Tipping Point Read online

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  All nations want peace; but they want a peace that suits them.

  —ADMIRAL OF THE FLEET SIR JOHN “JACKY” FISHER

  1

  Crete

  EVEN the hills looked ancient. They stretched away mile after mile, bright green under the spring sky, patched with bleached rock where the spare soil had worn away. Over centuries, no, millennia …

  Dan Lenson glanced at his wife. Her head was turned away, blond hair flickering in the warm wind from the open passenger-side window. The breeze smelled of sage, rosemary, cypress, a warm mingled scent blowing off the myrtle-covered hills. Blair had flown in the day before, and he’d left his executive officer in charge while he took two days’ leave.

  “My wife, the congresswoman,” he murmured.

  She pressed a finger to his lips. “Don’t jinx me, okay? It’s by no means a shoo-in.”

  The rented BMW was headed south, along a winding two-lane coast road lined with rustling olive groves, each a slightly different blue or green. Violet and cream flowers bloomed along the verge, and the blue Mediterranean murmured on their left. No one seemed to build near the water here. Maybe, Dan thought, they remembered ancient disasters. Earthquakes, volcanic eruptions, tsunamis … classical civilization had risen atop a tectonic fault line.

  They’d dined the evening before at a restaurant atop one of those myrtle-choked hills. Cheese pies, Cretan rice, slow-cooked wild hare with artichoke hearts, followed with phyllo-dough pastries and candied fruit. He’d told her how the English word candy had come from a town near where they were going: ancient Candia. And she’d told him what she was doing at SAIC, where a shadow cabinet convened when her party was out of national office. She’d tried the raki, and sputtered it out, to the amusement of the other diners.

  They’d stayed overnight in Mperetiana, at a hotel overlooking the sea. The bay was so narrow he could look across to the gray speck that was USS Savo Island, moored at the long pier at the naval base. A crane barge lay alongside. It had extracted the remaining missiles aft, both the live ones left from the brief but fierce engagement with an Iranian task force the month before, and the dud rounds damaged in an electrical fire before that. Now the whole magazine, wiring and controls, was being refurbished by a Tiger Team from Norfolk.

  But for a few hours, he’d almost forgotten his responsibilities. Renewed passion and ripped-off clothes, along with strange little arguments, quickly extinguished flares of temper. But just as quickly, recurring.

  They’d coupled again hungrily this morning, followed by an hour of sleeping in. Showered, and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast. Then back on the road, toward Heraklion, on the island’s northern coast. He slouched in his seat, one hand on the wheel, the other on her shoulder. Now and then his skin stung, whipped by strands of her blowing hair.

  “Knossos. One kilometer,” she said, folding the tourist map and tucking it back into a worn cordovan briefcase. “So that was the right place to turn.”

  “You nailed it. Again.”

  She made a face. “Oh, shut up. That must be it, on that hill. My God … it’s huge.”

  The asphalted lot they pulled into was nearly empty; only a few dozen cars. When they got out the air reverberated. Silent, except for the wind, and the chirrup of insects.

  “I used to read about this place.” She gazed up at the columns. “When I was a kid.”

  “We must’ve read the same books.” He stretched the kinks out, examining the pillars. Bright red and blue, ocher and yellow, they tapered toward their bases, inflated-looking pillows of stone. Behind them the famous mural of the bull-leapers was just visible. “Looks like we’d better take some water.”

  Plastic half-liters tucked into their pockets, they joined a tour, and trailed the group up into the ruins. He saw now why so many of the reconstructions were porticoes, elevated roofs; they provided shade from that relentless sun. Halted inside, they listened to a long explanation of how the English archaeologist Arthur Evans had excavated what he interpreted as the ancient palace of the shadowy bull-king Minos. And then, later, decided to “reconstruct” it in reinforced concrete, with frescoes by modernist artists. The whole talk came first in Greek, then in French, and last in English. Then they moved on to the next stop, where the whole process was repeated.

  Half an hour into the tour, he turned to see Blair lagging back. “We’re going to lose the group,” he called.

  “Let them go on ahead. I want to say something,” she murmured. “I didn’t want to bring this up last night, and spoil our … reunion. But we need to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “About the ruckus you’ve stirred up.”

  He blinked into the burning sun. The concrete trapped the heat radiating off the walls. Sweat trickled down his face. “What ruckus?”

  “Your shooting down that Israeli missile. I’ve had to field questions about it. So far, I’ve managed to put them off. But at some point, I’m going to have to take a position.”

  Dan cleared his throat. He’d thought they were going to enjoy the day. See the sights. “Can’t you just hand them off to the Navy? Say it’s a military question?”

  “This isn’t just a military issue anymore. Anything that has to do with supporting Israel is political, Dan. Highly. And it’s getting even bigger than that. Have you heard about the Lenson Doctrine?”

  He frowned. “The what?”

  “That’s what Cal Thomas—that newspaper columnist—what he called it. In a very hostile piece, by the way. The ‘Lenson Doctrine’: If we have the capability to intercept a ballistic missile strike, at least one targeted against a civilian population, we have the moral obligation to do so. No matter whom the strike’s against.”

  Dan said slowly, “I wasn’t making policy; it was what my orders said. Priority three: offensive missiles targeted against civilian populations.”

  “That was NCA draft guidance, Dan. And it certainly didn’t mean for you to intercept counterstrikes by our own allies.”

  “It didn’t mention any exceptions. And I’d already knocked down an Iraqi missile.”

  “Uh-huh. Absolutely literal, like always … Is that the Academy mind-set? Or your own patented Dan Lenson blinders?”

  “Sounds like a loaded question to me.”

  She blew out and glanced away. “It’s getting hot … want some water?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Anyway, whether you intended it or not, that’s how your action’s being interpreted in some quarters. And I have to say, knowing the way you operate, it wouldn’t be out of character.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Your fucking idealism, or naivete, or whatever it is, gets in the way of your common sense.”

  “Now you sound like Nick Niles. But don’t we oppose the use of weapons of mass destruction? Isn’t that what Iraq was all about—toppling Saddam because he had that capability? And he didn’t actually even use them. Except
on his own people.”

  “You forget the Iran-Iraq war. He used gas then, too.”

  Dan shrugged. Ahead, the group had stopped before a fresco of a young man against a background of stylized lilies. The somniferous drone of the guide’s canned lecture went on and on, like a fat fly’s buzzing. First Greek, then French … Dan couldn’t keep the irritation out of his voice. It was easy for pundits—or wives—to second-guess a decision he’d had thirty seconds to make. And he was still sure, or at least pretty sure, it had been the right call. “Look, let’s discuss this later, all right? I’m sorry you’re taking heat. Or that it’s hurting you politically. If it is. But my decisions have nothing to do with you. If I screwed up, if they’ve lost confidence, the Navy will relieve me. If not, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

  “Nothing to worry about.” She looked away, pretending, he guessed, to examine the fresco. “Does that include Lieutenant Singer?”

  “Singer … You mean Lieutenant Singhe? Amy? What about her?”

  “The way she was looking at you. Aboard your ship. You don’t find her attractive?”

  “She’s part of my wardroom, Blair. I don’t get paid to rank the attractiveness of my junior officers.” But even to his own ears, that sounded evasive. And Singhe was more than attractive; more like some Hindu goddess of erotic desire, in tight-fitting blue coveralls that outlined every curve … Damn it. “Anyway, I’m married.”

  “Nice compliment, Dan. Meaning that if you weren’t…?”

  “It is a compliment. Or didn’t last night convince you?”

  She took his arm, but still didn’t meet his gaze. “It was nice. So was this morning. But we don’t see each other very often. I knew you’d be gone a lot, but I didn’t realize exactly how long. Or how much I’d miss you. The Navy seems to be eating you alive. Even when you’re around, you’re not here. Like last night—”

  He smiled. “You seemed to like it.”

  “I don’t mean that.” She punched his arm with a sharp knuckle. “I mean at dinner. You hardly looked at me. You just stared across the water, toward your ship.”

  He sighed. The group was out of sight. He wasn’t sure where it had gone. The most likely way seemed to be down a long corridor. He took her arm, and they strolled toward a pool of cool shadow. Birds chirped overhead: swallows, nesting in the porticoes, their droppings like white paste on the bright ocher paint. “This’ll probably be my last sea tour. Then, some twilight assignment ashore. Conning a desk.”

  “That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?” She sounded hopeful. “And then what? I could put your name out in DC. In certain circles. If you wanted me to.”

  He shrugged. They came to stone steps leading downward, and took them. The shadows deepened, and a musty smell rose. “God, that’s better,” she said. “It’s like an oven up there. And all that sparrow shit—yech.”

  “I miss you too, Blair. But I seem to be at my best at sea.”

  “You mean you like it best at sea.”

  This seemed to be one of the less-frequented corridors. The stone was rough ashlar coated with scarred plaster. It didn’t look like the reconstructions. Here and there figures were inscribed, very faintly, on the surface. Maybe this wasn’t the way the group had gone. They walked a few yards, turned right in the gloom. Something skittered away—a small gray-green lizard. She flinched. “You sure this is right?”

  “No. Anyway, what’re you getting at?”

  “I don’t begrudge you what you want to do, Dan, but we’ve had this conversation before. I thought once you had a plan, for life outside the Navy. They already offered you a medical retirement. Because of your lungs, right?”

  “My lungs are fine.” He coughed into a fist, wheezing dramatically.

  She rolled her eyes. “Very funny. But I’m not the government-issue service wife you seem to need, Dan.”

  “No, you’re much higher powered.”

  “Don’t flatter me. I’ve spent a lot of time around generals’ wives. They’re usually the reason their husbands became generals. Shrewd, hardworking women, behind the scenes. We need to think about where we’re going.” She looked away. Then added, in a lower voice, “If we stay together.”

  He halted in the near darkness. “What does that mean?”

  “Just that I’m coming up on some decision points of my own. If this campaign fails—”

  “You’re not going to lose. Not with Checkie pulling for you. And all his wealthy buddies.” He looked back along the corridor, dark behind them, even darker ahead. “Crap … I don’t think this is part of the regular route.”

  As they retraced their steps she murmured, “There are more voters in Maryland than my stepdad’s friends. And the other side’s going to put a bargeload of money against us.”

  “Uh-huh … Did we go right here, or left? I don’t remember.”

  “Right, I think … There’s a banking bill coming up. We’ve got to regulate the financial market more tightly, or there’ll be hell to pay. For the whole economy.”

  “But aren’t you taking contributions from the bankers?”

  “I’m not sure what that’s supposed to mean, Dan. But I don’t like your tone.”

  He lifted his head, suddenly realizing that the dust they were walking on was unmarked, save for the curving arabesques of the lizards. “We never came this way. No tracks.”

  “We should’ve turned left back there, I guess.”

  “Maybe.”

  She laughed, a low, throaty sound. “Lost in the Labyrinth. Without even a lousy spool of thread to guide us out.”

  “At least we’re together.”

  “Ariadne and Theseus?”

  He pulled her close. “At least we’re together,” he said again, this time into the familiar scent of her hair, blinking back the sting of incipient tears. Holding her in the musty, close dark, breathing the dust of millennia. What had she meant, if? He couldn’t ask again. She evaded questions she didn’t want to answer. Was she talking about another man? He didn’t think so. But he’d been wrong before, about women. About a lot, actually.

  All things came to dust in the end. The fine silt beneath their feet had dreamed too, fought, hated, loved. Again and again, wearing different faces.

  Someone was calling, from above. The guide sounded worried. “We’re down here,” Dan shouted up through a gap in the stone. And shortly thereafter they were trudging up time-hollowed stone steps, back into the blazing sun.

  * * *

  THE ship lay at the end of a finger pier, the green and buff mountains rising beyond. It reared above them like a falling tower as Dan pulled into the space with the welded steel sign that read COMMANDING OFFICER USS SAVO ISLAND.

  When he turned off the engine he could hear the steady roar of blowers and machinery, could smell the mingled scents of turbine generator exhaust and fuel and fresh paint and overcooked food. Below him seamen on a float wielded rollers on long poles. Fresh haze gray gleamed on the sheer. As he held the door for Blair, a welding arc sputtered halfway up the overlofty, top-heavy-looking superstructure. Flat squarish panels with truncated corners, not quite octagons, were set like breast badges just below the bridge.

  The panels were SPY-1 antenna arrays. The Ticonderogas had been designed around them, mating a Spruance-class hull and propulsion to the most powerful radars ever put to sea. Within a radius of three hundred miles, an Aegis cruiser could detect and track over a hundred possible targets simultaneously, and reach out with scores of missiles to destroy enemy aircraft threatening the massive carriers that centerpieced U.S. or NATO battle groups.

  The bells announcing his arrival bonged out. “Savo Island, arriving,” the 1MC said, the topside loudspeakers strident and metallic. The absentee pennant floated down.

  The autumn before, Dan had stood by the window of the vice CNO’s temporary office, looking out toward the Pentagon. He and Niles had staggered out together on 9/11, through burning fuel and collapsing ceilings, over torn-apart bodies.

 
“So, Lenson,” Admiral Niles had rumbled, slapping his desk, “I keep my promises. Still want a ship?”

  “Yes sir,” he’d murmured. Someone had engineered his promotion, even after he’d been officially passed over. It wasn’t supposed to happen, but there’d been “irregularities.”

  “You made captain. Sure you don’t want to cash in your chips, go make some real money?”

  He didn’t answer, and Niles had slammed the desk again. “You might actually be a good fit … But you won’t have long. She’s out there on a national-level mission. If this ship doesn’t turn around, and I mean on a dime, I’ve got another O-6 with his bags packed. And tread light this time, Lenson. No more Gaddises. No more Horns.”

  He winced now, inwardly, as he saluted the flag, then turned to face his officer of the deck. Blair stood at attention, hand over her heart. A small woman with a pointed face, chunky hips under dark blue shipboard coveralls, and blond hair smoothed back under her fore-and-aft cap stepped out onto the main deck and saluted. Staurulakis had been fleeted up from operations officer at Dan’s recommendation when the previous exec had self-destructed. “Good evening, Captain. Mrs. Lenson. Hope you had a good trip.”

  “You remember Cheryl Staurulakis, Blair. Acting exec.”

  The two women shook hands. “Nice to see you again, Cheryl. But it’s Ms. Titus, not Mrs. Lenson.”

  “Sorry, ma’am.” Staurulakis said to Dan, “We’re about to begin reloading the after magazine, Captain.”

  “What’s going in first?”

  “I asked if they could load the 4As first.”

  The Standard Block 4As were new, still-experimental antimissile rounds. The autumn before, just before this deployment, Savo Island had gone from a baseline Aegis 7 to a new mission: theater ballistic missile defense. The Navy’s go-to antiaircraft missile had been grown with a higher-energy booster and a lighter proximity-kill warhead to gain the range and altitude needed to intercept a reentry body. This was its first deployment, and most of the experts said it was too early. Not only that, but when she was operating in antimissile mode, the ship was practically blind to other threats. He nodded. “And they said?”