Frozen Fire

by Evans, Bill; Jameson, Marianna

  “There’s no reason for the ground stations to be taken offline, Andy. Micki would never order that, not without notifying us first and definitely not without a good reason,” Victoria replied, wishing she could believe her own words. “And she’d never take down the backups at the same time as the default systems. Especially not under these circumstances. She knows we need them.”

  Without getting up from his chair, Andy leaned forward and gently shut his office door, then leaned back and met her eyes. “Vic, let me be blunt. Whatever’s going on down there is not happening by accident. Things have been powered down and turned off. The island has gone dark on purpose. We can’t even get through using cellular traffic, which, as you know, relies on a different transponder on a different bird and uses different receiving equipment on the ground.” Andrew folded his arms across his chest and let them rest on his not-inconsiderable paunch. “Orem’s checked the weather and there’s nothing going on. Barely even a breeze, no lightning strikes, no volcanic eruptions, no crazy geomagnetic, flux density, planetary-alignment, alien-entity, New Age psychobabble crap. Nothing is going on. And Tropical Storm Whoever is nowhere near Taino.”

  Feeling what little energy she had left draining out of her, Victoria drew in a breath and kept her voice even. “Go on.”

  “I think we have to start thinking about bad things,” he said simply.

  “Like what?” Charlie asked from his place leaning against the wall.

  Andy didn’t take his eyes off Victoria, and she could feel the intensity behind their deep, tired brownness. “That someone has changed the command codes or the security codes or both.”

  “Who could do that?” Charlie asked, and Victoria knew he was deliberately not looking at her.

  “Me, Victoria, Micki, in a heartbeat,” Andy said. “With more time, anyone with a lot of know-how. And lots of people down there have both the time and the talent.”

  “Is that true?” Charlie demanded. “You both said it was secure. Now you’re both saying it isn’t.”

  Meeting Charlie’s eyes, Victoria replied coolly. “Andy’s right, Charlie. It’s possible that someone down there could have hacked the system but the probability is extremely small.” She paused and Andy nodded, turning to look at Charlie.

  “We wrote our own software, custom-built the network, and reinforced its perimeters with so many blind alleys and dead ends that you literally need a roadmap to find your way around to the important modules. The command codes—” Andy began.

  “What are those?”

  “Commands are the lines of code that identify tasks and define their execution,” Victoria replied. “With regard to the communication satellites, commands are what we send up to them and telemetry is the data that the satellites send back to our ground units to detail how the equipment has processed and responded to the commands. If everything is going smoothly, it’s described in full. If tasks fail or have to be aborted, the data tell us when, why, and how.”

  “But commands can be overwritten?” Charlie asked.

  “Yes. Anyone who knows the software and has a fairly high degree of coding skills could write new commands, but getting them into the system would be extremely difficult because of our security structures,” she continued. “The commands are not protected by run-of-the-mill passwords; these passwords are upward of twenty characters long and they change every thirty seconds. So to access the command encoder unit, you have to have the correct random password generator.” She slipped her hand into the pocket of the suit jacket she’d slung over the back of the chair in front of her and pulled out a small device that resembled a stick drive. “I have one, Dennis has one, and Micki has one. And there are two more, located in safe places off-island. These are the only devices that can provide access to the system at such a high level.”

  Charlie’s mouth flattened into a thin line and anger flared in his eyes as he realized it had been in her possession the entire time. He hadn’t known about it, so he hadn’t been able to seize it.

  “So if someone has gotten their hands on this, they could get into the system,” she said, slipping the device back into her pocket. “But then they would have to get past the encryption. Without the proper encryption key, you’d need a supercomputer and a few weeks at least to crack the algorithm. But even if someone could get past all of those barriers, we still have someone pulling hammer duty twenty-four/seven,” she finished.

  “What’s hammer duty?” Charlie asked warily.

  Andy smothered a laugh.

  “It’s our security method of last resort,” Victoria replied. “Someone sits in the secure area that houses the command encoder unit and the command decoder unit. Those are the black boxes that translate everything into and out of the encrypted code that passes through the satellite transponders and network routers. The person on duty is attached to the unit with a bracelet—more or less a handcuff with a long lead—and there’s a balpeen hammer nearby. If there’s a physical threat to either unit, he or she smashes the units, making the codes unrecoverable.”

  Charlie’s eyes widened. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Vic. You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “That’s kind of primitive. Why not just eliminate the threat? Give the person a gun.”

  Victoria looked at him, her eyebrows aloft. “The people who work near the units aren’t security personnel, Charlie. They’re computer geeks. They eat, breathe, and sleep computers, and the only guns they’re likely ever to have handled are virtual ones in Warcraft or something similar. Giving them a real gun and leaving them alone for four or five hours at a stretch is likely to make them attempt a game of quick-draw and they could end up shooting themselves, each other, or the units. We can make another unit if we have to, but getting a good programmer isn’t as easy as you might think. Besides, an attacker might have a weapon of his own, but no black box is going to survive an attack with a hammer.”

  “That’s nuts.”

  “Well, I’ll agree that it sounds nuts, but it’s more than just physical security, it’s computer security. Not all threats to the machines are physical. If something goes wrong with one of the units, a gunslinger couldn’t assess and fix it,” she finished pointedly. “Bottom line: Our communications system security is tight.”

  “So what about Micki?” Andy asked.

  Victoria turned to him. “What about Micki?”

  “Tag, she’s it. Obviously.”

  You don’t have to convince me of that.

  Victoria said nothing as she stood up and met Charlie’s eyes once more. “Unless you have other plans for me, I intend to fly back to Taino this afternoon. And then I’ll get everything back online.” She glanced to Andy. “Meanwhile, I’d like you to keep trying to make it work.”

  As Andy shrugged and swiveled to face the array of monitors on his desk, Victoria and Charlie left the room.

  “Bold plan of action for someone under house arrest,” Charlie said as they walked toward the staircase that would take them back to his second-floor office. “Give me that little thing you showed off in there.”

  She slid it out of her pocket and handed it to him. “Be careful with it. If Micki and Dennis are—” She couldn’t bring herself to say “dead.” “If they’re not inclined to share theirs with me when I get back, I won’t be able to do much,” she said casually. “Are you going to try to stop me from going?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  Neither spoke again until they were in his office with the door closed.

  “Going back is the only way to find out if Micki is behind any of this, Charlie. Depending on what’s going on down there, she and Dennis might be hostages, or they could be dead,” she said bluntly.

  “Or Micki could be waiting for her accomplice to return.”

  Stay cool.

  Victoria drew in a slow, deep breath. “The snide comments are getting old, Charlie. If I had anything to do with the plane crash or the landslide, do you think I’d be here?” She swe
pt a hand to encompass the room, then sat in one of the wing chairs and looked straight at him. “I’d be in Northern Africa with Garner Blaylock. Why can’t you just accept the fact that you and Dennis are wrong, and that I’m your only hope to fix things? At least let me go back and try.”

  “I am letting you try—from here.” Charlie moved away from the window and toward Victoria. “We need to be brought back online, Vic. The media are going nuts because we can’t give them any new information. They’re calling this an ‘information blackout’ and implying that we’re doing it deliberately. They can’t hear about an equipment failure without creating fifteen different conspiracies. The fact that our personnel have started visiting the U.S. ships in the area so they can use the Americans’ equipment to contact us doesn’t seem to matter. And President Benson is enjoying every minute of it. He cut a trip short this morning and said it was because of a heightened terror risk. Ken Proust was on FOX a little while ago and I swear the guy was nearly having an orgasm. And his flunkies are swarming over this like rats on garbage day.”

  “What’s life without a conspiracy?” Victoria replied wryly.

  “I have to go back downstairs to the press room. I get to play sitting duck for a few more doorknobs who want to boost their ratings,” he muttered, buttoning the top button of his shirt and straightening his loosened tie.

  “Who is it this time?”

  “I’m not sure. Someone from our staff has been on nearly every news-related show there is this morning. Could be Martha Stewart at this point.”

  “She tapes ahead of time. Besides, there’s no way to gift wrap this.” Victoria met Charlie’s eyes. “May I make a suggestion?”

  He nodded.

  “Shave,” she said lightly.

  The shadow of a smile crossed his mouth. “I did already.”

  “Do it again.”

  “Doesn’t a five o’clock shadow make me look tireless?”

  “Well, considering it’s nowhere near five o’clock yet, it just makes you look tired. Like you’ve been drinking too much coffee and would have preferred whiskey.”

  “That’s pretty damned close to the truth.”

  A sharp rap at the door was followed immediately by the entrance of Tim Cotton, Charlie’s senior advisor, who strode into the office and let the door slam behind him. Both Victoria and Charlie looked at him in surprise.

  “Sorry for barging in, Vic. I know you’re due downstairs, Charlie, but you need to hear this,” Tim said without preamble as he walked straight to the large desk and reached for the phone.

  “What?” Charlie asked.

  “I’ll let her tell it.” Tim activated the speaker phone, then punched in a code to pick up a waiting call. “You know Captain Maggy Patterson. She commands the Marjory Stoneman Douglas, one of—”

  “One of our research ships. Of course I know her,” Victoria interjected.

  Tim nodded curtly. “She’s running the search-and-recovery operation at the crash site,” he said to Charlie. “Captain Patterson, are you there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I have Ms. Clark and Ambassador Deen in the room. Please go ahead.”

  “About an hour and a half ago, I dispatched two teams of officers to investigate a report of a pleasure boat inside our waters, tacking around the southern end of the island. Our teams were on Jet Skis, and had established visual contact with the trespassing sailboat when they noticed a disturbance on the sea surface,” the captain began, her voice scratchy and fading in and out over the tenuous connection. “They reported that the surface appeared to be bubbling.”

  “Bubbling?” Victoria and Charlie said in unison and looked at each other for confirmation that they’d heard it correctly.

  “Yes, ma’am, sir. ‘Bubbling’ was their term. That stopped within minutes, they said, but then another area of the surface nearby erupted into something that resembled foam.”

  “Captain, did I hear you correctly? Did you say ‘foam’?” Charlie asked.

  “Yes, sir. Foam. One of the teams was about two hundred yards away from the boat they were approaching when they observed the phenomena. The other team was closer. Both events occurred between their vessels and the sailboat. Both teams report watching the foamy patch getting bigger and bigger, spreading outward over the sea surface. One team described it as appearing like dish soap foaming in a sink, the other said it resembled the head of a beer. Both stated it was coming up from beneath the surface and it didn’t generate waves or high seas.” The captain paused. “One of our officers had established radio contact with the boat. She was an eighty-foot clipper cruise boat, the Floating Dutchman. British flag, out of Andros in the Bahamas. The captain had dispatched a crew member and a civilian passenger in an inflatable to meet our officers. Shortly afterward, the captain of the clipper issued a Mayday call.”

  She paused again for the time it might take to suck in a deep breath. “Sir, ma’am, the officers who were closer to the clipper said that the captain was trying to steer away from the foam but the area was expanding and—” Her voice broke and she stopped speaking.

  “Maggy, what happened?” Victoria demanded when the woman didn’t continue.

  Her voice was shaky as she resumed. “They—all of them—said that the foam reached the boat and—”

  “And what?”

  “The clipper fell into it, as if it were tipping over the edge of something,” the captain said, her voice revealing tears and the same stunned dis-belief that Victoria felt slam through her, that she saw wash over Charlie Deen’s face.

  Silence roared in Victoria’s ears, drowning out all but the faintest hint that the captain was still speaking.

  “I’m sorry, Maggy, I missed what you just said. Could you repeat what you said after you said the boat capsized?” she said, willing her pulse to slow, her voice not to shake.

  “It didn’t capsize, Ms. Clark,” the captain replied forcefully. “It disappeared. As if it fell off the edge of a cliff, is how my security teams described it. It went down. The crew member who was piloting the inflatable took off straight for the disturbed area. The civilian threw herself overboard and we have her in custody. She has corroborated everything our team said.”

  “And these officers are credible, Captain? They weren’t under the influence of anything? The stress of the operation—” Charlie asked, his brow furrowed.

  “With all due respect, sir, these officers are entirely credible or I wouldn’t be talking to you now. I’ve known them for several years. They’re all former SEALs, and all of them have Navy Crosses among their honors. If they say it happened, it happened, and it happened the way they say it did.”

  Victoria looked from Charlie’s ashen face to the equally pale visage of his advisor. “Thank you, Maggy. Is there anything else?”

  “One thing, ma’am. Before the boat disappeared, two of the officers had time to get out their binoculars to do some recon. They stated that it appeared as if the persons on deck suffered some sort of sudden, very violent seizures just before the boat... sank. It happened very quickly.”

  “Thank you. Where are you now?” Victoria’s voice trailed off on the last word.

  “Aboard a U.S. Navy ship, the Eutaw Springs. We haven’t had external comms for several hours, so the commander let us come aboard to handle that.”

  And eavesdrop his altruistic heart out. Victoria gritted her teeth. “Thanks, Maggy.”

  Ending the call, Victoria leaned back in her chair and looked at the two silent men standing before her. “What’s going on?” she asked them softly.

  Neither offered a reply.

  10:25 A.M., Sunday, October 26, Bolling Air Force Base, Washington, D.C.

  Tom Taylor opened the e-mail that had just come in marked HIGH PRIORITY. He read it, blinked, checked his heartbeat against the second hand of the small crystal clock on his desk, then read it again. Then he picked up his phone and punched a series of numbers on the keypad.

  “What do you mean by ‘the sea s
urface has turned to foam’?” he asked, forgoing any greeting when his call was answered.

  “Too much gas injected into liquid at high pressure will—”

  “I didn’t ask you what foam is or what causes it,” Tom snapped, cutting off the nameless, faceless CIA drone on the other end of the line. “I know that. What I want to know is how can a one-hundred-square-foot section of very deep ocean turn into fucking foam?”

  “We can’t answer that, sir. It’s a phenomenon that’s never been observed on this scale—”

  “Are you telling me that it’s been observed on a smaller scale?” he demanded.

  “Not by us, sir. It’s been hypothesized.”

  “Why? What the hell would make someone think that the ocean would ever turn to foam?” Tom pushed a hand through his hair.

  “That area of the ocean sits above a methane-hydrate bed. It’s been posited over the years that submarine methane releases might have played a role in the disappearance of vessels at sea. It’s highly speculative at this point, sir, and we’re still investigating the situation. But we’re pretty sure that the gas causing this foaming effect is methane based. Something similar has been observed in the Arctic. By Russians.”

  Tom had frozen in place at the first mention of the chemical. “You think methane is causing this?” he repeated softly.

  “Something methane based. The gas we’ve detected over the site is not pure. We’re trying to analyze it, but we can’t identify the other components.”

  “Why not?”

  There was a brief pause on the other end of the line. It wasn’t long enough to be overtly insulting, but it was long enough for Tom to realize that the analyst on the other end of the phone was getting bored with the conversation. “Well, sir, we can’t identify it because our equipment doesn’t recognize its properties.”

  “Thank you. Keep me informed of any developments,” Tom snapped. “And you call me first. You got that?”

  Tom waited for a reply, then disconnected, and punched in the cell phone number that Victoria Clark had given him.