Oracle's Diplomacy

by A. Claire Everward

  Oracle’s Diplomacy

  Book Two in the Oracle Series

  A. Claire Everward

  .

  Copyright © 2018 A. Claire Everward

  The right of A. Claire Everward to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, locales, or organizations, institutions, agencies or any other such entities, is entirely coincidental.

  Published by Author & Sister

  www.authorandsister.net

  eBook ISBN 978-965-92584-3-7

  Print ISBN 978-965-92584-2-0

  Cover design by Damonza

  .

  .

  With this one completed,

  a future can be charted.

  Table of Contents

  List of Acronyms

  The Disputed Region

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  .

  List of Acronyms

  ARPA

  Advanced Research Projects Agency, previously DARPA

  IDSD

  International Diplomacy, Security and Defense

  IDSDATR

  IDSD Advanced Technologies Research

  SIRT

  Serious Incident Response Team

  USFID

  United States Federal Investigative Division

  .

  The Disputed Region

  Chapter One

  “Thank you,” Ambassador George Sendor said in a distracted tone as the steward placed a cup of Earl Grey tea with a touch of orange flavor before him. He didn’t look at the young man, instead keeping his gaze on the endless sky outside the window.

  The steward was not offended. The ambassador was not a rude man, nor one to disregard those who worked for him. He was kind and caring, and took to heart any offense he might have caused. And the steward, the entire crew of the official executive jet, in fact, had been with the ambassador for the past two and a half years in his extensive travels. They knew he appreciated them. No, the distinguished man was not rude or uncaring. He was simply preoccupied, and for a good reason.

  The assistant sitting across from Sendor acknowledged the steward with a smile as he accepted a cup of coffee. “How’re we doing today, Cyril?”

  “Very well, sir. Clear sky, no turbulence. Looks like a quiet flight all the way.” The steward’s tone was calm, practiced.

  They were flying home to Belgium—Brussels, to be exact—after four days at the negotiating table, long days that were the final milestone in an endless line of negotiations. The main terms and covenants had now been finalized, and all that remained was for the two sides to confirm their respective governments’ acceptance of them. If all went well, within days, weeks at the most, they would be on their way back on this same jet, not for further negotiations but for a festive treaty-signing ceremony.

  The assistant waited until the steward left, then resumed watching the man he had served for many years now, long before Sendor became an ambassador, before the assistant himself knew the kind of difference the older man could make in the lives of so many, that he would succeed where no one else had.

  “Your tea, Ambassador,” he prodded.

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” Sendor turned to him with a sigh.

  “What are you thinking about, sir?”

  “Hoping, more than thinking, I suppose, Lucas.”

  “It seems to have gone well.” In fact, no one had ever gotten this far in mellowing the tense relations between the sworn enemies.

  “Indeed.” Sendor sipped the exquisite blend, let its warmth, its aroma, wash over him, tried hard to surrender to its calming effect. “Indeed,” he repeated. Nothing he had done in his long decades in diplomatic service had been as important to him, had touched him as much as this, the negotiations that had been going on for more than two years and had now finally matured into what looked like a viable peace treaty. Bitter years of hatred and fighting, unspeakable suffering, were finally about to end. Still, Sendor couldn’t help considering it all—the situation, the negotiations, the peace treaty itself, the prospects for the future—again and again, worried he might have missed something, concerned that what had been so painstakingly achieved would not stand up to the test. Fearful there would be more deaths.

  “Are you considering their request?”

  Sendor’s brow furrowed. The previous evening, he had been asked to remain in the region after the peace treaty was signed, as the ambassador to both countries. Rather unusual, true, but in this unique case it was most likely the best way to keep what would undoubtedly be a fragile peace alive. Except that at sixty-eight, he had been looking forward to retiring, finally spending much needed time with his family. His sons had both settled with their families in the Ardennes, their birthplace, and he would have liked to settle there himself, move back to the house he had brought them up in, spend more time with his grandchildren.

  But that might have to wait. How could he live the rest of his life enjoying precious time with his grandchildren, watching them grow up safe and protected, when so many other children were dying because he wasn’t there to ensure their safety? Both sides in the negotiations trusted him, his motives, his ability to stand behind his words. This would not be an easy peace, and someone had to be there to take it through its first steps, make sure it did not fall apart. After so many years of conflict, there were so much anger and bitterness, terrible pain to deal with. The two nations, the people behind this peace treaty, needed to heal, rebuild, make it to a day when they could meet on a peaceful street without instantly feeling animosity, without the risk of resorting to raging violence.

  So much work to do, and only he could do it, he was all too aware. No one knew them as he did after all he had been through with them.

  He took in a deep breath. “Yes, I do believe it will be for the best if I—”

  A distinct shudder passed through the aircraft. The ambassador and his assistant both sat up, startled. In the galley, the steward steadied himself against the countertop and darted a bewildered glance at the closed cockpit door.

  In the cockpit, Captain Laura Yates frowned at the autopilot. Beside her, her copilot turned to look at her, perplexed.

  “What the hell was that?” he asked.

  “I have no idea.” Yates’s eyes were on the flight instruments before her. “Whatever it was, it didn’t show on our instruments.”

  “The autopilot is working properly.”

  “It wasn’t an internal—”

  The aircraft shuddered again, more
violently this time.

  “What on . . . ?” Yates’s hand hovered over the instruments panel, and both she and her copilot stared in astonishment as the autopilot disengaged, relinquishing control to some hidden hand. The jet kept going, level. Yates touched the panel once, then again. Nothing.

  Moments later, the altitude indicator showed the altitude changing, even as the pilots themselves felt the aircraft turn, then begin to descend.

  “Who the hell is flying this jet?” The copilot looked out the window, then realized the absurdity of the act at forty-one thousand feet.

  Yates flipped switches, operated touchscreens, went through every procedure she could think of that could do something, anything, to give her back control of the jet. Beside her, the copilot followed suit. But the aircraft didn’t respond. This is no malfunction, Yates thought as the altitude indicated on the screen before her kept decreasing, the aircraft steady in its descent. Someone is controlling this jet, and it’s not me.

  Her precious cargo in mind, she wasn’t about to take any chances. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday,” she repeated, her tone urgent, then relayed the aircraft’s identification and position and prayed someone was listening, would come to their help.

  But she already knew no one would, and could only watch helplessly as the radio shut off. Her next thought was the ACARS message system, but a quick check found that it had been turned off, as had the ADS-B aircraft tracking system. Thinking that with the ADS-B disabled she might be able to activate the GPS uplink independently, she checked it, only to find that while it was still working, the uplink had been rerouted and she had no access to it, either. She no longer had any way to communicate with anyone on the ground, nor were there any remaining means on board the aircraft that would have allowed it to be tracked.

  Still, she recounted what was happening in detail, hoping that the cockpit voice recorder would, together with the flight data recorder, at least give those she hoped might eventually find them what they would need to make sense of this.

  The last thing she did as pressure throughout the aircraft dropped was pray that she would see her daughter again.

  At the headquarters of International Diplomacy, Security and Defense in Brussels, the Internationals’ High Council was meeting with the heads of IDSD’s branches worldwide to review strategies past and future and their implications for the present. Everyone sitting in the upper-floor conference room of the building designated for the High Council’s governing functions within the impressive complex was pleased. It had been a good year. A new, South Asian member had joined the alliance of peaceful nations, and another country had requested to join it just days earlier, in thanks for the alliance’s help in a recent incident, assistance it gave without asking for anything in return. African Independent Territory was in one of the more precarious spots in the world, and its acceptance into the alliance would be the first successful diplomatic footprint it made in the continent. Granted, there was still a lot of work to be done there, but as the executive body of the founding member of the alliance, IDSD was more than ready to do what it took. It always was.

  And then there was the promising news from the one place in Europe that had until not too long ago been rapidly going from bad to worse, in the region where the political divide between Eastern and Western Europe had once been. Two small countries that could have been a symbol of unity, cultural safe havens that would have set an example for so many, had instead been entangled in an endless feud that some years earlier had spiraled out of control, sending the two neighbors into a destructive conflict and sparking mutual atrocities that had not been seen in that part of the world for more than half a century. No one had been able to make the two nations talk, try to stop what was happening. No one until the Internationals’ own Ambassador George Sendor had stepped in and, refusing to give up, had stuck with them through flare after flare of renewed distrust and violence, until he managed to get them to listen to him and had helped them see a better future for themselves, real hope for future generations. And now, after all the time and effort, the High Council could finally welcome news of an imminent peace treaty.

  Ambassador Sendor was on his way to the meeting now and would be joining it sometime during its second half. The High Council was hoping he would accept their request that he remain in the region and watch over the implementation of the new treaty as the ambassador to both countries. The remarkable man was worthy of their trust, their respect, their support.

  Council Head Ines Stevenssen was about to proceed with the next item on the agenda when the conference room door was flung open and a pale aide rushed in, followed by IDSD HQ’s head of security, Julian Bern.

  “Ma’am.” The aide deferred to the council head.

  Stevenssen motioned him and Bern in. Through the open door behind them, she saw people gathering, their agitation evident.

  Bern approached the conference table. “I’ve just received a call from Mons Area Control Center,” he said. “It has lost contact with Ambassador Sendor’s jet. The last contact it had was a distress call from the pilot on the emergency frequency, which was cut off almost immediately but was without doubt relayed while the jet was still in the air. It has informed IDSD Global Flights Monitoring Station, and they’ve both initiated a search protocol.” He paused. “So far, neither has had any success making contact with the jet. It has vanished.”

  The trailer was silent.

  From the outside, it and the tractor unit it was connected to could be mistaken for an old semitrailer not worth the trouble of a second look, parked carelessly off the road, its driver apparently having sought a quiet place to catch some rest. And there was in fact someone in the driver’s seat, a man who was seemingly asleep, a black cap pulled down over his eyes. Even with the windows up and the heater running, he had a short coat on, and his hands were crossed on his chest. To hide the gun.

  The other armed guards—and there were quite a few of them—were deployed at varying distances around the trailer, all hidden from view. Not that they had to be hidden, or would even be needed at all. There was no one for miles around, and no one knew anyone was there. And even if someone happened to stray into the area, perhaps stumble upon any of the hidden men, no one had even a remote chance of guessing what their mission was, what they were protecting.

  Still, it didn’t hurt to be cautious, considering the stakes involved.

  Inside, the trailer was far from simple, nothing innocent about it. It had been converted to house, power and protect a system unlike any other in the world. Few knew this system existed, and fewer yet knew it was already operational. In fact, it was fully active now, working to the limit of its capacity in this, its maiden task.

  The two men overseeing the system’s activity were silent. They worked with precise efficiency, noting every single datum on the screens before them, knowing they must miss nothing. There was no time for words.

  They were too busy controlling the jet flying high above them.

  The initial shock had worn off, and the mood in the conference room was somber. Council Head Stevenssen had adjourned the meeting for an extended break immediately after hearing the news, to give everyone time to settle and to at least begin to adjust to what was thought to be a tragedy that had befallen one of the Internationals’ most revered diplomats, a friend to many of them. The break was also intended to give Bern a chance to collect more information and, perhaps most important at that point, to give Stevenssen herself the time she needed to make sure the news would not get out. Until more was known about what had happened, she had to do her best to ensure that the two nations whose future was on the line would not find out prematurely that their best, perhaps only, chance for a lasting peace was gone. If they would blame each other—and they would, their history had shown—there would be no stopping the tragic consequences ever again.

  Having reconvened the meeting, and with a pang of regret as she realized Sendor would by now have been there with them, Stevenssen took a long look at
her peers sitting around the table, their eyes expectant on her.

  “I have been given additional information,” she said. “However, I suggest Head of Security Bern impart it himself, since he has been in direct contact with the parties involved.”

  Bern stepped forward. “They don’t think the jet crashed.”

  He had everyone’s attention.

  “Signals from all systems on board designed to communicate the jet’s location disappeared more or less simultaneously. So together with the pilot’s emergency call the first thought was catastrophic failure. However, the emergency locator transmitters on board whose activation would have been triggered by a crash were not activated. Also, the jet was over land when it disappeared, and our satellites would have found a crash site by now around its last recorded position or we would have had reports from local authorities or witnesses. There’s nothing.

  “The monitoring station has attempted to access the flight data recorder remotely—I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but this capability was developed to avoid a possibly critical delay in having to search for the recorder in the event of an air accident or an attack, and the risk of being unable to find it if its locator beacon ceases to operate. However, the recorder cannot be accessed.” He paused. “It seems we are being actively locked out.”

  “Could a signal jammer have been used?” The man asking was Admiral James Helios, head of IDSD United States. It was the recent Oracle incident involving his IDSD branch that had brought to their attention the existence, in the hands of the wrong people, of a sophisticated type of jammers one of the applications of which was to conceal the flight path of an aircraft.

  “No, sir, we don’t believe so. We don’t know much yet about that jammer I’m assuming you’re referring to, how it works, but I believe a jammer would have caused a different type of interference, not what we’re seeing here.”