Tomahawk (21 page)

“Captain, if I may—”

Westerhouse fell silent. The older civilian, Attucks, said, “Mr. Lenson, I work in the counterintelligence arena, out of the Washington field office. This is not an interrogation. Consider it a friendly warning. It has come to our attention that on at least a couple of occasions, information has been passed by someone within this program to an outside intelligence service.”

“Jesus,” said Dan. He didn't like the way they were all looking at him. Even Niles, now. “Uh … who to? I mean, what kind of data? Who's it going to? How did you find out?”

“I can't be more specific. We're simply passing the tip on to the NIS. So, Pat, he's yours.” Attucks sat back, but Dan saw the point: Start with the FBI and you got someone's attention. It worked. He sat up, wiping his suddenly moist palms on his trousers.

Bepko said, “Agent Attucks can't disclose how this leak was detected. That would compromise an intelligence source. The data wasn't classified. You might think, Then what's the problem? What concerns us is that where a pipeline for open information is established, classified usually follows.”

Silence. Finally, Dan cleared his throat. “I'll be happy to cooperate, if you'll tell me what you need.”

Attucks leaned in. “Answers to a couple of questions. First, are you sharing or supplying information to any outside activity or organization? Anyone who doesn't have a clearance and a need to know?”

“No.” But the instant the denial left his mouth, he remembered.

“Something come to mind?” Bepko said softly.

“His name was Andy DeSilva. I met him at a reception. He's a staffer for a guy named Holland, or—Mulholland, that was the name. A congressman. DeSilva was asking about Tomahawk. He wanted to know if we got a supplemental, whether that money would go into procurement. There's a factory in his district that makes parts for the engine.”

A hand, immobile till now, stirred. “I could have benefited by knowing that. Did you think of reporting that congressional contact?”

“No, sir, Admiral. I'm sorry. It was all so casual. It was at a party—”

“A lot of very uncasual things happen at Washington parties,” said Attucks. “What did you tell this Mr. De-Silva?”

“Nothing … except that I inadvertently mentioned two
soft areas in the program. The booster and the WCS software.”

Nobody spoke; at last, the agent shook his head almost imperceptibly. Bepko switched his attention back to Dan. “Thanks for that, but search your memory, Commander, for any other indications you might have of activity or conversations you might have had in the last six months that could have resulted in communicating information about the program. Especially with anyone possibly hostile to the United States or the military services of the United States.”

He sat silent. That last part of the question made him think of the Plowshares people. But he couldn't recall telling Haneghen or Ken or Deborah or even Kerry much about the program. He'd always been on his guard around them. Should he mention them anyway? It seemed so unlikely, and it would reflect so badly on him, that he decided not to, subject to further thought at least. “I can't think of any.”

“What about your associates? Have you noticed any unusual or suspicious behavior? Such as making excess copies, bringing a camera to work, checking out references for use at home, excessive overtime, curiosity about other people's work, evidence of heavy drinking, drug use, homosexuality, sudden affluence?”

He searched his memory. Sakai was an unconventional guy, but Dan didn't think he'd be passing information. Burdette, not unless he was a hell of an actor. Lucille? Westerhouse himself, sitting across from him? Finally, he said, “I'm not coming up with anything.”

“Okay, what do we do about this?” Niles grunted.

Toya flipped open a notepad. “Well, Admiral, the commander was the last prospect. As to what we do—-we've got to heighten our security consciousness. I'll want all hands made available for training on how to recognize and deal with approaches from intelligence adversaries. I also recommend tighter physical security precautions. Step up pass checks. Implement two-man control on all secret and above. Increase compartmentalization.”

Dan thought, Great, just what we need. The program was on the knife edge, and now they were going to get
pulled off on briefings and training, have to get special clearances before they saw one another's paper. He said, “That'll slow things up.”

Westerhouse: “We'll just have to work longer to make up for it.”

Niles nodded ponderously, and Dan knew it was no use arguing. Bepko said, “Thanks for coming in, Mr. Lenson. This may strike you as odd, that we call people in, rather than trying to catch them in the act. The reason is that we'd rather stop this leak before essential information escapes than try to close the barn door afterward. We're devoting resources. We'll find the leaker eventually. It would be better for whoever was concerned if we got that information voluntarily.”

As Dan got up, Bepko added, “Before you go, let me give you a number.”

Dan took out his wheelbook. He clicked his Skilcraft and waited.

“Here it is: four three three-nine one nine one. If you remember anything—or notice anything'—or want to tell us anything—you can either contact Mrs. Toya here or call that number.” He held Dan's eyes. “That's the espionage hot line. What comes in on it is confidential.”

He stopped halfway back to his office, standing in the corridor, staring at a paper clip someone had dropped on the carpet.

Could it happen? Was it possible someone he worked with was passing stuff to an enemy?

He remembered a rangy, salty chief warrant in faded khakis. A man you'd have thought would be the last to sell out his shipmates. Remembered an airless day, the stern shuddering as
Barrett
drove at flank speed away from the coast of Cyba.

Yeah, it could happen.

Face sober, he went on down the passageway.

13

 

 

 

A few days later, he looked down on plain and muskeg, the flattest, whitest landscape he'd ever seen. The C-130, a direct flight out of Andrews for Primal Thunder personnel, had overflown several winter storms along the way. It was a long flight, and standing in the narrow urinal he'd wondered what they'd do if they went down. Like that South American soccer team that had crashed in the Andes. Who would eat whom? Would they go by rank? Size? Age? Or service?

But eventually, the pilot came on the intercom. He told them they were approaching Canadian Forces Base Cold Lake, courtesy of the 130th Airlift Wing, Air National Guard, out of Yeager, West-by-God Virginia, and to fasten their belts, please. Dan twisted around to stare down as the transport banked. A frozen-over river snaked in tight loops. Then came runways in an L pattern, hangars with snow-covered roofs. Beyond the hangars and repair shops sprawled barrack blocks and tank farms and the familiar grid of military housing. It was all covered with snow, hard-looking and somehow whiter than white under the overcast.

Then the earth rose up to seize them again, snow-scoured concrete grooved with transverse lines, as if it had been poured in long slabs, and beneath him the wheels squealed and the engines went into reverse.

The moment he stepped outside, he couldn't breathe. Even in the lee of the terminal, the air was a searing,
throat-numbing fluid. He coughed, then clamped a glove over his mouth. Snow whipped off the road into his face.

Base Accommodations had him in a double with a major he didn't know. He threw his gear on the bed, then leafed through a booklet titled
BFC Cold Lake Information Générale.
The place wasn't quite as isolated as he'd thought. There were towns, Grand Centre three klicks east, and Cold Lake to the north, on the lakeshore. The pictures of people sunning themselves on the beach made him shiver. He pulled out his shipboard steel-toes and melton reefer and gloves, then hung the rest of his uniforms and went looking for dinner.

At the Officers' Mess, he joined a table of Air Force and Canadian Forces uniforms. They were talking about the possibility the weather might delay the testing. “Not here, but down south,” one of the U.S. guys said. “The Buff's flying out of Arkansas—no problem there—but the support and chase guys are out of Tinker. They don't get off, we can't have a launch.”

“Hell, that's exactly when we
want
to launch,” said a light colonel wearing Strategic Air Command insignia. “This is what we'll have to fly in against the Bear.”

“Where are you guys dropping your birds?” Dan asked them, wondering how they were going to avoid fouling one another, with two different series of tests going on.

The SAC guy examined him. “Navy?”

“Here for the GLCM test.”

“Oh. Anyway … there's a big range north of the airfield. Four thousand square miles. Our impact point's out on the west edge.”

He spotted Manhurin, then carried his coffee over. “Hey. Steve. Mind if I join you?”

“Hey, Dan. This is K. T. Thompson, our Canadian liaison; Eugene Decker, my security force commander; Doug Geddes, the missile combat crew commander who'll be firing first. Guys, this is Dan Lenson, runs the Tomahawk shop up in D.C.”

“What you doing up here, uh, Commander?”

He told them. “Since we have so much commonality, my CO thought we should have an observer here. Plus, I
can learn to talk joint Tomahawk. How'd your road march go?”

“Reasonably okay. The turbine generator got knocked off-line a couple times. That tractor'll pull eighty thousand pounds at fifty-five miles an hour, but you hit a pothole cross-country, you'd kill everybody Gene, you about done? Anybody want to go out to Five Hangar with me, catch a beer? I got a Jeep. We're gonna go change first.”

“Sure,” he said. “Count me in.”

They were slowing for the car ahead, stopped at the gate, when he saw the shadows in the blowing snow. “Oh, what now?” said Decker. “Not these idiots again.”

Dan squinted out into the sourceless light. Past the gate was open field and then woods, winter-stripped alders and poplars standing gray and dead-looking in the snow. Four figures stood ahead of them on the road. They held close-gripped placards and what looked like a badminton net, though it was flapping so hard in the wind, he couldn't identify it precisely. He caught placard text as one turned from the car ahead: THANKS CANADA FOR MAKING WAR

INEVITABLE.

“Holy shit, these assholes still here? It's gotta be thirty below.”

“Run over ‘em, they're stupid enough to stand in front of a car.”

Dan looked out at four very cold-looking people in heavy coats and boots. At the woods' edge an orange mountain tent vibrated in the wind. White smoke whipped off the tailpipe of an idling truck with RCMP insignia. He leaned forward. “Hey, pull over. Get me one of those.”

Decker, who was driving, started to say something, then cranked down the window. A cold-reddened face appeared. It spoke four or five words, but they were blown away by the wind. A mitten pushed the flyer through. Decker passed it back, holding it by the corner, as if it were dirty.

The cover showed a crane piling more rockets and bombs onto an impossible stack of armaments. Dan saw
that the peace movement had mastered bulletized presentations.

• The Cruise missile is the latest thing in nuclear weapons. It's compact, accurate, sneaky, and deadly. Thanks to Canada, it makes nuclear war more possible—even probable.
  
• The Cruise missile is small enough to fit in your garage. Yet it is deadly enough to kill fifteen times as many people as the atomic bomb dropped on Hiroshima Japan.
  
• The Cruise missile is designed for sneak attacks. It flies so low, it is undetectable by radar. It is meant for attack and not defense.
  

Millions die though no shot is fired.
Spending on arms diverts money and resources away from relieving disease and starvation. Global military expenditures exceed $600 billion annually. Just two weeks' worth of that spending (about $23 billion) could provide food, fresh water, housing, health care, and education to the neediest of the human family.

People can't win in an arms race.
The arms race fuels inflation and unemployment. This results in cuts to social service programs as money is diverted to feed arms production. We are all asked to “tighten our belts” while arms spending goes unchecked.

It will be a great day when our schools get all the money they need and the air force has to hold a bake sale to buy a bomber.
What is more, a million dollars spent in almost any other sector of the economy creates more jobs than a million dollars spent in the military sector. The arms race does nothing but encourage the expansion of militarism and antihuman technology.

Be heard! Be a peacemaker!

“What's that?” said Manhurin.