MindWar (Nick Hall Book 3)

by Douglas E. Richards

  It had taken Nessie almost a millionth of a second to complete the search he had outlined, an eternity for a system of her power and speed, which reflected the difficulty of the problem. They had months of data generated just from Victor’s implants, every active surface thought, every sight, every sound, everything he had read, or had done, or had discussed, every second of every day. It was an avalanche of information.

  And if Victor had read any reports that touched on the drone in question, they would be disguised with code names, not marked “specs on the advanced drones sold to ISIS for use in a future sarin attack.” Victor was all about stealth and circumspection.

  In that millionth of a second, Nessie had returned hundreds of documents, thoughts, and bits of conversation that might be relevant, but those that Altschuler and Campbell had skimmed through so far had been dead ends. Girdler had taken on a stack of electronic documents himself, but paused in this activity periodically to rack his brain, try to think outside the box, find an angle he had missed.

  But so far inspiration was in no danger of striking him.

  “I think I’ve found it,” said Altschuler triumphantly, pulling Girdler from his desperate mental flailing. The scientist expanded the document he had been reading and sent it to the right side of the wall of monitors, each page appearing as big as a man. “Can’t be positive, but I’d bet these are the specs for the drone in question.”

  Girdler studied the pages laid out on the screen, but if there were drone specs present they were imbedded in enough technical jargon to choke anyone but Alex Altschuler. Not only was Altschuler a genius, he also possessed BrainWeb implants, allowing him to access scientific information he needed for cross-referencing or other purposes at the speed of thought.

  Girdler and Campbell had both been given the opportunity to have implants installed as well, but both had passed, since there were precious few sets remaining and they were men who were set in their ways.

  “First, general characteristics,” said Altschuler. “It’s an octocopter. Eight arms, eight rotors, each made from military grade hardened plastic. A perfect circle, five feet in diameter, so about the same size as the top of a small, round kitchen table. It can carry up to seventy-five pounds and remain airborne for up to four hours.”

  Altschuler paused, and when he continued, he was unable to keep admiration from his voice, despite the horrible death this device was poised to deliver. “And now for the truly novel end of the spectrum,” he said. “This is one amazing drone. Better even than Nick led you to believe.”

  “In what way?” said Girdler.

  “First, its invisibility cloak, as Nick called it, is revolutionary. Well beyond anything we’re even attempting in our most advanced labs.”

  “Why hasn’t Victor incorporated this technology into manned aircraft?” asked the general.

  “It basically generates a bubble around the craft that cancels or scrambles light and other EM radiation,” said Altschuler. “But this bubble of invisibility weakens exponentially with increased volume and rapidly becomes unstable.”

  “So in plain English,” said Campbell, “it can only hide relatively small objects, like a drone?”

  “Exactly,” said Altschuler.

  “What else?” said Girdler.

  “It’s much faster than any drone now in use. It can sustain speeds of over two hundred miles per hour.”

  Girdler frowned deeply. This drone was fast enough to give the Pave Hawk a run for its money. Perhaps they had been hasty in their choice of equipment.

  “Finally,” continued Altschuler, “it can disrupt all communications in its proximity, within about a fifty-yard radius. Not enough information here for me to fully understand the method used, but it’s novel and quite innovative.”

  “You’re sure of all this?” said Colonel Campbell.

  “Not a hundred percent, but I think I’m interpreting the science and technical specs correctly. This drone isn’t just an advancement, it contains breakthroughs on three different fronts. The signal-jamming technology alone could be highly disruptive, and something we’ll need to get a handle on for the future. Bottom line is that if this drone gets to within fifty yards of you, you aren’t communicating. Period. Cell, Internet, sat phone, nothing will work.”

  “So the more we learn, the worse this gets,” said Campbell in frustration. “I was kind of hoping it would go the other way.”

  Girdler’s expression soured. They had hoped for a weakness but had only found more strength. These next-level drones were lethal little bastards in their own right, never mind the sarin gas. Even so, the better they understood what they were up against, the better their chances.

  “Nessie,” he said to the ever vigilant AI, “send a text message to our team in San Diego and let them know about this new intel on the drone.”

  Hall and Altschuler had set their implants to act as an instant communication conduit between them, but it was better to have the message sent through more normal channels.

  “Done,” said Nessie simply, and then a few seconds later added, “Captain Briarwood has acknowledged receipt of my message.”

  “Alex, please tell me you found something else,” said Mike Campbell. “Something that can help us stop these things. They have to have some weakness. What about disable codes?”

  Altschuler shook his head. “The design is as foolproof as I’ve ever seen. How are Victor’s people able to outdo the best and brightest in our own Black labs?”

  “He’s brilliant in his own right,” replied Girdler. “And he pays ten times what we do. He also breaks into legitimate corporate and military labs around the world, so he has access to all the best stuff everywhere. And he’s daring and spares no expense to get it right.”

  Altschuler was staring off into space, and it was clear he hadn’t heard a word Girdler had just said. “An EMP burst would stop the drone,” he said. “That’s one thing I am sure of.”

  Girdler shook his head. “Good to know, Alex, but the results of this would be worse than the attack we’re trying to stop. We might as well declare war on the city of San Diego.”

  A high altitude EMP burst was a nightmare scenario countries had been dreading for decades. The pulse would fry all electronics and any technology making use of the electromagnetic spectrum, which modern civilization was completely dependent upon. Cars would be temporarily transformed into paperweights.

  All drones would fall from the sky, yes, but so would all commercial and military aircraft. The power grid would be smashed, and every computer, every monitor, every cell phone would be fried beyond repair.

  “General Girdler,” said Nessie in a soothing feminine voice, “I believe there is new technology that might allow this plan to work.”

  Girdler’s pulse quickened. There were so many top secret developments occurring around the country, and his responsibilities were so great, he couldn’t possibly keep up with all intel and all developments. But Nessie could. So he had long ago ordered her to jump in any time she thought he was missing something important.

  “Please elaborate,” said Girdler.

  “The technology is still experimental,” she explained. “It’s called an EMP Cannon. Non-nuclear, but able to create an EMP burst just as powerful as one stemming from a nuclear explosion. Except in this case the burst is contained within a small and precisely defined area. Generates a powerful cone of disruption, but one that only extends out to about one hundred eighty yards. The pulse is entirely directional, and only affects technology inside this cone.”

  “Ring a bell with you, Mike?” said Girdler.

  Campbell shrugged. “Never heard of it,” he said. “You and I need to get out more,” he added with a wry smile.

  Girdler allowed himself the briefest of smiles in return. “Where can I find one of these?” he asked Nessie.

  “Prototypes have been sent out to each of twelve select military bases on the East and West Coasts for limited tests far out over the ocean. Pendleton has one,
and so does Coronado.”

  “I assume the helos flying the prototype EMP Cannons for testing are insulated from its effects,” said Altschuler. “Otherwise, they’d go down themselves if they tried to test it, correct?”

  “That is correct,” said Nessie. “The EMP device has already been installed inside a modified helicopter at the naval base in Coronado. Essentially, the shell of the aircraft has been constructed to act as a Faraday cage, and all electronic components within are protected by individual cages. They’ve now tested the Cannon three times without any loss of aircraft functionality.”

  “That’s great,” said Girdler. “But to use it on the drone, we’d still need to know where it was within a hundred yards or so.”

  “That is essentially correct,” said Nessie.

  Girdler rubbed his chin in thought. “Assuming we could figure out where to point our EMP Cannon,” he said, “we’d also have to be sure this wouldn’t release the gas.”

  “That would depend on the canister,” said Altschuler. “Most likely it has valves that are electronically controlled. If so, frying the electronics will trap the sarin inside.”

  “Most likely?” said Campbell.

  “It could be effectively built as a mechanical system as well,” admitted the scientist.

  “Nessie,” said Girdler, “where is Nick Hall?”

  “GPS and Coronado computers place him in a Pave Hawk helicopter hovering near the center of downtown San Diego.”

  “Open a communications link to him,” said the general.

  “Opened,” replied Nessie.

  “Nick, it’s Justin Girdler,” he said. “Sorry to be a distraction. I assume you haven’t found anything useful.”

  “Not yet,” said Hall, the exhaustion coming through clearly in this voice. How spent must he really be to sound like this after getting such a massive dose of stimulant?

  “If you’re over downtown, you should still be well within mind-reading range of Abu Patek, correct?” said Girdler.

  “That’s right,” said Hall. “Why?”

  “Need to know everything he knows about the workings of the canister. Most importantly, is the release of the sarin controlled electronically, or only mechanically?”

  “Hold on,” said Hall. Less than a minute later he was back. “It’s controlled electronically. Patek tested it himself. Like the drone, pretty advanced stuff. Computerized. They left nothing to chance. Sensors measure altitude, wind speed, humidity, and modulate the release for maximum spread and uniformity of coverage.”

  “This may play into our hands,” said Girdler. “We have the ability to generate a controlled, short-range EMP. It will make the drone visible, down it, and fry the electronics in the sarin canister, which Alex believes will seal the gas in.” He paused. “Do you agree with this assessment, Nessie?” he asked the AI.

  “Yes. I calculate the chances the gas will leak after the proposed EMP attack are less than five percent.”

  Girdler sighed. Still risky, but what other choice did they have? And this did expand their options. Their first hope was that Hall could identify whoever was guiding the drone on the ground and read the information from his mind necessary to take control. But now, if the drone had been set on auto-pilot, setting it irrevocably on its course, this gave them another chance.

  The problem was that success was still dependent on the mind reader. If he didn’t tell them approximately where to point their EMP shotgun, they were nowhere.

  “Hold on,” said Hall. “I think I read something problematic. Need to check Patek’s memories again.”

  After a brief pause, he added, “Bad news. It won’t work, no matter what. It’s Patek’s understanding that based on dispersal kinetics, the gas is set to be released at an altitude of fifteen hundred feet. But the canister has a failsafe mechanism, a dead man’s switch so to speak. Even if the electronics trap the gas inside, there is a mechanical pressure gauge attached. Once the canister gets above five hundred feet the failsafe is set, and there is no turning back. After this, the canister will blow automatically if it ever goes below this altitude again.”

  “Shit!” said Girdler. “Shit! Shit! Shit!” he thundered, surprised by how concentrated his own bottled-up stress had become.

  He took a deep breath to calm himself. “Thanks, Nick. I’m going to get out of your ear now and let you do your thing. Sorry for the distraction. Good luck and Godspeed.”

  “Thanks,” said Hall weakly. “We’re going to need both of these things.”

  14

  If a terrorist with knowledge of the coming sarin attack was anywhere in downtown San Diego, or within a five-mile radius, Nick Hall was failing, and failing big.

  They had hovered over the center of the city now for fifteen minutes while he let tens of thousands of voices wash over him, drown him, bury him under an ocean of thought, waiting for his subconscious to miraculously find the one mind thrilled in anticipation of a horror to come, of a mass casualty event that would bring honor and glory to Allah.

  He let his unconscious become the conductor of a thousand-piece orchestra, straining to hear the single discordant note within a monumentally complex symphony.

  But either the note wasn’t being struck or he was failing to hear it.

  Either way, if he continued his efforts for even another minute his brain would surely burst. He held his head in both hands and squeezed, as though trying to contain the explosion about to happen within.

  If he had missed the terrorist behind the attack, he was dooming thousands of innocents to a horrible death, and he would have to live with this knowledge forever. Still, there was nothing he could do. It was time to move on.

  He had already cleared the geography to the west of the city. The Pave Hawk had torn over the Pacific with a purpose, weaving in the complicated search pattern its computer had dictated. There had been mercifully few seagoing vessels due west of downtown, which limited the number of minds through which he needed to sift. The view of the never-ending blue-green of the ocean was majestic, but Hall’s eyes had been closed, and he barely managed to keep vomit at bay as the helicopter had completed a series of sharp turns and circles to cover the area as efficiently as possible.

  Had they not moved on to hover above the city when they had, he would surely have been wearing his lunch, which is the only way this could have gotten any worse. Luckily, Kevin Wellman had found some anti-nausea medication to give him, so this would not be a problem on the last leg of their search.

  “We’re done here,” he told the pilots, his voice strained and weary. “For now. Fly ten miles east of here. Start the same search pattern we used over the ocean, working our way farther east.”

  The pilots confirmed his command, having no idea what their guests were trying to accomplish, since they didn’t appear to be looking for anything on the ground, or doing anything else for that matter.

  And the man who was giving them orders appeared to be on the verge of collapse.

  The pilots knew better than to ask any questions, but this man’s eyes were haunted, and his expression was so tortured they wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that an invisible sadist was pulling out his fingernails with pliers as they flew.

  15

  “Nick says they’re planning to release the gas at fifteen hundred feet,” said Girdler right after the connection with Hall had ended. “Why so high? Doesn’t make sense to me.”

  “I understand why you’re confused,” said Alex Altschuler. “Most people would guess the optimal release point would be only ten or twenty feet above target level.”

  “Exactly. Wouldn’t the gas spread out too much if released so high overhead?” said the general. “Get too diluted?”

  Altschuler shook his head. “I’m sure they’ve done extensive testing and this altitude was chosen to maximize the coverage of target, which might be quite a large area. Don’t think of it simply as gas that will rapidly disperse in the air. It is likely a heavy colloidal suspension, or an aeroso
l, which might also be tied into another gas that is far heavier than air, like sulfur hexafluoride.”

  “I’m not sure what that means,” admitted Girdler.

  “Just trust me,” said the scientist. “They’ve done the proper experiments and calculations. They know how long it will take for the aerosol to fall to earth from this height, and this will be the exact length of time required for it to spread out from its release point to blanket every inch of the target area.”

  “Given this is the case,” said Girdler thoughtfully, “doesn’t this give us a small window? I mean, the controlled EMP would solve our problem if not for the dead man’s switch, right? Say we knock out the drone at fifteen hundred feet. The automatic release of the gas won’t happen until the drone’s fallen to five hundred feet.”

  He shook his head in sudden determination. “There has to be a way to catch a falling drone before it’s dropped a thousand feet,” he insisted. “Has to be. Nessie, anything available? Some kind of science fictional tractor beam?”

  “No tractor beam,” replied Nessie, “but there is something available. It’s called the X81 Drone Falcon, developed for just such a purpose. A drone-catching drone patterned after the bird of prey from which it gets its name. The X81 Falcon is a drone that swoops down toward its target drone and fires a large net at it, which remains tethered to the X81.”

  Girdler felt an electric surge travel through his body. Perfect! “Does the naval base have one on hand?”

  “No. But Pendleton does. They can fly it there in ten minutes. Would you like me to issue this as an urgent, priority one order using THT’s authorization codes?”

  “Yes, immediately,” said Girdler.

  “Done,” said Nessie.