To Hunt a Sub

by Jacqui Murray

  Fairgrove stood frozen like a man in the path of a freight train. Finally, he reached into his jacket. Rowe snapped his gun into position and yelled, “Don’t do that, Wyn.”

  “It’s a note for Kalian, from Salah.”

  “I’ll get it.” Rowe pulled a folded paper from Fairgrove’s pocket and handed it to Kali. Ten seconds passed before she spoke.

  “This is the magnetic signature.”

  A chill rolled through Rowe’s body. This was the endgame. Somehow, Al-Zahrawi stole highly-classified data from a top-secret SIPNet. Kali sat frozen, watching her monitor as a stranger with gentle hands who looked vaguely familiar put betadine on a gash across the boy’s forehead. Sean seemed to trust him.

  “I understand what this means, Zeke. I also understand that Sean will die if Otto doesn’t find this sub.” She turned to her videophone. “Do we have access to that satellite, Eitan?” He bobbed his head once, fingers still, eyes locked onto Kali. A silent message passed between them Rowe couldn’t decipher. “I uploaded the scripts to Otto.”

  Otto panned out, scanning the world’s oceans, stopping to focus on one interesting spot after another only to ultimately reject each. Over and over, he searched, analyzed, and discarded, until he reached the Sea of Japan. There, he zoomed in, inch by inch, evaluating, probing in concentric circles, calculating, moving on.

  “The Seventh Fleet,” Rowe whispered. Over forty ships, three carriers, two hundred aircraft, an undisclosed number of submarines, and 30,000 marines. What better proof of power than to incapacitate America’s—the world’s—most powerful collection of warships.

  After one-hundred thirty-seven rejections, Otto plunged beneath the ocean until a murky black shape appeared in the water’s depths. Before the ‘404’ emblazoned on the conning tower even came into focus, Rowe recognized the distinctive tall rudder and the forward position of the fins.

  “It’s Chinese. The Han class.” Rowe’s voice came out a hoarse whisper. Relief flooded him. They didn’t have the American signatures. “Al-Zahrawi tricked us.” Kali had just proved Otto could do what Al-Zahrawi needed.

  Rowe called James. “We have a problem.” He explained what had happened. Silence greeted his words. “What?”

  “You just made sense of a call from the SecNav who got one from the Chief of Naval Operations, who got one from the Commander of the Seventh Fleet. A buoy from a Han class Chinese sub popped up one hundred yards from one of our destroyers. We are mounting a rescue attempt with a deep diving submersible. Hold on.”

  James snapped at someone, his words muffled but not the crisp Yes, Sir, that answered him.

  Rowe’s throat tightened. “Bobby. They couldn’t steal our magnetic signatures, but their point is the same: They just proved to anyone listening that Otto can find a submarine. That’s all they need. We have to prevent them from using this.”

  James was silent for a breath, then, “How?”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  Rowe glared at Fairgrove as he hung up. “The first step is preventing you from telling Salah his trick worked.” When Fairgrove wouldn’t meet his eyes, Rowe lost it. “You already reported.” He wrenched the traitor forward, ripped the tiny transmitter from under Fairgrove’s collar and crushed it beneath his heel. Fairgrove backed up, terror in his eyes, hands protecting his body. Rowe’s world went red. He threw Fairgrove against the wall, smashing his head into the first aid kit. He would have collapsed, but Rowe held him by his hair and prepared for another strike.

  “Stop! You need me. Please—I’m supposed to go see him right now!”

  Rowe squeezed Fairgrove’s shoulders until his fingers almost touched under the trapezius muscles, and then shoved him aside. “Get out of my sight.”

  When his steps died, Kali activated the GPS Rowe had planted.

  “You track. I’ll follow.” It’s what he should have done last time.

  He was back in an hour, panting. “Following someone who’s in a car is almost impossible if they know how to avoid a tail, and these guys did.”

  Several hours passed which gave Rowe time to read Griff in on the problem. They agreed the terrorists could have sabotaged the Han-class sub’s electrical in ways that wouldn’t work on an American sub and didn’t prove it had been infected. Regardless, the nonstop news coverage it was getting, highlighting American humanitarian cooperation with China, would convince bidders Al-Zahrawi could deliver. Rowe promised to update Griff when he had more news.

  “How many of the subs have we reached, Bobby?”

  “All except one, the last out so the most likely to have the updated virus with the backdoor removed.” James sighed. “In the hands of a madman, one submarine can destroy half the eastern seaboard or decimate our battleships who would view it as a friendly.

  “Despite that, no one up the chain of command believes the magnetic signatures are vulnerable. The crisis will end once the final sub calls in.”

  Rowe disagreed.

  “Zeke.” Kali’s voice trembled. “Wyn’s with Sean.”

  Fairgrove’s hair sprouted from his head like a desert shrub. Blood streaked his shirt and a painful bruise spread over his chin. He shoved a pile of money at the kidnappers which earned a derisive laugh.

  Sean was curled into a fetal ball, his eyes slits and his whole body shaking. Someone waved an assault rifle at Fairgrove and shouted in Persian, which Otto dutifully translated—we no longer require either of your services.

  Fairgrove sneered at them. “You’ll never get away with it.”

  The thug with the rifle tensed. His face turned red and he howled as he reared back, and aimed at Sean. Fairgrove leaped in front of the boy and a row of crimson exploded across his chest. Sean’s eyes sprang open and he crawled toward Fairgrove as the kidnapper with the gentle hands snatched the rifle from his comrade, yelling that Sean was their only leverage. Sean cradled Fairgrove’s head and bent to listen to the last words the world-famous scientist would ever speak. Otto translated:

  Your mom can see you.

  Chapter 61

  Wednesday

  “Send HRT to this address!” Rowe yelled into his phone and rattled off the GPS coordinates. “Al-Zahrawi has Sean there.” If anyone could save Sean and capture Al-Zahrawi, it was the FBI’s elite counterterrorism tactical team.

  James stabbed at his keyboard. “It’ll take thirty minutes. We only have one Hostage Rescue Team in the area. Keep Kali away—I mean it. She could make this worse,” and he disconnected.

  “I’ll trade myself, Zeke,” as though she heard James. “Otto and I can beat Al-Zahrawi.”

  Rowe bit his tongue, knowing there was no way to explain it so Kali would agree.

  “What’s going on, Kali?”

  Kali jerked around. “Cat. You’re supposed to be hiding. Go home!”

  With a contemptuous wave, Stockbury sat down. “I have good news,” she said to no one in particular, hugging herself, rocking forward and back, head hanging, feet pointed inward, eyes shut. For all her brilliance, she had no coping skills.

  Rowe ignored Stockbury, turning back to Kali. “James will never let you trade yourself or Otto, now that he understands the AI’s capabilities.”

  “It will work. When he logs on—or I do—Otto will hijack his network. Al-Zahrawi won’t know what’s happening.”

  Rowe shook his head. “You don’t understand who you’re dealing with, Kali. Al-Zahrawi will kill you and Sean and take Otto. No. We need a better solution.”

  Kali’s eyes smoldered. “You’re the one who doesn’t understand. I’m not asking permission. I will get my son back. Your only decision is to help or move out of the way.”

  Rowe paused before holding his hands up, palms out, in defeat. She was right—he couldn’t stop her. The best he could do was try to control things. “OK. We’ll meet Bobby and the rescue team at the house, work it out together.”

  A beep announced the arrival of a fax just as Kali’s phone rang. She stared at the number and pushed speaker. />
  “Get the fax, Ms. Delamagente.” Grant.

  Kali plucked the paper that dropped into the tray and read it for five quiet seconds before handing it to Rowe. Her hand shook, but her voice was calm.

  “I can’t do it, Salah. That last signature fried Otto’s system. I have to rebuild his programming. I need at least a week.”

  Al-Zahrawi let out an exasperated grunt. “Always excuses. You have twenty-four hours or you will dislike the consequences. Oh—do not waste time going after your son. He is no longer there.” The dial tone shut off further discussion.

  “He didn’t mention the earrings, Zeke.”

  Stockbury teetered to her feet. “Gunner will trade Sean for cash.”

  Rowe almost laughed, but stopped himself. Cat was serious. “Don’t do that.” She spent her entire life under Daddy’s wallet, but money wouldn’t fix a man like Borodnoi.

  She ignored him and turned to leave, her path blocked by two dark-suited men. “Kalian Delamagente?”

  “Behind me,” and she slipped out.

  Expensive haircuts, dark steely eyes, FBI ball caps. Rowe didn’t have time for this.

  “Ms. Delamagente. I’m Mr. Jones and this is Mr. Davis.”

  Kali seemed not to hear the man. “Zeke. They shut Sean’s feed down.”

  Rowe texted James, They’re running.

  “Who’s Sean?” from Jones, and “What did you just hide?” from Davis.

  “A proprietary video game.” The only FBI Rowe trusted was Bobby James. He had no intention of telling these two anything. Their gaze darted between Kali and Rowe, trying to decide who the alpha was. “It uses avatars of real people. Do you think it’ll sell?”

  Jones’ lips smiled. Davis’ head bobbed from the clutter of food wrappers to Kali’s ragged appearance. He rubbed a finger under his nose, maybe stopping a sneeze, and shook his head once, then stopped. Kali cocked her head, and then sniffed under her arm.

  “We tracked a submarine ping here. What do you know about that?” From Jones.

  Rowe kept his face neutral, but Kali gasped, which earned their attention. “Are you surprised we figured it out, Ms. Delamagente, or surprised we did it so fast?”

  Kali looked at Rowe and then away. “They want to kill my son.”

  Both agents narrowed their eyes and asked in unison, “Who?”

  “Call your colleague, Bobby James, gentlemen.” Rowe handed over James’s FBI card. “This is Top Secret. Questions go through him.”

  Jones dialed James’s number. He spoke quietly into his cell, gaze shifting between Rowe to Kali. His tone became uncertain and he stuck a hand in his pocket.

  Davis asked Rowe, “You in a hurry?”

  Before Rowe could refuse to answer, Jones caught Davis’ attention and jerked his head toward the door. “We’ll call you.”

  They squirmed their way past a grandfatherly gray-haired man who eyed them with interest before turning to Kali.

  “Ms. Delamagente? Your security guard does an excellent job. He checked my credentials and even called my boss. You must have had recent problems.”

  His voice carried an agreeable lilt. He had the broad honest face of an Irish sheepherder and the bushy eyebrows of steel wool. A smile played around his lips and eyes.

  “You’ve met my F-B-I associates.” He pulled a badge from the pocket of a corduroy sport jacket. “I’m Detective Cariole, NYPD. You’re Kalian Delamagente, and you’re…” he touched Rowe’s arm as the former SEAL brushed past. Zeke glanced over without breaking stride. There was an alertness in Cariole’s eyes, behind glasses that sat crookedly on his nose. “Dr. Zeke Rowe.

  “You have a colleague, Ms. Delamagente. A Dr. Wynton Fairgrove?” The threesome hurried down the corridor, heels clicking, the sound echoing off the empty hallways. Without waiting for a response, Cariole asked, “When did you last see him?” His voice was weighted with a quiet authority.

  “A few hours ago,” Rowe answered for her as they exited the building. Cool night air blew against his face. When he took Kali’s hand, the fingers were frigid.

  “We found his body.”

  Kali blanched. “His body? What happened?”

  “Shot to death. I was hoping you could provide context.”

  Kali turned green. “I just talked to him…” The cords in her neck bulged. She fumbled in her purse until she came up with a water bottle, gulped half of it, and spilled the rest down the front of her shirt.

  Rowe stepped in. “Ms. Delamagente’s son was kidnapped. Dr. Fairgrove is—was—trying to get him back.”

  Detective Cariole sized Rowe up and then jotted something into a notebook.

  “Where did you find him, Detective?” They lost the GPS signal, probably when his body was moved.

  “Behind Ms. Delamagente’s apartment. Why would his killers dump him there?”

  Kali barely made it to a trash can before she threw up. Rowe said nothing, knowing better than to speculate. Cariole waited, but all she did was shake her head.

  “No opinion?” His pencil hung over his notebook. His first two fingers were stained with nicotine, but he didn’t smell like a stale ashtray like most smokers Zeke knew. Maybe he was trying to quit.

  “Anything else should be cleared through Special Agent Bobby James with the FBI. I’m sorry, but Ms. Delamagente and I have somewhere to be.” He handed over James’s card and hustled Kali to his car, the Detective’s shrewd eyes following every movement. Rowe didn’t rest easy until Cariole disappeared behind them, swallowed up by the dusk.

  Twenty-five minutes later, they arrived at the GPS coordinates from the bug planted on Fairgrove. It was a falling-down unpainted wood shack with a tin roof, surrounded by dirt and scrub and three distinct sets of tire tracks. Rowe recognized the window from the video stream and the tree Kali had spent hours trying to place geographically with no success.

  The HRT team declared the house empty with no sign anyone planned to return.

  And no sign of Sean.

  Chapter 62

  Cariole was pacing in front of Kali’s apartment building, puffing on a cigarette, when Rowe and Kali pulled up three hours later.

  “Hello, Detective. What brings you here in the middle of the night?”

  “Sorry to bother you. I forgot to ask about this,” and he held out Kali’s sweatshirt. “Dr. Fairgrove had it with him.” She turned away to hide the tears that filled her eyes.

  “That’s mine.”

  Cariole exhaled a lungful of smoke into the night and then stomped out his cigarette. “Nasty habit. I’m trying to stop, but I’ve been at it too long.” He fiddled in his pockets and pulled out a pack of gum. “Anyone? OK. Underneath him was this.”

  He dug a cracked gray bone from the inside pocket of his coat and handed it to Kali. The ball joint was directly over the outside of the knee, and though its dimensions were shorter and stouter than might be expected, it was unmistakably human. Kali’s mouth dropped open and she sucked in a shallow breath.

  “He found Lucy.” Kali took it with reverence. “Where Otto predicted. I hoped for the skull, but the femur—of course. It’s sturdy, robust, fossilizes well.”

  Cariole stared, mesmerized, and made no effort to stop Kali’s rambling. When her words trailed off, he asked, “Who are Otto and Lucy?”

  Rowe answered, “Kali’s academic interest is Homo habilis, man’s earliest genus-specific relative. Dr. Fairgrove went to Africa to collect artifacts that Otto…an AI…said were there.”

  Cariole crossed his arms over his chest and raised his right eyebrow, so Kali gave him the abbreviated version of her paleo man research, Otto’s reproductions, and Fairgrove’s assistance.

  “Assisting you?” Cariole checked his notebook. “He’s a world-renowned scientist and you’re a student. Are you two involved?”

  Kali shook her head, face a mask. “I use mathematical algorithms as a modeling device. It intrigued him.”

  Rowe interrupted, “The rest is top secret, which needs to go through—”<
br />
  “Special Agent Bobby James. Thank you for your time and my apologies again for the hour.”

  After Cariole drove off, Rowe suggested they stay at his safe house where they would be harder to find. Kali collected a duffle bag, stopped in to tell Mr. Winters what was going on, and they left.

  “I’m sick of their messages, Zeke! They kidnap Sean and toss Wyn’s b-body by my apartment. I said I’d help!”

  Her hair was glistening from a shower, face flushed. She sat in the FBI version of an easy chair in sweat pants and a logo t-shirt Rowe didn’t understand.

  “What’s ‘WWMD’?” She twisted around and he read the flip side—‘Dear God, I’m stuck in a snake pit’. “I get it—What Would MacGyver Do.”

  “They were giving them away when the show went off the air. I got four.”

  The microwave chirped. Rowe dumped a bag of popcorn in a bowl and set it between them with two bottles of Amstel.

  “I’ll destroy Otto so he can’t be used.” She shoved a handful into her mouth chased by a mouthful of beer.

  “Al-Zahrawi will force you to make another.”

  “I’ll refuse until he releases Sean,” she said between angry chews and another deep swallow of beer.

  “And then tell him where the subs are? Could you live with that? Could Sean?”

  Kali wilted, her eyes shiny. “What do I do?”

  “If Otto shares military secrets, you become a traitor. You end up in jail and Sean spends the rest of his life blaming himself.”

  Kali looked like a woman clinging to a wall of soap. “Why me, Zeke?”

  Rowe rested his forearms on his thighs and considered his working man’s hands, scarred by too many near misses as a SEAL, nails permanently damaged from digging in the hardscrabble earth of ancient lands, calloused by the rough life he embraced. One Kali must never meet.

  He answered gently. “People like me, I’m average and happy to be that, but you and Cat can make a difference in the world. The problem is, no one agrees what that is. Consider Robert Oppenheimer. Many credit his work on the atomic bomb as saving more lives than any other weapon in history. But he called himself ‘the destroyer of worlds’. Personally, I like our geniuses conflicted as they move us forward.”