by David Bruns
Ramirez cracked her knuckles. “What’d you have in mind?”
Goodwin gave her four sequences that he recalled from the Trident code, which Ramirez cobbled together into a search sequence that yielded several hundred possible matches. She routed the results to Goodwin’s screen and they painstakingly opened and reviewed each file.
An hour ticked by before Goodwin spoke. “I think I might have something.” They crowded around his screen. He pursed his lips. “This is way more extensive than we thought. It looks like a monitoring system—at least this part does. It’s got hooks everywhere.” He highlighted a section of code. “This section allows someone to override a comms channel. Whoever’s behind this could send their own commands without the real operators even knowing it. But there’s this other section. I have no idea what’s going on here. It looks like some sort of pattern-recognition function.” He looked up at Don. “We need to download this program so we can analyze it.”
“How is it controlled?” one of the operators asked.
Ramirez dropped her cursor on a section. “The hackers have total control of the comms systems, so the inputs can come from literally any external channel—satellite, internal, even a mobile phone if it got close enough. This is genius-level stuff. The required inputs are minimal, the assembled program on the infected network does all the work.
“But it gets even worse,” Ramirez continued. “The Chinese probably don’t even know the master program is there. It’s designed like a supervisory system, a shell program. It overlays their network. They’re probably going crazy trying to figure out what’s happening.”
“But how did it get there in the first place?” Able said. “The Chinese are sharp operators and the original code had to be gigabytes of data. An upload of that size would have triggered all kinds of alarms.”
Don closed his eyes as the full realization of the problem hit him. “They hid it in plain sight,” he said. “Someone uploaded the file, broke it apart, and disguised it as junk code, leftover trash from programmers. When they were ready, they assembled the shell program and took over the Chinese command and control network.”
“But we found the same code on Trident,” Everett said.
“Exactly,” Don said. “It’s just a matter of time. Can we download this?” Don pointed at the screen.
Kang frowned. “If we try to download something of that size, I’ll set off alarms on their end. The only way to do it safely is to save the program into small packets and ship them out at random intervals. Hopefully, we can fly under the radar that way.”
“How long?”
Kang shrugged. “For a supervisory program of this size? Maybe ten or twelve hours.”
“Do it,” Don said. “I want the midshipmen to stay here. Figure out what the rest of the program does and how we can stop it.”
US Navy brig Yokosuka Naval Base, Japan
Brendan took another sip of the truly awful coffee. He could feel the jet lag headache building at the base of his skull.
“That’s him, sir.” NCIS agent Mincer nodded at the monitor. The man in the interrogation room looked a few years younger than Brendan, and a two-day growth of stubble covered his weak chin. He’d had to roll up the cuffs on the too-big orange prison coveralls.
“He hasn’t said anything?” Brendan asked.
Mincer grimaced. “Just sits there with a fucking grin like the cat that ate the canary. I sure hope you’ve got something that’ll rock his world, because we got nothing on this guy that’ll stick.”
Brendan looked over at Jenkins, the only technical person he’d felt comfortable sparing from the Trident watch floor. “You ready?” he said.
Jenkins nodded, but he kept jiggling his leg.
Brendan tucked a folder under his arm. “Let’s do this.”
The lights inside the interrogation room turned Merville’s sallow skin a sickly shade of pale yellow.
“I’d like a cup of coffee,” Merville said. Brendan ignored him and drew out a chair. Jenkins sat to his right.
Brendan let the silence lengthen. Finally, he said, “I understand you have refused to cooperate with NCIS, Weston.”
“I prefer to be addressed by my rank, sir.”
The only sound in the room was the patter of Jenkins’s foot on the cement floor. Brendan met Merville’s defiant gaze. “Do you know who I am, Weston?”
Merville shrugged.
“My name is Captain Brendan McHugh. I run the Trident network.” A shadow flickered across Merville’s features. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”
“I haven’t done anything. If NCIS had anything, they would’ve already hit me with it. I’m telling you what I told them: This is all a big mistake.”
Jenkins’s foot tapped on.
“How did they get to you, Weston? Was it money? Ideology?”
Merville’s lip curled and he sat back in his chair. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Captain.”
Brendan opened the folder and slid their only picture of Rafiq Roshed across the table. “Was it him?”
Merville went pale. “Who is that?” he said.
“That is an international terrorist, Weston. He’s working for the North Koreans now. Remember the hack of the US power grid last year? That was his work. Do you remember how many people died in that attack? That’s nothing compared to what you’ve done.”
Merville stared at the picture, his lips working as he tried to say something. Brendan nudged Jenkins. “Go get Lieutenant Commander Merville a cup of coffee, Jenkins.”
Brendan heard the door close behind his colleague. He kept his eyes locked on Merville. In the space of a few seconds, the man seemed to have shrunk into himself.
“Commander, you took an oath. To some people, that doesn’t mean much, but to guys like you and me, it’s everything.” He paused. “How did he get to you?”
Merville squinted at the picture.
“There was an accident. In Australia,” he said. “He said he was a cop, said he could help me.” His eyes filled with tears. “I knew he wasn’t a cop.”
Jenkins opened the door and froze. Brendan beckoned for the coffee and set it in front of Merville.
“Drink this,” Brendan said. “And start from the beginning.”
CHAPTER 51
820th Brigade, Second Artillery Corps Near Fuzhou, China
“Raise missiles to launch position,” Lieutenant Han Bingwen ordered.
The checklist trembled in his hand. Outside, he heard the hoists on the trailers strain to lift the massive Dong-Feng 21D missiles into their vertical launch attitude. He peeked out the window of the command trailer. Slowly, the pointed shapes, like statues across the landscape, came to attention, sharp against the dawn sky.
“Missiles in launch position, sir.”
“Verify targeting data.”
In training, their instructors called the Dong-Feng 21D the “carrier killer,” the People’s Liberation Army’s answer to the overwhelming might of the US Navy’s aircraft carriers. They would be on the front lines, the trainees were told. The Second Artillery Corps was the tip of the spear in the defense of the People’s Republic of China.
These orders were crazy, but one did not question launch orders from Beijing. Not a single trainee in Lieutenant Han’s missile battery ever expected to fire a shot. He loved America. Every single member of his extended family worked in a Guangdong factory that made mobile phones for an American company. And now he was about to fire on American ships.
“Targeting data verified and locked in, sir.”
Lieutenant Han’s throat constricted, his mouth went dry. His eyes swung to the plot on the wall. Two US Navy carriers operating east of Taiwan were the target.
He took the key from around his neck and inserted it into the fire-control system. He turned it to the right. The screen indicator went from a yellow STANDBY to a green FIRE.
“Missile is ready to fire,” the technician announced.
Lieutenant Han took
a step back and drew a deep breath. “Fire,” he said.
The technician flipped open the plastic cover on his panel, revealing a square red button. The button pulsed like a heartbeat. As the lieutenant watched, the technician depressed the button.
Outside, the world exploded into roaring fire as six missiles launched into the night sky. The command trailer shook, and the technician strained to shout over the noise.
The missiles lifted away, leaving ringing ears and the smell of singed grass and burned rocket fuel. A small tree had caught on fire. A team of enlisted men attacked the blaze with fire extinguishers.
“All missiles away, sir.” The fire-control tech was shouting.
“Very well.” Lieutenant Han’s eyes slid to the plot showing the missile’s track relative to the target. He could imagine the American ships going to general quarters, their destroyers deploying their antiballistic missile defenses.
He’d seen that simulation a hundred times. How many other batteries had fired on the Americans? There might be dozens of Chinese missiles on their way to the American carriers right now.
The US ships would chip away at the number of incoming Dong-Feng ballistic missiles, but they wouldn’t get them all.
CHAPTER 52
USS Gerald R. Ford (CVN-78) 50 miles south of Taiwan
Captain Diane Henderson boarded the SH-60 Seahawk helicopter only seconds before it lifted off the deck of the Ford. Normally, the helo carried a crew of four with room for six passengers. Today, they had a crew of two and ten passengers.
All the passengers were pilots—the only commodity the wounded Ford could contribute to the fight against the Chinese navy. After taking a direct hit in the hangar bay and multiple strikes on the flight deck, the only fighter aircraft the Ford could muster was the lone CAP in the air at the time of the attack. Apart from the helos, not a single aircraft had launched off the Ford since the second attack.
Nearly seventy aircraft dead, dying, or otherwise out of the fight for good.
And that wasn’t even the worst of it. She twisted in her seat for a last look at what was left of her home at sea. Despite the best efforts of the XO—Captain Gutterman, the CO of the Ford, had been killed in the attack—the mighty carrier was sinking. Fast.
Helos from all over the fleet were landing and taking off from the bomb-damaged deck like honeybees, ferrying wounded off and damage-control crews on to the ship.
Taking the pilots to the Reagan was her idea. Admiral Manolo, her boss, had died in the attack along with half of the personnel in Flag Watch. The crew of the Ford were professionals, she decided. They knew how to deal with an emergency without her. She wasn’t a ship driver, she was a pilot with no planes to fly, so she did the next best thing—took her pilots to a place where they could get back in the fight.
She signaled the crew chief for a set of headphones and slid them on.
“We’re about three-zero minutes out from the Reagan, ma’am,” he said. “They’re headed this way at speed, so maybe a little sooner.”
She nodded and cast a final glance back at the Ford. Her heart ached at the sight. The massive ship was dead in the water, showing a discernible list now. Yellow life rafts clung to her side, and a pair of frigates were taking on hundreds of refugees.
At least it was light and the weather was decent. Thank God for small favors.
“Ma’am?” The crew chief’s voice snapped her back to the moment. “The pilot wanted me to tell you that Seventh Fleet just authorized an alpha strike.”
She nodded her thanks. Alpha strike! An all-out air assault on every PLA Navy combatant within range. Now that was a response—and about damn time, too.
The Ford was nothing but a smudge of dirty smoke on the horizon now. She put her old ship behind her. Surely there was something she and her pilots could do to support the Reagan and the Roosevelt as they took the fight to the enemy.
One of her pilots tapped her on the shoulder and motioned out the window. The USS Ronald Reagan was just coming into sight. As she watched, an F/A-18 shot off the catapult and made a steep climb away from the ship. Less than a minute later, another aircraft launched, this one an F-35. The Roosevelt was running a parallel track, five miles distant, and was pumping aircraft into the skies on a similar tempo. Henderson craned her neck upward, shielding her eyes against the sun.
The sky above them was thick with US Navy warplanes. She fought back a rush of pride mixed with rage. God, she wished she could be in a cockpit right now.
Payback’s a bitch, China.
The SH-60 pilot wasted no time. He swung them wide around the carrier and landed on the flight deck just aft of the island. Henderson was first off and relieved to see a petty officer waiting for her. “Captain Ransom sent me to get you, ma’am,” she shouted over the roar of the helo’s rotors as it took off again for another trip to the Ford.
The relatively quiet interior of the island was a welcome relief to her ears. The petty officer moved swiftly through the passageways, calling ahead to “make a hole” if she saw any impediments to their progress up to Flag Watch. When she arrived, Captain Bill “Handsome” Ransom, the air wing commander on the Reagan, was frowning at the BattleSpace table.
“Diane,” he said, extending a hand. “It’s good to see you. How’s the Ford?”
She ignored the question, looking past him to BattleSpace. “What’ve you got, Bill? I’m here to help.”
He took the hint and waved at the holographic display. “That’s what an alpha strike force of one hundred thirty-two planes looks like. For the Reagan and the Teddy, if it has wings and a gas tank, we launched it.” He pointed to the scattering of some forty PLA Navy ships that ranged along China’s coast. “Those motherfuckers are about to feel the wrath.”
Captain Diane Henderson felt her lips peel away from her teeth in a feral smile.
“Sir,” the lieutenant running the BattleSpace table called, “Alpha Whiskey is releasing strike packages now.”
Alpha Whiskey was the air warfare commander, embarked on the USS Zumwalt. The state-of-the-art guided-missile destroyer had the most advanced radar and computer processing capacity in the entire fleet, making it the obvious choice to quarterback the combined air assault.
Henderson stood next to Ransom as the 3-D display crisscrossed with vectors showing which aircraft teams were assigned to which targets. The vectors blinked until the flight leaders accepted the assignments.
“All strike assignments accepted, sir.” The entire table flashed green twice. “Alpha Whiskey has released the alpha strike.”
“Very well,” Ransom muttered.
The open channel circuit crackled in the background. “Ramrod, Disco One, over.” Ramrod was the call sign for Alpha Whiskey.
Henderson’s head snapped up. A flight leader’s call direct to Alpha Whiskey indicated a problem. “Turn that up, please,” she called.
Louder now. “Disco One, this is Ramrod, go ahead.”
“Ramrod, we’re flight level two-five-zero. We’re seeing dozens of contrails from mainland China rising fast to high altitude. Possible missile strike. Break.” He paused. “Are you picking up anything on radar?”
As if on cue, the door to SUPPLOT burst open and a harried-looking lieutenant commander rushed in. “Admiral, satellites are showing a massive salvo of Dong-Feng antiship ballistic missiles, headed our way.”
The admiral appeared on the other side of BattleSpace. A tall man, bald, with hooded eyes. “How many?”
“Between thirty and forty, sir.”
The incoming missiles began to appear on BattleSpace as red streaks across the holographic display. Every second more appeared. Henderson’s breath hitched. The Dong-Fengs were nicknamed “carrier killers” for a reason.
“Nukes?”
“Unknown, sir.” The intel officer hesitated. “It’s possible.”
“Time to first impact—seven minutes, sir,” said the BattleSpace operator.
“Run a clock on those missiles. Let’s keep
track of how much time we have left to do some damage,” said the admiral as he snatched the red phone from its cradle, the one that connected him to the combined warfare elements in the battle force. “All ships, this is Bulldog. We have inbound Dong-Feng ballistic missiles. All ships engage in evasive maneuvers. Let’s make their targeting as tough as possible. Break.” He lifted his finger off the transmit button for a second. Flag Watch held its collective breath. “Alpha Whiskey, over.”
“Bulldog, this is Alpha Whiskey.”
“Dave, this is up to you now. Make ’em bleed.”
“Will do, sir. Good luck. Alpha Whiskey, out.”
The carrier heeled to starboard as the ship’s captain began evasive maneuvers.
“Admiral, the first strike teams are engaging targets,” said the BattleSpace operator. Two of the Chinese destroyers that were less than thirty miles out blinked red and disappeared. “Two targets destroyed, sir.”
“Very well,” the admiral said, but his eyes were on the countdown clock that had sprung up to show the time to impact on the inbound Dong-Fengs. It read 5:32.
There was nothing she could do here. Henderson stepped out onto Vulture’s Row, her eyes cast skyward for telltale contrails.
The destroyers had oriented themselves in a picket line along the threat vector. The ships began ripple-firing their batteries of SM-6 surface-to-air missiles until it seemed the sky was massed with crisscrossing contrails. Smoke hugged the waves and small explosions poofed far above them as the defensive missile screen found its targets. She counted three … four … seven. Kinetic kills. Essentially, the SM-6 was a supersonic bullet hitting the incoming supersonic missile, destroying both. Another six explosions peppered the blue morning sky in rapid succession.
She squinted. Unverified intel claimed the Dong-Feng 21D warhead could separate into multiples, called MaRVs, maneuverable reentry vehicles, with independent targeting. She was about to verify intel—the hard way.
Captain Ransom joined her on the catwalk of Vulture’s Row.
“There!” Henderson spotted an incoming contrail burst into four separate trails. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the closest carrier escort release a flurry of Block III missiles, designed for short-range protection of the carrier. The Block III missiles moved at Mach 6, and one of them found a mark immediately. Then another.