Читать книгу The Crucible - Joaquin De Torres - Страница 11

Chapter 6

Ghost In The Night

Sea of Japan

West of Okushiri-To

Hokkaido, Japan

The bow of the Kim Il-Sung sliced through the white-capped waves of the sea. With minimal running lights illuminated and her navigational sensors radiating, she appeared as a large cargo ship on the surface-search radar screen at the Setana Tracking Station, Hokkaido’s coastal observation post sitting atop a cliff overlooking the ocean. The Japanese radar operator yawned and took a swig from his 2-liter bottle of Coke. He placed the bottle near a stack of magazines, CDs, smartphone, iPod, and iPad--the crucial necessities during the painfully long, uneventful hours of his midwatch. He half-heartedly glanced at the glowing arm sweeping around the screen. His eyes were heavy already.

Across the radio room his supervisor lounged at his radio-intercept position with his feet propped up on the desk, already sleeping quietly with his hands in his pockets and his headphones on. The erratic scratch of HF static pillowed his senses like a lullaby. The operator massaged his face with his hands. He checked the Electronics Intelligence (ELINT) signal parameter readout on his console in glowing blue lettering. He read it with indifference:

TIME: 0238. IDENT RADAR: CROSS LANCE

NOMENCLATURE/PARAMETER: COZ4376/A-00288

DESCRIPTION: SOVIET NAVIGATIONAL/SURFACE SWEEP, SHIPBORNE RADAR.

PRIMARY USER(S): ALL FORMER SOVIET BLOC MERCHANT/SHIPPING VESSELS, ALL NORTH KOREAN MERCHANT/SHIPPING VESSELS, ALL VIETNAMESE MER. . .

He turned his head away from the screen and yawned deeply, thrusting his arms into the air. Whatever the nationality of the ship that was out there, it wasn’t important. It was big, but it was a merchant ship and that meant no tedious report to write. Only military vessels were reported on, and even then that depended on if the operator cared enough to wake up his supervisor and generate the report. He lit up a cigarette, kicked back in his swivel chair and watched the smoke spiral toward the ceiling. No, he decided. There would be no official report of a military ship movement tonight, nor would there be a bearing, range, or tracking number assigned.

He picked up his phone and with finger swipes on the touch screen, scrolled through all the text messages he had to answer. He flipped open his laptop and brought up his favorite websites. There would definitely be no need to bother neither his snoring supervisor nor the watch duty officer enjoying DVDs in his back office. There would simply be a handwritten note in the log stating that a Russian merchant ship was traveling north at 2:38 A.M. that foggy night at fifteen knots. He lazily blew smoke rings towards one of the ceiling fans. With all the naval action happening down south, the watches dragged on excruciatingly. He would pencil the entry about the merchant ship later. There was no rush; he had all night.

“Good morning. I’m Robert Carillo, and this is a Channel 4 News late-breaking report.

“Japan has put its navy and air force on full alert after a North Korean combatant rammed one of their Self-Defense Force destroyers in the Sea of Japan late yesterday morning. The incident comes just a day after North Korea’s newest Russian-sold warship, a Kirov-class battlecruiser, steamed among three Japanese destroyers which were part of the Iron Clad blockade.

“Navy officials report that this new battlecruiser, the Kim Jong-il, is the sister of the Kim Il-Sung, and had just been released from dry dock where she was being refitted for action. Ironically, this was her maiden voyage. During her first few hours of deployment, the battlecruiser was reported as harassing several South Korean ships by using its water cannons to spray powerful streams of seawater atop the smaller vessels. She then made a run for the Japanese vessels, ramming the destroyer Genda. No one was hurt in the incident, but damage to the Genda is estimated at over two million dollars. She steamed back to Yokosuka naval yard under her own power. More on this developing story at six. I’m Robert Carillo.”

Bay Shore Lobster House

Silver Spring, Maryland

Becca sipped at her wine staring at Kristina sitting across from her.

“Got any plans tonight?” she asked, refilling their glasses from the bottle of imported Croatian wine.

“I don’t know. I’m not going back to work, I’ll tell you that. Not tonight,” Kristina said in a low but emphatic tone.

“Wanna get drunk and fool around?” This was their special code phrase meaning drinking, snuggling up together under one blanket and watching DVDs.

“I don’t know, Becca. I’m kind of preoccupied.” Her eyes drifted away.

“About what, babe? You’ve been distracted throughout our whole lunch.” Kristina’s eyes slowly drew back up to her.

“I just can’t believe it’s almost over. These 16 years have just flown by, and still, I don’t know if I’ve accomplished my goals.”

“Ah, hellooo!” Becca exclaimed rolling her eyes. “I hate to break it to you, but you basically saved an entire government industry from certain death.” Kristina remained distant. “All those employees at WEPS owe you their lives. Because of you naval research has leaped ahead 20 years. Not to mention, you’re going to make over two million dollars a year with one of those contracting companies. What’s more--”

“It’s not what I wanted, Becca,” Kristina interrupted, then swallowed a huge gulp of wine. “And it’s not the money. It never was.” Her eyes dropped again, this time centering on the wine flute she held in her hands. She lifted her head and looked into Becca’s large green eyes.

“I wanted to command. Just once, just one tour as captain. I wanted to sit in the captain’s chair.”

“Well, why didn’t you? I’ve seen your record. You’re qualified in every respect, even before WEPS happened.”

“I couldn’t.” Kristina’s eyes burned through the glass, her gaze seemingly boiling the wine within.

“I don’t understand, Kristina. Why couldn’t you?”

“I’m afraid.” Her eyes finally dislodged from the glass and locked onto Becca’s. “I’m terrified.” Becca furrowed her eyebrows questioningly. There was something Kristina was not telling her, or had not told her before. She couldn’t imagine what that could be. They’d bared their souls on countless occasions, Kristina confessing things that she’d never revealed to anyone in her life. What could it be that terrified her?

“Is it the time away from home? Is it the pressure of your dad’s position? Is it--”

“Death,” Kristina hammered. “I’m terrified of the death that surrounds command.” She rotated her wine glass. "With all our country is involved in: the Middle East conflicts, the terrorists, the Chinese, the North Koreans--all of it, there's going to be death." Her eyes began to shimmer and she bit her lip. “And especially in the Ring when the Chinese start crossing. A lot of people we went to the academy with are going to die out there.” Becca’s eyes softened as Kristina tried to hold back her tears.

“What happened to you, honey?” She reached for Kristina’s hand and squeezed it. “Tell me. What happened?”

Kristina’s lips quivered and her face winced in anguish as another vision washed over her. She looked to her left and saw a group of sailors near the bar—charred, disfigured hideously and smoldering. They raised their mangled limbs to her. She began to hear the echoing screams, and smelled the stench of burning flesh. Becca watched helplessly as this mighty woman began to melt away from some vision. Kristina turned her head back to Becca as the tears cascaded down her face.

“No! Go away!” She brought her hands up, cupping her face as her body quaked. Becca moved her chair next to hers and pulled her head onto her shoulders. Yes, Becca realized, there was something that Kristina had not told her.

Office of Chief of Naval Personnel

BUREAU OF PERSONNEL (BUPERS)

Millington, Tennessee

Vice Admiral Mitchell Schmidt, CO of the Navy’s manpower management division, also known as “Schmidy”, set the phone receiver down onto its cradle quietly. His face was flushed with a hue of shock and bewilderment after talking with the SECNAV, Lance Stevenson. He turned to his computer, entered his login-in and passwords, and brought up the classified master access files for commissioned officers in the Surface Warfare designation.

He entered the name and social security number he wanted in the search window and hit Enter. He shook his head, still not believing what he was about to do. When Kristina Torres’ status page bloomed onto the screen he searched for several status boxes that he would have to alter. He moved his cursor arrow onto specific lines and began deleting and entering key information with which he was ordered.

The conversation with Stevenson was of the one-way variety: Stevenson talked, he remained silent. He was not permitted to give his opinion or even assess options about this particular matter. He owed Stevenson a debt. It had been ten years since Stevenson gave him $30,000 to pay the bail bond required to free his younger brother who had been arrested for the statutory rape of a young teenager. Then Stevenson made a phone call to a powerful trial lawyer who was his good friend. Schmidt’s brother was sentenced to only a year in a rehab center for sexual deviants thanks to this lawyer, and didn’t spend a day in prison. Stevenson didn’t ask for the money back at the end of the trial, he just told him that he would come calling one day for him to return the favor. This was that day.

“Schmidy, now is the time I need you to return a favor, and I need you to keep your mouth shut and just do it.” Schmidt understood that there were some things that a person even with his rank was not privy to, and if he wanted to keep that rank and his job as the Navy’s top human resource manager, he had to pay his debt no matter how unbelievable or illegal it seemed. That was Stevenson’s way.

“What a goddamn shame!” he huffed as he typed in the final entries then saved all the files he altered. The alteration was seamless. Schmidt picked up the phone again and pressed his speed dial button for the SECNAV. The number rang directly into Stevenson’s cell phone. After three rings the voice mail recording employed.

“Lance, this is Schmidy. It’s done.” Schmidt hung up the phone and slumped back into his chair. His eyes drifted to the latest copy of the Navy Times, sitting on the edge of his large mahogany desk. On the cover was a huge photo of the Navy’s newest super destroyer. The caption superimposed on the cover read: BUILT BY THE NAVY, ARMED BY WEPS-ONE! The USS Rosa Parks--an Enemy’s Worst Nightmare.

This was for you, Kristina, Schmidt thought. You’ve earned every last deck plate of this ship. It was a gift; all of us decided that you should be the one to command her. You practically designed her yourself. He closed his eyes.

We thought that your father would have been so proud to know that his daughter would take command of this vessel. I guess now he will never have to know. . .and neither will you. Schmidt winced, trying to come to terms with what he had just done.

He reached for the phone again, and then retracted his hand. He was up for his fourth star and he knew that it would be Stevenson who would pull the strings to get it for him. Best not question the man who had so much influence over your life. He then considered calling Ramon, but he imagined the firestorm that could ignite if his call, in any way, triggered a Stevenson—Torres confrontation. The idea instantly evaporated. Enraged and disgusted, he backhanded his coffee mug off the desk, sending it crashing into the opposite wall.

“A fucking shame!”