Wild Fire

by Nelson DeMille

  I asked, of course, “And where is that?”

  “Well, one is where the Russian transmitter, called Zevs, is located—northwest of Murmansk, up near the Arctic Circle. Another place where these necessary conditions exist is here in the U.S. Our two transmitters are the Wisconsin Transmitter Facility—WTF—and the Michigan Transmitter Facility—MTF, and they both share the same geological formation called the Laurentian Shield.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Well, that’s it for existing ELF transmitters. But the Brits almost built one during the Cold War for the Royal Navy at a suitable location called Glengarry Forest in Scotland. But for a variety of political and practical reasons, the idea was scrapped.”

  Neither Kate nor I said anything for a while, then Kate recapped, “So, there are only three ELF transmitters in the entire world.”

  Commander Nasseff made a little joke and replied, “Last time I counted.”

  Well, I thought, count again, Commander.

  Kate and I glanced at each other, but neither of us asked the obvious question about other suitable and perhaps close-by locations. We knew we needed to finesse that question so as not to have Commander Nasseff sitting around the coffee bar telling people that Corey and Mayfield were asking about ELF transmitters in the Adirondack Mountains.

  John Nasseff took the silence to mean we were done taking up his time and asked, “Was that helpful?”

  Kate replied, “Very. Thank you. One more question. I’m not clear on something. You are saying it’s possible for a private individual to build an ELF transmitter?”

  John Nasseff was probably thinking about lunch, but answered, “Sure. Someone can build one in his basement or garage. It’s actually fairly basic technology, and some of the components are probably off-the-shelf items, and what’s not readily available can be built or bought for the right money. The real problem is the location of the antenna and the size of the antenna.”

  “Why is that a problem?”

  “Because, this is not a standard vertical antenna. An ELF antenna is actually a long cable, or cables. These cables are strung on telephone-type poles, usually in a big circle, and they run for miles.”

  That sounded like something I’d seen recently. I asked, “Why is that difficult . . . or expensive?”

  “Well, it’s expensive,” Nasseff replied, “if the government does it.” He got off a good laugh, then continued, “As I said, it’s all about geology and geography. First, you need to find a location where the rock formation is suitable, then you need to acquire a sufficiently large area of that land.”

  “Then what?”

  “Well, then you string your cables, which are actually the feed for your antenna. These cables may have to run for hundreds of miles—in a circle to save space—or, if the geological conditions are perfect, you could get away with, say, fifty miles or less.”

  Kate said, “I’m not quite following the geological angle.”

  “Oh, well . . . let me look this up . . . okay—a necessary ground condition to build an ELF antenna is an area where there are only a few meters of sand, or moraine gravel. Beneath that, you need a rock base of igneous granite, or metamorphic . . . what the hell is this?” He spelled, “G-N-E-I-S-S.”

  I said, “I hope that’s not the code to launch.”

  He chuckled. “I guess it’s a type of rock. Let’s see . . . areas of very old Precambrian mountain chains, such as the Laurentian Shield, where our ELF installations are located . . . the Kola Peninsula in Russia, where they have their ELF installation . . . this place in Scotland where the Brits decided not to build an ELF station . . . a place near the Baltic Sea . . . well, you get the picture.”

  I didn’t hear him say, “The Adirondack Mountains,” and I was really listening closely.

  He continued, “So, if someone wants to build an ELF station, he goes to one of these areas, buys enough land, then sinks telephone poles in the bedrock and strings antenna wire between them, in a circle. The better the geological conditions, the shorter the wire has to be to provide the same transmitting power. Then the antenna wire is connected to a thick copper grounding cable, which runs down one or more of the telephone poles into a deep borehole in the low-conductivity rock. Then, a powerful electrical generator—and this is a big expense—feeds the antenna cables, and the current runs around the antenna wire, then goes down the copper grounding cables into the rock. And then, the Earth itself becomes the actual antenna. Follow?”

  I replied, “Absolutely.”

  I don’t think he believed me and he said, “This is a little technical for me, too. But it seems that if you have enough electrical generating capacity—thousands of kilowatts—and once you get the antenna right, the actual radio transmitter is not that difficult to build, and you can transmit ELF wave signals to your heart’s content.” He added, “Unfortunately, no one is listening.”

  I reminded him, “The submarines are listening.”

  “Only if they happen to be on the frequency that you’re transmitting. The Russians are transmitting on 82 herz, and we are transmitting on 76 herz. And even if the submarines are hearing something on the appropriate frequency, their ELF receiver would probably reject the signal.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, as I said, military signals are computer encrypted. Encrypted when transmitted, and decrypted at the receiving end. Otherwise,” he explained, “any nut—as you seem to be suggesting—could theoretically play havoc with the Russian and American nuclear submarine fleets. You know, like start World War III.”

  I knew exactly what he meant without the explicit example.

  Kate was standing now. “Has anyone ever tried something like that?” she asked.

  Commander Nasseff was silent on that subject, so I asked the same question.

  He came back with a question of his own. “What are you guys on to?”

  I knew that was coming, and I didn’t want him sending a three-letter code to the Pentagon that meant, “Check out Corey and Mayfield.” I said to him, “Well, as you may know, we’re in the Mideast Section. That’s all I can say.”

  He thought about that, then responded, “Well . . . these people may have, or may be able to acquire this technology . . . but I don’t think there’s a suitable geological area in any of those countries.”

  “That’s good news,” I said. But this really wasn’t about our Mideast friends. I asked him once again, “Has anyone—in the past—ever tried to send a bogus signal to our submarine fleet?”

  “I’ve heard a rumor to that effect.”

  “When? How? What happened?”

  “Well . . . if you can believe this rumor, about fifteen years ago, our nuclear sub fleet was receiving encoded ELF messages, but the onboard submarine computers weren’t able to verify the legitimacy of the encoded messages, so they were rejected.” He continued, “And when the sub commanders contacted naval operations in Pearl Harbor and Norfolk by other means, they were informed that no such messages had been sent by them via Wisconsin—Michigan hadn’t been built yet.” He stayed quiet for a few seconds, then added, “It appeared that some . . . entity was sending bogus messages, but the safeguards worked, and none of the subs took action based on those messages.”

  I asked, “What action? What did the messages say?”

  “Launch.”

  The room was quiet for a while, then Kate asked, “Could it have been the Russians sending those messages?”

  “No. First, the Russians didn’t even have ELF transmitting capabilities until about 1990, and even if they did, there was no logical reason for them to order U.S. subs to launch against the U.S.S.R.”

  I agreed with that and asked, “So, who was it?”

  He replied, “Look, this could be one of those apocryphal Cold War stories that submariners or communication personnel make up to impress their girlfriends or their bar friends.”

  “Right,” I agreed. “That story’s worth a big hug or a free beer. But it could also be true.
”

  “Could be.”

  “So,” I said, “apparently we have the ELF transmitter count wrong. I’m counting four now.”

  He stayed silent awhile, then replied, “Actually, about fifteen or sixteen years ago, there was only one ELF station in the world—ours in Wisconsin. As I said, Michigan hadn’t been built yet, and neither had Zevs. That’s why I think this story has no basis. Who would build and operate an ELF transmitter with the purpose of starting a nuclear war?”

  I thought maybe my crazy ex-father-in-law would do that, but he was too cheap to spend the bucks. So I suggested, “The Chinese? You know, telling us to launch against the Russkies, then sitting back and watching us destroy each other.”

  “Well, that’s possible. But if they got caught at it, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Russians and Americans agreed to nuke them for that. That is a very dangerous game to play.”

  It was, and if you were a country with skin in the game, like China or Russia, you’d think twice about it. But if you were a rich, private, and crazy individual sitting in the mountains, you might want to amuse yourself with an ELF transmitter. I pointed out to Commander Nasseff, “You said these ELF waves could be monitored, so I assume the transmission source can also be located.”

  “That is a good assumption. But the truth is no. Remember, the Earth itself has become the antenna, so the signals seem to emanate from all around you.”

  “Like a cosmic message?”

  “Well . . . it would be more like the ground shaking because of an earthquake. The signal would seem to be coming from everywhere.”

  “So there’s no way to trace the origin of an ELF signal?”

  “Not in the sense that you’re thinking of. But ELF receivers could get a general idea of where the transmission source was by comparing the effective radiated power that they were receiving at their site. Like all energy sources, the farther away from the origin you are, the weaker the signal becomes. That’s how we learned about the Russian Zevs transmitter—we suspected that the Russians had an ELF transmitter to signal their submarines, so we put a receiving station in Greenland, and this station received strong signals. After a while, we were able to home in on its general location in the Kola Peninsula, and spy satellites confirmed. But that was only because the Russians happened to be transmitting continuously while we hunted for the signal source.”

  I thought about that, then asked, “Was the Navy ever able to figure out where those bogus launch signals were coming from?”

  “I have no idea. Although I would suspect not, or everyone involved in naval communication would have heard about it, officially or unofficially. I never heard about it.” He reminded me, “But again, these bogus transmissions may never have occurred.”

  Well, I thought they had, and I suspected that Commander Nasseff thought so, too. I also thought I knew the source.

  He switched to a happier thought. “Well, thank God the Cold War is over.”

  “You can say that again.”

  But he didn’t. “Anything else?” he asked.

  I thought of Mikhail Putyov. “Would a nuclear physicist be at all involved in extremely low frequency technology?”

  “Not at all. He’d probably know less about it than you do.”

  “Hey, I’m an expert now. No one’s going to try to sell me an ELF wave oven.”

  “Why,” asked Commander Nasseff, ignoring my joke, “would ELF concern the Mideast Section of the Anti-Terrorist Task Force?”

  Kate and I exchanged glances, and she wrote on my pad, “You’re the bullshitter.”

  Thanks, Kate. I replied to Commander Nasseff, “Well, as it turns out, based on what you’ve told us, we may be . . . well, on the wrong wavelength.” I chuckled for effect and explained, “We’re actually working on a case involving this environmental terrorist group called the Earth Liberation Front. ELF. Wrong ELF. Sorry.”

  Officer and gentleman that he was, Commander Nasseff didn’t dignify that bullshit with a response.

  Kate, who knows how not to ask a question that tips off the person being questioned, said to Nasseff, “John, I’m looking at my notes, and I think you said that the only suitable U.S. location for an ELF antenna and transmitter is this geological area in Wisconsin and Michigan called the Laurentian Shield. Do I have that right?”

  He could have been snotty and asked what that had to do with the Earth Liberation Front, but he answered, “I think that’s right . . . Hold on . . . here’s another place in the U.S. where you can locate an ELF transmitter.”

  Neither Kate nor I asked where, but John Nasseff informed us, “You’re actually standing on it.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  We sat on the enclosed porch, which was warmed by the sun coming in the big windows. Outside, leaves fell, ducks swam on the pond, and fat Canada geese waddled across the lawn without their passports.

  We were lost in our own thoughts, which were probably similar. Finally, Kate said, “Madox has a big electrical generator, and an ELF antenna on his property, and he probably has a transmitter somewhere in his lodge. Maybe his fallout shelter . . .”

  I tried to lighten the moment. “So, you think Madox is exploring for oil?”

  She wasn’t in the mood for my humor and asked, “Do we think Madox was the person who sent those ELF transmissions to the submarine fleet fifteen years ago?”

  “We do.”

  “But why?”

  “Let me think. Hey, he was trying to start a thermonuclear war.”

  “Yes, I understand that. But why?”

  “I guess he was just rolling the dice, crossing his fingers, and hoping for a happy ending.”

  “That’s insane.”

  “Right. But he didn’t think so.” I said to her, “You may be too young to remember, but there were people in this country in those days—Mr. Madox, I’m sure, among them—who wanted to push the button first and get it over with. They truly believed that the Soviets would be caught napping, and that Soviet technology and weapons systems were faulty, and that we could survive whatever they threw back at us.” I added, “Radioactive fallout is overrated.”

  “Totally insane.”

  “Well, fortunately, we’ll never know.” I thought a moment and said, “Madox obviously had some inside information about military ELF codes and decided to use it. The technology to build the transmitter and antenna, as we heard, is not secret, and at some point, about twenty years ago, Madox knew he needed the right piece of real estate, and before you know it, he’s shopping for land in the Adirondack Mountains.” I added, “Best investment he ever made.”

  She nodded thoughtfully. “I guess that’s what happened . . . but it didn’t work.”

  “No, thank God, it didn’t, or we wouldn’t be here talking about it.”

  “Why didn’t it work?”

  I went over it in my mind and replied, “My guess is that he underestimated the sophistication and complexities of the computers and the software, which are obviously an integral part of the coded ELF transmissions. And at some point, he was warned by his inside guy that if he kept trying to get the launch code right, the government would make an all-out effort to discover the source of these bogus transmissions, and the FBI would be breaking down the door of the Custer Hill Club. So he gave up on his interesting hobby.”

  “Or maybe God intervened.”

  I gave that some consideration and said, “I have no doubt that Bain Madox believed he was on God’s side, and God was on his.”

  “Well, He wasn’t.”

  “Apparently not. Meanwhile, what is the connection between ELF and Mikhail Putyov, former Soviet nuclear weapons physicist, currently a professor at MIT, and houseguest of Mr. Madox?”

  Kate thought a moment, then replied, “Maybe . . . maybe this time, Madox is going to try to get our subs to launch against predesignated targets in the Mideast, China, or North Korea.”

  I processed that and said, “That sounds like the Bain Madox we know. Interesting possibili
ty. But it still doesn’t explain Putyov.”

  Kate thought about that and probably about things she never dreamed she’d be thinking about yesterday. She asked me, or herself, “What the hell is this guy up to?”

  “I think he’s up to Plan B, and I have no idea what that is, except that it’s a version of Plan A, which didn’t work fifteen years ago.”

  I looked at my watch and stood. “Here’s what I want you to do, Kate. Go online and see if there’s anything else we need to know about ELF waves. Also, Google Mikhail Putyov, and while you’re at it, Bain Madox.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “And this is important—get the laptop back to Wilma before six-thirty.”

  She forced a smile and asked, “Can I go on eBay?”

  “No, you may not go on eBay. Okay, then call the FAA and get the continuing flight plans for Madox’s two jets. The tail numbers of his aircraft are in your briefcase. That may take a while, knowing the Federal bureaucracy as I do, but be persistent and charming—”

  “Why do you think that’s important?”

  “I really don’t know. But I’d like to know where Madox sent those aircraft in case it becomes important.” I added, “Also, I’d like you to study those flight manifests, airline reservations, and car-rental agreements, and see what else you can come up with. And call Putyov’s home and office and see if anyone knows his whereabouts.”

  “Okay . . . but what are you doing while I’m doing all of this?”

  “It’s my nap time.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Actually, I’m going to run a few errands. I’ll get us some food plus some personal items, which don’t seem to be included for seventy-five bucks, and whatever else you’d like.”

  She informed me, “We don’t need anything at the store, John. After we gather all this information, we are heading back to the city.” She added, “I’ll book a flight from Adirondack Regional Airport, or someplace else around here.”