Alternative Reality: some elements have been changed from canonical tradition. For example, Lucas Wolenczak graduated from Stanford with an M.S. in Artificial Intelligence, as well as a subject concentration in physics/mathematics. Some dates may appear suspiciously outside canon. In addition, because of the Non-Allied Powers (situated in a place called "Dominia," another element outside the seaQuest canon), this work can be seen as an Alternative Universe piece.
Sequel: "Entangled Alliances" is a sequel to--yeah, you guessed correctly--"Entanglements with the Enemy." Let me know what you think of the new title (it used to be "More Entanglements with the Enemy"! I'd love to hear them!
Rating:PG-13, rated as such because of some adult themes and language.
Summary: Lucas plays boom-boom once again with his vortex. The only real question is . . .who is his enemy? :-)
Copyright 2000 by SheriAnn
Entangled Alliances
Part Nine
Skirmishes of Power
He had reports to file: seemingly miles of them. He had answers to find, people to question. He had more reports to file. He had contacts to make, questions to defer, decisions to make. He had even more reports to file. All in one lousy week, he had the entire world of politics and command falling smack on top of his head.
How had Bridger stood it? How had the man calmly faced one day after the other with all of these people asking for his time? Asking for his patience? Asking for more time? Ford couldn't even begin to imagine how he was supposed to answer all the question . . . especially when he didn't even have the answers himself. Bridger had always made it look so absurdly easy. Ford thought the man must have been born with submarine command in his blood.
Ford's outwardly calm face shook somewhat, then returned to absolute control. He inhaled sharply: Bridger. Lucas. Kristin Westphalen.
All missing.
And how?
As he all but barreled around the corner of a hall, Ford glowered at the floor. Several of the crew stopped to look at him, but Ford didn't even bother exchanging as much as a nod with them. He simply continued stalking down the halls of the seaQuest, his mouth clamped together so tightly that the lips turned slightly white at the edges. A muscle ticked in his chin.
How were they missing? Oh, that was the finest part of the whole mess. Why, it certainly topped off Ford's week! The trio had vanished on their way towards Washington, D.C., for Lucas's awards ceremony.
An irrational thought clawed at his mind, and he snorted: by God, he should have known that they'd get into trouble. He should have kept at least one of them on board. If they went anywhere together, Ford would swear on everything that he believed sacred that something would inevitably happen.
Ford blinked his eyes as, rounding yet another corner, he almost plowed into a crewman's body. "Sorry," he muttered before heading away, frustration evident in his walk, in his tensely held back. The crewman stared after him, then, shaking his head, continued walking away--glad Ford hadn't accidentally turned him into a walking pancake in the middle of the hall.
Slowing only slightly, Ford continued his walk. He knew it wasn't like he could have simply turned to Bridger and said, "Sorry, Sir, but you're not going to Washington." Bridger's often short fuses would have blown, particularly after Ford's only reason was something like, "By yourselves, you're perfectly safe. But when combined, you, Westphalen, and Lucas are a menace."
Oh, he could just see Bridger's reaction at that . . . even if it was the God-honest truth.
He sighed, glancing up. Ah. Just a bit more, and he'd be back on the bridge. At least there, he wouldn't sit and wonder if he should have done something--begged, pleaded, thrown the Captain in the Brig, anything--to keep Bridger on the seaQuest. He was beginning to think this was so.
Only ten minutes ago, he'd gotten off the line with UEO Security. Still no traces of the helicopter . . . the helicopter that had been hijacked, of course. Ford shook his head. Again, here it was in glaring clarity: not only had Bridger, Westphalen, and Lucas managed to disappear en route to Washington, D.C., but they also had managed to--what else?--get themselves hijacked.
Under what cursed star had that trio been born?
Breaking this news to the Senior Staff only a day ago had been a nightmare--and a fiasco. How on earth did you break the news that the ship's Captain, Chief Medical Officer, and kid genius had been, well, kidnapped . . . again? Oh, the reactions had been explosive. Yes, the staff had been expecting something; obviously, when General Thomas called and asked to talk to Commander Ford privately, something was up. However, they hadn't been prepared for this. Who could have been?
Ford remembered that day all too well. In he'd walked, looking around before firmly forcing his gaze to stare approximately one inch above his nearest officer's head. That way, he hadn't had to see the pain he knew was there . . . the disbelief, the agony.
Why hadn't he stopped them from going?
Katie had looked at him, eyes swimming, as Ford, using the very words that Thomas had used on him, stated in a measured voice, "At approximately fourteen hundred hours Washington time, Captain Bridger's helicopter was hijacked by NAP forces." He'd kept his words sharp, detached--trying to seem in control of his own emotions before his crew. His crew . . . the very thought had rocked him, nearly crushing his outer appearance of calm reserve. This wasn't supposed to be his crew. It was supposed to be Bridger's, damn it!
Anger had burned through his veins. Were they going to repeat this dreaded scene--hijacking, torture, violence--every time Bridger decided to leave ship? Were they going to repeat this scene now?
The hijacking had already been repeated. Why not the violence and the torture?
As he'd stared at his crew, Ford had breathed in and out, slowly, carefully--trying to calm his nerves as they threatened to burst. He listened as Katie asked, her voice tight, "All of them? Even Lucas?"
Ford had nodded. Lucas . . . that was even worse. He'd remembered Thomas's words: "Mr. Wolenczak is currently being held by NAP agents." Or, more to the point, by the ONS, the Operations for National Security division, the ruthless NAP intelligence agency that made Section Seven look positively angelic. He might as well have punched Katie Hitchcock in the stomach; her face had paled, as had Krieg's, Ortiz's, O'Neill's . . . everyone's. He hadn't wanted to look at any of those faces, but he'd had to. They deserved that much. They deserved the truth: that he was as sickened as they were.
"Yes, Lucas is being held, too." Ford hadn't told them by whom--not yet. He'd wait and see if their information was incorrect; he prayed it was. "There have been ransom demands, too."
This had, not too surprisingly, shocked the crew. He'd simply nodded. Carefully, he'd next said, keeping his face as implacable as possible, "There is reason to believe that Alicia Noyce may be involved in this."
Krieg's face had gone white. He'd actually stood, pacing the length of the wardroom; Ford hadn't called him on it. He'd known exactly how the man was feeling, for the anger seethed within his own blood, too. "Alicia Noyce? Her, again? This is . . . this is just . . ."
Krieg hadn't been able to finish his thought, the word impossible to choose: absurd? Ridiculous? Insane? Any of those words suited the situation perfectly. Krieg had continued his rapid pacing. Ford had sworn the man would permanently score the floor with his angry walk--melt it, for all he'd known.
"How did Noyce come into this?"
Ford had flinched at Ortiz's question. Noyce. Noyce times two, both suspected of treason. How was he to tell this to his crew?
Well, Ford had simply decided to give the information on a need to know basis . . . deciding at that instant, naturally, that no one but him needed to know about Admiral Noyce's suspected defection until further evidence was gathered. That was about the last piece of information they needed thrown at them. If it was true and there was enough proof, Ford would happily lead the crusade to nail the Admiral's hide to the nearest stake. However, until then, he wasn't saying a thing.
So, instead, he'd confined his answer to Alicia Noyce, Admiral Noyce's daughter: "She would have been aware of the awards ceremony. She still has NAP contacts. Furthermore . . ." He'd paused, wishing he didn't need to say this. It would be the proverbial nail in Alicia Noyce's coffin. However, it was convincing: "Furthermore, people, she has conveniently managed to disappear." Silently, he'd added, As has Admiral Noyce.
That had been the capstone to Alicia Noyce's grave, as far as the crew was concerned. They wanted her dead. He knew his crew enough to know they'd never actually do many of the things he could fairly well bet were running through their heads at that precise moment, but . . . they'd definitely focused on an enemy when her name had been mentioned.
Alicia Noyce. Admiral Noyce . . . Ford had stood, listening and directing the discussion, even as he thought of the type of man who could willingly betray a friendship of more than twenty years . . . straight into the enemy's hands . . .
What had NAP offered Admiral Noyce for his services? Money? Power? Something else entirely, maybe . . .
Ford abruptly returned to the present when he nearly walked right past where he needed to go. He shook his head, quickly glancing around himself. At least the hall was now empty, deserted; no one had seen him as he rushed down the halls, his mind focused inward.
The silence was daunting, though, and Ford ran a nervous hand over the back of his neck. For a moment, he could almost hear Bridger murmur, voice soft in his ear, "It is not your fault. Things happen. Get to work on the things you can change." Bridger's voice seemed to drift through the halls, hauntingly echoing off the walls.
Ford shuddered. He needed sleep. He felt like he'd been without sleep for weeks, though it had been little more than a day since seaQuest's world had ripped apart with the disappearance of its Captain.
Sighing, he renewed his trek down the halls, finally approaching the bridge's entrance. Bridger's words seemed to drift with him: "work on the things you can change . . ."
Ford accepted this advice--wherever it came from--as, quickly, he stepped inside the bridge and glanced at his crew.
However, what had only been a glance rapidly became an alarmed stare.
*****
Nervous energy streamed through the bridge. Ford could see various members of the crew standing still, their muscles bunched in tension as their eyes gazed at the viewscreen. No one spoke: there was absolute silence . . . excepting the woman speaking on the viewscreen.
She was polished, professional--poised. Her blond hair was drawn into a tightly controlled, elaborate chignon. Her eyes, ice blue pools reflecting coldly from the screen, stared out at Ford with an impersonal, almost callous expression.
A spark suddenly shivered in her eyes, then blazed. Her lips curled up slightly as she said, ". . . the skirmishes are the first signs of open hostilities between the UEO and NAP in five years. UEO sources deny that the skirmishes are the prelude to war, but one senior officer did comment that 'in his experience, escalation of this magnitude can only lead to an all-out confrontation of both forces.'
"Hostilities began more than seven months ago when Captain Nathan Bridger, Captain of the UEO flagship submarine seaQuest, and a small crew were taken hostage aboard the multi-million dollar scientific vessel Ulysses. The kidnapping was commanded by NAP agents, who, several days later, started several explosions aboard the high-tech vessel . . ."
A strangled sound reached Ford's ears. Quickly, he glanced to his right, looking towards the sound. It was coming from Lieutenant Ben Krieg; the man looked like someone had slapped him. He stared at the screen, eyes wide, face white--lines of disbelief engraved into his skin. Ford watched as Katie Hitchcock quietly glided to Ben's side, her right hand inconspicuously seeking out Ben's. The two exchanged a brief, intense look, then looked back towards the screen.
Silently, Ford shook his head, forcing himself to look at the screen, too. Though the anchor had misinterpreted several key facts--such as who had blown up the Ulysses--the very fact that she knew this at all was disturbing. The kidnapping had been classified.
She continued, now even leaning in towards the camera. Ford was sickened to see that her eyes almost seemed to sparkle with a perverse sort of excitement. "Hostilities seem to have intensified recently, however, because of a new hostage situation involving the same Captain Bridger of seaQuest . . ."
What? Shocked, Ford blinked his eyes. How on earth could she . . . He shook his head sharply before glancing at his crew. They were watching him with open bewilderment, eyes wide as they considered the implications of what they heard. Classified information . . . all being indiscriminately blared across the world news broadcast. Ford grimaced. The only explanation possible was shocking: there was a leak in UEO administration. In fact, there was a serious leak.
". . . who has been taken, yet again, by NAP forces."
Breath catching in his throat, Ford nearly choked. He coughed several times, eyes watering as his mind reeled. How the hell did Patricia Lacom know this? She was the chief anchor for EarthCast News, but . . . this was classified information. Indeed, it was so classified that few of his own crew knew the truth. This type of information--the capture of hostages by an enemy power--could easily lead to war. At the very least, it could lead to intensified distrust between the two already-wary opponents. It could also create pressure from the public, interfering with the UEO's ability to handle the situation as they felt best.
Just what was this woman trying to do? Start a war?
His brows drawn heavily together, feeling the bridge crew's tension beating against his own tightly strung nerves, Ford continued to listen to Lacom as her "report" expanded. His eyes grew increasingly large. "In a recent development on the Bridger kidnapping situation, a time-dated recording was delivered to Secretary General Andrea Dre at exactly 4 p.m. this afternoon. The recording, a small disc, was found in Secretary Dre's mail . . ."
Shaking his head, as if to clear it of what he'd just heard, Ford stared at the screen--literally stared, his mind stunned, almost paralyzed.
Four in the afternoon. The time snapped into Ford's attention. A shiver ran down his spine. How the hell had EarthCast News managed to know about this before he had? Damn it, he was the acting captain of the seaQuest! He was supposed to hear this type of information well before EarthCast News! How . . .
And then, suddenly, his thoughts screamed to a halt. His heart thudded painfully within his chest.
God, no.
Sharply, the picture in front of him sliced right through his mind--straight to his heart. Horror shot into him.
In Lacom's place was an image, one blatantly stamped with the red words "EarthCast News" in the bottom right corner. He watched, sickened, as a picture of Bridger, Westphalen, and . . . and Lucas emerged before him. The picture was darkened, grainy, as if clogged with grit. All were exhausted looking, frightened. A dark bruise circled Lucas's neck; another one blackened his pale forehead. Westphalen, though smudged with dirt, looked reasonably unharmed. However, she was tense, her mouth tightly grim. Bridger seemed all right, but his eyes glowered across the room at . . . something. Ford couldn't tell what.
Something clanked against the metal floor, jarring against the dead, shocked silence in the room. Ford's gaze, riveted on the screen, broke, moving jaggedly towards the sound. Tim. His headphones had dropped to the floor. They lay there, forgotten, as Tim stared in horror at the screen, light glaring off his glasses in an unsettling arrangement of harsh light and dark shadows. Ford could see trembles slowly shaking up the man's slim frame, almost seeming to shake him apart.
Ford could feel the same trembles shuddering through his own body.
Seconds later, as the recording continued, Ford heard smacking--hitting. Someone cried--almost shrieked--in pain, though he couldn't see the person or recognize the voice. It was relatively high pitched. Female? Perhaps. He tried to distance himself from what he was hearing, from what he was seeing, but he simply couldn't. He especially couldn't as he saw Lucas flinch at the sound of broken bones. Whoever was being hit . . . tortured . . . Lucas, Bridger, and Westphalen formed the unwilling audience of that torture. Briefly, Ford wondered who was being tortured, but his mind swiftly swung to a nastier question: when would one of his crewmates be tortured?
"God, the bastards . . . the bastards . . . the bastards . . ." Krieg's voice hissed across the bridge. Ford could hear Katie's soft voice--a gentle, calming murmur--muttering something heard by only Krieg himself.
Ortiz inhaled sharply, mumbling--what, Ford couldn't say.
Explosive silence hung over the rest of the bridge: a silence ticking slowly towards ignition, towards explosion.
Swallowing hard, Ford stared at the screen. His mind raced, slipping one way, then another--trying helplessly to avoid the questions that ripped through him. Avoiding those questions, though, was useless.
When would it be Lucas screaming in agony as someone's fist bit into his flesh?
When would it be Doctor Westphalen shivering as . . .
Before the thoughts could swing further out of his control, Ford looked back at the screen. He breathed heavily, watching as Lacom returned to the screen, that same frightening gleam in her eyes--almost a territorial gleam. Her elegant, undisturbed voice echoed across the silent bridge: "With the recording came a demand for ransom, in the amount of ten million dollars each captive, in return for the hostages. Though official NAP channels deny all charges of kidnapping or ransom-demand, the recording asks that monies be deposited in a foreign account. According to a senior UEO security officer, the foreign account is traceable to NAP Special Forces . . ."
Someone's fist struck something hard. "By God . . ." rapidly followed the sound, muttered in Crocker's barely controlled voice. Again, the fist hit something solid--a fist striking metal.
". . . one of many umbrella accounts held by NAP's intelligence division. In addition, the recording standards are NAP compliant."
NAP Special Forces? Hell and gone, this was just great--just perfect! In his personal opinion, someone should tape Lacom's mouth shut before she did further damage. Even now, he could see the effect her information was having on the men and women surrounding him: Crocker, Ortiz, O'Neill.
Ford inhaled sharply. Krieg. Even now, the Lieutenant was following Crocker's example by hitting the nearest bulkhead, eyes squeezed tightly together. Pain lined his face, a stark pain that forced Ford's eyes to look away, to look anywhere but at the pain shattering Krieg's face.
His crew hadn't known of the connection with Special Forces. He hadn't wanted to tell them, particularly since Thomas had said that the Operations for National Security held Lucas. Surely, his crew didn't need to know this information right now; the last thing they needed to know, in fact, was that their resident teenager was in the hands of the ONS.
Frustrated and seething inwardly, Ford shook his head. To make matters worse, Lacom was creating trouble where the "proof" was weak, if even that. Someone could easily use a recorder produced in NAP territory; it wasn't as if obtaining a recording device manufactured in NAP was impossible. Difficult? Yes, because of the tension. Impossible? No. And a NAP account . . . anyone really wanting to set up NAP could make it look like the account was linked to NAP Special Forces. It would simply require someone with a touch for computers. He was fairly certain that, if he'd wanted to, Lucas could easily arrange such a dummy account; he was also fairly certain that NAP would have someone capable of producing such a feat, too.
His blood chilled, though, with Lacom's next words: "UEO Intelligence has also traced the location of the recording to NAP territory. Certain background noises--indistinguishable to the human ear, but identifiable by computer analysis--appear to originate from the Security Administration Building, which is housed beside the NAP Administrative Airport . . . which, according to Senior Intelligence Officer Ralph Burtok, holds the only Boeing 747 in working condition in the world. Its engines can be heard as background noise on the original recording."
A Boeing 747? Dear Lord . . . this wasn't what he wanted to hear. Not at all.
Slowly, Ford swallowed. He shut his eyes, briefly, praying no one would notice his reaction. Though EarthCast News wasn't usually known for reporting techniques quite this thorough, he knew they didn't routinely report without evidence; Lacom's evidence was, in this case, quite thorough. She had done her homework--for once. Perhaps she, too, had realized the importance of her report.
However . . . what he didn't understand, what he couldn't forgive, was that she had had access to this information well before he had. He was acting commander of the seaQuest; he needed to have this information. It was crucial to his job. Did the UEO honestly expect him to do his job without knowing the crucial details? Was he supposed to discover his information through second-hand reports . . . such as Lacom's report on the news? This was inexcusable, no matter how one looked at the situation.
Lacom continued with her discussion, but Ford tuned her excited voice out, already understanding the implications of a kidnapping attributable to a political power such as NAP. His instincts told him that this was trouble: big trouble. Lacom's report would easily stir up anger in the popular opinion polls; the UEO would have little choice but to respond to the situation with some sort of force. Otherwise, they'd look weak--both to NAP and to their own people.
No, trouble didn't even begin to cover it, in fact; he suspected catastrophe might be more relevant. He stared at the floor, grimly reflecting that, more than likely, they were heading towards war.
War.
The thought shuddered through his mind.
He remembered, long ago--seemingly ages ago, when he had been in high school--a poem he'd read by Wilfred Owen, who'd written around earth's first World War. The lines hauntingly drifted before his mind's eye now: "Gas! Gas! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling, / Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time; / But someone still was yelling out and stumbling / And floundering like a man in fire or lime." He shivered. Owen's "Dulce et Decorum Est" had stuck in his memory, especially when he'd started his training in the navy.(1) The images were vivid, part of the world he would soon inhabit. War: the bombs exploding, the people dying, helpless to escape the death raining down upon them.
The times had changed, as had the weapons, but the dying never had--nor would it.
Death was death. War was war.
Silently, he met Katie Hitchcock's eyes. Katie still stood beside Ben, her hands now resting on his back as he shook violently. The look lengthened, intensified; he saw his own fears reflecting back towards him in her eyes--in eyes that strove to hide the pain and the fear, but never could.
He wondered if his own eyes mirrored hers: pain and anguish, dread.
War loomed on both their horizons--on all of their horizons.
And the price of such a conflict . . . it would be devastating. His friends were stuck somewhere behind enemy lines. He was in command of a ship filled with crew he both cared for and respected. Peace had held, though tenuously, between NAP and the UEO for nearly two years.
His stomach soured.
Their world--his world--teetered on the brink of war, balancing ever so precariously on the threshold between peace and violence, between life and death.
If the UEO declared war on NAP, how many lives would be lost?
How many children would lose their parents? How many children would never come home again to their families?
How many eyes would be permanently closed?
*****
The stunned silence of the bridge greeted his ears as Commander Ford returned his attention to his surroundings. His lips thinly compressed, Ford turned heated eyes on Tim. His words nearly hissed as he spoke, "Get me Thomas. Now. I'll be in the wardroom."
With that, Ford stiffly marched away from the bridge, from his crew. Anger boiled inside his mind, hot, steaming . . . looking for an avenue of release. War. God help them . . . war was coming. And he wasn't even being told what was happening by his own commanders. To learn of the recordings through a damned reporter . . . he sure as hell couldn't believe it.
All he knew was that Thomas had better have the most air-tight explanation for this--an explanation that Jesus himself would believe--or there'd be hell to pay. And Thomas would be paying that hell.
The wardroom door clanged behind him as he slammed it shut. He stared at the screen, watching as the UEO symbol flashed across its surface . . . then as Thomas himself appeared.
The General's dark eyes gazed back at him. His jaw was tensely clamped shut, the planes of his face unusually sharp. Several seconds passed between them as Thomas studied Ford's face. Ford could see Thomas fidgeting with a pen held tightly in his grasp; he knew that had to be the worst sign possible. General Thomas simply didn't fidget.
"Well?" he finally demanded, eyes glaring what should have been gaping holes into General Thomas's face. He leaned into the view screen. "Is there anything you'd like to tell me, sir? Anything at all?"
Thomas's eyes narrowed at Ford's insubordinate, almost impudent tone, but Ford couldn't have cared less. The man owed him. He owed him.
After a second's consideration, Thomas finally sighed. His fingers tapped up and down momentarily, then stilled as he seemed to reach a decision. "Commander," he began, voice determined. "Commander, I take it that you've discovered we have a very serious situation on our hands . . . much more serious than we initially considered."
Ford stared at this. More serious? He wasn't sure that he'd agree there . . . the kidnapping of three of his crew--one of them his captain--was quite serious to him. However, he easily saw Thomas's point: things had escalated. He just hoped to hell that they hadn't escalated to the point where nothing could be done but prepare for a long, hard war.
Thomas continued when Ford remained silent: "The problem has . . . expanded. The news media has discovered the recent events involving your Captain, as I'm sure you've heard. We also have . . ."
"What I want to know, General, is how the hell the news media happened to hear about all of this?" Ford interrupted, anger breaking his voice. He pointed an accusing finger at Thomas. "How the hell did the media hear about things I haven't heard about?"
Thomas sighed. He ran a hand through his hair, then across his jaw. Ford was struck with how weary the man looked . . . it had, apparently, been a rough day for him, too. He could just imagine the chaos currently running through the Pentagon. "We don't know, Commander. We're checking into it . . ."
"Obviously, we have a leak. A leak larger than the leaks currently gutting the Ulysses's hull. I would say that's a pretty substantial problem."
"Yes. I agree completely." Thomas again sighed. "We're looking for it, Commander Ford. Believe me. This is a serious leak . . . we can't afford serious leaks when we are going to war."
Ford thumped his fist against the wardroom table. He glared across at Thomas as Thomas stared back at him. "Going to war?" Momentarily, he paced across the wardroom, turning his back to the screen. When he finally turned back to Thomas, the General watched him with wary eyes. "Damn it, General, we don't need to go to full scale war . . ."
"How do you know that, Commander?" snapped Thomas. The General pointed his finger at Ford. "You are not in command to decide policy; you are only to enforce it. And, Ford, there is reason to go against NAP. They have given us plenty of incentive! Our own people, kidnapped! Your own crew! I would think that would be enough 'incentive' for you, Comman--"
"We have been at peace for five years," Ford interrupted hotly. "Five years! We can't afford another direct confrontation with them. You damned well know it!"
Thomas's eyes were flint as he stared harshly at Ford's face. His cold words seemed to shatter the air itself: "The 'peace,' as you call it, Commander, has been nothing but egg-shell dancing. It's a farce. You know it. The only thing keeping all-out war from breaking was fear. Fear, Commander . . . but we cannot allow fear to drive our actions. If we do, NAP will have its filthy hands gripping our own naïve throats."
Uncomfortably, Ford regarded Thomas: the coldness within his eyes. His stomach clenched--hard.
"The Ulysses was the first step towards the plunge into war, Commander. This is just continuing it." Thomas leaned back in his chair, raking a measuring glance over Ford's face. "Actually, the catalyst to this situation came from your own ship. It came with Lucas Wolenczak's invention of the vortex. That was a weapon, pure and simple--a weapon NAP feared would one-day be aimed at them. It is no surprise to me that they have kidnapped the scientist and command staff capable of creating our vortex."
Ford shook his head, blinking. He stared at Thomas. "But . . . the vortex . . . it's not a weapon. It's supposed to enable faster travel . . ."
"Oh, please, Commander. Don't be as naïve as the rest of the idiots around here." Thomas snorted. He suddenly leaned into the screen, catching Ford's gaze in his own. "You and I both know that the UEO wants the vortex for its destructive qualities. Faster travel?" Thomas made a disgusted face. "No. It's not worth the costs the UEO has fronted for the experiment. We couldn't care less. No . . . what the UEO wants, what we want--"
Ford wondered at this "we." Was the General referring to the Pentagon? His stomach turned.
"--is a weapon. A weapon powerful enough to defeat NAP." A sinister smile twisted Thomas's face. "And we almost have one ready. Do you understand me? We almost have one--only a few more touches, and it's ready."
Amazement slammed into Ford's mind. He swallowed hard--several times. Slowly, he said, voice soft, "No, General Thomas. We don't have that weapon. Luc--Lucas never developed it for that purpose."
Again, that twisted smile spread across Thomas's face. "Oh? We have, though, Commander . . . we have."
Who the hell was we?
Thomas continued: "We have a weapon that could win this war for us, Commander. We will need it . . . for, make no mistake about it, Commander. We are at war."
"Wh--what? But . . ." spluttered Ford. "We haven't declared war. There is still a chance that this won't turn into one . . ."
Thomas shook his head. He was silent a moment before, finally, he explained, "You heard the news yourself, Commander. There have been skirmishes."
"Skirmishes can be diplomatically explained. They don't have to lead to war."
"No . . . separately, they don't. But we're not just dealing with skirmishes, Ford--Jonathon." As Ford stared at him in shock, Thomas met his eyes. He glanced around himself, then leaned into the viewscreen. "Commander, what I'm telling you is for your ears alone. This must not go beyond us."
Mind whirling, Ford only nodded.
"Exactly two hours ago, at precisely 5:30 p.m., Washington time, the London and the Brittan . . . engaged the enemy."
The blood in Ford's head pounded--whooshed, throbbed against his forehead. Pressure formed behind his eyes, in his throat. He simply stared, utterly bereft of speech . . . of sound . . . of anything remotely coherent.
They had engaged the enemy.
Oh, God.
They were at war.
*****
Barely able to control his own feet, Commander Ford stumbled out of the wardroom thirty minutes after disconnecting the line with General Thomas. He placed one foot in front of the other, eyes trained on the hall floor, completely oblivious to the startled looks of concern darted at him by crewmen passing his way.
He just walked.
The halls blurred past him, insignificant to him now. The halls, the people in them, the lights and sounds so common on the seaQuest . . . all, nothing to him as his mind struggled with what it now knew to be true.
Tears burned at his eyes. He refused to give in to them--but, God, they seared. They burned an invisible trail straight from his eyes to his heart.
War.
How could such a small word . . . such a simple word . . . how could it cause so much trouble?
How could the arrangement of simple letters--W and A and R--cause countries to hate one another so much?
War. War. War.
He shook his head, fear--anger--pain warring for control in his heart. So much would now change. Soon, they'd receive new orders: to kill. Their mission would change from scientific exploration and peace-keeping to targeting the lives and vessels of another nation.
He remembered the last war fought with NAP. The casualties . . . the blood. He was a soldier, yes . . . but he believed that war was the last resort. Never should it be entered into lightly, with little thought or consideration of what was being done.
And, from all he could tell, that was exactly what his own government--the UEO, the power he had supported his entire life, the power he had sworn his life to preserve and uphold--that government was doing exactly what he feared most: entering into war without thought.
They were allowing pride to lead them straight to the battle grounds.
Yes, the kidnappings were wrong . . . reprehensible. Yes, the demand for ransom at the hands of the ONS was . . . sickening, repulsive, indeed, for a powerful political entity such as NAP. But to do this . . . to go to war . . .
The last few hours had just scarred . . . the next year? The next decade? How long would this war last--and how many would be dead because of it?
Did it even matter who emerged as the victor if thousands of people died because of a rash act on the parts of both the UEO and NAP?
His feet nearly dragging, Ford slowly headed onto the bridge. He swallowed past the lump in his throat--one that seemed to have taken up permanent residence there--before hoarsely saying, "Lieutenant O'Neill, shut the bridge doors." Eyes stared at him, stricken; Ford simply awaited the following of his orders, forcing himself to breathe calmly, carefully. He focused his attention on Tim once more when he heard the loud clink of the bridge doors slamming shut, an ominous sound against the jarring silence of his crew. He cleared his throat. "Lieutenant, turn on EarthCast News."
Eyes wide behind his glasses, Tim obeyed--hands shaking. All eyes moved from Ford to the screen as Patricia Lacom's image returned. It had only been--at the most--an hour since he had left to speak with Thomas, yet Lacom's appearance had altered dramatically. Her eyes, too, were wide. A few strands of hair had escaped her perfectly pinned chignon. She knew--as he'd known she'd know.
Shakily, Lacom reached for a paper, her eyes flickering down to it, as if she wished to assure herself that it was truly there. She sipped from a glass of water in front of her--a sign of nervousness Ford had never seen in her--then looked at the camera.
Ford suddenly felt a hand grip his shoulder. He looked over to see Katie Hitchcock standing beside him, her face drained of color. A moment later, Krieg joined them, standing on Katie's left side.
Silence . . . even Lacom was silent.
She cleared her throat, a jagged noise which cut straight through the bridge's anxious silence.
"G-good evening," she whispered. She cleared her throat again, glancing at the paper in her hand. "I have just been informed . . . by the Pentagon and Secretary General Andrea Dre . . . that, at precisely 5:55 this evening, W-Washington time, the United Earth/Oceans Organization declared war against the Non-Allied Powers."
"Oh, God . . ." whispered Hitchcock, one hand raising to her mouth. She stared in amazement at the screen. "No . . ."
Lacom continued, her voice increasingly shaky: "At 5:30, the London and the Brittan, two UEO nuclear-class cruisers, attacked two NAP battleships, the Apollo and the Hammer. The Apollo . . . the Apollo sunk with all hands onboard."
Ford blinked, suddenly aware of a strangely soft murmuring; he turned towards it. He shut his eyes, pained, at what he saw. Tim, his crucifix in hand, was on his knees: praying. He was praying, no doubt, for the souls onboard the Apollo . . . and for all of them.
"Fighting still continues between the Hammer, the London, and the Brittan--and a new battleship from NAP has also been reported though not confirmed." She stared at the screen, apparently at a loss for words.
"As a result of the . . . new war, Secretary General Dre has recalled all shore leave and strongly encouraged a curfew of 10:00 p.m."
Again, Lacom stared silently at the screen. Finally, she said, "Again, to repeat this . . . recent development, the UEO has declared war against NAP."
As the words seemed to hover over the bridge, smothering, Ford signaled for Tim to cut the broadcast. The screen went blank.
Eyes--frightened, wide, vainly looking for someone who could change what had happened, what was happening--focused on him. Ford only wished that he could change things . . . that he could stop what was already spiraling out of control. But he couldn't. Not even Bridger, were he here, could change what had just happened.
They were at war.
He directed strained eyes at Hitchcock. "Signal the red alert, Commander. Mr. Crocker . . . prepare all necessary security measures." His gaze then returned to the rest of his bridge crew. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have new orders . . . straight from General Thomas at the Pentagon. We have been ordered to radio silence . . . we are at war. And we have a mission."
As his crew stared at him--unsettled, nervous energy racing through them--Ford nodded. "We have been ordered to retrieve Captain Bridger, Dr. Westphalen, and Lucas Wolenczak . . . at all costs." He saw shock reflected at him from every angle. Slowly, he nodded in acknowledgment of their disbelief. "We are at war, my friends. And, according to the Pentagon, one of our most valuable weapons currently resides in the mind of our own teenage-scientist, Lucas Wolenczak. His return--as well as Bridger's and Westphalen's--has been made top priority."
Astonished eyes followed him as he looked towards Katie Hitchcock. "Commander, assemble the senior staff in the wardroom. Ensign Rome, you have the bridge. Notify me immediately if there are problems."
With one last sweep of his eyes, Ford left the now chaotic bridge.
As he walked towards the wardroom, his forehead wrinkled in concentration, Commander Ford mulled over Thomas's orders. Obviously, because he had been ordered to find his Captain and crew members--and because he genuinely wanted to find them--Ford would follow orders: the search would be top priority.
However, Ford had a search of his own to begin.
General Thomas, in his ecstatic near-deification of Lucas's renegade vortex, had mentioned something disturbing about the development of a renegade vortex. He had mentioned something that still pulled at Ford's already taut nerves: We almost have one--only a few more touches, and it's ready, he had said.
According to Thomas, someone--the mysterious "we" of his conversation--had developed a renegade vortex. And it was almost ready for deployment.
And Ford was damned sure going to discover who "we" truly was.
*****
(1) "Dulce et Decorum Est" is a 1917 poem penned by Wilfred Owen. "Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori" (the last two lines of the poem, and the source of the title) is taken from Horace, meaning "it is sweet and proper to die for one's country."