by David Bruns
Don read the words, shook his head, and reread them.
“What is it?” Jackson asked.
He handed her the sitrep from the USS Ford.
… HIT BY CHINESE ANTISHIP CRUISE MISSILES. TWENTY DEAD, FIFTY PLUS CASUALTIES. ATTACKING PLAN SUBMARINE DESTROYED BY USS KEY WESTs…
“It’s happening,” he whispered.
Jackson handed the clipboard back to the messenger without a word. Don’s phone beeped with a tone indicating a secure text.
POTUS AUTHORIZED DEFCON 3.
He showed the text to Jackson. “Get everyone in here. If they’re on leave, recall them. We go to twelve-hour shifts, full staffing, effective immediately. I need answers to those comms outages and I need them now.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Jackson slipped on her headset and started to address her watch team. She stopped and turned back to Don. “What about the midshipmen, sir? Do you want them called in, too?”
“Absolutely, Lieutenant.”
She flashed him a quick smile. “I think that’s a call you’re going to have to make, sir. They’re not in my chain of command.”
“Try anyway. I’m going for approval on Happy Panda. Let me know if you have any issues with the academy.”
The events whirled in Don’s brain as he strode back to his office. These kinds of attacks by the Chinese made no sense. The Chinese were consummate strategists; they always played the long game. Shooting a random P-8 patrol craft out of the sky and sinking a Japanese destroyer were nuisances at best to a force as powerful as the United States Navy. Even attacking an aircraft carrier with a single submarine was ridiculous. Why attack a carrier without putting in place the force necessary to kill it?
Taken as a whole, these all seemed like random actions designed to provoke the Americans, not hurt them. It went against everything he knew about the Chinese battle plans, which made this scattershot approach especially unnerving. What if every response, every battle contingency the US had in place to fight the Chinese was wrong? Did this signify a change in military strategy or even a military coup?
Whatever the reason, they needed answers and Happy Panda was one way to get them. Once inside his office, he placed a secure call to Admiral Trafton. Her admin put him through immediately.
“Trafton.”
“Ma’am, it’s Riley. I wanted to talk to you about—”
“Happy Panda,” the admiral interrupted.
“Yes, ma’am. I think we need to consider—”
“Do it.” Her words were sharp and clipped.
“Ma’am?”
“Look, Riley, if there was ever a rainy day, this is it, right? I’ve already cleared it with NSA. I can’t believe the friggin’ Chi-Comms would be so stupid as to attack a US Navy carrier. It’s like they want to start World War Three. We need answers—and fast.”
“I’ll get Panda activated ASAP. We’ll start digging.”
“Be careful, Riley. This thing stinks to high heaven. In retrospect, considering all the stupid things we’ve seen China do in the last few hours, I’m wondering if Panda is even real.”
“You mean they want us in their system?”
“I mean it’s pretty convenient we have a back door into our enemy’s network right when they start operating off the reservation. It could be part of a trap.”
Don hadn’t considered that. “I think it’s still worth using Panda, ma’am.”
“I agree, just keep in mind the lesson of the WMDs.” Prior to the invasion of Iraq, the entire US intelligence establishment had put together the case for Saddam Hussein’s possession of weapons of mass destruction. In hindsight, it had become an exercise in groupthink, where the people in power cherry-picked the pieces of intel that supported their conclusion and sidelined intel that didn’t. The result was the greatest failure in the history of modern intelligence—and a Middle East destabilization that remained a source of US foreign policy woes.
“I understand, ma’am.”
He’d no sooner ended the call than another one came in, this time from Jackson. “No dice on the midshipmen, sir. The dean won’t approve the request.”
Don fought back the urge to say something snarky. He kept close tabs on the grades of his midshipmen and he knew there was no academic reason to refuse his request. “I’ll handle it,” he said. “Jackson, we’ve got approval to open up Happy Panda. Get the SCIF set up. I’ll be on the floor in ten minutes.”
He thumbed through his mobile phone until he found the personal number for the commandant of midshipmen. She answered on the third ring.
“Mr. Riley, what a surprise. I just got a message from the dean saying you might be calling. What can I do for you?”
“Good evening, Captain Watson. I’m afraid the size of my request has increased since Lieutenant Jackson’s call to the dean. I’m calling to ask that Midshipmen Everett, Ramirez, and Goodwin be transferred to CYBERCOM until further notice.”
“Mr. Riley, I’m afraid that’s—”
“Ma’am, I don’t want to be rude or dramatic, but have you seen the news or read your message traffic in the last hour?”
“No…”
“Here’s a recap: The Chinese have shot down a Poseidon P-8 on FONOPs, sunk a Japanese destroyer, and launched an attack on the USS Ford that killed twenty sailors. The president has just authorized DEFCON Three. Those three midshipmen could make a difference over here.”
The captain’s voice tightened. “I understand, Mr. Riley. I’ll get them to Fort Meade myself.”
Nimitz Library, US Naval Academy Annapolis, Maryland
Miss Eustace Jenkins came into Michael Goodwin’s life after his mother was killed in their living room in Lennox, California. He’d barely heard the distant gunshots over the roar of a jet passing overhead as it made a landing at LAX. One minute his mother was dozing in front of the TV, the next a bullet hole in her neck was fountaining blood down her chest.
So much blood.
The police called it “drive-by collateral,” their term for the stray bullet that took the life of the only person who had ever loved Michael.
He sat alone in the police station on a plastic chair scarred by the many people who had sat in this chair before him. Michael twisted in his seat so he could study the graffiti on the chair back, his mind automatically seeking a pattern to the random scrawls of criminals and orphans.
“Can I get you a soda, son?” The police officer was a white man, with short black hair already going gray. He had a growly voice but a smile on his face. “We called CPS, but sometimes it takes them a long time to get here.”
CPS. Child Protective Services. He was an orphan. His mother was dead. He had no other family.
He was alone.
Michael’s mind turned this new set of facts over and over, examining it for patterns.
“Are you okay?” the cop said. “How about that soda?”
“No, thank you, sir,” Michael replied, still pondering. He heard the cop say “I think the kid’s in shock” to one of his colleagues, but Michael knew he wasn’t in shock. He was special. His mother told him that every day.
Michael Goodwin, you are special. Your mind works in mysterious and wonderful ways. And she would always kiss him on the forehead when she said it.
It occurred to Michael that there would be no more forehead kisses and no more daily affirmations. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that new fact.
“Michael.” A new voice. Soft, but deep, with a hint of a timbre that told him this was a woman who liked to sing. She had a voice for the Lord, his mother would have said. A voice for gospel.
A pair of shoes entered his downcast field of view. Black, sensible heels, but expensive; a dark blue pantsuit sheltered a set of sturdy legs.
“Michael, look at me.” The voice was not to be trifled with. He raised his gaze.
The woman was his height, built like a person who had known hard labor in her life, but her hands were soft, uncalloused. She wore a suit that looked expensive to his untrained ey
e and a blouse that he guessed was silk. She wore no jewelry except for pearl studs in her ears that shone against her dark skin. When she smiled at him, her whole face moved.
“My name is Eustace, Michael. I’m a friend of your mother. She told me how special you are and asked me to be your legal guardian if anything happened to her. Is that okay with you, Michael?”
Michael stood and held out his hand. It was what his mother would have wanted. He watched as Eustace showed a sheaf of papers to the policeman and signed forms.
* * *
Life with Eustace Jenkins was very different. She taught him about computers and how his need for order was a skill, not something to be ashamed of. Also, she was rich, and sent him to private school. It was at St. Anthony’s that Michael learned about libraries. The library there was more than a collection of books, it was a place of solitude for Michael. Tall stacks with their books in ordered rows sheltered him from the outside world, allowed his mind to find a precious moment of calm.
When he arrived at the Naval Academy eight years later, Michael sought out Nimitz Library as soon as he could, and what he found was even better than St. Anthony’s. The stacks at Nimitz were endless, and sprinkled among the tall stacks of books were study desks with high sides where he could be completely alone.
He thought he heard a voice calling his name, but he ignored it, still lost in thought.
“Hey, plebe. Are you Goodwin? Michael Goodwin?” He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun in his seat, startled. Another midshipman, a third-class by the stripes on his service dress blue uniform, stepped back at the suddenness of his response. “Whoa, didn’t mean to scare you, man, but I saw your name tag when you sat down. Are you Michael Goodwin?”
“Yes, sir.”
The mid pointed at the ceiling. “They’ve been calling your name for like the last ten minutes.”
“Midshipman Fourth Class Michael Goodwin, please report to the circulation desk,” came over the PA system.
Michael quickly gathered his books and hurried to the steps. Dre Ramirez was waiting for him at the front desk. She started waving her hands at him as soon as he came into sight. She raced up to him and grabbed his arm, dragging him toward the door. “Where have you been? Your phone was off, and no one could find you.” She punched at the heavy steel and glass door with her hip, not letting go of Michael’s arm.
“What’s going on, Dre?”
When they were outside on the broad stone expanse of Rickover Terrace, she let go of his arm but set off at a quick pace. Past the edge of the plaza, the lights on the athletic fields blazed in the dark night. “The ’Dant wants to see us,” she called over her shoulder. “C’mon, Michael. Don’t keep the woman waiting.”
He broke into a trot. “The commandant? Why? Her office is that way, Dre.” He pointed to the right.
Dre paused at the edge of the broad stone steps that overlooked the athletic fields next to the liquid blackness of the Severn River. An SH-60 Seahawk helicopter sat in the center of the soccer field, its whirling blades a disc of silver in the cold lights. Well back from the helo stood two figures, their uniform caps tucked under their arms to avoid any possibility of them getting sucked into the helo’s twin engines.
Michael recognized Janet’s familiar shape and blond hair. The other woman had four broad stripes on the sleeve of her uniform. Captain Watson, the Commandant of Midshipmen.
Dre’s smile was electric white in the reflected light of the fields. “Janet’s gonna kill you, plebe. She’s been making small talk with the ’Dant for twenty minutes.”
Then she raced down the steps two at a time.
CHAPTER 47
Yang-do Island, North Korea
Rafiq stood up from his command chair and stretched. His nervous energy was fading. Fatigue cloaked his body like a blanket. Sleep. He needed sleep.
“I’m going to rest,” he said to So-won.
She nodded, her eyes still on the screen.
“Monitoring only. No more offensive actions for now.”
She nodded again without looking up at him.
Rafiq wondered about her at times like this. Lost in the code, marveling at her creation, but seemingly unaware of the effect her actions were having in the real world. He hadn’t even needed to deceive her. From the moment he conceived of the idea for a self-learning computer virus, she was in—just to see if it could be done. As his plans grew in scale, her excitement matched it, heedless of the potential global devastation they could cause.
“Do you understand, So-won?”
She looked at him, finally. Her eyes were red from staring at the screen but alive with energy. “Yes, Chul, I understand. Get some sleep.” She patted the side of the workstation. “Our pet doesn’t need sleep and neither do I.”
Their pet. When they’d first started the program, Rafiq had called the cyberweapon an artificial intelligence, or AI. So-won corrected him time and again, insisting that he was misusing the term. What they were really building was a virtual pet, a machine they could train to follow their commands.
But they needed to make sure it had the right training, and in Rafiq’s view that was a slow but steady buildup of small skirmishes designed to confuse everyone. Rafiq wanted maximum confusion, best achieved by a series of seemingly random, small-scale events. Shooting down a patrol plane and blocking the outgoing Mayday call. Sinking an isolated destroyer under the cover of heavy clouds to shield their actions from the prying eyes of American satellites. Launching a pair of cruise missiles at a carrier and watching the Chinese sub get destroyed.
And that was just his warm-up act for the Chinese command and control network. It astonished him how simple it was to order these small attacks. All these ships and planes from the opposing forces were armed to the teeth and operating in close proximity to one another. Meanwhile, politicians from both sides spouted angry rhetoric across the twenty-four-hour news cycle. When Rafiq intervened in this already tense situation, all he had to do was give a single command and watch the weapons fly.
And with each event, his pet learned a new lesson in cause and effect.
The Chinese were the easiest to manipulate; that was why he’d started there first. Between the Americans, the Japanese, and the Chinese, the Chinese military machine was the most centrally commanded force of the three. Beijing liked to hold all the cards, delivering orders directly to individual units rather than delegate power.
The Japanese had modeled themselves after the United States, giving their theater commanders more latitude to operate but restricting them from any sort of first strike. Rafiq smiled to himself. The strikes he’d launched via the Chinese military, especially against the US Navy aircraft carrier, would soon loosen those bureaucratic shackles.
He splashed water on his face in his private bathroom, then inspected himself in the mirror. If his Nadine were still alive, would she recognize him? Would she care that his jawline was heavier, that his cheekbones were softer? The cosmetic surgeons had done a respectable job, but even after all this time, he still felt like he was seeing a stranger every time he saw his own reflection.
He lay down on his narrow bed, trying to will himself to sleep. Despite the ache of tiredness in his muscles, his mind raced.
They would begin teaching the Japanese network next. The virus they had uploaded had distributed itself across the network, hiding itself as code fragments amid actual programs, spreading its tentacles into every program and platform across the extensive network. A hacker’s version of hiding in plain sight.
But the American system … this was a puzzle. He’d expected a similar architecture to the other two countries, but they had found a vast number of communications nodes in their command and control network, reaching far beyond the western Pacific.
What were the Americans doing with this unknown capacity? The processing of so many sites had all but overwhelmed Rafiq’s computer resources, but the prize was too tempting to ignore. Controlling the Japanese and Chinese networks gave him access to
Asia, but the American network promised so much more.
Enough, he thought. Get some sleep.
He pictured his old home in Estancia Refugio Seguro, imagined walking up to the front door, seeing each flagstone and tree in intricate, loving detail. From the direction of the stables, he could hear little Javi shouting and smell the heavy odor of horses in the afternoon heat. The front door opened, and Nadine was there, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders, her dark eyes flashing with the passion he knew so well—
His satellite phone rang. Rafiq’s eyes flew open.
“Anyoung haseyo?” he said.
“What have you done, Rafiq?” Pak’s voice had a hysterical edge, and his Korean spilled out so fast Rafiq struggled to process the words. “Too much!”
“How so, old friend?”
“Don’t ‘old friend’ me, you bastard! You were supposed to create tensions, not start a war.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“The Chinese launched an attack against an American aircraft carrier! You were behind it, I know it.”
“You give me far too much credit, Pak.”
Pak gained some semblance of control. “You’re sure you had nothing to do with this?”
“Nothing.”
“No matter. Kim has decided to end your operation. He wants to see you in Pyongyang immediately.”
“I can’t do that, Pak,” Rafiq said. “I’m needed here.”
“Didn’t you hear what I said? The Supreme Leader himself wants to see you. The operation is over. Shut it down. Now.”
“No.”
Pak’s voice tightened again. “No? What do you mean, no?” The line went silent. “It was you, wasn’t it?”
“It’s all part of the plan, Pak. You’ve been very helpful, by the way.”
“Whose plan? Rafiq, I beg of you, don’t do this. Stop now, come back to Pyongyang, we can smooth this over with the Supreme Leader.”
“Goodbye, Pak. If you have an escape plan, I suggest you use it now.”
“Wait, I—”
Rafiq ended the call. He stooped to pull on his shoes. When Pak reported his disobedience to the Supreme Leader, their first course of action would be to cut off his communications with the mainland.
