, that's your business. All you have left to do is hand this tar baby to the good Mr. Li. We take him down, and hopefully Col. Zhang too, you're even Steven for your girlfriend. Then you can ride off into the sunset. If you have to come back and testify, you even get paid, how about that?”

That sounded acceptable, so he said, “So, do you want me to call him? Set up a meeting?”

“Yeah. That's the next step.”

“Where? It's probably going to be someplace out of town; he doesn't seem to like to meet in D.C.”

“Well, we got a problem with that. I made the one in San Diego, but we don't have unlimited travel money. So make it as close to here as you can. And we need time to scope out the place, get gear installed. We're going to film this; I think I told you that. If he proposes a hotel, find out which room.”

“What should I tell him I've got?”

“Don't go into details. Just tell him you have what he wanted.” Bepko left the phone, then came back on.
“Sheck—Agent Attucks—says to tell you he'll be backing you up.”

Dan said to pass his thanks, that he'd go make the call now. But Bepko was saying, “Go make it? What do you mean?”

“He said to always call him from a pay phone.”

“No, no. You're working for us, not him. Make the call from your office phone. That way, we'll have it on tape, as evidence.”

“That way—wait a minute. Are you telling me you're tapping my phone?”

“Absatively. For your protection, Dan. Call me back as soon as you're done.”

He said he would and hung up. He got up and walked to the end of the hall, then back, struggling to get his feelings under control. Trying to become another person, one who didn't know what the man he was about to talk to had done. Finally he picked the phone up again and dialed Li's number.

The attaché sounded angry he'd called. Dan said, “Well, I have something you want. In fact, I have almost everything you want.” He remembered to play greedy. “And I expect to get paid. Twenty grand. That's what you promised.”

A pause. At last Li said, “You know how long the average Chinese has to work to make twenty thousand dollars?”

Dan said no money, no diagrams. Li said to wait, that he had to go off the line for a minute. Finally, the attaché came back on. “Tell me again what you have. You said diagrams. Of what?”

He winged it. “Of what? Of the LN-thirty-five. And hard-copy printouts of most of the terrain-comparison software.”

“Very good.
Very
good…. We can bring some cash. Not the whole twenty grand. But five or six. We'll get you the rest in a week or two.”

“Okay, where? I don't want to go too far. I'm tired. Been traveling a lot. And I want to get rid of this stuff. I don't like having it around.”

Li said he'd call back. Dan said no, if the attaché
wasn't interested, he was going to start feeding the shredder; said he was having second thoughts anyway. That got a response. Li's voice turned steely. He said they wanted the material. Where was it now? Dan said it was in his office, in a personal safe. “And I want to get rid of it. Can we meet tomorrow?”

Li said brusquely that was out of the question. “We set the schedule. You don't,” he said sharply. “I told you. We'll call back. That's the best I can do.” And he hung up.

He worked for another hour, till 1530, the earliest moment he could go out the door and still feel he'd put in a full day. He went down to the Crystal Underground, picked up his dry cleaning, and bought a
Post.
He read it on the subway, then lugged his gear home through the back streets of Arlington. The air smelled of returning life. The trees were budding. Damn, it was spring already.

When he let himself into his apartment, a fistful of mail in his hand, it was waiting for him. He'd blotted it out on the flights across Europe and the Atlantic, and during the briefings. He'd driven himself so hard during the planning sessions because it did just that. But now he was face-to-face with it again. He sat on the bed, looking at where she'd slept. The afternoon sunlight came through the blinds and rested on the coverlet. Dust drifted through the air like tiny sparkling worlds. When he'd been small, he'd wondered if tiny beings lived on each drifting mote, fought and loved and died just as they did in the world he knew.