Tom Clancy Firing Point

by Mike Maden

  Jack knelt down by the corpse, barely hearing the siren screaming into the alley.

  51

  KNOXVILLE, TENNESSEE

  Another late-night marathon in the lab. Nothing new.

  Parsons seriously considered sleeping on the couch in her office for the next two days. Catnaps, anyway. There was a shower in the facility and even a decent selection of organics stocked in the kitchen pantry. Anything to save time, because time was the one thing she didn’t have.

  Phase One of TRIBULATION was scheduled to launch in less than thirty-six hours. The timeline was immutable.

  So was she.

  The project had come along nicely, but in this last final stretch she needed to have her own steady hand on the rudder. They were too close to the end for delegating responsibilities. It was her baby. She was the one who needed to climb into the stirrups and push for all she was worth, no matter the cost. That was a mother’s duty, wasn’t it?

  Parsons checked her analog watch again—security protocols that she had implemented prohibited digital devices of any kind on this level. She sat in the conference room waiting for her Phase Two division heads to arrive for her first meeting of the evening.

  The Ukrainian Matvienko headed up the Russian software interface, and his counterpart, the Taiwanese programmer Yu, ran the parallel Chinese effort. These were pioneering software geniuses on the cutting edge of a newly emergent branch of human knowledge.

  They had made outstanding progress on Phase Two but there was still so much to do in so little time. She needed a progress report from them, and then later, the TRIBULATION systems engineers.

  Failure was simply not an option.

  She picked up her pen and began scribbling notes for the first meeting in her notebook but stopped, the thought of Dylan Runtso’s body shredded like a plate of pulled pork flooding her mind. It was a sudden, violent death that ended the life of one of the most brilliant men she’d ever known, or fucked.

  She smiled.

  The greasy little bastard had it coming.

  It was too bad. He would have shared in the glory to come, and the money, had he remained true to his loyalties, which at first had been her, and then later, TRIBULATION. Betraying one had betrayed both. That was something she couldn’t abide. Dylan needed to be dealt with. She made a phone call. It wasn’t emotional. It wasn’t personal. It was only the simple computational instruction every programmer learned on day one; the most basic of all control flow statements: if, then.

  This was the most rational and primary means by which the decision to execute a code could be made.

  Code, or people.

  It was simple, pure, binary.

  If a certain condition was true (guilt), then the prescribed course of action was taken. If a certain condition were not true (innocence), then the prescribed course of action was not taken.

  Dylan actually executed himself. He chose his condition when he betrayed TRIBULATION—or attempted to—and thus his execution was inevitable.

  Cause and effect. Linear and inexorable.

  But Parsons knew quantum mechanics stood outside of linearity because it was non-localized in either time or space. Israeli scientists had proven that in 2013 when they swapped an entangled pair of temporally separated photons—one future, one past—and detected the polarization of the future photon before the past one was even created.

  Effect, then cause.

  Dylan had executed himself the day he decided to betray her.

  She rubbed her eyes and stretched to push away the failed musings of her amateur philosophizing. It had been a long damn day and the FBI grilling hadn’t improved her mood. She knew she’d passed their oral examination with a decent grade.

  The only thing that disturbed her was the idea that Dylan’s death had been made known so quickly. His true identity was as invisible as a quark to almost everyone on the planet, thanks to the DOE’s identity-scrubbing program. How he’d been identified so quickly in Spain was troublesome, but not worth her attention at the moment. Security wasn’t her department. She’d left that to others. Perhaps that was another reason she felt no guilt over Dylan’s death. There was no blood on her hands, was there?

  She saw Matvienko and Yu in deep discussion, heading her way. Her mind snapped into focus. She opened her laptop and pulled up the project management flow chart she’d been using for nearly two years. It looked like an underground metro map in the world’s largest city, with huge decision nodes like metro stops sprawling across a succession of digital pages. Each decision node was connected by intricate track lines of responsibilities, timelines, and sub-decision points. More than ninety-eight percent of the chart had been executed and displayed in red. But it was these last few precious stops that led toward the final destination they needed to check off tonight. Judging by the smiles on both men’s faces as they stepped into the conference room, those last decision nodes were about to turn red.

  Hallelujah, as her mother used to say.

  There was, however, one pubic hair in the organic hummus. Her stomach suddenly sank as if she were falling off a rooftop.

  Could these two men be trusted?

  Could anyone on this project be trusted?

  Dylan Runtso’s betrayal had nearly killed everything she’d worked her whole life to achieve. TRIBULATION would change the world forever. Dylan’s treason was a stunningly selfish act, a betrayal of science itself. She’d thought he was as committed to the project’s success as she was if only because he was as committed to the science as she had always been. Perhaps that was the reason why his betrayal was the “black swan” event she hadn’t predicted or prepared for.

  What had suddenly frightened her was the obvious and secondary question. Didn’t swans usually travel in flocks?

  52

  SOUTH CHINA SEA

  The Vietnam People’s Navy patrol boat cut two of its three diesel engines a hundred meters out, and reduced the third to slow ahead as the skilled helmsman maneuvered it toward the Don Pedro, Guzmán’s fishing trawler.

  Guzmán was surprised it had taken this long to be pulled over and inspected by one of the national services. He’d passed through the waters of four countries in the last two weeks, mostly to take on supplies, gather intelligence, and reinforce the “legend” that his purse seiner ship was, indeed, a working fishing vessel. It was. At least, in part.

  The Don Pedro’s actual captain was a stoic, barrel-chested sailor named Järphammar with twenty years’ service in Baltic waters as an officer in the Swedish Royal Navy. Järphammar showed little concern when he was first hailed by the Vietnamese vessel, speaking in English to them through teeth clenched around his perpetually lit meerschaum pipe.

  After requesting and confirming the Don Pedro’s identity from its AIS signal, the Vietnamese captain, Lieutenant Commander Phan, ordered the trawler to stop engines and prepare to be boarded for inspection.

  Järphammar complied, readily.

  The Vietnamese patrol boat was a familiar Russian design that the sturdy Swede had encountered before during his time of military service. Technically, it was half a meter shorter than the Don Pedro, but more than made up for its lack of stature with, among other armaments, a forward-mounted AK-630, a six-barreled 30mm rotary cannon similar to an American M61 Vulcan. Expending upward of five thousand rounds per minute, the AK-630 could shred the Don Pedro’s thin steel plating in a matter of seconds. Compliance was both logical and inevitable.

  “We look forward to your visit, Commander,” Järphammar replied.

  We do, indeed.

  * * *

  —

  The Don Pedro was fishing in international waters currently undisputed between China and Phan’s own country, but close to it.

  Too close, the Vietnamese captain thought.

  The Chinese had been aggressively and illegally overfishing traditional Vietn
amese waters for the last five years. Worse, the Chinese Maritime Militia (CMM) had become an active and effective arm of the PLA Navy. Drawing on China’s huge private fishing fleet, the PLAN had recruited nearly two hundred thousand civilian fishing vessels. PLAN variously supplied them with advanced electronic equipment, weapons, and training to carry out asymmetrical naval warfare duties. These fishermen-soldiers not only illegally fished Vietnamese waters, but harassed other nations’ fishing and naval vessels. They also hauled ammunition, weapons, and personnel to various PLAN outposts. And they supported the development of the “artificial islands” now permanent and prevalent throughout the South China Sea.

  The Vietnamese People’s Navy, like every other regional navy, had become alarmed by the CMM’s activities. It was originally feared that the Don Pedro was one of these vessels in disguise. Phan was ordered to check it out.

  From his bridge, Phan scanned the deck of the Don Pedro with his binoculars as his patrol boat approached. The blue-and-white civilian vessel appeared to be a working boat, with cranes and masts to support deepwater commercial fishing. The men on deck were either working or cleaning equipment. They all appeared to be men of fighting age and, it seemed, in good shape, which most deepwater sailors had to be. It was strenuous and dangerous work.

  None of them appeared to be Chinese. An interesting mix of Europeans, Hispanics, and, he presumed, a few Africans.

  “Oh,” Phan said aloud as his binoculars swept over the front deck. He nudged the naval infantry sergeant standing next to him and handed him the binoculars.

  “Extreme danger, Sergeant. Better warn your men.”

  The dour infantryman put the glasses to his eyes and scanned the deck, then broke out into a grin.

  Three young women lay sunbathing on chaise lounges in string bikinis, leaving little to the imagination.

  Perhaps this boarding won’t be so bad after all, Phan thought, taking back the glasses for a second long look at the young women.

  * * *

  —

  Fifteen minutes later, lines had been secured and the two boats were lashed together, separated only by the Don Pedro’s heavy bumpers that squeaked with friction as the two ships bobbed in the gently rolling sea.

  Lieutenant Commander Phan jumped the short distance between the vessels. He was followed by the sergeant and three more armed naval infantrymen with AK-74 rifles strapped to their chests. Phan and his men were greeted on deck by Captain Järphammar, who led Phan and his four men to the Don Pedro’s spacious bridge, equipped with the latest navigational equipment.

  Järphammar introduced Guzmán as the ship’s owner. Guzmán offered up a friendly smile, an unopened bottle of Jack Daniel’s Black Label, and glasses.

  Phan’s flint-faced demeanor softened slightly at the sight of the Jack Daniel’s. “No, we can’t while on duty, but thank you.”

  “I understand,” Guzmán said, cracking open the bottle.

  At that moment, two of the statuesque young women Phan had seen sunbathing earlier, one blonde, the other brunette, appeared in the cabin doorway carrying a huge ice chest between them. They were now both dressed in clean coveralls and introduced as the Don Pedro’s cooks. Both were taller than the Vietnamese men standing on the bridge.

  They set the ice chest down on the deck and the blonde opened the lid. Thick slabs of pink tuna steaks and bottles of chilled Filipino Red Horse beer sat on top of the crushed ice.

  “Japanese sushi chefs say that the southern bluefin is the best tuna for sashimi,” Guzmán said. “I prefer mine grilled with butter and pepper over a pit barbecue.”

  “What is this?” Phan asked. It was enough food and drink for each member of his crew.

  “The benefit of being a fishing boat is that we catch a lot of fish. Please accept this small token of our appreciation for keeping the oceans safe and allowing us to do our jobs and feed our families.”

  The commander’s eyes fell on the tuna steaks. His mouth watered. “That is very generous of you. But I must inspect your ship.”

  “We insist on it,” Järphammar said. “We need your documentation to prove that we are operating legally in these waters, unlike the goddamned Chinese.”

  Phan’s jaw clenched when he heard “Chinese,” the name of his nation’s ancient mortal enemies with whom they’d been warring for a thousand years. His father had fought against the Americans in what the Vietnamese called the American War. But even his badly wounded father saw the Chinese as far worse enemies of his people than the American invaders, despite the millions of Vietnamese who had perished in that war.

  Phan nodded his appreciation. “Then I thank you for your generous gift.” He turned to his sergeant. “Have your men carry this back to the ship.”

  “Excuse me, sir,” the blonde said in accented English, shutting and securing the lid. “But we have a very special way we’d like to prepare the tuna if you will allow us to do so.” The two strong young women picked up the chest with ease. No need for smaller men to do it.

  Phan exchanged a conspiratorial glance with his sergeant.

  “We look forward to it,” Phan said. “I’ll inform our galley that you are on the way.” He turned back to his sergeant. “You and two of your men will begin the inspection, the other will escort these ladies to our galley.”

  The sergeant smiled, turned, and barked his orders.

  The youngest Marine led the way off the bridge with a smile as the two tall women bearing gifts followed behind him toward the stairs. The sergeant and the two other enlisted Marines exited the bridge as well to begin their inspection.

  Phan turned to Järphammar. “Your papers, sir?”

  Järphammar heard the Marines’ boots clanging on the steel steps as he pulled a thick leather folio from a nearby desk and handed it to him.

  Guzmán brought over a glass of smoky bourbon to Phan, then handed one to Järphammar.

  The Vietnamese officer glanced up, annoyed.

  “Since we’re alone now.” Guzmán winked. He lifted his glass in a toast. “To the sea, and all that she gives.”

  “Oh, what the hell.” Phan smiled. “To the sea!” He threw back his shot. It burned in the best kind of way, warming him all the way down his throat.

  “Another?” Guzmán asked, holding up the bottle.

  “No, thank you. That is quite enough.”

  “A cigar?” Guzmán held out a thick Cuban Cohiba.

  Phan wavered, then gave in. “Perhaps for later.” He accepted the cigar and pocketed it.

  Guzmán reached under Järphammar’s desk and pulled out an unopened box of Cubans and handed it to the commander. “For you and your men, of course. Perhaps after dinner.”

  Phan took the box and tucked it under one camouflaged arm. “The men will enjoy this.” He turned serious, suddenly remembering his duty. “Now, shall we proceed to our inspection?”

  Järphammar nodded. “Follow me.”

  * * *

  —

  Järphammar led Phan and Guzmán down the stairs toward the main deck, following the path the Vietnamese Marines took.

  Guzmán saw that the Marines were sniffing around bins and holding tanks, pulling up tarps, checking equipment lockers. Nothing too aggressive, but thorough. His men were disciplined enough to cooperate enthusiastically, even joking with the soldiers as they worked.

  Järphammar pointed out the features of his vessel to Phan, his voice booming with pride. He described its speed and endurance characteristics, the amount of fresh fish cargo it could hold in ice thanks to its onboard CO2 refrigeration system, and a host of other nautical features Guzmán couldn’t care less about.

  Neither Phan nor his men paid attention to the women following the young Marine as they crossed over to the Vietnamese ship and headed into the bowels of the patrol vessel with their ice chest.

  * * *

  —

/>   “Shall we head belowdecks so that you can inspect our equipment?” Captain Järphammar asked.

  Phan waved the sergeant and his two Marines over to join him, then turned back to the beefy Swede. “Lead the way, Captain.”

  Järphammar headed down the steel stairs first, followed by the three enlisted men, then Phan, and finally Guzmán. The smell of diesel and hydraulic fluid wafted up the staircase as they descended.

  Järphammar stopped on the first level and pointed down the hallway. “Crew’s quarters.”

  “How many?”

  “Eighteen souls, all good seafaring men—and women, as you saw.” Järphammar laughed and winked, and gently punched the much smaller Vietnamese.

  Phan nodded, nearly blushing.

  Järphammar pointed to the descending staircase. “This way, gentlemen.”

  Phan led the way, followed by his men. Guzmán and Järphammar were the last down. The Vietnamese commander heard and smelled the workings of some kind of machine shop, which struck him as somewhat odd. When he reached the lowest deck, he stopped, taken aback by what he saw. His men stood to one side. Järphammar and Guzmán stood close behind them.

  More fighting-age men and a few women in great physical shape, including the third sunbather he’d seen earlier, were at their respective stations. Some were soldering motherboards, others constructing electronic equipment with fine tools. Still others sat at various computer screens monitoring AIS ship traffic, radar tracks of ships and aircraft, weather patterns, and other data. It looked like a combat information center. In the middle of the room was a twenty-foot-long steel table, and lying upon it was something out of a science fiction movie.

  “What is this—”

  Phan’s last words were choked off by the razor-sharp wire garrote that sliced through his windpipe.

  Before the other three surprised Marines could react, Järphammar’s knife stabbed with lightning speed, like a needle on the end of a runaway sewing machine. All four men fell into a bloody heap on the rusted steel deck.