Braintrust- Requiem

by Marc Stiegler

  His submarine warfare expert, who had lost his wife to Rubola, muttered softly, “The BrainTrust promised never to use them for warfare, and they didn’t even use them in that fight with the Chinese in Nigeria when they were overwhelmingly outmatched.”

  Beck had to concede the point, although it made his pulse pound harder. In the end, the BrainTrust hadn’t needed laser blasters to beat the Chinese because they’d found another way to take down a superior foe. He wondered what they would try with him. “That was a fight for Benin, not a fight to the death for the BrainTrust itself. Let’s be clear. At the end of this battle, there will be no BrainTrust. Their culture, their society, will cease to exist, and most of their leadership, if they survive, will be in jail forever. Will they really hold off using their every possible weapon?”

  Lambert tried again. “We also have no real reason to believe those lasers can destroy anything like a warship. They were designed to destroy clouds of viruses. You don’t need the ability to blast a hole in armor plate for that.”

  The surface combat expert chimed in. “Our lasers certainly aren’t that good yet.”

  Beck explained patiently, “But this is the BrainTrust. Our limitations are not theirs. Does anyone know for sure that they can’t blow a hole in a ship?”

  Silence met this question.

  Eventually his expert on surveillance systems spoke. “Even if they don’t fire the lasers, they can still use the sensors on those satellites to watch us and make plans. Whatever they might hope to do in response to our attack, we’re better off keeping them in the dark.”

  Beck looked around at the morose faces. “That’s it? Knock them down.”

  In moments, flight after flight of SM-3 anti-ballistic missiles left their vertical tubes on the Aegis Defense Systems on every destroyer and cruiser in the fleet. This was not what the SM-3 had been designed for, but the missiles had been tested in this application, and they worked.

  Two hours later, the laser satellites of the BrainTrust ceased to exist.

  Ciara threw open a hatch with a crudely marked sign overhead saying, Temporary CWCC. She led Kingsley and Shura inside the classroom.

  Ciara focused on the woman standing at the head of the room with wildly curly red hair and Coke-bottle-thick glasses. “Merrilee! Nice to see you again.”

  When Ciara entered, Merrilee had looked totally harassed and moderately frazzled. As she focused on Ciara’s face, her expression unclouded. She beamed. “Good to see you too.” She started looking harassed again. “Today we have a much bigger cyberattack problem to contend with than the last time.”

  Ciara nodded. The last time she’d seen Merrilee, they were in a mediation with Joshua Pickett. A California lead investigator had kidnapped Merrilee’s son Charlie for a cybercrime: Charlie had uncovered a horrific California government conspiracy against its citizens.

  Ciara pointed to her two proteges. “These are Shura and Kingsley. Kingsley might be as bright a cyberhacker as Charlie.” She glowered at Shura. “Shura is here to stir up as much trouble as she can.”

  Shura smiled brightly. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Merrilee.”

  Lenora charged into the room. “I see you found the place.”

  Ciara barely frowned at her mother before turning to Kingsley. “Let me introduce you to Charlie.”

  Charlie, sitting at a desk near the front of the room with three immense screens before him, turned and waved. He had not quite been a teenager when Ciara had last seen him. Now he was fully engaged with the battle of teenage hormones, evidenced by the acne that had arisen on his formerly fresh face.

  As the three children got acquainted, the three adults stared at each other for a moment. Ciara asked, “So, what can I do?”

  Merrilee took command. “You can help some of our other young cyberwarriors get set up.” She waved her hand around the room.

  For the first time, Ciara noticed the rest of the space. Numerous desks had people gearing up—some barely teenagers, some late adolescents, some college students. Ciara was sure they represented the cream of the crop from the BrainTrust in cybersecurity and cyberwar.

  Colin appeared on the wallscreen. “You folks ready? The game’s afoot.”

  Fleet Captain Ainsworth was napping on a cot in the CIC of the Aegis when Hart muttered a long line of swear words.

  After checking to make sure Hart’s obscenities hadn’t cracked any of the wallscreens, Ainsworth queried him. “What’s wrong now?”

  “The laser satellites are gone.”

  The captain jumped up in alarm. “The satellites are what? They can’t all be gone! You sure you don’t have a glitch in your instruments?”

  “No, I’m sure. The bloody Yanks blew up the whole constellation.”

  Ainsworth focused on the main issue, namely the drone copters that they were powering with the combination of laser power from the satellites and laser power from the Aegis. “What about the drone copters? They still in the air?”

  “For now, they are. But we may be a teensy bit short of the oomph required to keep them all flying by ourselves.”

  The captain gave it some thought. “Let’s ring up the Alcyone. We’ll tell them to surface and help keep the drone supercapacitors topped off for the next couple of hours.” He glanced at the maps and the dispositions of forces. “We’re almost there. Once we get close enough to let the drones go on stored power, the Alcyone can dive, and we can sneak into position with the rest of the isle ships.” He smiled wickedly. “And then it’ll be time to start doing our magic.”

  Commodore Kung breathed a sigh of relief. “At last, we can move out.”

  The captain of the Xiamen, who was standing beside him on the bridge, gave orders to the helmsman, and they departed the dock. The other two destroyers formed up behind him as they threaded the deep channel.

  A crunching grinding sound assaulted their ears. The captain bellowed, “Full stop.”

  The sonarman had an announcement. “Looks like there’s debris in the channel, sir.”

  The commodore swore under his breath.

  The captain ordered a pair of divers to go down and see what the hell was going on.

  It did not take too long to get the diver’s report. “The channel is full of debris. You can’t even tell anymore that there’s a channel here.”

  The captain growled. “Except somehow, all the debris in the channel lies underwater just deep enough so it’s invisible.” He waved his hand around the swamp. “Whereas everywhere else, the stuff is sticking up in all directions.”

  The commodore had his first chilling moment of suspicion that the BrainTrust might not be a pushover. He interrupted the flow of the report. “So, we’re trapped in the harbor?”

  The diver turned to him. “We can continue to search for a path, but at the moment, it looks like it.”

  Kung stepped off the bridge and called Wu Bolin. “The BrainTrust has jammed the harbor channel with debris and we can’t get out. How quickly can you clear it?”

  Wu sounded nervous. “If we can find a path with only a couple of obstacles, we can probably get you out in a day or so. If they’ve really turned the channel into a piece of the swamp, it could take a long time.”

  The commodore considered reaming the idiot, but Wu was only a civilian, and a proper lecture would take time he didn’t have. He simply hung up the phone and stomped back onto the bridge.

  As the captain watched him approach, Kung started verifying the facts for his next plan. “Captain, as I recall, the BrainTrust fleet was about two hundred kilometers from Lagos when we ran surveillance on our way here, correct?”

  The captain nodded. “Radar, do you still have the enemy fleet in contact?”

  “Yes, sir. They are now two hundred eighteen kilometers from our current position.”

  Kung winced. The Prometheus was just barely within range for his YJ-18 anti-ship missiles.

  Then he smiled. A dozen kilometers farther and he couldn’t have hit them at all. Fifty kilometers farther a
nd he couldn’t have even seen them.

  But this was the BrainTrust. The sudden mysterious jumbling of the channel made him suspicious. “Are we sure that’s them?”

  The radarman gave his best answer. “It’s a huge clutter of returns. It certainly looks like them on radar.”

  The man running SigInt added his assessment. “Can’t tell the distance, but the electronic emissions are coming down that bearing, and they seem to be the same strength as during our close pass.”

  So it seemed likely this was them. Still, Kung hesitated. Was this what had happened to Suen, with everything looking fine until it was suddenly and horribly not? “Launch the helicopter, let’s triangulate.”

  So the Xiamen’s Z-20, a knockoff of the American Blackhawk, lifted off the ship’s helipad and soared to the southwest.

  As the copter reached the farthest point of its sensor sweep and turned around, the radarman announced tensely, “Picking up a fighter. It’s one of the F35s.”

  The captain took action. “Battle stations.”

  The radarman clarified. “It’s not heading toward us, sir. If it were coming toward us, we wouldn’t see it for a while. We’re getting a reflection off the side.”

  The commodore interrupted. “Then where’s it going?”

  The radarman took a moment to answer. “It’s after our helicopter.”

  The captain ordered the copter to dive, evade, and return, but it was too late. The helicopter disappeared from the radar.

  The SigInt operator had good news, however. “We did get a triangulating fix with the elint, Sir. It’s radiating from the same location as the radar.”

  Kung unclenched his fists from the loss of the helicopter and contemplated his attack strategy. He had three ships, each with thirty anti-ship missiles. “Tell everyone to fire fifteen missiles at the Prometheus fleet.” He explained he wanted the terminal guidance systems to randomly pick out targets in the zone.

  They watched on the radar as the missiles accelerated to Mach Three for the final approach, then disappeared.

  They would now learn the answer to the question: how much damage could an isle ship take? This had been a matter of much discussion among the officers of the fleet for several years. Forty-five missiles, each with a quarter-ton of high explosive, had to have a devastating impact.

  But the enemy ships were huge, and no one fully understood the consequences of blasting a thick hull of calcium carbonate reinforced with magnesium rebar. Was the calcium carbonate—the stuff of which seashells were made—soft enough to soak up the impact? Or would it disintegrate?

  The more enthusiastic younger officers were convinced you could easily burn an isle ship to the waterline with one good hit. The superstructure, they explained, was made mostly of magnesium. Hit it with a heavy missile, and it would light up to burn at three thousand degrees. Nothing could put it out until every morsel of ship was ash. They mourned that the Chinese navy had no incendiary warheads to maximize the effect.

  The SigInt station was first to notice a change. “All electronic signals have disappeared, Commodore.” You could sense a wave of satisfaction move around the room, satisfaction that would have led to cheering had it been allowed.

  The radar station had more ambiguous news. “They’re still there. Of course, I can’t tell what kind of shape they’re in.”

  The commodore forced down a grumble of frustration. He’d have to wait for the next overhead pass of a satellite to find out what had happened.

  So he suppressed all cheers and other displays of congratulations for two hours.

  Finally, they got a clear picture of the BrainTrust’s location. The satellite operator gasped. “There’s nothing there.” He double-checked instruments and the location photographed. “They’re gone.”

  The radar operator confirmed. “Nothing on my instruments anymore either. Looks like the whole fleet just sank without a trace.” He looked up. “I guess the lieutenants were right about the magnesium flaring and destroying everything.”

  At last, Commodore Kung exhaled the last vestiges of the breath he’d been holding. “Congratulations, seamen. Looks like we are making history—the first people to ever take out an isle ship.” He smiled. “In this case, a whole fleet of them.”

  Dash was poring over the isle ship manuals one more time when her doorbell started ringing like a berserker. She opened her door to find Dawn standing there, wearing one of her finest gowns, flashing jewelry worth millions.

  Dawn put her hands on her hips. “Do you have a decent dress?”

  Dash stared at her, disoriented. “What difference can that possibly make? I’m about to go join Colin in the CIC.”

  “First things first. Now, a short celebration. Dress?”

  Dash frowned in exasperation. “I still have my dress from First Launch.”

  Dawn clapped. “Excellent. Put it on. And hurry.”

  Dawn had already hailed an arvee by the time Dash came out of her cabin wearing her Tory Burch Evaline Cold Shoulder dress, with her lab coat folded over her forearm.

  Dawn directed the arvee to take them to Matt Toscano’s place on the Haven.

  Dash demanded answers. “What are we celebrating?”

  “Well, first of all, we are celebrating the Battle of Saragarhi.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Who has? But it’s appropriate.” Dawn chuckled. “It was a battle between Sikhs and Pashtuns. Twenty-one Sikhs defended their itty bitty army post from ten thousand soldiers trying to capture it. The Pashtuns had to take the Sikhs’ outpost before they could move on to attack Fort Gulistan, which was unprepared for an assault.”

  “I’m afraid to ask: what happened to the Sikhs?”

  Dawn shrugged. “Oh, they all died.” Dawn continued with grim satisfaction, “But they held the Pashtuns back long enough for the British to reinforce the fort. The Battle of Saragarhi was a tactical defeat for the Sikhs and the Brits, but from it emerged a strategic victory.”

  “I see. What else are we celebrating?”

  Dawn smirked. “I’ll let Ben tell you.”

  They arrived at Matt’s place and entered. Gina pushed a Coke into Dash’s hand.

  Matt helped Ben get to his feet.

  Ben raised his glass, which contained orange juice. As Dash looked around, she noted with approval that no one was celebrating with alcohol.

  Ben offered a toast. “First toast, to the heroes of the Battle of Saragarhi, may their heroism be remembered forever.”

  Everyone took a sip of their favorite beverage.

  Dawn raised her glass. “Second toast, to Ben Wilson, the world’s first trillionaire.”

  Everyone took a sip, and Dash exclaimed, “Ben! Congratulations!” When Dash had first met Ben, he had explained that this was the goal that kept him ticking.

  Ben looked down at his feet. “Well, it’s a little premature. If things go as projected, I’ll actually cross the trillion-dollar threshold in about thirty days.” He shrugged. “But I thought we should celebrate early, just in case I only manage to become the world’s first dead trillionaire.”

  Dash appreciated the point, which reminded her she was on a tight schedule. “And third?”

  Matt nudged Ben to proceed. “The third is extremely premature, but it’s worth celebrating nonetheless, just in case.” He raised his glass once more. “In about a year and a half, congratulations to Dr. Dyah Ambarawati, who will become the world’s second trillionaire.”

  This time everybody beamed at her, put their drinks down, and clapped.

  Dash looked down, embarrassed. “Thank you, I guess. But—”

  The wallscreen in Matt’s living room awakened. Colin appeared and surveyed the situation. He smiled warmly. “Congratulations, Ben, Dash.” He focused on Dash. “Now. It’s starting now.”

  Dash put her glass on the bar table and slipped her lab coat over her dress. “Let us see if this time, the people in the outpost can come out alive.”

  About a thousand Sp
etsnaz are considered to be comparable to Navy Seals. If the Premier could have, he would have put all of them on the sub sent to the BrainTrust to capture the irritatingly elusive Dr. Dash. In the end, they had packed about two hundred onto the boat before departure.

  The leader of Team One checked his wristwatch, a brand new gizmo that had been issued just before departing the submarine. The clusterfucking had already started since no one seemed to know the reason for this particular watch rather than the one he’d worn for the last decade. He’d just sighed and strapped the damned thing to his wrist.

  Time to go. He led his men, submerged by the GS Prime, as they clambered onto the dock and ditched their wetsuits.

  Speed was everything. The team leader had half-expected to be gunned down there on the dock, but the BrainTrust was not omniscient and omnipotent.

  The immense portal between the dock and the interior of the ship was, however, sealed tight. No problem; his people had brought lots of charges to blow through sealed hatchways.

  Time from first surfacing to breach and entry was about a minute. The team leader sped down the passage and up the ramps, ascending toward the Midas Touch deck, the main promenade of the GS Prime. They blew holes through half a dozen barriers meant to maintain watertight compartments during a Condition Zebra.

  Finally, they charged up a ramp onto a deck where every wall and decoration was coated in gold. It really was as crazy as the videos had suggested.

  He could see far down the passage to the place where it opened onto the main promenade. He started to breathe easier. Every narrow corridor in this whole fleet could be instantly turned into another Battle of Thermopylae, where a handful of defenders could hold off a whole army.

  He liked the idea of being able to fight in the open, although he understood it was not strictly necessary to his mission. His goal was not to capture the doctor. Rather, he was to create havoc and sow confusion if possible, leading BrainTrust peacekeepers away from the Chiron, where the main assault would take place.