by Mike Maden
“I did. He decided to stay a few more days.”
“I don’t care what Madrid says. That American is a pain in the ass. The sooner he leaves, the better.”
“He’s a nice man, even if he is a little pushy.”
“Where did he get the photo?”
“He didn’t say. I was hoping this man with the hazel eyes was at the farmhouse and to interrogate him. But then the firefight happened. I tried going through the rubble to see if he was among them. But it wasn’t possible, given the situation of the building and the condition of the bodies.”
“Do you have any reason why you think this man was in that building?”
“Ryan thinks he’s the bomber.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. But it’s a lead, and I’d like to find out, one way or another. If he was in the farmhouse, that means he was connected to Brigada, either directly or indirectly.”
Peña smiled with relief. “That’s an easy problem to solve. Once the remains are fully recovered and brought here, I’ll tell the coroner to search for a pair of hazel eyes. Even if they are no longer attached to his skull, that will tell us something, right?”
“If his remains haven’t been completely vaporized, we might be able to ID him, and perhaps link him to whatever organization he’s with.”
“He might have been a loner.” He held up her phone. “Will you forward me a copy of this photo?”
“Of course.”
She thought about Jack’s insistence that Aleixandri wore a Bluetooth even though they never found it or her phone. She admitted to herself that it was odd not to find a phone on or near her because everybody under eighty had a cell phone these days.
It was also a strange coincidence that this hazel-eyed man wore a Bluetooth, as Jack reminded her in his text. If all of that was true, it seemed as if this mysterious man might have directed the L’avi attack, which meant he had some kind of authority or leadership. It seemed highly unlikely that Brigada would take direction from an outsider unaffiliated with any organization they could trust. And loners typically weren’t leaders of organizations.
“I doubt he was acting on his own.”
“We’ll have to wait and see what they find in the ruins.” Peña handed her phone back.
“But what if he was never in the ruins?” she said as she forwarded the Bykov photo to Peña’s e-mail address.
“Suppose he wasn’t. What would that tell you?”
“That our only other suspect is still on the loose, and if he is, I intend to catch him and find out exactly what this has all been about.”
“Or it could mean he had nothing to do with any of this. He just happened to be in the area when the L’avi bomb went off, as were hundreds of other people.”
“It’s impossible to know which, isn’t it? So that’s even more reason to find him.”
Peña laughed. “Laia Brossa, you are relentless. It is your best quality. I trust you will remember your old friend Peña after you become the director of our illustrious organization?”
Brossa rubbed her head, trying to push away a headache.
Peña frowned with concern. “You’re not well.”
“Just tired.”
“I wish you would go home and rest.”
She glanced at him, her eyes narrowed by the pain pounding inside of her skull. “One last thing. This Sammler fellow. Is he still a dead end?”
“Completely. Whatever Ryan thought he heard was obviously wrong.”
She nodded. “Perhaps you are right.”
“Of course I’m right. All that matters is that the people who killed Ryan’s friend—and many other people, I will remind you—are all dead. Ryan wanted his justice, and now he has it. Next time you see him, tell him to go home.”
Brossa stood. “I think I will take you up on your offer and take the rest of the day off. And please thank the office staff for the warm welcome.”
Peña rose from his chair. “I will convey your thanks, and yes, please do take the rest of the day off. Tomorrow as well, if you need it. I’ll handle all of the paperwork. And I promise you that if the coroner comes up with anything, I’ll call you straightaway.”
She thanked him again. Peña escorted her to his office door, which he closed and locked after her.
He tracked her egress from the CNI suite to the street below via the office security cameras. Once he was certain she was gone for good, he unlocked one of his desk drawers, removed a Faraday bag, and pulled out an encrypted satellite phone from it. A voice picked up on the other end.
Peña was to the point.
“We have a problem.”
44
SOUTH CHINA SEA
Guzmán took another puff of his Marlboro, his pants gathered around his ankles. He was almost finished with his business in the cramped quarters of the captain’s head, the only private shitter on the boat and, thankfully, his alone for the duration. He had needed the privacy. A dead galley refrigerator killed their beef stores two weeks ago. A steady diet of greasy fried fish and fish head soup since then had worked its toll on his gut.
The boat’s actual captain had to do his duty with the others belowdecks.
Rank hath its privileges, he laughed to himself, taking his last drag. His encrypted satellite phone rang beyond the thin mahogany door.
Guzmán swore. That phone was only for emergencies. He needed to answer it. He quickly cleaned himself, yanked his filthy, fish-stained pants back on, and flushed the toilet, tossing the spent butt in after it. As it gurgled away into the black water tank in the hold of the ship—soon to be dumped into the ocean—he fought his way out of the confined space and into the wider but still cramped quarters, snatching up the ringing sat phone from the bed.
He saw that it was Peña. The Brigada killings had gone perfectly, according to Bykov. Why the call?
“Digame.”
“We have a problem.”
“Be more specific.”
“Brossa just left my office. She knows who Bykov is.”
“Impossible. How could she know?”
“She doesn’t know his name, but she has a picture of him. She thinks he’s connected to L’avi.”
“How would she know that?”
“That hijo de puta American has been sniffing around.”
“The one that Bykov was checking out? Ryan?”
Guzmán sighed through his broad nose, frustrated. It was too soon for DNA results, and the audio bugs had failed, thanks to Ryan’s resourcefulness. What concerned him was that the big American went on the offensive and chased off Bykov, nearly capturing him. Whoever the hell this Ryan character was, he was dangerous.
“Brossa is relentless,” Peña said. “She won’t let go until she runs Bykov down.”
“Why are you telling me this? Take care of it.”
“Me? No, jefe. You don’t pay me to kill people. You pay me for information. Let your man Bykov do the job. He’s better equipped to handle it.”
“Fine. I’ll instruct Bykov to take care of Brossa—and Jack Ryan. If Bykov calls you for assistance, I expect you to give it.”
“Of course. Any information I have, I’ll pass along.”
“Excellent, Peña. Thank you for the call. Keep me posted.”
“Will do, jefe.”
Guzmán killed the call.
Peña was right. Bykov was singularly qualified to kill, unlike that buffoon Peña. Bykov was also loyal to the organization, his brothers-in-arms. Peña was the true mercenary, selling his services for cash. The Spaniard was both greedy and cowardly, and while greedy men aren’t easily trusted, cowards were utterly untrustworthy, valuing their own skins above all other loyalties. Such men were treacherous in the extreme.
Guzmán picked up the satellite phone again and punched the speed-dial number for Bykov. Brossa a
nd Ryan had to die.
So did Peña. Preferably in a manner worthy of his cowardice.
Bykov would enjoy that.
45
WASHINGTON, D.C.
SITUATION ROOM, THE WHITE HOUSE
President Ryan sat at the head of the long mahogany table again, surrounded by his same trusted advisers. Two days ago, they were dealing with an uncertain situation in the South Pacific. Today they were confronted by a full-blown global crisis. Their faces showed it. The same map of the oceans of the world was displayed on the big-screen monitor but now with an additional seventh green cargo ship with an X overlaid upon it. That seventh X sat in the middle of the Indian Ocean west of Australia.
Time to marshal the troops.
“Anybody here as pissed off as I am?” Ryan asked.
That elicited a few nervous chuckles.
“It was bad enough when we thought we were chasing a Russian diesel sub. We had as much chance of finding that as buying seven winning lottery tickets in a row—isn’t that what you said, John?”
“Yes, sir. I did.”
“But we did it, didn’t we?”
Heads nodded.
“And now, it looks like we’re really screwed.” Ryan pointed at the wide-screen monitor. “Whoever the hell was jerking our chain in the middle of the South Pacific has decided to expand his operations into the Indian Ocean. Any doubts they will spread out even farther if we don’t stop them?”
Heads shook.
“I think this makes it even harder to find whoever’s behind this.” Ryan’s eyes scanned the room. “But I don’t give a damn about the odds, because I’m putting all my chips down on this table, on each of you, right now.” He stabbed the polished mahogany with his finger for emphasis. “And I figure that puts the odds back in my favor.”
He leaned back in his chair, daring them to argue with him.
Arnie gave him a wink. Good job, boss.
“We’re still tracking the Glazov, Admiral?” SecState said, breaking the silence.
“Yes, sir. Given the events in the IO, it’s a safe bet he wasn’t the culprit to begin with—but just in case, we’re following him all the way back home.”
“Can we take the Russians off the board altogether?” the SecDef asked.
“Not if the Russians are using more than just one diesel-electric boat,” Talbot said. “But given the fact the Russians called off the Glazov, I’d say they aren’t our prime suspect at the moment.”
“How do we know that?” Arnie asked.
“We intercepted a Russian satellite comm to the boat. It wasn’t secure.”
“Meaning they wanted us to know they’d called their dog off?” Arnie said.
“Exactly.”
“Should we dispatch a carrier group to the Indian Ocean? If nothing else, it sends a message,” SecDef said. “Carrier strike group three is on station in the Arabian Sea. We could redirect.”
“Maybe that’s the point of all of this. Keep us chasing our tails all over the planet,” Talbot said, “and disrupt our current operations. I’d advise against it.”
“Agreed,” Ryan said. “But where does that leave us?”
“Sunzabitches,” Arnie growled.
“Mary Pat, we ruled out the Chinese before. Any new information to change our minds on that?”
The DNI shook her head. “No. None of our sources, inside or out, have found any mention at all of an operation like this.”
“Good. We’ve ruled out the NORKs, the Indians, and just about every other naval power with the capacity. Sounds to me like this isn’t an officially sanctioned government operation.” Ryan rubbed his chin, thinking out loud. “We already ruled out the possibility of a criminal syndicate or a terrorist organization. Do we need to revisit?”
“Would they have the ability to run submarine operations on a scale like this?” Adler asked.
“First thing they’d need is a submarine—more than one, as it turns out,” the SecDef said.
Talbot turned on a different video monitor and flipped through several screens until he pulled up what he was looking for—the Web page for Triton Submarines, a civilian manufacturer. They looked like round glass fishbowls on top of fat sleds. Some had exterior operating arms and claws.
“This is just one example from one company—Triton makes good rigs. They’ve got one that’s rated to thirty-six thousand feet—it dives the Marianas Trench, the deepest place on the planet.”
“They look like spacecraft from a fifties sci-fi movie,” Arnie said. “Not like weapons systems.”
“They’re meant for exploration, maintenance—even eco-tourism. I’m not saying these subs are the prime culprits, only that there are significant civilian platforms that could accomplish the mission profile. But if you ask me, I’d say we’re looking for a military sub design, not one of these.”
“Any possibility that a civilian could get ahold of a surplus military sub?” Arnie asked.
“For the right price, sure. Osama bin Laden was in the market for one before the FBI nixed the deal. The problem is, you need more than a boat. You need trained crews, supply vessels, maintenance facilities. It’s not like driving a paddleboat at a city park.”
“The drug cartels have operated at least nine hundred narco-boats over the years. They’re not subs, exactly, but they sit low enough in the water that they evade detection,” Foley said. “Mainland Chinese car-smuggling gangs use something similar.”
“Those kinds of vessels don’t have the range we’ve been talking about.”
Arnie laughed. “Okay, I just have to admit it. I was messing around on the Internet last night thinking about this stuff and came across this crazy story about the Russian Navy using a beluga whale for underwater cameras or something.”
“We still have the U.S. Navy Marine Mammal Program. Hell, back in the day, we trained dolphins to do all kinds of combat operations,” Talbot said.
“What are we saying?” SecState Adler said. “We’re looking for a fish?”
“No, but, Arnie, I think you’re onto something,” Ryan said.
“I am?”
“We’re all loyal to our prejudices. We have the best technology in the world, but somehow, these assholes are beating us at every turn. Our prejudice is our high technology. What if these shitbirds are going low tech?”
“Low tech? How does low tech beat high tech?” Arnie asked.
“Ask the Afghanis how they beat the British and Soviet empires, not to mention the fact we’re going on nineteen years fighting them. It’s called asymmetric warfare,” the SecDef said.
“Asymmetric is more about tactics and strategy,” Ryan said. “I want to focus on tech for a moment.”
Ryan pointed at the admiral. “John, how can a ship or submarine avoid radar and sonar?”
The CNO shrugged. “Radar is easy to avoid. Get outside of its range or, easier still, go underwater. Radar waves don’t propagate under the surface.”
“And sonar?”
“Sonar operates like radar but uses sound waves. Active sonar sends a signal out, hits a target, and the sound waves are reflected back to the source. Passive sonar simply listens for any sound waves generated by the target itself. You defeat active sonar by absorbing or deflecting the active ping, and you defeat passive sonar by remaining silent.”
“And how do you absorb or deflect sonar waves?”
“Diving deep never hurts, especially if the sonar source remains above the thermocline. But an easier way is what the Germans started doing in World War Two, which was using rubber coating on their sub hulls. We use more high-tech materials, but essentially, it’s the same idea. Electric boats are quiet because of the electric engines but even nuke boats are getting damn quiet. Everything on a sub is designed for silence. Hell, submariners even wear rubber-soled shoes to keep from making noise when they
walk. These boats are so quiet now that back in 2009 a British and a French boomer actually collided with each other even though they both had passive sonar up and running.”
“Anything else? I mean, low tech?” Ryan said.
“Low tech? How about no tech? The fact of the matter is, the bigger you are, the easier you are to find with either sonar or radar. It’s a damn sight easier to see a basketball than a BB at two hundred yards. Smaller is always better.”
Ryan stood. “So here’s what I’m thinking. Something small. Something quiet—electric powered. Something that runs underwater to avoid radar. Something with sound-absorbing materials to avoid active sonar.”
“You’re talking about a damned underwater drone,” Arnie said.
Ryan grinned. “Not me, pal. That was you.”
“It was?”
“Yeah, you were thinking out of the box. You just didn’t realize it.”
“But you said low tech. Drones aren’t low tech.”
“Drones are old tech. Nikola Tesla had the first patent on one back in 1898—a radio-controlled boat he called the ‘teleautomaton.’ Drones aren’t new, they’re just improved.”
“Come to think of it, the Germans had a remote-controlled explosive boat in World War One,” Talbot said.
“The damn Houthis have one now, running ’em in the Persian Gulf,” Burgess added. “They take speedboats powered with Yamaha outboards and pack ’em with explosives.”
“Excuse me. Are we going back to the Poseidon idea?” Foley asked.
“No. I agree with John. They’re too expensive and too untested for something on this scale,” Ryan said. “And it’s pretty clear to me now the Russian government isn’t involved with this.”
“Drones can’t be the answer,” the admiral said. “Even the autonomous ones are short range—except for the new Orca XLUUV, which we’re building now. Fuel cells give it a range of sixty-five hundred nautical miles. Nobody on the planet has that system now except for us.”
“I know. But I wasn’t thinking long range.”
“Short range doesn’t work.”
