by Mike Maden
“You sure?”
“Ran it twice.”
“Huh. That’s interesting. He looks like a couch-surfing goober.”
He looks just like you, Gav, only twenty years younger, Jack thought, biting his tongue.
“What do you think?”
“I think I’ve got two hours before I suit up for war. I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
“You staying out of trouble, Jack? I mean, I don’t mind looking into this stuff, but you’re on your own over there and you’re not authorized to do anything. I don’t want you to get into the middle of something you can’t get out of, especially without any backup around.”
“Just trying to scratch an itch, that’s all. The locals seem to be a little shorthanded, so I figure we should help them out so they can do their jobs and I can get home.”
Gavin frowned. Jack wasn’t sure if it was out of concern for his safety, or because his mouth was wrapped around the straw, sucking out the last, rattling gurgle of the empty Big Gulp.
“‘Head on a swivel,’ Clark always says,” Gavin said just before he logged off.
“You, too.”
* * *
—
Jack was grateful Gavin was on his team. He’d hate to have the middle-aged computer genius coming after him, and worse, he’d hate to not have Gavin as a resource. He tried to imagine Clark back in the day, racing around the ancient capitals of Eastern Europe crumbling behind the Iron Curtain without benefit of cell phones or high-speed Internet. How did those old guys do it with just a pocketful of change and one of those old paper phone books for comms?
Crazy.
Jack stared at the photo of Aleixandri leaving the Orange telecom store. He had the address. Should he pay a visit? What could he do? The clerk wouldn’t divulge any personal information about the woman, assuming she gave him an authentic name and ID, which Jack doubted. And breaking in after hours made no sense. He needed access to the electronic records that would identify the phone—an electronic serial number, system identification code, or mobile identification number, and, ideally, all three—and those wouldn’t be located inside the store.
But he couldn’t just sit on this, either.
The only person who could help him was Brossa. It would make an excellent bargaining chip, too.
He picked up his phone and called her, hoping to catch a late-night meeting. But she didn’t pick up, so he left a voicemail.
“I know how to find the bomber.”
20
BAVARIAN ALPS, GERMANY
She leaned the motorcycle hard right into the steeply winding mountain curve, her heart racing faster than the brushless DC three-phase electric motor accelerating between her thighs.
For her, speed was sex.
The only sound she heard inside her helmet was the rush of cold night wind. The carbon fiber, all-electric Saroléa Manx7 sped along in utter silence. An extravagant gift from her doting father, the Belgian bike wasn’t even in production yet. It was everything she dreamed of—and the perfect escape from her lab in München. At work, the project controlled her.
Out here, she was free.
The bike was flawless, and stunningly fast. Unlike a gasoline engine, an electric engine accelerated near instantaneously—the same way an electric light turned on as soon as the switch was flipped. The Saroléa could go from zero to one hundred kilometers in three seconds. As soon as the mechanical limitations were addressed, the time between full throttle and full speed would approach zero.
Fast as light.
She leaned left into the next curve, her leathered knee nearly touching the ice-slicked asphalt. The grippy tires held firm.
She laughed.
Thank God no other vehicles were on the two-lane road this late at night.
Otherwise, she’d be dead.
She straightened up out of the turn and saw the long straightaway pointing toward the next turn and the starlit sky beyond.
She twisted the throttle full open.
The bike bolted forward. The speedometer jumped. The engine was software-limited to just 240 km/h. It was capable of far more than a human could handle.
Well, most humans.
But she wasn’t stupid; 240 km/h was a handful, even for her.
The Saroléa was nearing 150 km/h. She dared not take it further. In the next two seconds she needed to ease off the throttle and gently brake, then lean hard right into the next curve.
She eased the throttle.
The bike accelerated.
From 150 km/h to 270 km/h in the blink of an eye.
What happened?
The turn was on her. Faster than she could react.
Joy turned to terror.
She jammed the brakes.
Too late.
* * *
—
The man in the BMW coupe on the next ridge watched it all through his night-vision binoculars. He had timed the signal transmission perfectly.
The woman and the bike separated just moments after they launched into the air. He lost track of both as they tumbled into the rocks three hundred meters below.
Too far away to hear her scream.
Too bad.
OCTOBER 26
21
WASHINGTON, D.C.
THE WHITE HOUSE
President Ryan convened the emergency meeting of a very small and select national security team in the Situation Room.
Only Secretary of Defense Robert Burgess, Secretary of State Scott Adler, Director of National Intelligence Mary Pat Foley, Admiral John Talbot, and Arnie van Damm were present. They all sat in the high-backed leather chairs clustered on one end of the long mahogany table, Ryan at the head. Thick ceramic mugs with the presidential seal stood at each place, brimming with hot coffee or tea.
“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” Ryan said, a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. “I want to keep today’s meeting brief. Given the gravity of the potential threat, the fewer people that are in the loop, the better. You’ve all been briefed about my conversation with Buck Logan.
“I don’t need to tell any of you what’s at stake. Like the historian said, Whoever commands the seas commands everything. And while I don’t yet consider this to be a direct national security threat, I do see it as a challenge to our capacity to protect the sea lanes and our global economic interests.”
SecDef Burgess added, “If the Chinese or our allies in the Pacific aren’t already aware of the situation, they soon will be. They’ll be watching how we handle this. Our failure to solve this problem will erode confidence among our friends and embolden the PLAN”—the Chinese Navy.
“If this thing escalates, it could panic global markets and destabilize the entire global economy,” SecState Adler said.
“Our job is simple, but not easy,” Ryan said, folding his hands on the table. “We need to figure out who’s behind this, how they’re doing it, and how we’re going to stop it.”
Ryan turned toward Admiral Talbot. “John, you’re up.”
Talbot clicked his laser presenter. The monitor showed four graphical images of satellites in geostationary orbit around the Earth.
“Let’s start by trying to answer the ‘how’ first and maybe that will get us to the ‘who.’ Before we begin, let’s discuss the national-technical means at our disposal.
“What you’re looking at here are the four SBIRS, Space Based Infrared System satellites, deployed by the Air Force Space Command. This is the backbone of the OPIR missile defense early- warning system. SBIRS provides us with an unblinking infrared eye—a global persistent stare. These satellites deploy the most sensitive infrared sensors in our inventory and are designed to detect primarily missile launches.
“SBIRS enabled us to determine that it was an SA-11 G
adfly missile launched from Russian-backed rebel territory in Ukraine that shot down Malaysia Airlines Flight 17. SBIRS tracked the missile from launch origin through trajectory to the final explosion that killed all 298 passengers.”
“Amazing,” Arnie said.
The admiral continued. “As it turns out, SBIRS is also able to pick up other man-made and natural heat events, such as conventional explosions, volcanic eruptions, artillery fire, and even midair aircraft collisions.”
“Was SBIRS able to detect any explosions related to the sinking of these ships?” Arnie asked.
Talbot shook his head. “The four SBIRS satellites are in geostationary orbit.” He drew a circle around one of the SBIRS satellites with his laser pointer. “Unfortunately, the satellite positioned over the Asia-Pacific quadrant failed three months ago. Its replacement is being readied and is expected to arrive on station early next year.”
“In other words, the almighty, all-seeing eye in the sky got a cataract,” Foley said.
Talbot nodded. “Yes, ma’am. One of them did. Some sort of a software glitch. But in truth, as I said before, SBIRS is primarily designed for detecting significant heat signatures—high-energy events like burning LOX rocket fuel. Even if SBIRS had been fully functional, it’s not clear that it would have alerted us to the sinking events.”
“I don’t understand,” Arnie said, frowning deeply. “Wouldn’t an explosion large enough to sink a ship generate enough heat to be detected?”
“That’s a very good question, Mr. van Damm. Let me be more specific. I’m referring to two possibilities. First, even if SBIRS had detected an explosion, it may not have conformed to the heat signature of a missile launch. So the event would have been stored as data and not brought to our attention.
“These infrared satellites are enormously sensitive and are picking up hundreds if not thousands of heat events every day. We couldn’t possibly respond to each of them or even sort through them with the human eye—which is why we use high-speed computers and complicated algorithms to do that automatically.
“The second reason why SBIRS may not have alarmed is because of the type of ordnance. For example, if it occurred underwater, like a mine, the thermal effects would have been significantly reduced. Like lighting a flare at the bottom of a swimming pool.”
Ryan leaned on the table, folding his hands. “If SBIRS had been in operation, it also could have detected an anti-ship missile launch, which would have answered even more questions for us.”
Talbot nodded. “Yes, sir. Air, land, sea, or sub-based launches could have all been detected.”
“A damn lucky coincidence for the bastards behind all of this,” Arnie observed.
“Coincidence, or good planning,” Ryan said. “I’m not sure which yet.”
“SBIRS is just one part of MASINT,” Foley said. “What has MASINT told us?”
Measurement and signature intelligence assets, including SBIRS, were the ground, sea, air, and satellite systems that provided real-time tactical and strategic intelligence gathering. MASINT assets deployed a wide range of seismic, acoustic, thermal, optical, and other sensors capable of detecting any and all forms of kinetic events. Some assets covered entire continents; others were tasked with missions as small as a few meters. Most were targeted at known threat vectors like North Korea or the Middle East.
“MASINT hasn’t shown us anything, ma’am. Gamma waves, X-rays, radio waves, infrared, sonar, radar—nothing along the entirety of the electromagnetic spectrum locates any kind of air or sea combat vehicle in the vicinity of these sinkings.”
“No indication of nuclear, chemical, or biological attack?” Ryan asked.
“None that we detected remotely. Putting assets on-site would give us a more definitive reading. These locations are way the hell out in the middle of nowhere.”
* * *
—
Ryan turned to Admiral Talbot. “You’ve just told us what we don’t know. Let’s change tack and talk about the facts we do know.”
“Yes, sir.” He clicked his laser pointer and a live digital map popped onto one of the other wide-screen monitors. It displayed the Pacific Ocean with arrowhead-shaped graphical images of current vessel shipping traffic. A key in the bottom right-hand corner showed vessel type by color. Cargo ships were green, fishing vessels were pink, oil tankers were red, and so forth.
“What you’re looking at is a live display of vessels broadcasting automatic identification system, AIS, signals all over the Pacific.
“The vessels are equipped with transceivers that transmit a variety of ships’ data including name, speed, location, et cetera. AIS is both land and satellite based, and supplements other ship-based navigational aids such as radar, gyrocompass, and Global Navigation Satellite System receivers.”
“How many ships broadcasting AIS are we talking about?” Ryan asked. “Globally?”
Admiral Talbot widened the screen to show the entire globe. Tens of thousands of multicolored “arrowheads” appeared on every ocean, most congested around the coastlines of every continent, save Antarctica. The North Atlantic and western Pacific were particularly congested.
“Approximately one hundred thousand vessels broadcast an AIS signal yearly, though of course, not every such equipped vessel is currently at sea.”
Arnie whistled. “That’s a lot of damn boats to keep track of.”
“It is.” Talbot clicked his laser pointer and all of the “live” arrowheads disappeared. All that remained on-screen were six green cargo ship arrowheads overlaid with red X’s. He pointed to each of them as he spoke.
“These are the locations of the six vessels sunk in this remote region of the South Pacific. It’s an area of approximately one thousand square miles located about three thousand miles due south of San Diego and the same distance due west of Peru. The sunken ships all sailed under five different flags of convenience. No witnesses or survivors. No known means of destruction, though it appears the destruction was total. Based on our analysis, each ship was sunk by a single, catastrophic strike.”
“Don’t ships of that size have ‘black boxes’ like passenger aircraft?” Arnie asked.
“Yes, otherwise known as voyage data recorders. Some are designed to float free of a vessel but most are fixed. It’s entirely possible somebody boarded each vessel and disabled or removed the VDRs. The other possibility is that a massive event could destroy a ship and send it to the bottom without allowing enough time for the VDR to broadcast a distress signal.”
“If we find the wreckage, can we send down divers and recover the VDR?”
Talbot highlighted the first wreck. “This one is located in the most shallow area at just five thousand and sixty-five feet. Almost a mile.” His laser pointer ran to another. “The deepest location is nearly seven thousand feet below the surface. A human diver simply isn’t possible.
“Our only chance is to get a deepwater submersible into the area. A visual inspection of the wreckage would be possible—but only if the submersible is able to navigate the tangle of steel, cables, containers, and other debris that might block its ingress.”
“But if we do recover the VDRs? That’ll tell us what we need to know, right?” Arnie asked.
“Unfortunately, most of the information a VDR would provide would only duplicate the AIS data we already have. Some VDRs record sound and radio transmissions, which could prove useful if the ship communicated with whoever attacked it. On the other hand, a sophisticated intruder on board the vessel would know to erase the data with a simple magnet.”
Arnie frowned with frustration. “But in general, are you confident that these six markers are the likely locations of the sunken ships?”
“Assuming the vessels weren’t simply boarded, their AIS turned off, and then sailed to a distant location, then, yes, ‘likely locations’ is a good bet.”
22
“
To summarize,” Ryan began. “We’re fairly confident we know where these ships were sunk but we still don’t know how. John, what’s your best guess as to the weapons platform? Maybe that will get us closer to ‘who.’”
“If you put a gun to my head? A submarine makes the most sense.”
“Why?”
“My gut. Nothing more. I know what boats can do and this fits the profile.”
“Does IUSS tell us it’s a sub?” Ryan asked. He was referring to the Navy’s submarine detection program, the Integrated Undersea Surveillance System. IUSS included SOSUS, garage-size hydrophone arrays planted on the seabed, and SURTASS, plane-based sonar buoys and towed array ships.
“The short answer is, IUSS sensors weren’t available in the area of the sinkings.”
Ryan shook his head, smirking, and leaned back in his chair. “Of course not.”
“Another coincidence, boss?” Arnie asked.
“For what it’s worth, we did pick up a Russian ELF transmission a few days ago. They don’t use it very often so we pay attention when they do.”
“ELF?” Arnie asked.
“Extremely low frequency radio transmission. It’s used to communicate with submerged submarines over huge distances—almost anywhere on the planet. I’m not saying the ELF transmit is connected to this but it’s one more hash mark in favor of my gut.”
“Buck Logan thinks the Russians are behind this,” the President said. “I’m not convinced, but if you think it’s a sub, it’s worth discussing. Let’s start with why it could be the Russians.”
SecDef Burgess said, “They certainly have the national-technical means to do so, especially if it’s a sub. And they’ve just launched the K-329 Belgorod, assigned to their Pacific Fleet.”
“Is it in the area?” Foley asked.
“No, but it doesn’t have to be,” Talbot said. “The Belgorod is an Oscar-II class submarine, the longest in the world—bigger even than the Red October, which was a Typhoon-class. But the Belgorod isn’t a missile boat. It’s a ‘special mission’ boat, designed specifically to carry two deepwater submersible research vessels along with six Poseidon torpedoes.”
