Sheehan watched her closely for a moment longer, then turned to peer out through the tinted blast windows of the cat's bridge. The sea surface was nearly mirror still.
Nguyen worried that he might order her to stand down for a few hours. After all, they wouldn't be deploying for another two weeks, and they'd be in port as of this evening. But she'd never be able to sleep until she was sure the problem had been solved.
"How's your thesis going, Lieutenant?" he asked as she shut down the windows on the screen in front of her.
"I haven't really had time to work on it since we left Darwin, sir," she confessed. "But it's not due for three months. I should be right to finish it."
"Still comparing Haig and Westmoreland?"
"With reference to Phillip the Second," she added, "you know, sent the Armada, started the Eighty Years War, wrecked the Castilian Empire."
"No experience of the failure of his policy could shake his belief in its essential excellence," quoted Sheehan.
"You've read Tuchman?" she said.
"Many years ago, for my own dissertation," he nodded. "What was it she called Phillip?"
"The surpassing woodenhead of all sovereigns," said Nguyen.
Sheehan smiled in remembrance. "That's right, she did… Anyway, reload the software, then get some sleep." She started to protest, but the look on his face stopped her. "I don't want to see you back here for at least six hours."
JRV NAGOYA, 1156 HOURS, 15 JANUARY 2021
Morley and Dunne were hunkered down in front of the snack machine, trying for a casual look, but everything about them screamed conspiracy. They were fixated on a jumbo Snickers bar that had been half dislodged and was threatening to fall into the dispensing bin for free.
"You can rock the machine five degrees off the perpendicular," said Morley, who was overweight, out of shape, and physically incapable of doing any such thing. This wasn't the first jumbo candy bar he had encountered.
"Or we could just buy another Snickers," protested Dunne. "Then we'd get two for the price of one."
"Jeez, Sharon, you're such a narc. You won't boost a fucking freebie, but one word from Doctor Frankenstein back there and you'd sell out your own grandmother to make him happy. He's evil, I tells ya! E-e-e-e-e-v-i-l."
"Knock it off, dickhead," she hissed. Sharon Dunne was the youngest of Manning Pope's team, a Caltech graduate with a first-class thesis on quantum foam manipulation. She was also a far-distant descendant of the poet John Donne, and a goth lesbian with a hard-on for the oeuvre of Johnny Depp. As she contemplated the chocolate bar, she drummed her fingers on the snack machine. They were covered in black nail polish and chunky pewter death head rings.
"And anyway, Jonathon," she chided, "I didn't exactly see you stepping forward to make your big speech about how he's Meddling With Powers Beyond His Control."
At that Morley lost interest in the chocolate bar. He grimaced and whispered theatrically, "Yeah, well, I didn't fancy getting my head torn off again. Dude went ballistic when I pointed out that hole in his last solution. I thought he was gonna throw me over the side of the fucking boat."
They both glanced around the small canteen as though Pope might suddenly materialize, like Hannibal Lector with a knife and fork.
"Well, what's the worst that could happen?" Dunne countered. "We could brown out the fleet again. That was fun, really, watching Kolhammer tear Pope a new asshole. I'd pay good money to see something like that again."
"Yeah, or we could rip open the Hellmouth and let out all kinds of orcs and vampires and shit," said Morley.
"Oh, give it a rest, you geek. You know, the guys on the Manhattan Project thought there was a chance the first A-bomb would blow up the whole world, with a blast that would ignite the atmosphere, then just keep getting bigger and bigger. But it didn't, did it? It was never going to."
"Yeah, well, d'you ever read that story where they photographed the inside of a nuclear explosion?"
"Yeah, yeah, and they saw the face of Satan. It was cool. But they were looking in the wrong place. I've already seen the real Satan. His name is Pope, and he's going to cut off your dick and use it as a swizzle stick if we're late getting back for the test run."
"You're right. Of course you're right. Just let me get this Snickers bar."
ADMIRAL'S QUARTERS, USS HILLARY CLINTON, 1148 HOURS, 15 JANUARY 2021
Admiral Kolhammer's cheeks ached from the effort of maintaining the anodyne grin he had fixed in place. A reasonable man, he kept repeating to himself. I am a reasonable man.
"You would have to agree though, wouldn't you, Admiral…"
Kolhammer held up his hand. "No, I would not, Ms. Duffy."
The reporter smiled as she sucked the end of her pencil. She wore dark, wine-colored lipstick, and it accentuated the disconcerting gesture. "You don't even know what I was going to say," she protested mildly.
"I'm just saving you time by pointing out that I don't have to agree with whatever it is you're about to say," Kolhammer explained as equably as he could manage. Every time this woman confronted him, he felt as though he were trapped in a torture that never ended.
He was rarely able to enjoy the luxury suite that had been set aside for his quarters on the Clinton, and it irked him that this obnoxious woman was ruining the few minutes' break he'd taken today. He should have listened to Lieutenant Thieu, his PR officer. If he'd given her a few minutes on the flag bridge, Duffy would have been floundering in his natural environment, surrounded by his people and overwhelmed by the pace of activity. In contrast, the admiral's quarters were like a serviced apartment in an expensive hotel. No doubt she felt right at home here.
He resolved to be less generous in the future.
"Well," she continued, oblivious to his chagrin, "it doesn't take a master's in international relations to see that sending a white man's force to intervene in a religious civil war is a recipe for disaster. Regional governments like Malaysia may be desperate for the U.S. to deal with the Indonesian problem, but you would have to agree that they'd be reluctant to contribute their own forces. Especially since this action will be denounced throughout the Muslim world as another Christian crusade."
Still Kolhammer managed to keep the mask of civility in place. Clearly this woman was no fool. She had obviously done her research, and her line of questioning wasn't far from the hard truth he faced in trying to manage this first-rate clusterfuck of a mission.
"I'm afraid there are a number of holes in that argument, Ms. Duffy," he answered in a pleasant, level tone. "But most importantly, you seem to have mistaken me for the secretary of state. No doubt she would be happy to answer your question, but I'm afraid my job isn't to argue, analyze, or set our government's foreign policy; I simply do my best to see that it's carried out. Any first-year political science student would understand the distinction."
He allowed himself a slightly wolfish grin at that. To the reporter's credit, she didn't even blush.
"And are you equipped to carry out that policy, Admiral? This Multinational Force is a bit of a kludge, isn't it?"
He actually laughed. Once again she had given voice to his private thoughts, using the very words he would have used-if he had felt like putting a bullet into his career. He turned the moment of bleak amusement back on her.
"Ms. Duffy, I have the better part of a carrier battle group here, a Marine Expeditionary Unit, and some of the very best assets our friends and allies could pour into the breach at short notice. The Rising Jihad talk a mighty good game, but until now they've been terrorizing office workers and unarmed, illiterate peasants. I wish them the best of luck should they try it with us."