by Ward Larsen
He tipped back the glass and closed his eyes. Park heard the crackle of the fire. The distant hum of the generator outside. Gentle voices from the adjoining room.
“It’s called a globe, honey.”
“It’s our world?”
“Yes.”
“Where are we?”
A wobbly mechanical spin. “Right here.”
“Have we been to this ocean?”
“Yes, we have, the Pacific. Here, here … and down here.”
“Is that the place with the three palm trees?”
A mother’s soft laugh. “I remember a lot of places with palm trees.”
“You know, Mommy. Where I had two birthdays.”
Park’s eyes snapped open. A jolt of what felt like electricity surged through his spine. He jumped to his feet and rushed into the office. The woman pulled the child protectively into her arms. Park ignored them. He put a hand to the globe, looked at it disbelievingly.
He ran out of the room like it was on fire and descended to the basement. There he skidded to a stop at the communications desk. He tried to remember the codes and protocols. His hands moved quickly, clumsily—completely in line with his thoughts.
Finally, he made the connection.
This time there was no foresight or planning in the delivered message. He didn’t bother to count how many words it contained, didn’t so much as read through it once. If there was any backup at all, it was that in his agitated state he said the words aloud as he typed them. Park launched his missive into the digital ether as quickly as he could strike the send button.
SEVENTY-ONE
Notwithstanding the absence of the beryllium-polonium initiator, the assembly of the weapon went precisely as planned. Sami, wearing a pair of thick rubber gloves, removed six uranium rings, one at a time, and fit them into the receiver at the breech end of the barrel. Rafiq then positioned the assembly onto the attachment point, leaving the explosives portal exposed.
At that point, Saleem went to work, installing the shaped charge, and connecting the leads of the primary and backup initiators. With everything in place, Rafiq and Saleem together rotated the breech assembly into position and torqued down the containment bolts.
At that point, the weapon was ready to be armed. This would be Saleem’s job—the chamber was surrounded by a spaghetti-like halo of wiring, and only he knew which were the critical two switches.
“It is almost time to pray,” said Saleem.
Rafiq, who had not bothered to do so in days, said, “Perhaps later. I still have one last task.”
“What is that?”
Rafiq pointed to the far end of the barrel. “With no neutron initiator, the access port must be sealed.”
He retrieved a circular plate the size of a Frisbee. Made from inch-thick steel, ten heavy bolts encircled its perimeter. Rafiq worked the plate into position on the top of the target assembly, then began securing the bolts in a machinist’s pattern—using minimal torque to begin, and alternating sides. With a final pull of the wrench, he backed away.
Boutros appeared from the corridor, having been relieved at the helm by Sami.
“It is done,” said Saleem. “All that is left is to activate the arming switches.”
Boutros stood looking at the tangle of wiring around the breech—Saleem’s signature “bird’s nest.” Bright wires, batteries, two alarm clocks. With the target so near, it seemed a needless precaution. “Which are active?” he asked.
Saleem pointed to a pair of black plastic switches, each the size of a matchbox, buried deep within the harness. “These are the true switches. The time is set as scheduled. Depress one button on each, and the countdown will commence. One will send a detonation signal at 1400, the backup one minute later.”
“When will we arrive?” Rafiq asked.
Boutros checked his watch. “We are right on schedule. The island should come into view soon.”
“Let’s go above then,” said Rafiq. “I would like to look for the island.”
Saleem deferred, leaving to pray in the adjacent compartment. As soon as he was gone, Rafiq looked pleadingly at Boutros. “Please,” he said, “come with me. I would like a private word.”
Boutros regarded him for a moment, then nodded.
* * *
Park departed the basement communications room as hurriedly as he’d arrived. In his wake the room fell silent. Only after a prudent interval did Khang emerge from the shadows of the closet.
He’d ducked inside minutes earlier, when Park had come trundling down the staircase. From inside, with his wide shoulders pressed against the wooden shelving, he had listened closely.
Khang’s English was not good. But that very fact—that Park had moments ago mumbled in English as he’d typed and sent out a message—only hardened his suspicions. He’d only caught a few words. Mistake … urgent … Saturday. To whom Park had sent them, Khang could only speculate—and speculation was not among his assigned duties. He was a solider, no more and no less. And right now his soldier’s instincts were on high alert. He sensed a battle brewing. A fight in the air.
He limped across the room to the phone he’d been using. Khang checked the wall-mounted clock. His comrade in Pyongyang had told him to call back in one hour. Eight minutes to go.
He hesitated mightily, his brawny hand wrapped around the handset. He finally gave in to impatience and made the connection. Khang recognized the risk he was taking. Yet if what he suspected was true—it had the potential to work out well for him.
He closed his eyes and imagined a phone ringing in a dimly lit room—one very much like the one in which he was now standing. A room deep in the bowels of Residence Number 55.
* * *
It had never been in Slaton’s nature to waste time.
That being the case, while Sorensen was gathering updates from Langley, he persisted in exploring the island. He found himself drawn to a small cluster of buildings. The most prominent was a corrugated aluminum lean-to that housed a makeshift dive shop. It was clearly a contract operation, something called Omni Divers. The adjacent air-conditioned shack was labeled Omni Grocers, and in front of that was a five-hundred-gallon gas tank administered by Omni Propane. He supposed all had been more profitable in years gone by, when groups of tourists still came. Yet there was still a resident population of biologists and researchers and radar technicians, all of whom ate and grilled out and explored the reefs.
He found one man under the corrugated roof. He was tall and thin, with bleached blond hair, roughly Slaton’s age. With an old captain’s hat turned backward on his head, he looked like a U-boat commander in search of a periscope. Slaton remembered being told the dive shop was run by an ornithologist. That wasn’t what he would have pegged this man for—but then, Slaton couldn’t remember ever meeting one.
“G’day!” the man said, his Aussie accent unmistakable.
“Good morning,” Slaton replied.
“New to the island? Haven’t seen you round here before.”
“Yeah. I came in on the Citation.” Slaton imagined that with only a few arrivals each day, and a runway that could be seen from any point on the island, that was probably how locals referenced newcomers—the airplane they came in on.
“Staying long?”
“Not very, but possibly long enough to do a little exploring on the reefs.”
The Aussie maneuvered around an air compressor and extended his hand. “Mark,” he said, dropping the R as if it wasn’t in the spelling.
“David,” Slaton said, because going with the name and nationality on his passport—Thomas La Pierre of Canada—didn’t jibe with arriving on a U.S. government aircraft. And also because here, on a rock in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, he saw no compelling need for tradecraft.
“Are you a certified diver?” Mark asked.
“I am, although I didn’t bring my C-card.” In truth, Slaton had been trained to dive by the Israeli Navy—and also to take part in underwater activities for which w
allet-sized certification cards were hardly appropriate. “I was actually only thinking of a mask, snorkel, and fins.”
“We can fit you right up.”
“No need yet—I’m not sure if I’ll have the time.”
“No worries. If I’m not here, I’ll be in the third hut on the right.” He pointed up a narrow path that probably passed for a street.
“Good to know. So tell me—how many people live here on Midway?”
“Live?” Mark chuckled. “Most of us are a bit transient to call it that—but on any given day, I’d say there’s thirty-five, maybe forty of us.”
Slaton nodded, his eyes scanning the shop. He saw the usual array of gear, most of it used, and not lovingly. A handful of skimpy bikinis were tacked to the rafters like dollar bills over a bar. Then something else caught his eye. He nodded to a short metal pole and asked, “A lot of sharks around here?”
“Only thing that outnumbers the birds. But they’re a harmless lot,” Mark added with typical Aussie bravado.
“Do you have the rest to make that work?”
“I do. Have you ever used a—” His eyes shifted past Slaton. “Don’t look now, mate, but your lovely friend is trying to get your attention.”
Slaton turned to see Sorensen waving at him frantically from the Citation’s boarding stairs. He whipped around and broke into a run.
As he hit his stride, Mark called out, “If you end up staying, I wouldn’t mind meeting her…”
SEVENTY-TWO
The seas were still cooperating. Boutros looked out and saw thunderstorms building to the east and south, but they remained distant. From where he and Rafiq stood, on the point of the bow, he strained to see Midway Atoll. They were inside fifteen miles now, but he couldn’t discern any land through the marine haze.
He turned to Rafiq, who was also searching—even more in earnest, it seemed, than Boutros himself. “All right,” he said, “tell me what is on your mind.”
Rafiq met his eyes, but said nothing. With a strong wind whipping through his hair and beard, he reached into his pocket. He pulled out a letter. The same one, Boutros was sure, he’d seen once before.
Rafiq handed it over.
Boutros kept his eyes on Rafiq for a moment, then straightened three folds and held the letter open. Wind whipped the corners of the paper as he read it. Because the letter was written in formal English, a few of the words escaped him. The greater meaning, however, did not.
He folded the letter carefully, almost delicately. “What are you telling me?”
“I want to accept.”
Boutros’ gaze never wavered. “You have been accepted into graduate school in Oslo, Norway. And you want to go there … from here?”
“I applied to a handful of PhD programs some years ago. I had always dreamed of going back to school, but I knew it would be difficult. There was a string of rejection letters, and I became very frustrated. Eventually, I told myself it was hopeless and committed to jihad. It all left my mind for a time. Then, recently, the Norwegian government began a special program, very small, in which they accept a few refugees each year into top-flight universities. This letter caught up to me at the camp in Suruç.”
Boutros turned and looked across the sea in contemplation.
“By then I was committed to our mission,” Rafiq went on. “I know how important it is to the caliphate. Even so, the thought of going back to school … it won’t leave my mind.”
Boutros let his eyes drift aft. “The launch?” he surmised.
Rafiq nodded.
Boutros tried to imagine it. “You could take it and head west, perhaps? Reach another island? Flag down a fishing boat?”
“Yes! I know there is a good chance I would only be captured. Or even more likely, lost at sea. The chance of success is very slight, one in a hundred … but at least there would be that one.”
Boutros said nothing.
“I’ve done everything God has asked of me,” Rafiq implored. “The weapon is ready. I am confident it will work, and our mission will be a success. Perhaps Sami could come with me and—”
“What are you talking about?”
They both turned to see Saleem approaching. Sami was at the helm, watching closely.
Boutros weighed a response, then held up the letter. He spoke loudly enough for everyone to hear. “Rafiq wishes to go to university.”
“What?” Saleem replied.
“He feels his work here is complete. He wants to take the launch and attempt an escape. He says Sami can go with him.”
“Coward!” Saleem hissed.
“I have done my part,” Rafiq argued. “If I could survive, I might someday bring another attack, God willing.”
“You will be martyred with the rest of us!” Saleem shouted. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a heavy wrench. He came at Rafiq ready to swing.
Boutros stepped between them and put a palm on Saleem’s chest. It stopped him cold. “Enough!” he ordered.
Saleem stood defiant, still brandishing the wrench. “He is a traitor, I tell you!”
Boutros looked at the two men in turn. He held out an open hand to Saleem. “Give me that.”
Saleem didn’t move.
“Now! As your commander, I order you to stand down!”
After a lengthy pause, Saleem relented. His shoulders sagged and he handed over the wrench.
Boutros took it, then half turned. Everyone stared at Rafiq. With the boat carving smoothly onward, the foredeck acquired the aura of a tribunal.
Boutros finally said, “I understand your conflict. You have done your part ably, and every man should have his chance.” Rafiq’s face brightened. Then with lightning-like speed, Boutros whipped the wrench in an arc, striking Rafiq squarely in the head. He collapsed in a heap and didn’t move.
Silence fell, the only sounds being the drone of the big diesel and the sea cutting against the bow.
Boutros looked at Saleem. “May God have mercy on us all.”
Seconds later, and without so much as a prayer, Boutros and Saleem together pitched the body into the sea.
* * *
“The international date line?” Slaton said incredulously. “He forgot about it?”
He and Sorensen were staring at a message from Park on her laptop. At that moment in North Korea, it was Sunday. Yet when Slaton and Sorensen had landed on Midway, they’d gone back one day by virtue of crossing the international date line eastbound. Where they now sat it was still Saturday. When Park realized his mistake, he’d sent an urgent message. The attack was going to take place today.
“This kind of thing has happened before,” Sorensen said. “We almost lost four F-22s, our latest and greatest fighter, the first time they tried to deploy across the date line. Their software imploded—navigation, fuel system, radios. They only made it back to Hawaii by following their tankers. Hundreds of billions of dollars for a weapon system, and every engineer in the chain forgot about the correction.”
She looked at the clock. “It gives us—”
“Thirty-eight minutes,” Slaton said, having already done the math. “But I’ve been watching the harbor—there aren’t any new arrivals. If this boat, Albatross, has been delayed, we might have more time.”
“Let’s hope.”
“Can the Pentagon speed up their response?”
“They’re doing what they can. The call-ups I mentioned earlier are still in the works. The airborne radar is two hours out, and Stennis is prepping to launch some Hornets—but even those are an hour away.”
Slaton saw the binoculars he’d requisitioned earlier on a table. He grabbed them and hurried to the entry door. He ducked through, paused on the top step for elevation, and began scanning the horizon.
Sorensen was right behind him. “Do you see anything?”
The smooth arc of his motion began in the north, sweeping left across the horizon. Somewhere in the southwest quadrant, beyond the distant reef’s whitewater, his movement caught like a gun turret hitt
ing its stop. He paused for a few seconds, then lowered the glass.
“Where are the pilots?” he asked.
“Operations building.”
He leapt down and sprinted for the door. By the time Sorensen caught up, Slaton was already inside issuing orders. “… no more than ten minutes!” he shouted.
The pilots, one of whom had a large coffee stain on his pristine white shirt, bolted out the door like they’d been shot from a cannon.
“What did you tell them?” she asked.
“I told them this island is about to get nuked. I gave them ten minutes to collect every soul they can find, put them on the Citation, and get the hell out.”
“You saw Albatross?”
“I saw a big fishing boat. I couldn’t read the name from eight miles away, but I think we should assume the worst.”
Before she could respond, Slaton was moving for the door.
“Where are you going now?” she demanded.
He paused, turned to face her. “Anna, at this moment there are roughly forty people on this island. If those pilots can round up half in the next ten minutes and evacuate them, they’ll deserve a medal. But there’s no way we can get everyone safe—not in that amount of time.”
“So what can we do?”
“If I was you … I’d go get on that jet.”
He spun away and disappeared through the door.
Sorensen rushed outside. She spotted Slaton sprinting for the tiny marina. Rotating in the other direction, she saw the sleek Citation. The woman with the singsong voice was running across the tarmac toward the stairs, a look of terror ruining her pleasant features.
Sorensen squeezed her eyes shut. “Dammit!”
SEVENTY-THREE
Every country has its corners of expertise when it comes to technology. North Korea’s Bureau 121 is a model of larceny when it comes to the theft of communications and hard currency. Russia lays claim to some of the darkest corners of the web, the FSB backing shadowed hacking groups whose disinformation campaigns create chaos in the West. China’s most lucrative front involves legions of hackers who mine secrets from defense contractors, and who thieve intellectual property for economic gain. Yet in one domain, there is not a nation on earth, or more concisely, above it, that has the capability of the United States. When it comes to space-based reconnaissance, America is dominant.
