"You're a friend of his." Not a question. "How close?"
She forced a calm she didn't feel. "We share our notes. He's a brilliant theoretician."
"A while ago, Penbury came to the attention of MI-6 because of his groundbreaking work in metamaterials. He began assisting us with a top secret project. This morning, we found his work had been copied and Najafian had received a large deposit yesterday."
Kali's insides went cold, but she said nothing.
"You knew Dr. Penbury well. Lovers?" Haster’s voice had taken on an edge.
Kali shook her head slowly. The first hoofbeats of a headache rattled across the base of her skull.
James looked from Haster to Kali and back. "What are you talking about, Haster?"
The MI-6 agent crossed the room, eyes glued to Kali. “When Penbury accepted the contract, he understood the project fell under the International Traffic in Arms Regulation.”
“ITAR regulates defense-related materials and research. That’s not what this was.”
Haster put his hand up like a stop sign. “Dr. Penbury developed a revolutionary method of making submarines invisible to sonar. When costs far exceeded our expectations, we involved your DARPA—”
Zeke interrupted. “He finished it?”
Haster moved his handmade stop sign Zeke’s direction, his voice a notch higher. “In a manner of speaking. MI-6 tested it on Triumph and DARPA on Virginia. My point is—”
He never got to finish. Zeke turned a frightening shade of red and levitated out of his seat. "You should have told us. We could have saved George—Triumph—kept Virginia from the hijackers? What were you thinking?" Zeke gripped Haster’s lapels, face an inch from his nose.
A light bulb popped in Kali’s head. Metamaterials’ properties were suspected of interfering with magnetics though no one had proved it. That’s why Otto had difficulty locking onto Triumph.
A choking sound from Haster brought Kali back to reality. “Zeke—stop! You’re hurting him!”
Haster shrank into the bookshelves, knees shaking, hands thrashing. He yanked a book out by the spine and battered it against Zeke’s shoulders to no avail.
“SA James! Stop this man!” His voice dripped fear.
James pulled a penknife out and started cleaning his nails. “I wish I’d stopped you from lying to us.”
Haster flailed a boney hand Kali’s direction. "She’s why hundreds lost their lives on Triumph and hundreds more are in jeopardy on your Virginia. She was desperate to crawl out of the financial hole grad school put her in so befriended the unmarried Penbury, asked for a copy of his formula and sold it. Seeing her, I understand why he obliged. When Triumph’s disappearance hit the news, she paid off Najafian."
Kali gasped. "You’re wrong,” but Haster wasn’t listening.
"A-as we speak, we're checking your accounts so you might as well level with me. Your future is in my hands,” he concluded with as gracious a smile as possible considering his head was wedged between Darwin’s Origin of the Species and Margaret Mead’s Notes from the Field.
"Knock it off,” James snarled, returning the knife to his pocket. “Both of you.”
Kali lifted her chin. “Zeke, I can defend myself.” Her voice came out calm with no room for argument.
Zeke elbowed the MI-6 agent as he turned away. “You’re disgusting. I should stuff you in a grenade launcher and send you back to Britain.”
James turned to Haster. "You’re way off base. Put your detective pants back on and find some real clues."
Haster rubbed his jaw, smoothed his coat and pulled a notebook from the pocket. "You can clear this up, Ms. Delamagente. We know you received a copy of Dr. Penbury’s formula. How does it apply to you?” He fluttered his hands as though confused.
Kali approached the wall-mounted monitor that had once been Otto's entire view on the world. She kept her voice soft, biting back a snarl.
"Please direct your attention here." When all eyes focused on the screen, she flipped a switch and it disappeared, replaced by a Degas reproduction.
"What—Where...” Haster approached with halting steps and stabbed a finger at the artwork. Otto squealed. Haster jumped and glared at the AI.
"The screen disappears, thanks to Penbury’s formula. It deflects light around the object to what's behind it, which is my painting. After last year’s problems, I wanted Otto hidden if necessary. Penbury offered his assistance.
“John also wanted my help. His program didn’t work with sonar. Not much use to a sub, is it?”
James glared at Haster. “MI-6 fixed the formula?”
“Penbury must have sussed it out himself. The one we received worked like magic on Triumph.” He turned to Kali. “Ms. Delamagente. It seems we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot.”
Kali couldn’t stop herself. “Because it was in your mouth.”
“You three chat among yourselves while I update the ACNO,” and James slipped into the hall.
Kali shuffled over to the tiny window in the corner of her office. Lights twinkled in the Mudd Building and laughter floated up from the Engineering Terrace. At least somewhere, life went on without fear of nuclear attacks and terrorists. She preferred to spit on Haster, but decided to try honey.
She smiled pleasantly. “SA Haster, would you please forward me a copy of the revised formula? I'll see what John changed and if I can defuse it.”
Haster bobbed his head and left.
“I gave Admiral Xibon everything, but the President wants more,” James announced as he returned. He loosened his tie and turned to Kali. “I want you to head a group of scientists. We’ve got a paint sample on its way and Haster is sending the formula. Figure out how to defeat that paint.”
Kali thought about al-Zahrawi’s threat. If she stayed here, everything business as usual, how would al-Zahrawi know?
“As long as I can start with a nap. I’m beat.” She kissed Zeke on the cheek, collected her briefcase, and left.
Chapter Twenty-six
Day Ten, Wednesday August 17th, evening
Kali's apartment
By the time Kali got home, a throbbing headache battered her neck and shoulders. Even Sandy's happy snorts and furious tail-wagging did little to take her mind off the pain. More aspirin would destroy her stomach. She needed something stronger, but would call John first.
She ended up leaving a message and then let her thoughts rattle around as Sandy sprawled across her lap, nose mashed against the arm of the sofa in the most peculiar position.
"Sandy. That cannot be comfortable."
He snored.
She called John Penbury again.
“Hello?”
"John. This is Kali."
"Who?"
"Kali Delamagente... from Columbia University."
"Kali. Good to hear from you. What's on your mind?"
He sounded not at all like it was good to hear from her. She hesitated a beat. "I heard one of your lab workers died."
He sucked in a breath. “They talked to you? Oh, God. This is frightful. Someone penetrated my firewall, Kali. You warned me. Now, I’m too late."
"Yes, but they understand—"
"Bollocks. I worked for the benefit of mankind my whole life, haven't I? I wanted to protect our boys, not arm the enemy." He paused, his voice wet, and took a deep, trembling breath. "MI-6 accused me of betraying my country. I would no sooner turn on Britain than become American." His voice was thick with outrage.
Kali felt for her friend. "I had no idea you made such progress on the sonar shield."
"That’s just it—I never tested it on anything the size of a sub, did I. They painted Triumph without my approval. I heard about it through the tele." Penbury breathed heavily as he thudded around his apartment. She tried to think of something to say, but came up empty.
"I'm leaving for a prolonged holiday. I don't know who to trust, Kali, I trusted Oliver as much as anyone I know and he stole my formula."
"John. Send it to me. I’ll find a hole in it so we can loc
ate Virginia. I’ll clear your name.”
A buzz announced an email arriving. "Take it. I-I must go.”
Kali held the empty phone for a long minute, took four Tylenol, asked Mr. Winters to watch Sandy, and returned to her office. Every time something rustled, she walked faster until she was running.
Ten minutes and she was locked inside her office. She shrugged out of her jacket as Otto swiveled his pudgy body toward her. "Hello, Kali. How nice to see you."
"No time to chat, Otto.” Her fingers flew over the keyboard. “I uploaded a formula for you. See if it accounts for the changes you saw around Virginia.”
Otto whirred, eyes glowing, zeros and ones flowing down his chest. Ten minutes later, he replied, “Yes, in theory.”
“Now run a sim to see if the formula explains the sub’s invisibility to sonar.”
More silence as Otto worked. Twenty minutes passed and then Otto turned to Kali.
“Yes. Again, in theory.”
Kali grinned. “We now know why Triumph and Virginia are invisible. Can you find the disruption caused to the surrounding magnetic fluxes by the formula?”
Otto churbled. “Yes.”
Kali wanted to cheer. “How long, Otto?”
He burbled. “I stopped the calculation at fifteen days because in that amount of time, the submarine could return to a tested part and negate our effort.”
So, if they locate the sub when its torpedo tubes opened, Otto could attempt—in theory--to track it by following the difference between what should be and what actually was in the surrounding environ.
They had to wait for the next attack.
“Let’s look into Dr. Najafian and Dr. Penbury.”
John had been a loyal friend to her last year. Now was the time to repay him. She started with why the world’s two top metamaterials experts ended up in the same lab. Maybe Najafian used his friendship with Penbury to obtain the spot, but the scientist in Kali forced her to consider all possibilities. Possibly, in Najafian’s eagerness to leave Iran, someone made Penbury’s lab the path of least resistance and then tricked the immigrant into helping the jihad.
Otto chirruped. "Dr. Oliver Najafian received doctorates in theoretical physics and practical physics from NYU Abu Dhabi in the United Arab Emirates.”
NYU again. “Any evidence of involvement with Nasr Al-alah’s group?
“I see none. After graduation, he taught at the prestigious Iran University of Science and Technology for several years until asked to leave for promoting Islamophobic beliefs. That’s when he immigrated to Britain and became a lab assistant.”
“Why not teach?"
Otto made riffling sounds. "His degrees from NYUAD were not accepted in Britain. He was appealing the decision."
Had someone deliberately held the approvals up? "Why Dr. Penbury's lab?"
"Dr. Penbury is his sponsor, as is Nasr Al-alah."
"Penbury and Al-alah knew each other?"
Oliver made a riffling noise. “There is no evidence of that, nor that Najafian and Al-alah were friends. I see several philosophical confrontations between them on a popular Muslim chatboard. Najafian was a pacifist and Al-alah contended the Qur’an supported war against the infidel."
Kali paced. Did Al-alah sponsor the man who was his philosophic opposite and then hold up Najafian’s approval to force him to work for Penbury? There had to be a different reason.
“Are there any connections between DARPA or MI-6 and Najafian or Al-alah?"
“No.”
Kali paced some more. Penbury denied completing the formula, so who had? “What can you find on DARPA and any paint or submarines they’re involved with?”
A moment passed. “DARPA contracted with Acentech to provide services to submarines. Would you like me to read the news article?”
“Quickly.”
DARPA awarded funding to Acentech's RH Lyon Division, one of the most experienced noise and sound specialists in the U.S., for a top secret project to create a paint that will make tanks, trucks, and even submarines invisible.
“This is the most interesting concept in military defense since sonar," states Dr. Steven Africk, Supervisory Consultant and principal investigator at Acentech.
RH Lyon must have completed the formula. She went to DARPA's database with her renewed Top Secret clearance and spent two hours drilling through the layers of data. She found a reference to Triumph and Virginia as candidates for the sonar-shielding paint, as well as an interview with a submariner named Najafian about how subs evade sonar.
"That's an odd coincidence."
She called Zeke and gave him an update. He offered to come over—did no one sleep anymore?—but she said she wanted to go to bed. Instead, she sat quietly, body motionless but mind burning through scenario after scenario, trying to find a way to neutralize the cloak.
Finally, she came at it from a different direction: Find a chink in Penbury’s formula. Two hours later, she took a break, got a soda from the machine down the hall, and drank most of it as Riverside Church tolled two a.m. She stretched and settled in to start again when her phone rang. It must be Zeke. Who else knew she was here?
"I don’t have—"
"I warned you of the consequences." The voice was muffled and raspy. "Now, I’ll provide proof,” and the line went dead.
Her hands shook so, it took three attempts to stab Sean's number into the keypad. "Come on, Sean!" She gave up after eleven rings.
“Otto, where is Sean’s phone?”
Last year, when she helped the FBI, James loaned her GPS tracking software. He never asked for it back and she didn’t offer.
“In his apartment, Kali. Shall I call it?”
“No. I tried already.”
He took a day trip—somewhere. Did he leave his phone home?
A heaviness descended upon her. How stupid to think it would be OK this time. She sat, shoulders slumped, head in her hands, as she tried to figure out what to do.
Chapter Twenty-seven
USS Virginia
Somewhere in the world
The moment the hatch opened to the crippled ASDS, Joey Najafian knew they were in trouble. No submariner he knew had a tan or, for that matter, the demented look of a kid with a Disneyland season pass. The clincher was their watches were set to EU time. American subs followed Zulu.
Damn these religious nuts and their crazy definition of Islam. Joey believed Allah to be kind and caring, nothing like the god these radicals worshiped.
But Joey was no fool. When they killed the Chief of Boat for no reason but he stood up to them, Joey greeted the next thug he ran into with folded hands, a slight bow and the required Assalaamu Álaykum. The man pinned Joey to the bulkhead with a massive muscled hand, and asked, “What right have you to offer the traditional Muslim greeting?”
Without hesitation, Joey responded, Allahu Akbar. Astaghfirullah. I seek refuge in God.”
The man tightened his grip until Joey almost passed out, and then asked why a loyal Muslim would serve the infidel. Joey blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
“I am a sleeper. I have awaited this day. Praise be to Allah and his messenger you have arrived and we can reclaim our destiny. I offer you my services.”
“What exactly do you do on this ship?”
Boat, you lout, but Joey answered modestly, “Fire Control Technician. If you intend to use the weapons, I can help.”
The Kenyan stared without a word. Najafian sweated, fearing he’d gone too far until the terrorist hugged him, kissing both cheeks. “Welcome. We were told we might be blessed with a True Believer.”
It turned out they needed Joey badly. They knew little about how a nuclear submarine operated. Najafian told them he could do anything on the sub, parallel park it if they needed, which they took literally. Soon, they gave him free reign, took his advice on operations and strategy, albeit warning him treachery would be punished by death.
But Joey had bigger fears, like finding the real sleeper? Worry worked on
his nerves like cook’s morning coffee. He found himself staring at every Tom, Dick, and Farha on the crew, wondering which was the terrorist.
Those he trusted, he warned to remain calm, keep their ears open, pass him anything they overheard and he’d get it to the Captain.
Within a day, he knew something big would happen August 30th.
“That’s two weeks,” was the Captain’s stunned reaction. “We have to alert Command.”
He gave Joey his personal comm code, but Joey couldn’t get past the hijackers. He tried to tell the Captain, but one of the Kenyan’s kept him busy trying to crack the nuclear weapons’ PAL codes. That would never happen, but Joey happily wasted time.
Then Virginia attacked the Chinese Carrier and everything changed.
The next time Joey saw the Captain, he was bleeding from a four-inch gash in his arm.
“Joey,” he wheezed. “Stop this bleeding.”
Joey found the first aid kit and bent over the gaping wound.
As Joey worked, he whispered, “We must prevent them from using Virginia to terrorize the world.”
The FCO’s throat tightened and his hands shook as he said what he must say. “Sir, what if I sabotage the MRG?” The main reduction gears. USS Georgia had been sidelined three months because one loose bolt rolled into the MRG. “Everyone will hear the rumble and know we have to surface and lock the shaft.”
“They took the key.” The MRG was secured for the very reasons Joey just explained.
Joey wrapped gauze around the Captain’s arm, his hands clumsy with fear. “Damage the turbine.” Engineers joked if you wanted the sub back in port, throw something into the turbine.
“Except they’re guarding the door.” The Captain lowered his voice even more. “Tell the crew to do everything possible to destroy the weapons’ usability. Damage the torpedo doors, the VLS tubes, the firing mechanisms—anything they can think.”
He paused and began again. “Then disable the check valve from the carbon dioxide scrubber's discharge pipe,” prevent it from sending the CO2 out to the ocean. “Next—and this is the big one: Figure out a reason to go to the degaussing station. Turn one of the coils to 0. We’ll show up on sonar like red paint on the White House.”
Twenty-four Days (Rowe-Delamagente series Book 2) Page 16
