Ripple (Breakthrough Book 4)

by Michael C. Grumley

  Alison sat resting in the shade at the stern of the boat, watching the sailboat behind them. It grew still smaller until it was eventually indiscernible from the sun’s sparkles upon the water. An amazing scene that was also teaming with dozens of dolphins, all swimming excitedly behind them.

  With a look of contentment, she breathed deeply and looked down at her feet extended out in front of her. Clay was right. It wasn’t all for nothing. And it didn’t have to happen all at once. Changing the world took time. Years. Sometimes decades or even longer.

  She knew it wasn’t up to her. How things changed, and how quickly, would be driven by events and circumstances beyond her control.

  For her own sanity, she just had to remember her part in all they had achieved.

  48

  But the changes would not take decades. Nor would they happen in a way anyone could possibly foresee, or even imagine.

  It was how all human history occurred. Important events creating ripple effects through an unfathomably complex minefield of social and political consequences. Ending with what could only be described as unexpected and unpredictable results. Only to be recorded later, by thoughtful but biased individuals, as “history.”

  And the events unfolding now would be no different. For the Americans or the Russians.

  ***

  Dubbed as “Black Holes” for their ability to virtually disappear from sonar, the Kilo-class submarines were a leap forward in modern Russian stealth technology. And while considered one of the quietest diesel-electric submarines on the planet, they paled in comparison to Russia’s newest Lada-class sub. Utilizing a next-generation, anti-reflective acoustical coating and lower profile, the newest Sea Ghost prototype was all but invisible to even the most modern sonar systems. It was another leap that left Western militaries scrambling.

  Onboard the Sea Ghost, billionaire Dima Belov uncomfortably sat three decks below in a gray metal chair. He rested quietly, massaging his wrists which were still sore from the handcuffs. It had now been more than twenty-four hours since they had departed Dakar, the nearest and largest city on the West African coast. It was also the one by which the brief presence of a Russian submarine would draw the least attention. The remainder of the trip would be made beneath the surface to avoid detection, putting them in range of the Valant oil rig in less than three days.

  Belov actually relished the peace of being submerged. There were, of course, the sounds from the rest of the crew going about their business, planning for their offensive. Nonetheless, there were also many long periods of near-silence in which he heard practically nothing. He even thought he could feel the barely perceptible motion of the submarine as it slid noiselessly through the cool waters of the mid-Atlantic.

  Belov looked down at his watch to remind himself what time it was. The rest of the crew knew instinctively, given how much they’d spent underwater, but not Belov. Between the stale overhead light and simple isolation, he struggled to keep his internal clock in sync.

  Although “isolation” was probably too strong a word. He wasn’t banned from leaving, in truth. He had gone out a number of times, for food or just for simple exercise. But while he was technically free, there was an atmosphere on the boat––a mood he could see in the eyes of the crew. It was a look that resembled ambivalence, at best. And in other cases, derision.

  It seemed that while Captain Zhirov knew the true circumstances surrounding the older Belov, the message hadn’t made it to the rest of the crew. To them, he was clearly a prisoner aboard their boat.

  When the door to Belov’s quarters opened next, it was Zhirov who stepped through, followed by his first officer. A tall and lean man with dark eyes, Zhirov carried himself with a pronounced air of authority.

  After closing the door behind them, both sat down––the first officer remaining noticeably more erect in his seat.

  “The two GRU teams are nearly ready,” Zhirov started. “It will be a subsurface attack, with one team taking the oil rig and the other the American science vessel.”

  “What do they plan to do with the ship?”

  “Hold it until our air support arrives. Once we find what we’re after, the priority is to exit both vessels and the area as quickly as possible. Before the Americans can mount a counterattack.”

  “That will leave only a few hours.”

  “That’s correct,” the first officer replied curtly. “The first priority is to assume control of their communications system. That will give us the longest possible window. When we have the information, GRU will evacuate immediately. The rest will be airlifted out.”

  “Helicopters are the only thing that can land on the Valant or the American ship,” Belov said.

  “Or a Yak,” Zhirov replied, referring to the subsonic jet trainers. “They can’t make it onto the ship, but there’s enough space to set one down on the oil rig. And it can make it back to Dakar.”

  “At low altitude?”

  Zhirov smiled at Belov’s comment. “Yes, at low altitude.” Evading radar was going to be key. Flying below radar at night would reduce what the Americans could track, but it wouldn’t eliminate it completely. There were still satellite images and the thermal signatures of the Yak’s jet engines. To conceal that, they would need another, albeit less exotic, cover. “A larger Ilyushin transport will be positioned to fly the exact same route and speed at a higher altitude. Above the Yak. Its larger profile and exhaust stream is perfectly designed to help obscure anything the American satellites can pick up.”

  Belov raised an eyebrow at both men before him. It was a clever ruse. “They’ll know it’s connected, somehow.”

  “Yes,” the first officer replied. “But they won’t know how. And by the time they figure it out, our cargo will be in Dakar.”

  Belov’s expression changed to curiosity at the mention of “cargo.” There were only two types in his mind: things and people. “What kind of cargo are we talking about?”

  Zhirov half-grinned. “That depends.”

  “On what?”

  “On you,” the captain said. “You are the only one who knows what they’ve been doing. And you know more than anyone else what it is we’re after, so you tell us what our cargo will consist of.”

  Zhirov was right. It was the single-most reason why Belov was still alive. And it was finally time to play his cards. All of them.

  “Samples,” he said. “Biological samples.” After a moment, he let himself grin along with Zhirov. “And some key personnel.”

  “They must be captured alive?” the first officer said.

  “If possible.” Belov was not officially part of the Russian military or government, but he’d seen enough skirmishes and battles to know how rarely these things ended well. There was simply no avoiding it. Once the battle began, the outcome was unpredictable.

  “If they survive, it gives us a huge advantage,” he said. “If they don’t, it will at least make things that much harder for the Americans.”

  49

  The faint outline of Tobago was visible soon after dawn. The rippling waters had returned, along with a warm morning breeze, stripping the distant island of its thin white cloud cover.

  Down below, Alison awoke to the gentle rolling of the boat and the soft clinking of something outside.

  She rose curiously, leaving an empty bed, and made her way up the four steps into the main cockpit, where she peered out through the window in the metal door.

  John Clay looked up when the door opened. A large compartment was open with Clay standing inside, waist-high. His shirtless, lightly tanned chest and back were first to catch her eye.

  “Morning.”

  Alison stared for a moment before looking out over the water. Small, scattered whitecaps dotted the water as far as she could see. “Good morning,” she answered cheerfully, while squinting briefly at the morning sun. “What are you doing?”

  “Just making a small repair. The fuel line to the port engine is clogged.”

  “Is that seri
ous?”

  He smiled. “Only if you want to use the port engine.” He then motioned to the water beyond the boat. “I’ve been going slow. Trying to keep quiet until most of our friends wake up.”

  She smiled. “That’s very thoughtful.”

  “Noise travels easier underwater,” Clay said, searching through the toolbox and picking up a different wrench. “How’d you sleep?”

  “I’m guessing pretty well since I didn’t hear you get up.”

  It was a joke. They both knew Clay generally didn’t make a lot of noise––another trait, or remnant, from the training of his past. She wondered if he even thought about it anymore.

  “There’s some hot water on the stove for your tea.”

  She turned around and looked at the small, stainless steel tea kettle. “How’d you do that without making noise?”

  Clay grinned. “It’s a secret.”

  She gave him a sarcastic grin and disappeared inside, returning a minute later with a mug in her hand, complete with bobbing tea bag.

  “How much longer until it’s fixed?”

  “Ten or fifteen minutes. Just putting things back together.”

  Lee Kenwood emerged behind her in shorts and a T-shirt, his glasses propped atop a slightly sunburned nose.

  “Morning, Lee.”

  “Good morning,” he nodded, looking down at Clay. “I hope we’re not sinking.”

  Clay laughed and continued working. “If we are, then I did something very wrong.” He winked at Alison. “And if I did, don’t tell Steve.”

  She sipped and held up three fingers with her other hand. “Scout’s honor.”

  Clay stopped and frowned. “Actually, I think that’s the Girl Scout pledge.”

  “Oh, right.”

  Lee laughed and stepped back inside. “I’m going to make some coffee. You want any, Clay? I know better than to ask Ali.”

  “I’m fine. Thanks.”

  Alison cocked her head playfully. “He’s an orange juice man.”

  She turned when she heard clicks and whistles from the water. Several dolphins were awake, including Dirk. But still no sign of Sally.

  Without a word, Lee’s arm extended out through the open door to Alison, holding out her vest. She took it and turned on the power switch. Without putting it on, Alison turned the vest around so that the camera was facing the water.

  “Good morning, Dirk.”

  Hello Alison. You ready now.

  “Not yet. But soon. We’re fixing the metal.” She immediately made a funny face. “John big strong man!”

  The translation sounded an error, but she didn’t care. The joke was still worth it.

  “Oh, you’re funny.”

  Alison turned back to Dirk with a wide grin. “Where’s Sally?”

  Dirk’s reply was short.

  She sleep. Sally tired.

  With a nod, she replied. “Okay. We’ll leave when she’s ready.”

  ***

  The previous night’s visit left Neely Lawton thinking about Steve Caesare. She looked out pensively through the largest window in her lab and across the water to the Valant, rising mightily from the shimmering blue water.

  Every time she talked to him, he became less stereotypical for a Navy man. After a long minute or two, Neely sighed and peered at her watch. If the rest of the group were on time, she’d probably only get to see Steve one more time. She was more than a little surprised to find herself secretly hoping for a delay.

  ***

  Aboard the Valant, and inside the oil rig’s large machine room, Steve Caesare stood in a precarious position. He was holding one of the heavier pieces of the drill bit while Tay wriggled the rest of the assembly beneath it, trying to secure everything into place. When it was set, Caesare released the drill bit and took a step back to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead. The morning temperature was warming up quickly, and the lack of ventilation on the lower level of the Valant had him wondering whether the rig’s original engineers had ever been outside, let alone in the tropics.

  On the other side of Tay, Lightfoot was quickly bolting the two pieces together. When finished, he called up through an opening in the middle.

  “Next!”

  Caesare faithfully lowered another piece down to meet Tay’s guiding hand. One of the several heavy titanium blades lined the bit’s outer edge. Unlike older designs, these blades were much less jagged, able to grind through even the strongest materials with minimal vibration.

  “Hey, Steve,” Borger entered the room behind them. “You got a sec?”

  “Sure, Will. Not in the middle of anything at all here.”

  “Sorry.” He hurried across the marred metal floor and helped to hold the blade in place.

  “Try again,” Lightfoot called up.

  They pulled the piece out and lowered it again, even slower this time. The alignment had to be perfect.

  “Nope. Again.”

  It took several tries before the blade finally slid correctly into place. Lightfoot began tightening while Caesare and Borger stepped back. Borger’s brightly colored shirt already looked damp with perspiration.

  “Can I talk to you for a sec?” Together they walked to the wide exit and out of earshot.

  “What’s up?”

  “Clay and Alison should reach Trinidad in a few hours,” Borger said. “So your ride will be here just after nineteen hundred. As soon as it’s dark enough.”

  “Thanks. I’ll be ready.”

  “There’s also something else I wanted to talk to you about. A couple things actually.”

  “Okay.”

  Borger glanced around apprehensively. “It’s probably better if I show you.”

  ***

  “Where is this?” Caesare asked, straightening back up behind Borger. On the screen in front of them was a detailed aerial picture of a lush green forest. In the center of the frame were several patches of open space, scattered with large boulders.

  “Rwanda.” Borger tapped on the keyboard and zoomed the image out, bringing part of Lake Kivu—one of Africa’s Great Lakes—into view.

  “Where DeeAnn told us to look again.”

  Borger nodded. “Correct.”

  “And?”

  Borger swiveled around in his chair. “And I think she was right.” He promptly turned back around and zoomed back in. Closer this time, advancing down to one of the rock-strewn areas in the picture. “Anything look familiar?”

  Studying the screen, Caesare shook his head. “No.”

  “Don’t feel bad. I didn’t catch it at first either.” With his mouse, Borger pulled a menu down from the top and selected a rotate option. The screen turned at a 90-degree angle. He then dragged the corner of the frame down, rotating it a little more before finally dragging a square over one section with his mouse.

  When the square was enlarged, a recognizable shape emerged.

  “Now that looks familiar.”

  Borger nodded. “It’s very similar to one of the outcroppings we saw in Guyana. One of the four.”

  “How many are here?”

  “Just the one so far. But this is right against the forest, so the rest could be obscured if they are indeed there.”

  “You can’t penetrate through that?”

  “Actually, I can.” He enlarged the shape of the rocks further. “These are multispectral images. The problem isn’t composition, it’s depth. And for that, we would need some ground-based Lidar scans to overlay—”

  Caesare frowned and interrupted Borger. “So is this it or not?”

  “I can’t say for sure. It looks like what we’re looking for, but the human brain can play tricks on things like this. Finding visual patterns in what often are random or natural shapes.”

  Caesare suddenly eyed Borger with a faint look of both surprise and amusement.

  “Hey, just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean I’m not objective.”

  Caesare grinned. “Evidently.”

  “Besides. You know how I hate to b
e wrong.”

  This time Caesare laughed. “Yes. I do.”

  They both turned back to the screen. “Without being able to see more, we can’t be sure.”

  “Agreed.”

  “But if this is it,” Borger began, pressing his hands together, “why wouldn’t DeeAnn have told us sooner?”

  Caesare folded his arms in front of him, pensively. “I think she’s battling more than we know.”

  “Hmm, maybe.” After a brief pause, Borger turned around again to face Caesare. “Well, changing subjects, there’s more I need to tell you.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “It’s about our friends in China.”

  “Which ones?” Caesare grinned. “We’ve made so many.”

  Borger smiled. “Well, do you remember that hacker kid I told you about? The one that helped that Chinese MSS agent find Li Na Wei?”

  “Yeah. You said his name was Mongol or something?”

  “That’s his handle, actually. M0ngol, M-0-n-g-o-l. All serious hackers have one.”

  “So what’s our friend up to?”

  “I wish I knew. He’s gone,” Borger said simply.

  “Gone where?”

  “I have no idea. But all information on him has vanished. Wiped from every source or system I was monitoring. No driver’s license. No birth certificate. No picture or bank account. Nada.”

  “Just like that?”

  “Just like that,” Borger acknowledged.

  Caesare brushed a hand against his jaw, pondering. “Why would they delete him from all their systems?”

  “Well, the most obvious explanation isn’t good.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “I can’t find anything on him, even internally––which I’m presuming means it’s the government’s doing, or perhaps the Ministry of State Security itself. Eliminating one of their own.”

  Caesare still had his hand under his chin when he frowned. “Well, they would certainly have the resources to erase any trace of him.”

  “They sure would.” Borger hesitated a moment before adding, “There’s one other thing.”