by David Bruns
It was a fallacy. Rafiq had seen the Supreme Leader execute peasants and his most trusted generals on the same day for the same offense: lack of loyalty. Even the great man’s uncle and half brother had fallen prey to his need for unquestioned faithfulness.
Rafiq tore his eyes away from the screen and scanned the room. At least one of you is a spy. Show yourself.
“Look,” So-won said, pointing to the screen.
The cursor had stopped blinking.
Rafiq sat up in his chair. Was the program hung up? Should he send another ping? He reached for the keyboard, but So-won stopped him.
“Wait,” she said.
The cursor seemed to flicker; then a torrent of code spilled down the screen, faster than Rafiq could absorb it.
So-won, still sitting next to him, wept.
The screen resolved into a map of the western Pacific. The label at the top of the screen said US SEVENTH FLEET. As more data flowed in, new contacts began to show up on the map.
Rafiq tapped in a sequence of commands, and the wall screens at the front of the room displayed the picture. The operator’s mouths opened in wonder. Spontaneously, they began cheering and clapping.
Rafiq stood and waved.
His gamble on Merville had paid off. Let the chaos begin.
CHAPTER 32
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia
Martha Raddabat was a squat woman with the shoulders of a linebacker, the eyes of a fox, and the temperament of a bear. The angry, no-nonsense kind of bear, not the Gentle Ben type. She was also the CIA senior intelligence service officer, the equivalent of a two-star admiral, and Brendan’s boss.
“What’s going on with my brand-new, multibillion-dollar intelligence network, Captain McHugh?” Raddabat said.
“We’re not sure, ma’am. It started after we turned on Piggyback, but my techs say that has nothing to do with it.”
“And you believe them?” Her gaze raked across his face. She had a reputation throughout the agency as a tough boss and her temper, when engaged, was legendary, but Brendan had always found her to be fair.
“I do. We have no indication the two issues are linked. I’d rather change as few variables as possible and keep troubleshooting.”
Raddabat grunted and stole a look at her wristwatch. “What’s the possibility this is something more serious?” She didn’t say the word “compromised,” but her message was clear to Brendan.
“We’ve run diagnostics and there’s no evidence of any firewalls being breached anywhere,” Brendan said. “I’m told there’s zero chance we’ve been compromised. They’re saying there’s just a latency issue in the system.”
The woman snorted. “Zero, my ass. Sounds like geekspeak for ‘We don’t know.’” She waved her hand. “Keep troubleshooting. Keep me posted. Don’t be afraid to ask for help if you need it.”
* * *
When Brendan returned to the ops center, the watch floor was abuzz with activity. Most of the techs were pulling double shifts until they fixed this latency problem.
“What’s our status?” he asked the watch supervisor.
“No change, sir. We see a brief outage on a single platform, but by the time we get it back online there’s no evidence of an issue. We’ve checked and double-checked everything.” By “platform,” the supervisor meant a node in the Trident viral network.
Brendan rubbed his jaw. “And it never shows up on the same platform twice?”
“We haven’t seen that behavior—at least not yet.”
“And we’re not doing any sort of software update that would cause this type of behavior? You know, like when I update Windows I have to reboot…” His voice trailed off when he saw the pitying look from his supervisor.
“Sir, this is not that kind of system.”
Brendan squinted at the wall screen, searching the eastern Med for his old ship, the Arrogant. “I think we need more horsepower on the problem,” he said. “I’m calling CYBERCOM in for a tech assist.”
The young man flushed. “Sir, I don’t think that’s necessary. We’ve got everyone here focused. It would take CYBERCOM days to get up to speed.”
Brendan kept his eyes on the screen. The sour feeling in his stomach would not go away. “Your objections are noted, but I’m making the call.”
* * *
Don’s haggard face on the VTC screen made Brendan flinch. His friend’s eyes were red-rimmed and shadowed by dark circles.
“Jesus, Don, you look like hell.”
Riley replied with a tired laugh. “Whoever said age is just a number is full of shit. I’m trying to keep up with my midshipmen and it’s not going well.”
“Have you tracked down Roshed yet?”
“We’ve found a few crumbs, but the big prize still eludes us.” Don scrubbed his face with both hands. “But you didn’t call to talk about my problems. What’s up?”
“Trident. We’re getting a ton of network noise and outages ever since we turned on Piggyback. My techs say it’s a latency issue, but I’m worried. I’d like a second opinion.”
“Latency, huh? That’s what we geeks say when we don’t know what the real answer is. Tell me what’s going on.”
Brendan pulled out his notebook. “The whole system is based on a viral network comprised of hundreds of platforms from navy ships to merchants carrying our black boxes—”
Don held up his hand to the camera. “Brendan, you do know this is what I do for a living, right? You don’t have to explain how Trident works.”
“Just bear with me, Don. We’re seeing intermittent outages on these platforms. A trawler drops off the grid for thirty minutes or so, then pops back on. Nothing out of the ordinary shows up on diagnostics, no firewall breach—that we can find.”
“But ships come on and off the viral network all the time, right? The network is always changing. Maybe it’s system capacity limits.”
“True, the network elements come and go, but this seems … ‘scheduled’ is the only word I have to describe it.”
Don posted his chin on his fist. “Well, to be honest, it does sound like a latency issue. Maybe. It would take some investigation to really figure that out.”
Brendan saw his assistant motioning him from the window. The young man tapped his watch, a signal that Brendan was screwing up Tom’s carefully crafted schedule.
“I’ll check with Ops to see if someone’s running a Red Team infiltration drill on you guys,” Don said. “If that comes up empty, I’ll see if I can put my midshipman team on your problem.”
“Midshipmen? Really? That’s what you got for me?”
Don grinned at the camera. “Only the best for my oldest friends, Brendan. Only the best.”
CHAPTER 33
Pyongyang, North Korea
Pak looked up in surprise as Rafiq walked through his office door. Pak’s new—and very attractive—secretary followed him with a flustered expression on her face.
“I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “He just—”
“It’s all right,” Pak replied. “Jung Chul is just anxious to be early for our appointment.” He waved at her to shut the door behind her.
Rafiq took a seat without invitation and slouched low in the chair. The last time Pak had seen Rafiq, he’d seemed like a caged animal. Now, his chiseled features showed a flush of energy and his eyes danced as if he was anxious to share a secret joke with Pak.
“You’re looking well, my friend,” Pak said.
“And you’ve traded in your secretary for a younger model,” Rafiq shot back. “Well done, old man.”
Pak bristled. “From your attitude, can I assume you are bringing me good news about the project?”
“Beware the Ides of March, Pak Myung-rok,” Rafiq replied.
“What does that mean?”
Rafiq pointed at the calendar on Pak’s desk. “Today. It’s the Ides of March.” He waited for Pak to respond. “C’mon, Pak. Shakespeare? Julius Caesar’s assassination? The first step in the Roman civil war?” Pa
k shrugged, and Rafiq threw up his hands in mock dismay. “Your expensive Western education was a waste of money, Pak.”
The North Korean absorbed his friend’s unusual high spirits with a growing sense of unease. “The project, Rafiq. What is the status of the project?”
Rafiq grinned at him for a few seconds before replying. “We are ready. I’ve confirmed the code is active and ready to deploy. Just say the word.”
“And it will do all that you claim? You will be able to access the Chinese and Japanese networks?”
Rafiq’s grin grew wider. “Oh, yes, and much more.”
Pak had had about enough of this insolence. “Your orders are explicit. We want to raise tensions between China and her neighbors, not cause an international incident.”
“There’s an American saying about omelets and eggs. It might apply to this situation.”
“Will you please be serious for a moment, Rafiq?”
The other man sat up in his chair and delivered a mocking half bow. “I apologize, Pak. My good humor has gotten the best of me, I’m afraid. Please continue; I’ll do my best to contain my exuberance.”
Pak placed his elbows on his desk and leaned forward. “That would be much appreciated. Now, is the project ready to launch?”
“Yes, all three sites are active and ready to deploy as soon as we have the Supreme Leader’s approval.”
“Three sites? I authorized two sites: Beijing and the Japanese naval base. What is the third?”
“We took advantage of proximity to develop a third option.”
“Speak plainly, Rafiq. What is the third site?”
The corners of the man’s lips turned up. “The American Seventh Fleet.”
Pak fell back in his chair, aghast. “The Americans? How? Who gave you…” He thought of the Russian’s warning about keeping the cyberwarfare in the virtual world. The Americans?
“No,” Pak said, leaping to his feet. “Absolutely not. We are not authorized to take action against the United States. The Supreme Leader did not authorize that at all.”
“Relax, Pak. It’s an option at our disposal, nothing more. Why not mention it to the Supreme Leader and see what his reaction is? A trial balloon?”
Pak stared at him, acid churning in his stomach. This was his project. He was responsible. Anything that went wrong would fall completely on his shoulders.
“That is a ridiculous idea. One does not float trial balloons with the Supreme Leader, Rafiq.” A misplaced trial balloon was a quick trip to a firing squad.
Rafiq shrugged. “Then we can keep it between us. Makes no difference to me.”
“And?” Pak said.
“And what?”
“What do you want in return?”
To Pak’s surprise, Rafiq rose to his feet and placed both hands on Pak’s narrow shoulders. “My friend, you were there for me when the world was against me. I owe you everything and ask for nothing in return. Consider my debt to you paid in full.”
In the blink of an eye, Rafiq’s mood had turned solemn—another mood change. Pak tamped down the lingering twinge of unease. “Friendship is a treasure, Rafiq, but I prefer cash.” He retrieved a slip of paper from his desk. “We’ve received the final payment from the Russians. Here’s your cut.”
Rafiq pressed the paper back into Pak’s hand. “I want you to have it.”
Pak’s fingers closed around the slip. It was nearly four hundred thousand dollars. “I don’t understand.”
“Money’s of no matter to me. Take it. I want you to have it.”
Pak slipped the paper into his pocket, feeling suddenly guilty at having shortchanged Rafiq on his cut. “If you insist…”
“I do.” The secret smile returned to Rafiq’s lips. “And now I must take my leave, good sir.” He made an elaborate bow to Pak. “I return to my island to await your call.”
Pak stared at him. Had the man lost his mind with all the stress? He’d been on the run for the better part of a decade, without his family, always one step ahead of the authorities. No matter how this operation turned out, Rafiq’s erratic presence could be a liability in the future—a liability he did not want the Supreme Leader blaming on him.
Pak’s next trip out of North Korea would be his last. It was time to run. He’d saved enough money to live a secret life of luxury abroad, far from the clutches of the Supreme Leader.
On impulse, he hugged Rafiq. “Goodbye, my friend.”
Rafiq hugged him back. Further proof that his friend was losing his mind.
“Goodbye, Pak. Take care of yourself.”
Pak smiled. Taking care of himself. That was something he’d never found difficult.
CHAPTER 34
USS Key West (SSN-722) International waters outside Yulin Naval Base, Hainan, People’s Republic of China
Lieutenant Commander Gordon Cremer spun the periscope barrel and dialed the handle to increase magnification.
“New contact, designated Sierra five-nine, a surfaced Chinese Shang-class submarine on this bearing. Mark.” The quartermaster called out the bearing.
“Conn, Sonar, confirm contact,” came the reply from the sonar shack, a few steps away.
Cremer cleared his throat. “Attention in Control, my intention is to trail our Chinese friend and see what they’re up to. Diving Officer, make your depth one-five-zero feet. Set the tracking party.”
The periscope optics submerged, and he activated the hydraulics to lower the scope back into the submarine. The smooth greased periscope barrel glistened as it slid into the well underneath the control room.
He turned his attention to the sonar “waterfall” display, a measure of the overall noise in the ocean around them. So named because of the snowy picture that scrolled down the monitor, the device provided a visual representation of broadband noise. Short spurts of noise, such as a whale sounding, might appear as a bright blip that traveled down the screen. Loud continuous noises, like the surfaced submarine they were seeking, showed up as a bright trace, and signals with movement relative to the Key West showed up as diagonal lines across the screen. It was a crude but effective way to gain a passive assessment of the world outside the submarine pressure hull.
Right now, the surfaced Chinese submarine showed up as a thick, bright trace that cut across the screen at a shallow angle.
“Conn, Sonar, Sierra five-nine is slowing. She’s submerging, sir.”
“Very well, Sonar. Let’s establish her narrowband signature quickly so we have something to track out here.”
When the Chinese submarine submerged, all the broadband prop noise on the waterfall display would disappear. The Key West would look for “tonals,” narrow frequencies of sound from individual elements on board the sub, such as a pump whose casing was touching the hull, radiating noise into the ocean.
“Conn, Sonar, we’re seeing additional ships getting under way from Yulin Naval Base.”
Cremer studied the waterfall display as the new contacts registered on the screen. At this distance from the multiple contacts, all he could make out was a froth of noise that showed up as a thick white band. He stepped into the sonar shack, a cramped room filled with floor-to-ceiling displays and young sailors wearing headphones. “How many, Supe?” he asked the first-class petty officer supervising his team. He also wore headphones and routinely switched between different audio feeds as he monitored his operators.
The young man handed him a spare set of headphones. “More than two, sir. Might be as many as six.”
Cremer slipped on the headphones and closed his eyes. The noise created by massive propellers thrashing seawater into foam sounded like a fleet of distant washing machines. He could make out at least two distinct platforms.
“All right,” he said, handing back the headphones. “I’m calling the captain to recommend we break trail and head up top for a look-see.”
Cremer strode into control and snatched a telephone handset from the rack. A few moments later, the captain entered the control room.
&
nbsp; Captain Langford was a tall man whose features looked as if they might have been carved out of ebony. The CO’s eyes flitted around control, taking in details. Cremer tried to keep up with his gaze and failed.
“Report, XO.”
“Captain, we were establishing trail on a Shang-class submarine when we picked up indications of as many as six ships departing Yulin.”
Langford’s eyebrows ticked up a few millimeters, the equivalent of a shout for this reserved man. “Six? That would be unusual.”
“I agree, sir. I recommend we break trail and investigate.”
Langford rubbed his jaw. The Key West’s mission was to track Chinese submarines, and the best time to establish trail on a modern submarine was when it left port. Finding the ultraquiet Shang-class sub again in the open ocean would be like looking for a needle in a field of haystacks. The captain called for headphones and jacked into the sonar feed. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing while Cremer fretted. He should have said two, not six. If he said six and they went to periscope depth and found two ships, he’d look like an idiot. If he said two and they found six, he’d be vindicated.
Langford opened his eyes. “Take us up, XO.”
* * *
The scope optics broke the surface and Cremer spun in a quick circle to ensure there were no ships about to hit them. “No close contacts!”
He turned in the direction of the port and dialed up the magnification on the scope. “I have one, two, three … seven contacts in view. Two Kilo-class submarines, two destroyers, and three Yuhai-class landing ships.”
He took his eyes off the scope. The captain was studying the TV monitor that mirrored the image on the periscope. “Did we receive any notice of Chinese naval exercises, XO?” Langford asked without taking his eyes off the monitor.
“No, sir.”
Langford nodded. “I don’t like the look of this. Let’s get a flash message off to Pac Fleet while we’re still at PD. Then, find that Shang-class sub again.”