Уильям Дитц - Seek and Destroy

Like all Virginia-class subs, the John Warner was equipped with photonics masts rather than the hull-penetrating periscopes of yesteryear. As Sloan looked at the screen in front of him, he saw that the Caribbean sun was an orange smear in the dusty sky. At the water level, and directly ahead, a tropical island was visible. And not just any island… but an eighty-acre Balinese-style retreat that belonged to a British billionaire.

How the island had been secured for the meeting wasn’t clear because Sloan hadn’t been involved in the negotiations. But the why was obvious. The billionaire, not to mention the UK generally, would benefit in a multitude of ways if peace broke out. “There are no enemy aircraft in the area,” a disembodied voice said.

“We have an AWACS in the air,” Rawlings explained. “And they’ll warn us if rebel aircraft come this way. So far so good.”

After completing a careful 360-degree scan of its surroundings, the sub started to creep forward. “We have company,” a sonar operator announced. “The signature is consistent with that of an Ohio-class sub.”

“We have radio contact,” another voice put in. “They have the recognition code.”

“Okay,” Captain Rawlings said. “Take her up.”

It took the better part of an hour for both subs to send teams ashore, confirm that it was deserted, and radio in. Once the all clear was received, Sloan was instructed to climb up through the submarine’s conning-tower-like “sail” to the bridge, and make his way from there to the deck, where a life jacket awaited him. Then it was time to enter a RIB boat for the trip ashore. Six heavily armed SEALs grinned at him as he sat down. “Welcome aboard, sir,” one of them said. “We’ll have you there in no time.”

The twin engines roared, and the bow slapped the waves, as the low-lying island grew steadily larger. Off to the left, another inflatable was making the same journey, only it was equipped with a whip-style antenna. A Confederate flag fluttered in the breeze, and spray flew as the boat powered ahead.

What was Lemaire thinking? Sloan wondered. Could a deal be done? Sloan wanted to believe that it could. But Secretary of Defense Frank Garrison was doubtful, as was Secretary of State George Henderson. They were of the opinion that the Confederate president was simply going through the motions to appease the small clique of “accomodationists” who were members of his board.

The Confederate inflatable arrived first, and Lemaire’s security team was already gathered on the pier as the Union boat pulled in next to the floating dock. After getting rid of his life jacket, Sloan followed a ramp up to the point where Morton Lemaire stood waiting for him. They’d met before the war, down in Houston, where Lemaire and his cronies offered Sloan a job as puppet president. And when Sloan refused, Lemaire called him “…one stupid son of a bitch.”

But Sloan could detect no signs of animosity as Lemaire came forward to shake hands. The Confederate president had gray hair and a keen mind. So friends and enemies alike referred to him as “the silver fox.” His long, oval-shaped face would have been perfect had it not been for a mouth that was a little too small. “We meet again,” Lemaire said. “No hard feelings, I hope.”

“None,” Sloan said while managing to keep a straight face. “I enjoyed my stay in the swamp.”

Lemaire chuckled. “Shall we take a stroll?” the Southerner inquired. “Or find a place to sit down?”

“Let’s walk,” Sloan replied. “I’d like to stretch my legs.” The politicians followed a meticulously kept path up through lush greenery toward the buildings beyond. “So,” Lemaire began, “we’re here because we have a common interest in making peace.”

“True,” Sloan agreed. “But not at any price.”

“Of course,” Lemaire responded. “That’s understood.”

So far so good, Sloan thought to himself. “Do you have something specific in mind?” Sloan inquired. “Or do you see this meeting as an opportunity to explore the possibilities?”

“I have a plan I’d like to put forth,” Lemaire replied. “Or the general outlines of one. If you and I can agree on general principles, our staff people can collaborate on the details.”

Sloan was surprised by the reasonable tone. Especially in light of their last meeting. “That sounds good,” Sloan said. “What do you have in mind?”

“The first step would be to declare a cease-fire,” Lemaire answered.

“Okay,” Sloan replied. “That makes sense. The sooner the killing stops, the better.”

“Exactly,” Lemaire said. “The second step would be to announce peace talks. Our diplomats would work together to determine how the talks would be structured and when they would start.”

They stopped in the shade provided by the palm trees. Leaves rustled as a bird hopped across the path. “The devil would be in the details,” Sloan observed.

“I’m glad we agree,” Lemaire said. “I’ve been here before, you know… As a guest. It’s an amazing place.” They were standing twenty feet from the pool and the three-story Balinese-style house beyond.

So that’s why the island was chosen, Sloan thought to himself. Lemaire has a relationship with the owner. “I assume you could see the sun back then,” Sloan put in.

“Yes,” Lemaire replied. “And feel it. I miss the warmth… But enough of that. Where was I? Ah, yes. Peace talks. The moment talks begin, representatives from both sides will want to define how much territory will be held by each entity. I suggest that we adopt the New Mason-Dixon Line as the official border between North and South.”

Sloan felt a sudden surge of anger and battled to control it. “No way,” he responded. “As things stand now, Union forces control everything north of Spring Hill, Tennessee. If we pull back to the New Mason-Dixon Line, we will cede a large chunk of territory to you… And, should talks fail, we would have to spend thousands of lives to take it back.”

“I get that, Sam,” Lemaire replied. “But we need to set the table. There’s a whole lot of folks down my way who would oppose any sort of deal. But there are moderates, too… And if we can show them a genuine act of conciliation by the Union, that’ll go a long way toward securing the support I need. And if you genuinely believe in peace, then I think you’ll be better off betting on success instead of failure.”

Lemaire was one helluva salesman. So good that Sloan was tempted. But a lot of good men and women had died to take the ground south of the line. And to give it back would be a betrayal of them and their families. Sloan looked into Lemaire’s eyes. “I was with you right up to the territorial giveback. But, as you Southerners like to say, ‘that dog won’t hunt.’”

Lemaire frowned. “I’m sorry to hear that, Sam. Real sorry. But if we agree to peace talks now, with Union troops in Tennessee, it will look like we’re losing.”

“You are losing,” Sloan said emphatically. “Not big-time, not so far, but bit by bit. And that’s why the accomodationists on your board want to cut a deal. They can see where this is going. So why not draw the line where it is? And get what you can? It’s bound to be better than the other possibility… which is an unconditional surrender.”

Lemaire’s features seemed to harden. His voice was tight. “I said you were a stupid son of a bitch when we met in Houston, and nothing has changed. Memorize this moment, Sam… And play it back to yourself when Confederate forces roll into Fort Knox.”

Sloan was about to reply when Lemaire turned his back and walked away. Peace would have to wait.