by Mike Maden
Jack’s mouth was full of cotton and spiders, or so it seemed to his aching skull and bleary eyes. He counted three little Jameson bottles stuffed in the seat pocket in front of him but he couldn’t remember how many of the free Heinekens he’d downed before, during, and after the teriyaki chicken dinner now souring in his gut. At least the booze had knocked him out. He slept like a log . . . but he felt like he’d been sleeping under one. One that had fallen on him from a great height.
He could smell his own stink. He hadn’t showered in over thirty-two hours, including a twelve-hour stint in a Spanish jail, not exactly a French perfumery. He wanted to get out of his dirty clothes, take a long, hot shower and wash away the last few days before hitting the sack for about a week. He wasn’t scheduled to report for duty with The Campus for another few days.
As the plane taxied toward its jet bridge, the flight attendant announced that it was okay to turn on electronics. Jack powered up his phone and saw that Gavin had texted.
TEXT ME WHEN YOU LAND. I’LL PICK YOU UP.
Jack groaned. The last thing he wanted to do was deal with the lumpy IT executive. A sweet guy, sure, and a nice enough offer, but Jack didn’t need a buddy right now. Just an Uber. Or a Lyft.
Jack texted back.
THANKS BUT I’LL JUST GRAB AN UBER. TALK TOMORROW.
The plane stood still on the tarmac waiting for the jet bridge to clear. His phone dinged. Gavin again.
I’M ALREADY HERE.
COULDN’T WAIT TO SEE YOU. SO MUCH TO TELL YOU.
Jack shook his head.
TELL ME NOW.
Gavin replied.
IT’S TOO GOOD NOT TO TELL YOU IN PERSON. ALSO, SECURITY.
Jack rubbed his throbbing skull. After all that Gavin had done for him, this wasn’t much of an ask.
AWESOME. CAN’T WAIT.
Jack checked for other messages but nothing important had come over the transom. His stomach rumbled. He hoped he wasn’t going to blow his cookies before he got off the plane.
* * *
—
Jack climbed into Gavin’s blood-red Chevy Silverado crew cab idling at the curb and tossed his laptop and carry-on into the back. The truck was so new it still had temporary paper plates. The cab was full of that new-car smell, too.
Also, the smell of french fries.
Jack noticed several wadded-up fast-food bags tossed in the backseat. He suddenly didn’t feel so badly about smelling like a garbage truck.
“Didn’t take you for a truck guy, Gav.”
Gavin fired up the beefy 3.0L turbo-diesel engine. “Used to own a Dodge panel van tricked out like I had back in high school. But the last girl I tried to pick up for a date saw me pull up to the curb and wouldn’t come out of her house. I figured she thought it was a little too serial-killery.” He paused, adding, “The girl before that one, too. So I decided it was time to change my ride.”
“Makes sense.”
“So I upscaled to this cowboy Cadillac.”
“It’s a beautiful rig.”
“Comes in real handy at the Renaissance fairs, too, let me tell ya.”
Jack pulled out his wallet to pay for the parking as they rumbled up to the booth.
Gavin pushed his wallet away. “Friends don’t let friends pay for airport parking.”
* * *
—
Ten minutes later, they were rolling along in silence on the wide, four-lane VA-267 back toward Jack’s apartment in Alexandria. Gavin was practically bouncing in his seat, bursting with excitement. But he was too polite to interrupt Jack’s brooding thoughts.
Jack’s mood was as sour as his gut but he finally relented.
“So, what is it that you wanted to tell me?”
“Gosh, I dunno where to start. There’s so much to talk about.”
“Try the beginning.”
“Okay. I’ll start with Sammler.”
Jack sat up. “You found him?”
“No. You did. That guy you killed? Bykov?”
“Wait. How did you know that I killed him?”
“Dellinger uploaded a report on you. He was nice enough to include the Bykov autopsy photo, which is how I ran down his ID. My face re-creating program wasn’t cutting it.”
“You hacked into the CIA mainframe?”
“Had to. I’m on overwatch, keeping an eye out for my buddy in the field.”
“Well, thanks for that. So why do you think Bykov is Sammler?”
“I don’t. Sammler isn’t a person, it’s an organization. I mean, it’s all rumors and hearsay. But if half of what’s out there is true, these guys are way beyond the pale. They break a lot of things and hurt a lot of people for anybody for the right price. Or used to.”
“What do you mean?”
“They dropped off the radar a few years back. Rumor was they disbanded. But these people are evil. Like, Evil Empire storm trooper evil. The kind of evil that doesn’t just quit. Think of Wagner, only worse.”
“Dellinger told me just this morning that Bykov was ex-Wagner, ex–Russian military, and reported dead long before I killed him.”
“You killed a dead guy? That’s gotta be some kind of record.”
“I’m starting to see why you think Bykov was Sammler. He was ex-military. Most contracting outfits recruit those kinds of guys and Sammler is a contractor.”
Gavin’s eyes widened. “Oh, man, these Sammler guys aren’t like any other contractors you ever heard of. They’re real old school. They’re all about the money, for sure, but not just the money. They’ve got some kind of a loyalty cult. Sort of a cross between the samurai Bushido code and Legio Patria Nostra.”
“‘The Legion is our homeland,’ the motto of the French Foreign Legion.”
“Yeah. And toss in a little Mafia omertà on top and a dose of Fight Club and all of a sudden you have a band of super secret, super loyal, psycho-killer blood brothers who never talk about themselves or what they do.”
“That explains why it was so hard to find van Delden before. Maybe he was with Sammler, too.”
“Get this. They’re so serious about their honor and loyalty that they do that Cold War thing where they put a cyanide capsule under a false tooth in order to take themselves out rather than get captured.”
Jack suddenly saw the puzzle pieces falling into place. “After I punched Bykov in the mouth, he rubbed his chin and gave me this weird little smile before he dropped dead.”
“I’m waiting for the Spanish coroner to file his complete autopsy report, but I’ll bet you a bag of Popeyes fried chicken sandwiches that it’ll show cyanide or some other poison.”
Jack’s mind flashed back to the steel mill. “Now that I think about it, van Delden slammed his fist into his jaw a couple of times just before he jumped over the railing. I couldn’t figure out why. I guess when his capsule didn’t work, he knew the only way he wasn’t going to get captured was to kill himself the hard way. I’ll be damned.”
“And if Bykov really was with Sammler, you know what that means.”
“It means Sammler is responsible for Renée’s murder. And Laia’s. And Peña’s. What the hell are these guys up to?”
“And maybe Runtso’s murder, too. Unless Runtso was only collateral damage.”
“Speaking of Runtso, any progress on the RAPTURE project?”
“Oh! Yeah. That’s the second thing I wanted to tell you about.”
“Go for it.”
“Well, I’m still not exactly sure what RAPTURE is but I know where it is—Oak Ridge, Tennessee. It’s connected to the Oak Ridge National Laboratory.”
“Oak Ridge, as in, the Manhattan Project?”
“Yup. More brainiacs per square mile than, well, I dunno where. Nuclear weapons research. Fusion research. Quantum mechanics. Materials science. Aerospace engineering. Precision manufacturing. You
name it, they do it all, and they do it for the DoD, DoE, NASA, and even the private sector.”
“Maybe I should head down to Oak Ridge.”
“Only if you want to get arrested and renditioned out to a Romanian secret prison. There’s no way anyone not in that program can know about that program. You will be presumed guilty of espionage until you can prove your innocence, which is kinda hard to do when you’re shackled to a basement wall with a car battery jumper-cabled to your McNuggets.”
Jack’s head still throbbed but a shot of adrenaline suddenly cleared his mind.
“You said before that Runtso was some kind of consultant? What company was he consulting for?”
“He was his own boss. His work address is in Knoxville, Tennessee.”
“That’s not too far from ORNL,” Jack said. “Or the University of Tennessee.”
“Go Vols!” Gavin said, pumping one fist.
“You are full of surprises tonight. I had no idea you were a football guy.”
“I’m not. Women’s basketball is where it’s at. Pat Summitt was one of the greatest NCAA coaches of all time. My mother used to play there. Mom and I never miss a game.”
They rolled along for a few minutes, Jack’s mind turning back to Runtso.
What was a nuclear physicist doing in Spain? Why sneak into Barcelona?
Was it a coincidence that a CIA operative working for a technology front was in the same restaurant as he was?
Or was he intentionally coming there to meet her?
Or was he there to meet Aleixandri?
Was Runtso delivering some kind of a warning about RAPTURE to Renée or selling secrets to Brigada Catalan?
Did Sammler intend to kill Runtso or was he collateral damage?
And maybe the most important question of all:
Was Sammler somehow connected to RAPTURE?
“Questions are more powerful than answers,” his dad always used to say. Right now, he’d settle for answers. Questions like these only made his head hurt more than it already did, especially when the answers were so far out of reach.
Jack knew that the key to answering those questions was to figure out whether Runtso was a patriot or a traitor. And the answer to that question wasn’t going to be found in the cab of a Chevy Silverado.
“I’ve got to go to Knoxville and chase down this lead on Runtso.”
“I’m going with you.”
“I don’t think so, Gav. You never know what kind of trouble might be waiting down there.”
“The team’s not back yet. You’re the only operator in the area. And you know the rules. You never go in alone.”
“Gav—”
“Look, RAPTURE is technical, whatever it is, and you’re, well, physical. I’m the technical guy. So you go do the physical stuff, I’ll take care of the rest.”
“I want to head out first thing tomorrow morning.”
“Let’s get you back to your place and you can take care of your business, and maybe even take a shower. I’ll make all of the arrangements and text you with the flight schedule as soon as I have it. Deal?”
Jack’s head hurt too much to argue.
“Deal.”
57
LABRADOR SEA
345 MILES DUE SOUTH OF THE GREENLAND COAST
The tip of the shark’s dorsal fin slipped beneath the surface of the frigid water.
Had anyone seen it, they might have thought it odd. The location was approximately nine hundred miles north of where RMS Titanic struck an iceberg and sank in April 1912.
No icebergs were floating around in the area this time of year. Most of the glacial calving on the coast of Greenland happened in the warmer temperatures of late spring and early summer.
Favoring warmer waters where food sources thrived, tiger sharks were frequently found in tropical and subtropical areas like the Caribbean or the Gulf of Mexico. But they were commonly seen in the Pacific waters near Australia, New Zealand, and the islands of the South Pacific. They have also been spotted in the colder waters of the northern Pacific and the Atlantic. Known to live as long as fifty years, these great fish are capable of circumnavigating the globe in the course of their lifespans.
The tiger shark is one of the largest predatory shark species on the planet, just slightly smaller than the more famous great white. They are nomadic animals who mostly follow the warm water currents. Their insatiable hunt for food includes all manner of fish and also giant sea turtles, dolphins, octopi, manta rays, sea birds, sea lions, and even other sharks. Fishermen have split open the stomachs of these ravenous beasts and discovered in whole or in part rats, cats, horses, monkeys, cushions, coats, car tires, and even explosives.
A pelagic species, tiger sharks usually inhabit the deep waters beyond the continental shelf, sometimes over four hundred feet below the surface. Sometimes they venture closer to the coast. They are perfectly designed for long journeys in deep water, and capable of short bursts of speed on the attack.
The largest tiger shark ever caught was just under twenty-four feet in length and weighed nearly seven thousand pounds. Typically, they are half that length and a third that weight.
In overall shape, length, and weight, the average tiger shark is quite similar to the human-designed Mark 48 torpedo.
* * *
—
The Canadian-owned freighter Emerald Glory was a Liberian-flagged vessel. The term of art was “flag of convenience,” which was quite apt. Registering a vessel under the Liberian flag was a legal and convenient way for the owners to avoid the burdensome costs of additional taxes, environmental regulations, union wages, and maintenance requirements that a Canadian flag would have necessitated. This saved the owners over three million dollars per year.
The Emerald Glory had been loaded in the port of Montreal with a variety of cargoes, most of it in containers, but not all. Shipments of forklifts, excavators, gas turbines, plywood, fiberboard, and fuel wood were all bound for Aberdeen, Scotland, and Grimsby-Immingham, on the east coast of England, the busiest port in the UK.
The Emerald Glory was making just over eleven knots on a northerly route in the frigid waters of the Labrador Sea, a decent speed for her aging and fuel-inefficient engines. Her current location, speed, direction, and ports of destination were all broadcast on her AIS and available on a variety of commercial websites.
There were a number of people who monitored her live AIS broadcast, including those who intended to destroy her.
* * *
—
The tiger shark swam at a very low rate of speed, just above that of the eastbound current that carried the Emerald Glory along. The shark was, in fact, exactly in line with the ship as it approached from some two thousand yards away.
This particular shark was more than eighteen feet in length and weighed nearly four thousand pounds, neither of which was particularly unusual for the species.
Had the fish been hauled aboard one of the many fishing trawlers that harvested the fruit of the North Atlantic waters, they would have discovered several differences between this tiger shark and those typical to the species.
The single biggest difference was simply this:
The tiger now diving below the surface of the frigid waters of the Labrador Sea was an autonomous drone.
* * *
—
God—or nature’s god, evolution, depending upon one’s metaphysical orientation—was the world’s greatest designer, and few designs exceeded the hydrodynamic efficiency of the tiger shark.
Biomimicry was widely adopted in many forms of drone technology. Rather than try and reinvent the wheel, the designers of the tiger shark drone let nature be their guide. Whereas actual tiger sharks were designed to hunt for food and reproduce, the tiger shark drone was designed to destroy commercial shipping vessels. This necessitated a few changes in God’s desig
n, not that it needed any improvements in form, only in function.
That function was not unlike the American-designed and -manufactured Mark 48 torpedo, one of the world’s great undersea weapons. A lone sonar-guided, high-speed Mark “fish” was capable of single-handedly destroying a surface or submerged warship.
The latest Mark 48 models weighed about thirty-five hundred pounds including a six-hundred-and-fifty-pound payload of high explosives. Much of the torpedo’s remaining weight was due to the onboard liquid fuel propellant that drove the heavy swash-plate cam engine. The Mark 48’s high-speed, pump-jet propulsion produced speeds exceeding sixty miles per hour underwater. The internal components and high-speed performance necessitated a metal skin and rigid architecture to maintain the torpedo’s structural integrity from launch to impact.
The other requirement for the Mark 48 torpedo system was a delivery platform, which included every submarine class in the U.S. inventory. Delivery platforms like submarines and surface vessels were extraordinarily expensive, complex, large, and heavily crewed.
In short, the brilliant engineers at the U.S. Naval Surface Warfare Center designed the Mark 48 to attain high speeds, dive to great depths, and overcome defensive countermeasures in order to seek and destroy fast-moving, deep-diving enemy subs, their primary targets.
The challenge for the designers of the tiger shark drone was to combine the hydrodynamic efficiencies of the shark with the destructive potential of a torpedo.
While these two design characteristics were seemingly at odds—God versus the Naval Surface Warfare Center—in fact, the solution was relatively straightforward.
* * *
—
The tiger shark drone design variations from the Mark 48 torpedo all stemmed from the variation in targets.
The Mark 48 weapons system was designed for combat against fast, stealthy, deep-diving submarines capable of high-speed defensive maneuvers. This required fast, deep-diving torpedoes with advanced target acquisition capabilities.
