The Chronicles of Amon book 2 The Sea of Marmara

  Chapter 12.

  Haden sat quietly in an over-stuffed chair, looking out into the night. His tenth floor corner suite faced Westward, providing a panoramic view of the ocean only a few blocks distant.

  Just below the darkened horizon he could make out distant lights, winking on and off erratically. Since electronic communications had been compromised during last nights assault on the Binnenhof complex (the Netherlands’ government center), all secure communications had been by courier, rather than radio or electronic means. The flashing lights were most likely coded messages being sent between ships of the protective naval blockade.

  As a diplomatic envoy for the North American Alliance, Felix(the name he had added to his “real” name of Haden upon his departure from the Brighid 3 years earlier), had been taken totally off guard by the attack.

  So far there had been no confirmation as to where the attack had originated. Many in the conference were convinced it was the Western Alliance that had initiated the assault as a reprisal for the United Nations pulling out of New York City and relocating to the Netherlands.

  Haden was convinced that he knew otherwise. Arthur Walenberg (U.S. military attache and Haden’s close friend), had been with him when the attack started. Walenberg was just as surprised as he when it all began.

  Why, Haden reasoned, would the U.S. risk killing its own diplomats? It had too much to loose on the international scene if that happened.

  Since the collapse of the Dollar two decades earlier, the United States had been desperate to avoid foreclosure. Thus the ‘Western Alliance’ had come into existence. The U.S. had to maintain some leverage, some semblance of credibility on the world market, so it declared nationwide martial law and took total control of the economy. It sold off all businesses located in countries where the U.S. owed money, in exchange for relief from the debt it owed.

  The only remaining leverage it had was it’s military. It was still the most powerful in the world, but without a vibrant economy to support it, it couldn’t last without outside support.

  That was why Haden and Walenberg had been sent to this conference; to persuade the world that a military for hire was indeed a valuable asset for any nation to possess.

  Though there was only minor damage to a few surrounding buildings close to the conference center, it had been decided to evacuate the whole complex rather than risk being caught by another attack.

  Haden and Walenberg had decided to room together in a suite of rooms above the Danzig, a once popular pub just northwest of the Hague complex.

  Haden’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a door opening. He turned to see Walenberg, pipe clenched between his teeth, clad in a bathrobe and slippers, shuffling toward the mini-bar.

  “I don’t give a damn what the Europeans say, I miss having fluoride in my bath water. This crap smells like a sewer.”

  “Yeh. And it doesn’t taste much better. Grab me a bottle of that sparkling water, will you?” Haden stood and stretched, then walked over to join Art at the bar.

  “Here’s to you, Bro.” Art screwed the top off a mini-bottle of vodka and raised it in a toast.

  “Nostrovia,” said Haden as he took the top off his bottle and raised it.

  “What does that mean, anyway? Are you part Ruskie or something?”

  “Don’t have a clue. Think I heard it once in an old Russian movie or something.”

  The two friends clicked bottles. Art downed his vodka in a single long gulp, then dropped the tiny bottle into a trash can beside the bar.

  They turned back toward their seats at the window. Art lit his pipe as they walked. Haden sat down, careful not to spill his water. Art flopped into his chair. A few sparks erupted from his pipe, falling onto his robe. He brushed them away casually as he spoke.

  “So, Bro. You’ve had some time now. What do you think’s going on?”

  Haden sat the bottle down beside his chair and rubbed his hands together slowly.

  “Well, first off; why only the one attack? Tracking shows only two planes were involved. They came in at tree-top level from inland somewhere and exited almost due West. Nothing vital to the infrastructure was hit, just a couple of buildings close to the Binnenhof. Minimal casualties. I don’t think even one person was killed. They could just as easily have hit the main complex, but they didn’t. And only one pass per aircraft.”

  “Low-order explosives, too.” Art took a puff from his pipe as he responded. “I think this wasn’t an attack. I think it was a message.”

  “Agreed! But the question is, a message from who? Who had something to gain from this?”

  Walenberg rose and went back to the bar, returning with two more mini-vodkas. Screwing the tops off the bottles, he handed one to his friend.

  “Come on. Take one, Felix. It’ll help you think.”

  Haden took it, but didn’t drink. Instead, he gestured with the tiny bottle for emphasis.

  “Consider this. They came from inland, but they left heading West. Maybe that means that they were low on fuel and had to take a direct route back to their base. That suggests our guys were involved. The satellite lost track just minutes after their departure, and we haven’t heard anything since.”

  Walenberg took a short swig and winced as he spoke.

  “Looks like we may have been in one of those rare blind spots at the time of the attack. Otherwise we should have seen them coming.”

  “Fair enough. But where did they go?” Haden slumped back in his seat. “Still no communications from the satellite. How could it have been knocked out without us detecting?”

  “A low-yield tactical nuke, maybe. Launched straight up at the satellite, with no active homing Doppler for the sat to detect and track. Just a speck on the lens, as far as the satellite is concerned. No need for a direct hit, either. Just get close. EMP takes the sat’s electrical out before it knows it’s under attack.”

  “Makes sense, I suppose.” Haden brought the bottle to his lips, then hesitated. “This is all academic anyway. Why should we be concerned with the ‘how’? Let the analysts work that out. We need to know the ‘who.’”

  “And the why.” Art finished his drink and reached out toward Felix.

  “Gimme that thing. You’re gonna spill it if you’re not careful.”

  “You sure you want to do this? This’ll make three, you know.”

  “Actually, Mr. Felix, it’ll make six. Two shots per bottle, jus’ in case ya didn’t know.” art’s words were beginning to slur.

  Haden sat forward, shaking his head, then rested his elbows on his knees.

  “What ever you say, boss. So. . . . Who has the most to gain from this? The U.S. has all its cards on the table, face-up. All they . . . we . . . have is muscle.”

  “Maybe our bosses think a little show of strength will sweeten the pot a mite.”

  Art was slow to comment.

  “I suppose that’s a possibility. But it’s never a good idea to bite the hand that feeds you. Besides, it’s hard to bluff without a hole card.”

  “Hmmm. You’re quite the poker player! Well, I suppose that puts us in the clear.”

  Arthur Walenberg, the United States Military Attache, started to get up, thought better of it, and slumped back into his chair. He fumbled for the lever on the side of the chair and pulled it back roughly. The leg support flew up, throwing both his feet into the air. One slipper came off and landed between his legs. Ignoring it, he pushed against the arm rests until he was almost horizontal.

  “Let me know if ya come up with any more ideas. For now, I think I’ll jus’ sleep on it.”

  Within less than a minute Walenberg was out cold. He’d been active throughout the day, coordinating the evacuation, and had been sipping from his hip flask all along. His physical activity kept him alert and the effects of the alcohol had been minimal. But now, in the warmth and quiet of their suite, the alcohol was taking its toll.

  Haden knew that his friend would sleep the night through without even a stir. H
e rose quietly from his chair and walked toward his bedroom, turning the lights off as he left.