by Tom Clancy
President David Becerra leaned back in his chair at the head of the crowded conference table and waved his palms. “All right, everyone settle down.”
The national security advisor, the deputy for homeland security, and the White House chief of staff were present, seated according to their seniority, along with the secretary of state, the Joint Chiefs, and the deputy director of the Situation Room itself.
To Becerra’s right, on the table opposite the vice president, glowed the holographic image of General Scott Mitchell, commander of the Joint Strike Force, the man who had just announced that Dr. Helena Ragland was missing. It’d been Mitchell who’d reached Becerra out in the Mojave to inform him of this and tell him that Major Stephanie Halverson had been shot down over the Caucasus Mountains. Today’s meeting was about three missing women, each in their own way vital to national security.
“General, I need to ask: Is Ragland’s disappearance related to Dennison’s?”
“Sir, we can’t confirm that. If you’d like my off-the-record opinion, Major Dennison is an impeccable officer with a flawless record. I just can’t explain why she made this unauthorized prisoner transfer of Doletskaya. And it’s clear she went to great lengths to do this, falsifying orders and doing an expert job of covering her tracks. The trail goes cold right here in Tampa.”
“Was she being blackmailed? Manipulated in some way?”
“I’ve had Splinter Cells investigating that, but thus far there’s been no indication from her father, other family members, or friends of any problem. I have Ghost teams searching for them. I can assure you we will find her.”
“Okay. What else do we know about Ragland?”
“Quite a bit. That trail’s hot. We just got some new intel from sources inside Moscow. They’re telling us Ragland was kidnapped by Spetsnaz forces and is being transferred to their headquarters at Fort Levski, Bulgaria.”
A screen behind the general glowed to life, showing a satellite map of the area with wireframe overlays. The camera zoomed in on the mountainous region around the fort, then continued farther to reveal a pair of six-meter-tall, heavily reinforced ballistic pocket doors built into the side of a mountain overlooking a broad and heavily populated military base. Databars along the sides provided intel regarding troop numbers, assets, and current operations.
“The Spetsnaz HQ is a heavily defended facility located behind those doors and buried deep within the mountain,” Mitchell added. “It’s arguably one of the most secure and heavily defended locations the Russians have.”
“So a rescue attempt is impossible,” said Becerra.
A knowing grin rose on the general’s lips. “Sir, my Ghost teams are tied up all over the world right now—with at least two on the mission to find Dennison. However, this is a perfect operation for our new Marine Corps Raiders. These guys are Russian American operators. They look, act, speak, and even smell like Spetsnaz. I’d like to deploy a team to go after Dr. Ragland. Unfortunately, the Bulgarians won’t offer any help at all, with the prime minister now answering to Moscow.”
Becerra took in a long, slow breath. Sending American service personnel into harm’s way was not something he took lightly.
And this wasn’t just harm’s way.
This was the belly of the beast.
As the son of a Marine Corps sergeant and a reservist himself before getting into politics, Becerra had a keen and intimate understanding of “going downrange,” of having his own boots on the ground, of feeling his hackles rise while on patrol. And he’d met with the families of those lost, listened to their stories and wiped away their tears. There was no greater sense of responsibility—and no greater pain—than saying yes. Go. Fight. Protect our way of life. Thank you.
Becerra studied the tactical map of Fort Levski once more, the sheer number of surface-to-air missiles and advanced early warning radar systems making him shake his head. “General, do those Marines really stand a chance?”
“Sir, the team I have in mind is led by Captain Mikhail Alexandrov.”
That name sounded very familiar. “He was just in Ecuador, wasn’t he?” Becerra asked. “I just read a report about his operation to capture Nestes.”
“Yes, they recovered the man’s arm. Nothing else. But we’re presuming he’s dead. The remains are at the lab now. Point is, Lex is a very capable operator. He’ll get in there. He’ll get Ragland.”
Becerra looked to the vice president and the Joint Chiefs; their expressions said they concurred with Mitchell.
“General, a moment please.” Becerra rose and met the gazes of Roberta Santiago, national security advisor, and Mark Hellenberg, chief of staff. All three moved to the breakout room, where Hellenberg shut the door after them.
“Look, I don’t want to insult Mitchell, but, Roberta, how good is the intel we have on Ragland’s location? I’m not sending Marines into hell unless I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she’s there.”
Santiago brushed an errant wisp of gray hair from her face, then shrugged and consulted her tablet computer. “It looks good, sir, straight from Third Echelon. We’ve got two Splinter Cells inside Moscow.”
“Mark, the fact that they were able to kidnap her on American soil doesn’t bode well for us.”
“No, sir, it does not. Should I call Zynski in here?”
Becerra shook his head. He’d deliberately left the director of homeland security out of the conversation because he knew Tom Zynski well; the man would want to fall on his sword for this failure, and Becerra didn’t want that. “Look, we don’t need this issue politicized—”
“Sir,” Santiago interrupted. “The bureau has already launched their investigation, and we’ll need to cooperate with them fully. Ragland’s abductors might have very well been American citizens working for the Russians, which would work in our favor. The point is we don’t know enough to comment on any of this, so I suggest we continue to gather information.”
Becerra nodded. “Stall.”
“Gather information,” Santiago said with a wink.
“We’ll accept full responsibility for this—but only after we know exactly what happened.”
“Sir,” Hellenberg said. “If they break Ragland and she talks, she can give them a lot. The Wraith and Argus projects will change the game. We need to move quickly.”
“All right. I’ll sign that order. We’ll send in those Marines to get her.”
They returned to the conference room and took their seats; Becerra shared his decision with Mitchell, then added, “What are we doing to recover Major Halverson?”
“Everything we can, sir,” said Mitchell. “But it’s difficult. The QRF could not get in there. The Russians have Interceptors in the air and ground troops scouring the area now.”
“We’re not leaving my girl.”
“Hell no, sir. I’ve spoken to our colleagues at the NSA and Third Echelon, and they’ve got a man in Grozny, guy named Thomas Voeckler who’s worked with my Ghost teams before. We’ll contact him, see if he can link up with Halverson on the ground and get her out of there.”
“That’s it? One man? Not a team?” asked Becerra. “Can’t we drop in some SEALs?”
“Sir, she was shot down near Darial Gorge, not far from Vladikavkaz, one of the most populated cites in the North Caucasus. Halverson was testing in that area because of the sheer number of new radar stations. What I’m saying is, the place is very hot. Sending a Ghost or SEAL team in there at this point would not be advisable. Voeckler’s already on the ground and the closest man we’ve got to her location. He has field operatives within the city he can use to get her out. I think this is our best course of action.”
“Well that makes me feel a little better. I’d like to send her a personal message,” said Becerra.
Halverson had been on the front lines during the outbreak of the war, and her heroism had left Becerra breathless. He’d mad
e a point to thank her personally then, and he’d do so now. The country owed her a lot, and he hoped that a message from him might lift her morale. He could only imagine what she must be going through, trying to evade capture in the snow-covered mountains.
Becerra rose from his chair. “Now then, ladies and gentlemen, I leave you with this painful reminder: We have a security leak. I want it found.”
* * *
Nearly seven thousand miles away from the White House, in a helicopter bound for Tokyo, Christopher Theron took a phone call.
The man on the other end was brief: “It’s all set, sir, and confirmed with our operatives in Moscow. The American Splinter Cell operatives there have taken the bait and passed it on to the White House.”
“And what about Ragland? Where is she now?”
FOURTEEN
Submarine
Identification: Unknown
Location: Unknown
After cuffing Dr. Helena Ragland and slamming her into the back of the SUV the had stopped for her on the highway, the two men with accents drove her to Palmdale Regional Medical Center.
Behind the emergency department sat an ambulance marked with American Medical Response logos. Out of sight from prying eyes, she was gagged and transferred to the back of the truck, where inside the shorter man gave her an injection of something that left her lethargic.
She didn’t remember much. A sign that indicated she was in Long Beach. Being loaded into a wheelchair, taken along a dock, pushed onto a boat, a yacht, nice boat.
And then the blindfold. The earplugs.
She focused on time, trying to calculate how long it’d been from the point of capture. The math swirled in her head, followed by tears as she thought about her daughter.
Oh, God, they were going to torture her for intel on the Wraith. Would she talk?
Was a hypersonic plane worth her life? How deep was her loyalty to her country? She’d never been forced to consider these questions.
Hours—or what felt so—passed. She must’ve fallen asleep. She awoke to movement, her chair rolling now, then awkward shoving, men carrying her, the bobbing sensation, and the distinctive odor of amines mixed with sweat, lubricants, and something else . . .
This was a submarine; it had to be, and submarines, like spacecraft, had a need to sustain human metabolism by removing exhaled CO2 and replacing metabolized O2 using a line of oxidizing compounds with biological chemicals such as amines, thiols, and carbonyls. Hypersonic pilots and submariners couldn’t just open a window to catch a breath of fresh air. Wraith pilots dealt with the same issue and resolved them in much the same way.
Muffled noises came through her earplugs. Then the sound of an engine—and she knew engines.
Diesel. That was the other smell. Diesel fuel.
And then she was back in the wheelchair. Rolled, lifted, placed on a mattress. Felt thin. No give, no box spring. Hard, flat support.
Before she could guess at more, the gag and blindfold were removed, as were the earplugs.
The light was blinding, and her ears sore. Her mouth was sticky and dry, lips cracked.
She squinted in the dim light. Her eyes wouldn’t focus for a moment, and then, as her ears began to pop, she gasped.
They’d taken her to a tiny room whose hatch visually confirmed she was onboard a submarine, perhaps in the captain’s quarters. The bulkhead creaked. She could feel her inner organs subtly pressing upward into her lower lungs. The sub was diving.
She turned her head—
And there he was, hovering over her, the tall, handsome man who’d spoken to her near the car. “Dr. Ragland, we’re sorry we put you through this. I wish there were another way.”
Her reply came out slurred, and she barely recognized her own voice. She tugged against the zipper cuffs, tried to stand, and realized her legs were bound as well.
He drew his head back, seeming to understand the four-letter word she’d attempted to use. “I know you’re upset. But rest assured you’re safe now.”
“Who are you?” Her voice was working a little better now, her anger diluting the drugs.
“My name is Werner. And if you haven’t already surmised, you’re onboard a submarine.”
“Why?”
“I told you . . . you know why.”
“You want information.”
“Of course.”
She closed her eyes and braced herself. “You work for Moscow?”
He chuckled. “No.”
She eyed him, confused. “Then who are you people?”
“You shouldn’t worry about that.”
Ragland fought against the tears and lost. The drugs, the stress, and the constraints had chipped away her will. She’d crumpled too easily. Now they would think they could get anything out of her.
Werner crouched down and faced her, putting his hand on her cheek. “We’ve no interest in killing you.”
“Well, I’ve no interest in a submarine ride.”
“Once you’ve told us everything we need to know, we plan to reunite the new-and-improved you with your daughter.”
“So you’ll shoot more drugs into me, and I’ll talk.”
“You’re very strong-willed, and you have an eidetic memory. Even with the drugs, no matter how hard we try, you won’t tell us everything.”
“So you’ll hurt me.”
He shook his head and stood. “They’re bringing you something to eat. And black coffee, yes?”
“You want me to betray my country.”
He thought a moment, then answered, “You won’t think of it that way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Rest easy now. You’ve been through a lot.”
“Obviously you know who I am. And obviously you know that given my position, my government will stop at nothing to find us. And they will.”
“Not this submarine. She’s the latest in air-independent propulsion technology, built with HY-100 austenitic nonmagnetic steel—”
Ragland snorted. “Wow, I’m impressed.”
“And she’s coated with a metamaterial developed by one of my companies. She’s undetectable by your P-3C Orion ASW patrol planes with their magnetic anomaly detection booms or active sonar.”
Damn, materials like that did exist, but despite them the submarine could still have a significant weakness . . .
Ragland knew that most navies operated subs with conventional diesel-electric propulsion. Diesel-powered generators charged battery banks, which then drove an electric motor connected to a propeller.
Since the 1940s there had been numerous attempts to develop a power generation system that was independent of external air. The period between battery charges varied from several hours to one or two days, depending on the power requirements and the nature of the mission.
Fuel cell technology (LOX and hydrogen) to supplement conventional diesel-electric systems extended the underwater endurance to two weeks or more. She was familiar with all of this because the space community also used energy production mechanisms that were air independent, and they relied almost entirely on photovoltaic arrays for electricity generation, with limited emergency backup power from alcohol fuel cells.
Of course, she didn’t share any of that with him, but she did ask, “Is your cloaking material a decoupler or an absorber?”
He beamed. “I assumed you know something about all this. We’ve been researching broadband passive waveguides for the past ten years. We’re able to redirect acoustic energy around the submarine. And to answer your question, our coating combines both effects, but it acts by redirecting rather than absorbing incident energy.”
“Ideal cloak coatings, in theory, remove the radiated noise and reduce or eliminate sonar strength.”
“Exactly.”
“And here I am, admiring the technology that ensures I’ll never be
found,” she said, tasting the bitter irony.
“That’s where you’re wrong again. When we’re finished with you, you’ll be released. You’ll go home, back to your daughter, and you won’t have any information you can tell them about us. Trust me, this is a win-win situation for everyone, and our enemies are mutual.”
“You haven’t proven that.”
“We will.”
“And by the way, your coating is flawed.”
He cocked a brow in disbelief. “Really?”
She nodded.
“You’re not going to tell me why or how?”
“That’ll just be another fact you’ll pry out of me.”
He shrugged. “We’ll see.” He opened the hatch and left.
Whoever this organization was, they could not afford or did not have access to a nuclear submarine, which made all the difference in the world. Ragland had already estimated that a diesel-electric submarine like this one could remain submerged for at least two weeks without snorkeling, after which time it would have to surface to purge the interior atmosphere of contaminants and to extend the use of its limited LOX and hydrogen supply by using its diesels to recharge batteries.
And that was when the sub would be most vulnerable, despite the cloaked coating and the crew’s best intentions to remain hidden.
She shut her eyes against fresh tears. She wondered how Lacey was doing with her project, if she’d heard the news of her mother’s disappearance, and how she was reacting to it. Ragland couldn’t bear the thought of her baby in pain.
OhmyGod.
“You’ll go home, back to your daughter,” he’d said.
They knew about Lacey.
They knew.
And why were these bastards so confident she’d talk?
