“The Russians aren’t agreeing with that, of course,” the security adviser said briskly. “They claim their data shows intentional targeting of the cruise ship.”

  “And do they have any explanation for why we would target an American-flagged ship?” the president demanded.

  The national security adviser shook his head. “No. They hinted that they believe their ship was the real target, and malfunctions in our own targeting resulted in the incident. But for some reason, they’re not screaming that at the top of their lungs — just whispering it.”

  “Why, I wonder?” the president mused. “Any ideas?”

  Both men shook their heads. “I didn’t think so,” the president said.

  The lighting in the situation room was slightly dimmed, a condition the president found conducive to better briefs. He closed his eyes now, letting the facts tumble through his mind. None of it made any sense, none of it. Why would anyone nail an innocent cruise liner? There was no upside to that.

  Unless she’s not an innocent cruise liner. Could there be something going on at JCS and NSA that I don’t know about? Possible, I suppose. If there was, that would make sense. It’s the only thing that does. So then the question is — why are they blowing smoke up my ass? Or do they really not know?

  The president reached a decision. He opened his eyes and said, “I want everything we can get our hands on shipped to NSA for full analysis. General, order all forces to set DEFCON three. I want the Russians to know we’re serious.”

  “But the escalation…,” the security adviser began, his tone incredulous. “Mr. President, if you do this, the Russians will go to a heightened state of readiness as well. This is how it starts, each side making a point, saving face until it all gets out of hand. We can’t risk it, sir. Not until we successfully test the system.”

  The president fixed him with a cold glare. “It’s not open for discussion. Now do it.”

  USS Jefferson

  Flag Passageway

  1800 local (GMT-9)

  Drake was just rounding the corner when she saw Tombstone farther down the passageway. He was facing her, towering over Winston, who was blocking his way. Behind her, Jeff waited, his camera pointed at the deck.

  “Why are you here?” Winston pressed as she stepped forward toward the former admiral. “Everyone knows you’re the expert in the naval conflicts, Admiral. Are you here to give Admiral Grant advice? Or to get an expert opinion on the cause of this disaster?”

  “No comment,” Tombstone said, and stepped to the right. Winston matched his move, still blocking his way.

  Drake could see Tombstone’s face go cold and hard. Even his normally impassive expression was frightening.

  “I said, no comment.” Tombstone’s voice held impatience and irritation, although Pamela knew him well enough to know that one of his icy rages was coming on. Even she quailed before those.

  Time to break this up. She started down the passageway. Tombstone looked up at her, and she thought she saw a trace of relief on his face. Drake planted one hand firmly in the middle of Winston’s collar, clamped her fingers down, and jerked back and to the right. Winston let out a howl of protest and tried to kick Drake. Drake held her at arm’s length, fury lending her strength. “Thank you for your time, Admiral Magruder. I apologize for the inconvenience.”

  Tombstone regarded the two of them with something that looked like amusement. “Thank you, Miss Drake,” he replied formally.

  Just then, the door to the admiral’s mess opened and Admiral Coyote Grant and Captain Jack Phillips walked out. Both were in a towering rage. They immediately spotted Pamela, who was still holding Winston against the bulkhead. Phillips nudged Coyote, who sighed. “Let her go, Pamela,” Coyote said wearily. “I wish you’d done that a couple of hours ago.”

  “Believe me, so do I.” She released Winston, who started to attack Drake. The cameraman caught the younger reporter by her elbow and shook his head warningly.

  “Admiral, Captain — I had no part in this. I didn’t even know she left the room. I tried to head off the report but they’d already run with it. My apologies.”

  There was no reaction from either man, and Drake knew the damage was already done. No doubt they had spent the morning fielding calls from their superiors, who would want to know why in the hell someone would make such a stupid comment to a reporter. Winston’s impromptu update would have far more international repercussions than she could ever have guessed.

  “There will be a briefing for all media at ten o’clock,” Phillips said finally. “The dirty shirt mess. Which is, by the way, now where all the media will eat.”

  “I see.” To be evicted from the flag mess was no great hardship, but it was a precursor of things to come. “And the flag mess?”

  “Off limits,” Coyote said immediately. “As is this passageway. As is the bridge, Combat, and the flight deck, unless you’re accompanied by the public affairs officer.”

  “You’re gagging us,” Drake said, disbelievingly. She had known it would be bad, but not this bad.

  “Of course not,” Coyote said promptly. “We’re simply trying to make more use of your valuable time. After all, there are many areas of the ship you would not normally visit that we’ll arrange access to. The bakery, for instance. What a fascinating story, those bakers working through the night every night to produce all the ship’s baked goods. Cinnamon rolls, bread, pizza crust — it’s really quite impressive. And has there ever been a really good profile on garbage disposal at sea?” He turned to Phillips, as though directing the question at him.

  Phillips tilted his head and looked thoughtful. “No, Admiral, I don’t believe there has been. But what an excellent idea.”

  “I’ll get her off the ship,” Drake said, desperate to redeem herself and the rest of the media. “We know she was out of line — I’ve never done anything like that to you. Don’t punish all of us for her screw-up.”

  The two senior officers regarded her blandly. “Punish? What an absurd idea,” the admiral said fondly.

  Both senior officers left, met up with Tombstone farther down the passageway, and then disappeared into the side passageway that housed the ladder leading up to the flight deck. Drake started to follow, but then stopped. It was no use. It would take months, maybe even years, before this could be repaired. She turned on Winston, intending to blast her, but instead of a cowed reporter she saw Winston’s eyes gleaming again.

  “Now this is a good story,” Winston said. “We’ll call it ‘Censored!’ ”

  FOURTEEN

  Friday, July 4

  The United Nations

  0700 local (GMT-5)

  Wexler noticed the difference the moment she entered the United Nations building. After seven years of service, sometimes it seemed as though her own nervous system was irreversibly hardwired to the mortar and bricks of the structure. It was not something she could define precisely, more a tingling along the periphery of her nerves, warning her of danger. Was it some intuitive deduction from the angle at which the members’ cars were parked, indicating agitation. A sense of a few more guards on duty than normal? Something about the way people moved?

  She didn’t know. All she knew was that she could feel trouble brewing.

  Her suspicions were confirmed as soon as she entered her suite of offices. The British ambassador was sitting in a chair, having tea and chatting with her receptionist.

  After they exchanged their customary greetings, she said, “So what brings you here this early today?” Her British colleague was not known for keeping early hours.

  He drained his cup of tea and set it gently on the table before speaking. “Trouble, I’m afraid. From the usual sources.”

  “So what else is new,” she said. “The president briefed me last night. I’m afraid the Russian ambassador saw me leaving the party early and drew his own conclusions.”

  “Yes, rather.” For once, he seemed at a loss for words.

  Wexler and the British ambassador had had an unusual relationship. He had originally been posted to the UN with instructions to get close to her and interrupt her growing friendship with the Chinese. He had played the fool for several months in an attempt to win her friendship. It was only after she had confronted him that he finally dropped his irritating mannerisms. Since then, they had become close friends.

  “Out with it,” she said, not unkindly. The British tendency to beat around the bush and cloak matters in polite circumvention she understood. Indeed, on many occasions she appreciated it, but this was not one of those times.

  “There is some talk,” he began slowly, “of the role the United States plays in the United Nations.”

  “Is it the world police bit again?”

  He shook his head. “No, and it’s a bit more than rhetoric this time. The issue is the status of the United States’ payment of dues.”

  It was Wexler’s turn to be reluctant to speak. Not because she did not know what to say — but because this issue had haunted her nightmares for longer than she cared to think.

  America covered a large portion of the operating costs of the United Nations. Currently, she was eighty million dollars behind on her payments. The amount had been appropriated in Congress, but the necessary funding bill was constantly bogged down with other issues. Additionally, there were constant protests from right-wing “patriots” who suspected that the United Nations was in the forefront of a worldwide government, a pawn of the Russians, a front for a military-industrial international conspiracy, and just about any other conspiracy you cared to name. Crackpots, mostly, Wexler thought.

  But those crackpots voted. And they were very vocal, communicating their displeasure to their elected representatives. Privately, she believed that they were probably just as suspicious of their elected representatives as they were of the United Nations.

  “Who’s behind it?” she asked.

  “India, I think,” he said, a thoughtful look on his face. “Although it’s hard to be exactly sure.”

  “Why India?”

  “Why not?” He shook his head impatiently. “It’s not necessarily India’s idea, you understand. She may be acting as a front.”

  “For whom?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” He began to regard her with some degree of impatience. “What does matter is that my sources tell me a motion will be brought to remove the United States from the United Nations for nonpayment of dues.”

  “Right.” She let the disbelief show in her voice. “It’ll never pass the general assembly. We’re in New York, for god’s sake!”

  She hoped she sounded confident. Because she wasn’t. Not at all. She had brought this matter to the president several times, trying to persuade him that at the very minimum they needed a contingency plan. He had yet to give her a date on which the dues would be paid, or to provide her with some justification that would make sense to the rest of the general assembly.

  And so it comes to this.

  For a moment, she considered the possibility that the United States might well be better off withdrawing from the United Nations. Certainly it would provide some relief to her own military forces. They were stretched thin around the world, so thin. Calling the United States the world’s 911 force was not much of an exaggeration. If they gave up a large part of their peacekeeping responsibilities around the world, then there might be more funds available for research and development. Certainly the military would be a more attractive career if troops spent more time with their families.

  But what will the world look like if we cannot intervene? Who will stop the next Hitler or Bin Laden? Can we really let the rest of the world go to hell while we hide behind a missile defense shield?

  She shook her head. There were no easy answers, not at all. Aloud, she said, “When is it going to happen?”

  “I don’t know. Before long, I suspect. Getting that particular ball in play before the issue of the Montego Bay comes up would be a smart move. Things might move very quickly from this point on down.” He drained the last of his tea and carefully positioned the cup on its saucer, avoiding her eyes. “I would have a serious chat with your president. You must be prepared to move on this immediately, Sarah. Immediately.”

  “Have I any reason,” she began slowly, “to doubt that Great Britain would tell me about any such measure?” She kept her gaze locked on him, willing for him to look up, praying she would not see the answer she dreaded in his eyes.

  “It is India,” he said simply. “You know our special relationship with that continent. And after the recent election, my own party is finding that there are far more compromises necessary than we would like.”

  “Compromises that include deserting us.” She did not bother to keep the sharpness out of her voice.

  “Compromises that are necessary for the well-being of my country,” he countered. “Both the United States and India are former colonies. We have much more recent experience with India, and still have generations of Englishmen living there. Then again, there is that special relationship we have with the United States. On balance, I believe that our loyalty to you would win out over our ties to India. But it is not nearly so certain a thing as it has been in the past, Sarah. Not nearly so certain.”

  “Then we will veto it ourselves.”

  “You might not be able to,” he said, and the last card was finally played face up on the table. “Not unless your dues are paid. You don’t know the rules as well as you ought to.”

  Oh, but I know the rules all too well. And you’re exactly right. They do allow us to be removed and prevent us from exercising our veto power if our dues are not paid.

  “Thank you for the warning,” she said finally. “And your candor.” However much she might dislike what he had to say, she’d rather hear it now than on the floor. Unpleasant truths were still truths, and at least she now had time to prepare her response.

  My response. Like what? Not my problem. The president and Congress have to deal with this one.

  He unfolded himself from the chair, rising to loom over her. “I wish the news could be better. If you can find out what happened with that cruise liner, it might make things easier.”

  “If I knew that, none of this would be necessary.” She walked him to the door, letting the conversation slide into polite chitchat. After he’d gone, she retreated to her office. She leaned back in her chair, shut her eyes, and let her mind roam free. What in the world could she possibly do?

  She spent perhaps fifteen minutes examining the alternatives, and then picked up the phone. She dialed the number herself. When the president’s chief of staff came on the line, she said, “I have to talk to him. Now.”

  USS Jefferson

  0500 local (GMT-9)

  Pamela Drake was delighted to learn that Cary Winston was truly ugly when she was angry. Something in the way her face flushed and changed coloration sufficiently to make her appear brittle and artificial. The darker skin color contrasted badly with her blond hair and turned her blue eyes from open and winning to feral and hungry. It was a shocking transformation.

  Pamela noted that Jeff was staring at her with a tart expression of professional doubt. He caught Pamela’s glance and shook his head almost imperceptibly. No, Winston would not come across well on the camera. No amount of filtering or soft lens could mask the character now shining out of her face.

  It wasn’t that a reporter had to be good-looking. At least, not anymore. Drake knew that now and, looking back over the last few days, felt a surge of quiet pride at her own conduct. Winston might be fifteen years her junior, but she was a century behind Drake in the things that really mattered.

  “You can’t get away with this,” Winston stormed. “I won’t let you. The world has a right to know.”

  “Not on my ship,” Coyote said coldly.

  “Freedom of the press,” Winston began.

  “Don’t you talk to me about freedom of the press,” Coyote shouted, pushed beyond all endurance. “It’s your type the causes most of the problems of the world, Winston.”

  “You think you can do whatever you want to out here,” Winston snapped, the color rising even more in her face. “But you can’t. I won’t let you.”

  Coyote took a step forward. “Why you little—” He cut himself off and stood rigid for a moment. Then he seemed to relax and regain that hard veneer of command. “You are quite mistaken,” he said almost conversationally. “I’m not barring the press at all. Miss Drake is welcome to stay, along with anyone else she is willing to vouch for.

  “You, however, are a danger. Not only to my people and my battle group, but to your colleagues as well. God forbid that they should all be tainted by your reputation.”

  Just then, Lab Rat’s errant lieutenant stormed into the room waving a piece of paper. “Sir, look at this! I think it was our missile that—”

  “Shut up,” Lab Rat snapped, his voice as angry as Drake had ever heard it.

  The lieutenant saw Winston then, and his face turned pale. “I thought she left on the COD! Sir, I wouldn’t—” The lieutenant shut up before he could do any more harm.

  “Miss Winston was just leaving,” Coyote said, now fully in control of himself. “Now if you will all excuse me?”

  The master at arms took Winston by the elbow. “Ma’am?” She struggled briefly and he jerked her out of the office.

  Coyote waited until she was gone. “Okay, what have you got?”

  “The initial analysis of the electromagnetic spectrum during the attack on Montego Bay,” the lieutenant said, his voice shaking as he realized the magnitude of his error. “Admiral, it looks like it could have been our missile that hit her.”

  “Are you certain?” Coyote asked, his voice cold.

  Lab Rat took the reports from the lieutenant. “No, Admiral.” He shot the lieutenant a stern look. “We are not certain, not until I have a chance to review the underlying data. You never get reports at this stage of the game. There are too many factors that go into validated conclusions.”