Tom Clancy Firing Point

by Maden, Mike

  But the tiger shark drone targets were slow-moving, non-diving commercial cargo vessels that deployed neither stealth nor any other defensive countermeasures.

  That made commercial cargo vessels extremely vulnerable to slow-moving weapon systems like the drone shark.

  With that kind of target, the tiger shark drone design solutions immediately suggested themselves.

  First and foremost, a slow-moving drone could carry a larger payload—twenty-six hundred pounds of high explosive, four times greater than what the Mark 48 deployed.

  Slow-moving targets allowed a slow-moving weapon. This meant the drone required lower energy output and energy use. The battery-powered, electric-motored tiger drone had plenty of both in reserve.

  When first described to Sammler, the chief design engineer compared the four-thousand-pound, sixteen-foot tiger drone to a submersible 2020 Tesla Roadster—but with fins instead of tires. The all-electric Tesla Roadster was capable of achieving zero to sixty miles per hour in 1.9 seconds, and could travel over six hundred miles at highway speeds on a single charge of its 200 kWh lithium-ion battery.

  But the tiger shark drone wasn’t turning four tires at maximum speed on high-friction asphalt in order to chase down a fast-moving target. In fact, the drone didn’t have to move at all. It could simply drift for hours, if not days, without expending any energy whatsoever as it waited for its target to arrive at the drone shark’s location. Even if it ran continuously at its average speed of thirteen knots per hour, it would still have a range of over twenty-four hundred miles on a single charge. Thanks to its eight-hundred-volt architecture stolen from the Porsche design bureau, it could recharge eighty percent of its capacity in just fifteen minutes.

  A particular genius of the tiger shark drone system was its targeting program. In fact, the drone relied on the commercial vessel to target itself—via its own AIS transmissions. Once the target was selected, the tiger drone positioned itself somewhere along the vessel’s path via the drone’s onboard AI program or by remote human operation.

  Whereas a conventional submarine and torpedo system had to find and chase an enemy vessel, a deployed tiger drone passively awaited the arrival of its target.

  There were many other advantages to the tiger drone design, including its stealth capabilities. Noise, heat, size, wave propagation, and magnetic anomalies were the primary means of detecting submersible and surface vessels. The tiger drone avoided or mitigated all of these.

  First, its primary means of propulsion—a swishing tail—produced one-tenth the acoustical noise of a conventional propeller, though the shark had one of these for emergency use or for microbursts of speed.

  Second, the tiger drone’s outer hide was comprised of just four millimeters of bubble-infused (“bubble wrap”) latex skin. This dampened sonar signals by as much as ninety-nine percent, and reduced radar wave detection by a factor of ten thousand. A secondary layer of rubber added extra stability and helped shield the few metallic internal components, including its two small and nearly silent electric motors weighing just seventy pounds each.

  Third, the skeleton of the fish was comprised of non-metallic polycarbonate “bones” and the propeller shaft and propeller were constructed from German-designed carbon fiber reinforced plastics (CFRP).

  Finally, the dorsal fin of the drone served as its antenna, able to send and receive encrypted comms and location signals. It was also able to independently receive and track the AIS signals of any commercial vessel worldwide. And, of course, high-def digital cameras were located behind the clear lenses of the drone’s eyes.

  Taken altogether, the tiger drone was practically invisible to sonar, radar, heat, or magnet anomaly detection. But in the extremely unlikely event one of them popped up on screen or scope, the size and shape of the signature would indicate exactly what it appeared to be: a lone shark in the water, not a fast-moving, metal-skinned submarine or torpedo.

  Biomimicry at its best.

  * * *

  —

  The research lab that designed the tiger shark drone knew that another significant technical problem still faced them: the delivery platform.

  Because of their limited range, Mark 48 torpedoes were delivered to combat areas by submarines and launched from tubes within the vessel.

  While the tiger shark had far wider range than a torpedo, it wasn’t capable of completely independent movement. Eventually, its battery would be exhausted, or mechanical issues might arise. And given its slow speed, it would take many days if not weeks to arrive in its zone of operation if launched from its point of origin.

  The delivery system option was even more obvious to the designers than the biomimicry “fish” solution for the weapons platform itself.

  What better delivery system for a drone fish than a fish trawler?

  These “trawler” mother ships were, in fact, converted deepwater fishing vessels, with all of the appropriate gear to pass any unlikely inspection. Modern fishing vessels deployed sonar, radar, navigation, and comms that did double duty as drone support equipment.

  In addition, these disguised mother ships possessed both battery recharging platforms for the sharks and drone repair facilities. In the event of an emergency, the sharks could be “caught” by the mother ships, and either towed or brought on board and redeployed elsewhere.

  In the unlikely event one of the tiger shark drones was captured by an enemy vessel, the onboard munitions would self-destruct when the machine was lifted vertically unless the gyroscope motion detector was deactivated by its mother ship commander.

  There were five mother ship vessels deployed around the world, and each deployed six shark drones. Once deployed in the water, the sharks were given an AIS signal to track. The drone’s onboard computer automatically attacked the vessel in question. The shark drone dove under the hull and exploded, breaking the spine of the ship and destroying its structural integrity with a single but massive charge equivalent to four Mark 48 torpedoes.

  Without question, the tiger drone weapon system would have been of limited value in direct confrontation in a wartime scenario with a major seafaring power. But that wasn’t its purpose.

  The tiger drone program was a new kind of piracy, operated by a new kind of pirate. Lucrative, yes, but temporarily so. It was a means to an end. Its primary purpose was to distract the United States from an even more dangerous and terrifying operation that had only begun to unfold.

  * * *

  —

  The Emerald Glory broke apart instantly, its two halves sinking in less than seven minutes. Miraculously, three crew members survived the blast. Without lifeboat or vests, they treaded the bone-chilling waters for less than twenty minutes. Each died in turn as their numbing muscles failed. Helpless to avoid slipping beneath the surface, they perished swallowing the sea in whimpering gasps, their corpses blueing in the water as they waited for a rescue that never came.

  OCTOBER 30

  58

  ALEXANDRIA, VIRGINIA

  Jack stood ready at the curb in front of his house checking his watch, shaved, showered, and rested. He was waiting for Gavin, who finally pulled up in his Silverado an hour before sunrise.

  Jack tossed his buffalo leather carry-on in the cab and followed in after it.

  “You’re late.”

  “Can’t be late if we’re the only passengers,” Gavin said with a smile as he sped off for the airport. “And I wanted to get you a coffee.” Gavin pointed at the large black Dunkin’ Donuts coffee in Jack’s cupholder. Jack saw the flakes of croissant on Gavin’s shirt and assumed another crumpled bag now lay in the back.

  “Appreciate it.”

  “Next stop, Knoxville.”

  * * *

  —

  Jack and Gavin boarded the Cirrus G2 Vision Jet parked at Signature, the Dulles FBO. The nice thing about flying private, particularly on a Hendley plane, was
that Jack could carry his weapon, a single stack slimline Glock 43 nine-millimeter. He carried it in a BlackDog IWB deep concealment holster beneath his sport coat, along with a spare six-round mag.

  The new Cirrus G2 was a powerful but diminutive “personal” one-pilot jet with seating arranged for just two passengers that morning. Hendley Associates purchased the G2 as an alternative to its giant fuel-guzzling Gulfstream G550 used for international flights.

  The V-tailed, single-engine G2 was fast, powerful, and economical. It had a glass flight deck and side sticks that looked like something from a Star Trek episode with automated flight controls to match. Jack was impressed with its luxury comfort and visibility in the small cabin. His flight-phobic dad would have loved the safety features. These included an emergency one-button Safe Return autoland and the one-lever parachute system that landed the aircraft in an upright position.

  Captain Helen Reid, the senior pilot for Hendley Associates, was at the controls. She’d already been scheduled for a trip to Knoxville later in the week for the G2’s annual maintenance at the Cirrus facility at McGhee Tyson Airport in Alcoa. She was happy to switch her schedule on short notice for Gavin and Jack.

  They reached their cruising altitude of thirty-one thousand feet in short order.

  “I wanted to bounce an idea off you,” Gavin said.

  “Shoot.”

  “I couldn’t get to sleep last night, so I did some messing around on one of my tech blogs, catching up on the latest goings-on. Have you ever heard of Chris and Cari Fast?”

  “No, can’t say that I have.”

  “They were two of the most important researchers at Google’s AI quantum labs in Mountain View. They were found murdered just four days ago. Some kind of crazy satanic ritual.”

  “That’s sick.”

  “Yeah, it is. And apparently they left their entire thirty-million-dollar estate to a no-kill animal shelter in San Francisco. That’s what the board was buzzing about, bitching that it should’ve gone to the homeless instead.

  “But their murders got me to thinking so I started nosing around, and then I found an NSA internal memo on the suicide of Dr. Stanley Hopkins. That really bummed me out. I actually met him once at a London conference a few years ago. He was lecturing on the challenges of cryptography in a post-quantum world. Dude was spooky smart, emphasis on spooky.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning he was a spook. Or at least, working at GCHQ.”

  “Keep going.”

  “Yeah. Two points make a line. So I followed the line. And you know what else I found? There are five other world-class researchers all connected in one way or another to quantum cybersecurity that have died in the last year.”

  “And no one else has made that connection?”

  Gavin shrugged. “They all happened in different countries, and all the deaths were completely different. Ritualistic murder, suicide, motorcycle accident, drowning, accidental overdose, an armed robbery gone bad, and carbon monoxide poisoning. Even if you were looking for a connection, you wouldn’t have necessarily found it. But then again, genius is seeing the obvious.”

  “Well then, friend genius, who’s the obvious culprit behind these killings?”

  “Still working on that one.”

  They rode along for a moment. Jack said, “Do you think Runtso could be another link in that chain of killings?”

  “Depends on whatever it was he was doing at ORNL with the RAPTURE project.”

  “Given his background, do you think he could have been working in cybersecurity?”

  “I don’t see why not. He could have been working on the hardware side of things, since he was a physicist.”

  “And if Sammler is behind Runtso’s death, then maybe they might be responsible for these other deaths, too.”

  “I can see that.”

  “But Sammler is just a crew of hired guns. We definitely need to find them, but we really need to find who hired them.”

  Jack sighed, frustrated. It was déjà vu all over again. He was right back where he started with van Delden, his first dead end, then Bykov. Also a dead end.

  “We don’t have any more links in the Sammler chain,” Gavin said. “It’s like we’re free-climbing the face of El Capitan. No way to get to the top.”

  “No, but we’ve got Runtso. If we can figure out exactly why he was killed, that might be a handhold we can work with.”

  “And if Runtso is just another dead end?”

  “Then I start pulling out pitons and driving them into somebody’s skull.”

  59

  ALCOA, TENNESSEE

  MCGHEE TYSON AIRPORT

  After they landed and Captain Reid secured the G2 at the Cirrus maintenance hangar, Jack and Gavin grabbed the rental waiting for them outside the Cirrus offices. It was a four-door silver Jeep Wrangler soft-top with a high-end Warn Zeon winch fixed to the front bumper.

  “I picked the Wrangler in case we want to explore the Smoky Mountains while we’re here,” Gavin offered. “And I thought we’d look cool in it.”

  Jack climbed in behind the wheel and Gavin punched the business address he’d found from Runtso’s tax records into the Garmin GPS navigator. The Garmin sent them north on the 129 Alcoa Highway toward Knoxville. Runtso’s office was just fifteen miles distant. But the roads were red-lined all the way up because they were hitting morning rush hour traffic, miles of construction slowdowns, and navigating at least one wreck on the highway. Add to that the stop-and-go traffic on Kingston Pike, and what should have taken twenty-four minutes was now costing them more than an hour.

  Jack checked his frustration. It wasn’t as if they were in a rush. There wasn’t a ticking clock pointed like a gun at their heads. They were just chasing the one lead they had, not even exactly sure of what they were looking for, let alone what they might find when they got there.

  * * *

  —

  What they found when they finally arrived was entirely underwhelming.

  The address led them directly to a UPS Store. As expected, when they went inside, Jack and Gavin found that the suite number of Runtso’s business address was just the number on a mailbox, one of dozens. There was no window on the mailbox and therefore no way to tell if it was full, empty, or or even in use.

  “Now what?” Gavin said.

  “Follow my lead,” Jack said, ginning up his seductive powers. He approached the middle-aged, heavyset woman behind the counter. She wore black stretch pants, a blue oxford work shirt, and bright green eye shadow.

  “May I help you?” she asked behind a pair of thick glasses.

  Jack smiled broadly, locking eyes with her. “A friend of mine has a business address that’s located here, in one of your mailboxes. His name is Dr. Dylan Runtso. He owns a consulting firm.”

  “Synergy Solutions,” Gavin said, standing just behind Jack.

  “This Runtso fella must have a lot of friends.”

  “Oh? Why do you say that?” Jack asked.

  “’Cuz you’re not the first ones to stop by and ask about him. What is it that you want exactly?”

  “He’s out of town and he’s asked me to come down and fetch his mail out of his box.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll tell you what I told the others. Unless you’re on his paperwork as an authorized user, I can’t let you do that.”

  “What if I told you he gave me permission?”

  “Do you have anything in writing?”

  “He called me. Just a few minutes ago.”

  “Then how about you call him right back and I’ll talk to him?”

  “I wish I could. He just went into an important meeting and can’t be reached.”

  The woman parked her big fists on her even bigger hips. “Honey, do I look like I just fell off the turnip truck?”

  Gavin barked a
laugh, like a circus seal. The woman glanced over Jack’s shoulder and gave Gavin the stink eye. He withered and turned aside.

  “No, ma’am, you don’t,” Jack said. “But this is really important.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  Jack pulled out a billfold and flashed a fake ID, along with a fake badge. He held it up to her face and she grabbed it with both of her red-nailed hands and read it while he was still holding it.

  “U.S. Department of Homeland Investigations.” She let go of Jack’s billfold. “Another Fed.”

  Another?

  “Can we see the contents of that mailbox?”

  “I’ll tell you what I told those FBI people. Unless you have a warrant signed by a judge, I can’t let you in there.”

  Jack pocketed his phony credentials. “Then I guess I’ll have to go and get one.”

  “No use, hon.”

  “Why not?”

  “Don’t you Feds talk to each other? The FBI already came back with one and emptied out that box two days ago. Wasn’t much in it, near as I can tell. Not that I read my customers’ mail, mind you.”

  Jack shook his head, feigning disgust. “You know how it is back in D.C. It’s just one giant goat rodeo.”

  “Ain’t it the truth,” she said, nodding in agreement. “Wait a minute.” The woman searched beneath her counter, then came up with a business card and handed it to Jack. “That was the FBI lady in charge. She and another fella came in here.”

  The woman touched her red index nail to the name. “She spells it K-a-n-g but she pronounces it ‘Kong.’ Give her a call. She was nice enough.”

  The bell on the glass door tinkled as another customer came in.

  “Thanks. That’s really helpful.” Jack pocketed the card. “Sorry to bother you.”

  “No bother at all, hon. Good luck. And thank you both for your service.”