“We’ll take care of it,” Llewellyn told him. “I need to take you two down to the communications center. They need some data back at the Puzzle Palace.”
“Does it have to be tonight, Lew?” Lia said. “I’m dead on my feet.”
“Tonight, Lia. There’ll be time for rest later.” He turned and led them toward a companionway ladder descending into the ship.
Ghost Blue
Approaching Waypoint Tango Bravo
0119 hours
Major Delallo stuffed his nose down and raced toward the surface of the sea. He only had one engine, but he had it wide open and was using gravity all he dared. Down he went into the gloomy night, trying to get against the surface of the sea, where he would find some measure of safety from his pursuers. He just might make it. He allowed himself that much hope, at any rate.
A worrisome thump began sounding from somewhere aft, causing the aircraft to shudder and buck. He’d been supersonic when he took the missile. Now, as the thumping became louder and the instrument panel jiggled and danced, he automatically retared the throttle and let his speed bleed off as he tried to assess the damage to his mount. The missile’s detonation had peppered the Raptor with shrapnel, knocked out one engine, and played merry hell with his avionics. The slipstream might be peeling back a piece of the aircraft’s fuselage, and that might make for a bright, easy target on hostile radars.
He loved the Raptor, an astonishing piece of advanced aircraft engineering. Its one weakness, though, was a variation on the Murphy Effect. When things went wrong with the aircraft, everything went wrong, and in the worst possible way.
In February of 2007, Delallo had been one of six pilots ferrying a flight of F-22s from Hickam Air Force Base to Kadena, Okinawa. The moment they’d crossed the international date line at the 180th meridian, the computers on all six aircraft had crashed, taking out all navigational systems and most communications. It had been good weather and broad daylight, thank God, and the flight had managed to form up on their tankers and make it back to Hawaii. Forty-eight hours later, the problem had been fixed and the flight had continued, but the incident had been a nasty reminder of how complicated these systems were. The F-22’s software ran to something like 1.7 million lines of code, most of it concerned with data processing for the incoming signals from the aircraft’s sophisticated radar systems.
Right now, he was getting squat from the radar—both the AN/ALR-94 passive receivers and the AN/APG-77 AESA, or Active Electronically Scanned Array. His navigational systems had crashed as well, leaving him as in the dark as he’d been that afternoon over the central Pacific.
The one electronic system that appeared to be working was his SAS, or Signature Assessment System, which threw up warning indicators when wear and tear on the aircraft had degraded its low radar signature to something the enemy could detect. Of course, the warning indicators might themselves be a glitch in his failing electronics . . . but he didn’t want to count on that. Something was thumping hard against the side of the aircraft aft, like the monotonous beat of a flat tire on pavement.
The aircraft shuddered, the thump growing savagely more severe. The aircraft was completely fly-by-wire, with three flight-data computers that actually flew the aircraft. All his stick and rudder controls did was make inputs to the computers. They were doing all right just now, but if the structural damage exceeded the computers’ ability to cope, or the control throw available, he was going to tumble out of the night sky.
He was down to four thousand feet now and still descending. Where were those MiGs? His gadgets were silent—which probably meant they were damaged—although it might mean the Russian jocks had headed home for the night.
Delallo searched the darkness behind him as he keyed his radio. “Haunted House, Haunted House, Ghost Blue,” he called.
No response. If a data stream was still going out, it wasn’t registering on his almost nonexistent instrumentation.
Well, at least he was going in the right direction, west. Waypoint Tango Bravo was inside Finnish waters, a few miles south of Kotko. A support vessel was there. If necessary, he could bail out and hope for a pickup.
That, however, was an option he didn’t want to have to use. Those black waters, patchy with streamers of fog, were frigid even in late spring. Not even his flight suit would keep him alive for long, and with his navigation systems out, finding the support vessel would require outrageous luck.
Still looking aft, he saw a flash high and behind him, at four o’clock.
The northern sky flamed and shimmered with the cold glow of aurora. His eyes searched the deep twilight. . . . Now he saw it, a streak of fire in the night.
A missile contrail, a thin white thread arcing around to intercept him.
Oh, shit! There was no way his crippled Raptor could manage the maneuvers necessary to evade an incoming air-to-air missile.
He grabbed the lanyard for his ejection seat and yanked up hard. . . .
St. Petersburg 2
Waterfront, St. Petersburg
0230 hours
Lia was exhausted. She’d been at it for an hour and a half, with no results yet. She was ready to pack it in.
“Anything, Lia?” Rubens’ voice said in her ear.
She leaned back in her chair and looked around the stateroom, a fairly luxurious suite booked under the name Stevens but occupied by Llewellyn. It was the “communications center” only by virtue of the laptop computer set up on a desk in the corner.
A cable ran from the back of the laptop to a suitcasesized unit beside the desk, the hardware necessary to link Lia’s computer to a satellite dish above the cruise ship’s bridge. A black-box encryption device guaranteed her that her connection to the NSA computer center back at Fort Meade was secure.
The laptop was open. Prominently displayed on the flat 19-inch screen were front and profile views of a bearded, rumpled-looking man with watery eyes. He might have been a thief . . . or, just possibly, an unshaven accountant. A third photo showed a candid surveillance shot of the same person, taken in a crowd on a city street.
No.
“Nothing so far,” she said. She was alone in the room. Llewellyn was off somewhere with his cleanup team, while Akulinin had gone to his stateroom to get showered and shaved.
She pressed the enter key, and another face came up on the screen. A big man with an ugly scowl.
No.
Enter.
“I’m not sure we’re going to find him this way,” she told Rubens. “How many mug shots of Russian Mafiya big shots do you have, anyway?”
“About a thousand,” Rubens told her.
Another face, small, thin, and mean. He looked like a school bully Lia once had flattened on the playground.
No.
Enter.
She’d been through about half of the database already, focusing on those members of the Russian crime syndicates known to be operating in and around St. Petersburg.
No.
Enter.
“This is getting us absolutely nowhere,” she said.
“It’s important that you look through these pictures while impressions are still fresh in your head,” Rubens told her.
No.
Enter.
With a start, she recognized the next face—the man with bad teeth she’d seen in the warehouse.
5
Airport Hilton
Heathrow Airport, London
0815 hours GMT
THE POUNDING ON THE DOOR woke him.
Tommy Karr was on his feet next to the bed before he was fully awake. It took a moment for him to remember where he was. London. He was in London. The pretty flight attendant had agreed to have dinner with him, and they’d spent a pleasant evening chatting over espressos in a coffee shop. What was her name? Julie. Yeah, Julie . . . something.
“Hey, Karr!” a voice called from the hallway. The pounding sounded again. “We’ve got to get moving!”
He went to the door and peered through the spy hole. I
t was Payne, one of the FBI agents, blue suit, sunglasses, ear wire, and all. Karr opened the door partway. “Yeah?”
“Get dressed, lover boy. We’re rolling in ten.”
“Be right there.”
Minutes later, shrugging into his sport coat, Karr walked through the hotel lobby at Dr. Spencer’s side. Agents Payne and Delgado were with them. Agent Rogers was bringing the rental car around to the parking garage pickup.
“I trust you had a . . . pleasant night?” Delgado said, smirking.
Karr considered several ribald replies but then simply shrugged. “I slept okay.”
He knew the three Federal agents were about as thrilled to have him along as he was to be there. There’d been, Karr understood, quite a squawk out of the FBI overseas department when they’d learned the National Security Agency wanted to include an agent on Spencer’s security team. Karr’s presence implied that someone higher up the totem pole didn’t think the FBI could handle the job . . . or, possibly, it was just another inside-the-Beltway turf war. The Bureau’s director had finally agreed, but only on condition that the FBI agents—the real agents—had operational control and final responsibility for Spencer’s security . . . meaning, among other things, that Delgado, Payne, and Rogers would be solely responsible for Spencer’s safety at the hotel, sharing shifts in his suite.
Which was how Karr had found himself at a posh airport hotel with an evening free for socializing with a pretty flight attendant. He smiled to himself. Maybe the three Bureau suits were just jealous.
In the hotel lobby, a woman sat on one of the overstuffed leather sofas, watching from behind a copy of The Sun. As the four men—including her date from the evening before—strode across the polished marble floor twenty feet away, she felt a delicious shiver of excitement. Those men, she’d been told, were Russian spies posing as Americans, and MI5 had recruited her, her, Julie Henshaw, to help in the surveillance.
The young man, Tommy, had been engaging, charming, and smart, not at all the image of your typical Russian spy. He’d actually seemed quite nice.
But as the four walked through the double glass doors into the hotel garage, she reached into her handbag and extracted a cell phone. Punching out a memorized number, she held it to her ear. “They’re on their way.”
And she replaced the phone, mission accomplished.
According to the itinerary, Spencer was scheduled to give his talk at Greater London’s City Hall, in the speaker’s hall popularly known as London’s Living Room. He was one of a number of speakers attending the European Summit on Global Warming, a prestigious event sponsored by the Royal Society. London City Hall was located on the south bank of the Thames close by the Tower Bridge, a straight-line distance of just sixteen miles, but a considerably longer and more indirect drive by way of London’s tangled roads and highways.
“Okay, George, this is Gordon,” Karr said, using the communicator hidden in his collar. George and Gordon were handles sometimes used by the Art Room and agents in the field; they came from the name of the Civil War officer who’d given his name to Fort Meade—General George Gordon Meade. “We’re on our way to the garage. How are we doing?”
Marie Telach’s voice came back in Karr’s ear. “We’ve got you, Tommy. We’re picking up feeds from the hotel security camera. Wave!”
Karr glanced up and saw the small security camera mounted up near the ceiling and grinned . . . but decided not to wave as well. They were supposed to be keeping a low profile, after all.
“Switching to the camera in the parking garage,” Telach told him. “All clear outside the doors.”
Through the lobby, down some steps, and out through two sets of glass doors to the parking garage, where Karr spotted the second camera.
This, he knew, was the reason Desk Three had been roped in on a simple security detail. The National Security Agency possessed a remarkable asset in its ability to monitor electronic links of all kinds virtually worldwide: Any place where security cameras existed—like that one mounted atop the garage attendant’s shack across the driveway—the Agency’s signal-monitoring staff could trace the feed, duplicate the signal, and essentially peer over the security system personnel’s shoulders. It provided an extra layer of security for high-risk targets such as Dr. Spencer.
Karr still wasn’t sure why Spencer was considered so important but had by this time reconciled himself to the fact that someone thought him to be worth Desk Three’s time, attention, and resources. He felt he’d gotten off to a bad start with Spencer yesterday and hoped he could smooth things out this morning.
A few minutes later, Rogers drove the rented black Lincoln up to the door and the three climbed in, Delgado in front with Rogers, and Payne and Karr in the back, to either side of Spencer. Karr was momentarily startled to see the driver seated on the right, then remembered where he was.
“Okay,” Karr said as they pulled out of the garage. He glanced at the surrounding traffic, checking for possible tails. “We’re rolling.”
“Give us some video, will you?”
He pulled a small device from his jacket pocket, the size of a thimble, with a glassy lens on the narrow end. He stuck the base against the seat in front of them.
“Smile, Doc!” he said conversationally. “You’re on Candid Camera!”
“Very funny,” Spencer replied. “Are these melodramatic measures really necessary?” He sounded somewhat scornful.
“Beats me,” Karr replied cheerfully. “If we’re lucky, we won’t find out.”
The car pulled out onto the street, made several turns, and picked up the M25, heading north.
“Seriously, Doc,” Karr said after a few moments. “I’m sorry if I rubbed you wrong yesterday. I really am interested in what you have to say.”
Spencer was going through some papers in his briefcase, which he had open on his lap. “Will you be at my presentation?”
“Of course.”
“Then you’ll hear what I have to say then.”
“Yeah, well, I’m curious, though. My . . . people have been having some communications problems lately, y’know? And they were blaming sunspots. I wondered if that was what you were talking about, you know, with this solar model theory of yours.”
Spencer studied Karr for a moment over the top of his glasses, as though considering whether the agent was serious or setting him up for some kind of practical joke. “The solar model,” he said finally, “is simply an updated and extremely detailed computer simulation, which incorporates far more data than climatologists have had access to before. It demonstrates once and for all that humans really have very little impact on such a large and complex system as global climate. And . . . No, the oil companies are not paying me for my opinion.”
“Look, I was out of line with that crack, Doc. And I apologize.”
Spencer seemed somewhat mollified. “Accepted.”
“So, this theory of yours. You’re saying global warming is from the sun becoming more active?”
“Essentially. You may know that the sun goes through an eleven-year cycle which oscillates between more and less activity. We’re coming up on the next solar maximum in the next year or two, and so there has been an increase in sunspots, which do cause interference with communications here on Earth.
“However, what I’ve been looking at are cycles of much greater magnitude . . . hundreds, even thousands of years. According to the computer model I’ve developed, the warming we are experiencing now is perfectly natural, and not a product of human carbon dioxide production through industry or fossil fuel emissions. In fact, it demonstrates that much of the rise of carbon dioxide in the atmosphere over the past century is due to warming temperatures, which release CO2 from the oceans.”
“So . . . the rising CO2 levels are caused by global warming, but global warming is not caused by rising CO2. . . .”
“Precisely.”
The car swung around a gentle curve, threading its way through a major junction to pick up the M4 near Thorny, h
eading east toward the city. It was a gloriously clear late-spring day in apparent defiance of the tradition that British weather was always cold and wet.
Karr and Spencer chatted amiably for the next ten miles, discussing global climate change. Occasionally Karr turned in his seat, checking the traffic behind. There was one vehicle, a white Mazda, that was nagging at his awareness.
“So, global warming might be a good thing?” Karr asked.
“I know,” Spencer said. He chuckled. “Absolute heresy. People committed to the gloom-and-doom scenario really don’t like to hear about that part. But higher levels of carbon dioxide mean accelerated plant growth, worldwide. Bigger crops. Expanding forests. Longer growing seasons. Canada and Siberia, especially, could begin producing bumper crops of corn and wheat. But, somehow, the news media doesn’t seem to feel that good news is worth broadcasting.”
“Tommy?” Marie Telach’s voice said in his head. “This is George.”
“ ’Scuse me,” Karr said, holding his left hand up to touch his ear. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “Gotta take a call.”
“I didn’t hear it ring.”
“ ’S on vibrate. George? . . . Go ahead.” He held the cell phone to his ear, pretending to talk on the phone. It was a useful fiction that avoided unnecessary explanations about high-tech and high-secret gadgetry.
“You seen the white car on your tail?” Telach asked.
“The one that picked us up in the front of the hotel?” Karr replied. The vehicle, a white Mazda, double-parked in front of the hotel entrance, had dropped in on the Lincoln’s tail as they’d pulled out of the parking garage. “Yeah. I’ve been watching him.”
“Think you can give us a close-up?”
Karr glanced back. Traffic was growing heavy as they entered the outskirts of Greater London. On the M4, the other vehicle had fallen back to a comfortable distance, but now, as they skirted a traffic circle and plunged into West London, the Mazda was following closer, only about thirty feet off their back bumper.
Stephen Coonts' Deep Black: Arctic Gold Page 7
