The Weapon (11 page)

“I said, we operate large-deck carriers, too, Commander. In the same waters of the Mediterranean and the Middle East. What threatens your Nimitz-class ships threatens
Clemenceau
and
Foch,
and will shortly threaten
De Gaulle
when we commission the first non-American nuclear-powered carrier. This is as much a threat to us, as it is to you.”

He looked at the Frenchman, understanding now exactly why he was here. The British had backed off fixed-wing carriers years before, going to the lower-capability, but cheaper, Harrier-operating ski-jumps they'd fought the Falklands War with. The Russians had almost gotten there, then their economy had fallen apart. The Italians, the Indians, Argentina, Spain, and a few other nations operated older, smaller classes; but only the U.S. and France fielded modern carrier task forces, able to travel great distances, defend themselves, and project air power inland from the sea.

Any possible enemy would love a weapon tailored to neutralize that capability.

Which explained the lengthening line behind them, a line that even involved some shoving. Looking back, he saw nearly every spectator in it. And looking forward, that he was being ushered forward, up to the waiting phalanx.

“Commander Lenson,” said Dvorov dryly, before he had a chance to speak. “Have all your questions been answered?”

He cleared his throat. “A very impressive demonstration.”

“Thank you. And now, as you see, we have others who wish to—”

“Yes sir; I do see. But I'd like to make some arrangement, that we meet privately.”

“You wish to discuss a purchase?”

“I do.”

“Then we can meet, yes, but I warn you, we will discuss details of purchase only. Not of the system itself. You pay the price, you receive what you buy. And not until then. And now, these others behind you—”

The overcoat beside him had his arm, but Dan shook off his hand. He felt as if he was about to step onto a hostile deck, sword in hand. He was taking a risk no one had ordered him to accept. “I don't know what else you expect of me, sir, but I just want to make an honest deal,” he told Dvorov. “You've created something that doesn't exist anywhere else and we want it. In fact, I want exclusive rights.”

This brought swift translation by the brunette and scowls from the others, but a surprised and, Dan thought, respectful look from Dvorov, as if he'd had one opinion of him and now had to revise it. “Exclusive?”

“We can pay you more than anyone else. And it would be to both our advantage. Think about ten years from now. All right? The Russian Navy will be back. It will go to sea again, strong once more. Is it to Rus sia's advantage to have a weapon like this in the hands of the Chinese? The Turks? What would this weapon do to your Typhoon submarines? Let's keep this between us. And maybe, the French.”

The other Russians looked skeptical, but Dvorov didn't. The bushy eyebrows knitted. “You are serious? You have power to do this?”

This was the rub. He had no mandate for an exclusive buy. But face to face with what this thing could do, he had no doubt it was a brass ring worth trying to grab. Olivero would see it. Maybe Nicky Niles, too, though Dan had never been one of his favorite officers.

And Dvorov must have caught that hesitation, because he reached out. Slapped his shoulder and said gruffly, “You need time, eh? You wish you had asked me this before, eh? Well, right now we must talk to these others. But we will get together tomorrow, eh? I promise, I make no commitments until then. Marina, put Daniel Leonartovich down for tomorrow evening. To discuss a—
comprehensive
arrangement.”

The soft hand came down on his shoulder again, Dvorov's gaze eased past him, and Dan stepped aside, looking behind him for de Cary, to tell him it was taken care of, he'd made their appointment.

He was standing by the rail when he saw a half-familiar face glowering behind the engineers, salesmen, translators, and goons around Dvorov. It must have been there all the time, but he'd been too focused on the scientist to notice.

He'd met Vice-Admiral Yermakov his last time in Russia. The reception had been at Petrodvorets, Peter the Great's “Great Palace.” This time Yermakov looked sober, not reeling drunk; and now he was in civvies, a gray suit and silk tie, not Russian Navy blue and three-starred shoulder boards. But he recalled their conversation then, the vice-admiral's aggressive blustering.

Yermakov hated Americans. What was he doing with Dvorov? Was he part of Komponent now? And what did that mean?

He shook off sudden disquiet. He just had to push on, and hope he saw any cliff edges before it was too late.

De Cary, eleventh back between two excited-looking
Middle Easterners. Dan jerked his head toward the shore. Looking concerned, the Frenchman followed him up the shaky, vibrating ramp, toward the attaché, waiting above them beside the embassy sedan.

 

 

 

He spent the next morning sightseeing. He felt guilty about it, but there didn't seem to be anything else to do until the meeting that evening. Henrickson had gone to the embassy after breakfast, saying he wanted to get on their computers.

He'd always been interested in World War II history, so he went to a museum the Mir's concierge recommended. It turned out to be brand-new, just opened, a massive expanse of slightly uneven paving blocks surrounding Socialist-style statues and disquietingly abstract monuments. He wandered among the dioramas, but the place seemed grandiose and sanitized. It was also empty, aside from dispirited platoons of grade-schoolers.

When he'd seen enough he caught a taxi across town to the Armed Forces Museum. This was older and smaller, but more Slavically down to earth. Out front were parked tanks and missiles that when he'd first joined the Navy had been only blurred photos in binders with bright red plastic covers. They looked rusted and worn and small, and he remembered how each had seemed such a threat, with capabilities beyond what American industry could produce. The interior was packed with banners and displays, less glossy than the
new museum, but the real thing. A toppled eagle from the Reichsakanzlerei. Captured Nazi weapons. He stopped at a display of human hair and mounted tattoos on human skin from a Polish village called Maidjanek. The Red Army had liberated the camp there on its way to Berlin.

He remembered another village in eastern Europe, and another massacre. Srebrenica. Now it was happening again, in Somalia, central Africa, the Sudan. Was hate and murder embedded in the human heart? For a time it had seemed humanity was making progress. Instead it had just learned to process mass death more efficiently.

Armageddon had started on a hot August day in 1914, and never stopped; just lumbered on through a century, an uncontrollable behemoth of war and revolution and terror. For a few years, after the Wall fell, its engine had fallen silent. Now the starter was grinding again.

He shook himself. He wasn't here to magnify the Shkval into a threat to sell countermeasures against. It was to keep an already developed weapon out of the hands of those who'd use it to wreck what little order existed.

He strolled down the boulevard toward the Kremlin. Walked through it, not entering any of the cathedrals or museums, feeling he'd better get back and see what Henrickson had turned up. He came out on the river embankment and turned south.

He was stalking along, stewing about how he was going to convince Dvorov to give up profits from selling his wonder weapon to half the rogue world, and how he was going to persuade the U.S. government to back his brainstorm, when a hiss grew at his back.

He spun, to watch a sharp prow peel up the river as it knifed past. It was followed by four bending and straightening backs, four close-cropped, sweat-soaked heads, four pairs of eyes that flicked to him, then refocused on that inner reality athletes saw during a supreme effort.

He shaded his gaze, watching as the crew went by. The shell was long and low, its gunwales centimeters above the surface. It was bright cherry red, like a hand-rubbed finish
on a classic car. The rowers were all wiry, all in black and red Spandex and black tights. The cold didn't seem to bother them. They rowed like pistons. Dan couldn't see how they knew which way they were headed. He lifted his eyes to another razor prow, another torpedo-shape. The two shells were matching stroke for stroke, perfectly aligned as they sliced down the river. Their speed was astonishing, even given that they were moving with the current. He stood with hands in his pockets, admiring them.

“A coxless four,” de Cary said, behind him. “Interesting.”

“Capitaine! Uh, what did you say?”

“I said, it is a coxless four. A four-rower shell, with no
barreur
—no, ah—cock-swain? Yes, I think that's right.”

“ ‘Cox'n', we pronounce it. You row?”

“I have done some time in double sculls. In Brest and elsewhere. And you?”

Looking up the river Dan saw there were other rowers out as well. “Looks like a fun sport. I sail, myself.”

“You own a boat?”

“Actually I just bought one.” He hoped she was all right; the marina manager had promised to keep an eye on her. “Going back to the Mir?”

“I don't stay at the Mir.”

Dan said lamely that was right, he'd forgotten. They made arrangements to meet precisely at six at the address Dvorov had given them, shook hands, and parted.

 

Henrickson got back a little after he did. They were about to leave for lunch when there was a knock. Dan opened the door to find a well-built black guy in a close haircut, down jacket, jeans, and spanking-new bright-red running shoes. They stared at each other.

“Commander Lenson?”

“Yes. Who are you?”

“Gunnery S'r'n't Moale, sir. From the embassy.”

Dan checked the proffered green ID. Moale was a Marine. “Come on in, Gunny. What can I do for you?”

Moale nodded to the sliding doors to Dan's balcony. “It's
awful warm in here, sir. Don't you think?” For a moment Dan stared; then understood.

The wind was cold. Moale slid the door closed behind them and turned to face the railing, looking down on the street. Henrickson fluttered behind the glass like a captive butterfly. Dan turned up the lapels of his jacket. He didn't feel like leaning against a Soviet-era railing, four stories up, but stood close to it as he dared. “What's going on, Sergeant? I'm assuming something's wrong?”

“Hand-delivered message, sir.”

Dan tore the envelope open, wondering what would happen if the wind got it. He held it firmly as he read. Moale moved a pace away, as if to be sure not to see the text.

There was no header and no salutation. All it said was SEE ME AT ONCE. DO NOT CONTACT DVOROV OR ANYONE ELSE FROM KOMPONENT.

“This is from who?”

“Captain S. At the Embassy? Wants to see you. Right away.”

“Yeah, that's what it says. Just let me grab my coat.”

 

With Moale at his side he got a swift pass through embassy security. Siebeking was on the covered phone when Dan came into his office. The first thing he said when he hung up was, “Where's that other guy who was with you?”

“Henrickson? Or de Cary?”

“Crap. Both, I guess—I forgot about the French guy. Sergeant!”

“I didn't, sir. Corporal Difilippantonio's over at his hotel now.”

Siebeking nodded for the sergeant to leave. Dan waited till the door closed. “What's up, sir?”

“We have a complication. It seems that unknown to you, and unknown to me, too, up till about ten minutes ago, there's a parallel effort underway to yours. With the same target in mind.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Yeah. Uh-oh. Because you're overt, but they're not.”

“That
is
bad. Who is it?”

“The covert effort's being run by Naval Intelligence and an allied secret service. You don't need to know more, okay? Obviously they compartmented you out, and me, too. Not a good decision, but that's the cookie. They've apparently got something going with somebody on the inside. So they're trying to buy the guidance system documentation from him.”

Dan considered. Could this seller be the source of the original intelligence that a guided Shkval existed? Mullaly had said that source was in the Admiralty. He decided to start with a simpler question. “Okay, but—I don't understand. The missile's on the block. For sale. They just demonstrated it in the fucking Moscow River, with free vodka and two TV crews. Why would we, or these allies, whoever they are, screw around with covert action when we can just buy what we want?”

“Well, let me ask you a question back: Why bother with the metal when we can just get the documentation?”

Dan frowned. Siebeking went on, “Maybe it's not immediately evident, but take my word for it, we'd be better off with just the specs and circuit diagrams, and let them keep the hardware. Especially if they don't know we have them. It's one of those spycraft things. Make sense?”

Dan said slowly, “It's not just because getting the specs would be an intel coup? And buying the missile free and clear, wouldn't?”

“Boy,
there's
a cynical comment.” The attaché rolled his eyes. “Let's just forget you said that, okay, Commander?”

“I didn't mean that, sir—”

“Like I said, I forgot you said it. But when you take delivery on a weapons system, especially something cutting edge, you don't typically get complete specs. We sure don't furnish them with our foreign military sales. You get operating documentation, enough to do fault analysis and board-swap repairs. But not what you need to engineer countermeasures. You buy iron, you're committing yourself to a lot of reverse engineering, a lot of guesswork and testing—by the time you're finished you might as well have done all the R&D
in-house. What they're trying to get is exactly what we need. Are we straight now?”