“According to security protocols, any individual, unauthorized attempt to leave the station will be stopped using a combination of lethal and nonlethal measures. Any attempts to leave the station involving more than one person will be immediately met with lethal force. If any single attempt, or combination of attempts, creates an unresolvable evacuation caucus among station personnel, release of a nonpersistent, lethal nerve agent is authorized at the discretion of the security chief,” recited Tin from the screen. “They’ve planned for this.”
“We killed ourselves by sharing this with Zhen.”
“We were dead as soon as we stepped off the elevator two years ago,” said Tin.
Before Fan could respond, a screen activated in the bottom left corner of his wraparound screen. Tin quickly dragged it into the middle.
“Security feed for the elevator?” asked Fan.
“Yes. Looks like Zhen is returning to the station.”
“Maybe we let our imaginations get the best of us.”
“We’ll know shortly,” Tin said resolutely.
They watched the screen for several seconds, observing Director Zhen’s impassive, unchanging face as the elevator descended. From his workstation, Tin could hear the elevator machinery humming from the doors located in a small vestibule next to the security room.
“Maybe this is a fake feed too,” said Fan.
“He always looks like that,” responded Tin.
Tin’s hopes faded when he heard the elevator doors open in the vestibule. Zhen had never directly accessed the cyber-operations level using the elevator. It was against security protocol. Expecting a tight formation of black-clad commandos to fan out from the hallway, he was surprised to see Zhen emerge alone. The director lumbered toward them, carrying something dark and heavy on his back. Olive-drab shoulder straps tugged mercilessly against Zhen’s dust-coated, black suit jacket. Second Artillery Corps had contributed heavily to Operation Red Dragon. Tin relaxed his shoulders and took a deep breath before asking his last question.
“Did you know from the beginning?”
Zhen shook his head slowly and raised his right hand, which held a gray “dead man” trigger mechanism.
“I should have known. I’m sorry, Tin,” said Zhen, opening his right hand.
Chapter 4
EVENT -02:49 Hours
Comprehensive Nuclear-Test-Ban Treaty Organization Headquarters
Vienna, Austria
Romy Nadel took a sip of steaming coffee and leaned back in her chair. As the International Data Centre’s (IDC) lead analyst, one of her primary duties entailed preparing the previous day’s Reviewed Event Bulletin (REB), which compiled all of the IDC’s confirmed and corrected seismic or acoustic events for distribution to member states. Once approved, data from the REB was automatically screened by the IDC’s mainframe system to determine whether the event was natural or manmade.
The automated criteria used to differentiate events had been agreed upon by member states during the ratification phase of the treaty, eliminating any possible accusation of bias against the organization should a violation occur. The IDC simply collected, compiled and disseminated raw data. What the member states did with the information was their own business.
She was seconds away from approving the weekend’s report when an “Event Alert” window appeared in the lower right-hand corner of her flat-screen monitor. Events meeting the criteria for immediate review were extremely rare, usually the result of an isolated meteorite strike or massive earthquake with unusual characteristics. The software classifying worldwide events kept these intrusions to a minimum. Her videoconferencing software activated less than a second later, opening another window. Walter Bikel’s caustic, angular face appeared in the upper left corner of her screen.
“Romy, have you seen the alert data?” he asked.
“No. It just popped up on my screen,” she replied, opening the alert window.
“Magnitude 4.7. Estimated 4-5 kiloton explosion at Lop Nur,” he said.
“Hold on. Let me take a look.”
Nadel saw several other videoconference requests appear on her screen below the initial data assessment. She ignored them and concentrated on the neatly packaged seismic information. The data screen showed initial waveform patterns with a software generated assessment of the cause. Walter was right. China had apparently violated the nuclear-test-ban treaty.
Fast moving P-waves were off the chart compared to the slower moving S-waves, indicating an explosion or sudden detonation of some kind. They couldn’t officially rule out a large meteorite strike, but the geographic epicenter left little doubt in her mind as to the cause of the explosion. Lop Nur had served as China’s only nuclear testing facility for nearly forty years. The Chinese government issued a formal moratorium on nuclear testing in 1996, the day after conducting their forty-fifth and supposedly final nuclear test. The site had been quiet for twenty-three years, which struck her as odd. They had no intelligence to suggest the Chinese were in the process of renewing their nuclear testing program. Why would they suddenly detonate a nuclear device?
“This doesn’t make any sense,” Nadel said. “Maybe they had an accidental detonation. The Chinese keep a sizeable weapons stockpile at Lop Nur.”
“Seismic data suggests that the explosion occurred deep underground. They don’t keep their stockpiled weapons underground. Nobody does,” said Bikel.
“I know; I’m being optimistic. Sorry to cut you off, but I need to make a few calls,” said Nadel.
“I imagine you do. Good luck.”
Chapter 5
EVENT: -00:04 Hours
USS Gravely (DDG107)
Norfolk Naval Base, Virginia
Chief Fire Controlman Warren Jeffries took a long swig of bitter coffee from a worn USS Gravely travel mug and stared at the unchanging console screen. Three hours until one of Destroyer Squadron Twenty-Two’s teams arrived and resumed responsibility for this watch, allowing his sailors a much-needed break before the start of the work week. As Atlantic Fleet’s designated Launch On Remote (LOR) Homeland Ballistic Missile Defense (HBMD) platform, Gravely maintained a continuous state of readiness to fire her RIM-161 Standard Missile Three (SM-3) shipboard missiles at ballistic missile threats to key infrastructure assets in Washington, D.C. With an operational range of three hundred miles, the Block IIB version carried onboard Gravely could conceivably protect New York City.
Chief Jeffries stepped away from the console manned by Fire Controlman Clark and sat down at a deactivated console station several feet away to rest his eyes for a few seconds. The watch required two qualified fire controlmen, who would conduct last-minute checks and sound the appropriate shipboard alarms in the unlikely event that Gravely’s weapons and sensors were remotely co-opted by the Missile Defense Agency. Aside from running system diagnostic checks every two hours, they did little more than keep each other awake. Jeffries settled into a deeply relaxing state, letting the hum of the Combat Information Center’s active equipment lull him perilously close to sleep.
“Chief, I think we have something,” said Petty Officer Clark from the designated C2BMC console.
“What is it? Another system-wide test? Always at five in the goddamned morning,” said Jeffries, opening his eyes and reaching for his coffee mug.
“No. This looks—holy shit! Missiles away in thirty seconds!”
“Bullshit. Get out of that chair,” said Jeffries.
He barely waited for Clark to vacate the seat before jamming his slightly oversized body into the fixed chair to scan the display.
“Son of a mother! Activate the general alarm and read this over the 1-MC,” he said, unclipping a laminated card from the console and handing it to the petty officer.
“When you’re done with that, get over to the VLS console and make sure the birds are ready. I’ll take care of the Aegis array. Go!”
Missiles started to cycle out of the forward Vertical Launch System before either of them had completed their diagnos
tic checks, shaking the ship’s superstructure. Buried deep within the ship, inside the Combat Information Center, they barely heard each successive launch over the piercing shrill of the ship’s general alarm. Jeffries ran back to the console to see if the C2BMC system had given them any further information regarding the threat that continued to drain his ship’s SM3 missiles. Glancing at the screen, his first thought was that somebody or something had fucked up big time.
None of the data made sense. The missiles would arc into a western trajectory to intercept a target identified by the PAVE PAWS (Phased Array Warning System) station at Beale Air Force Base in California. Not a typical threat trajectory for the East Coast. One target parameter stood out as terminally flawed. Target speed. His Mach 7.88 missiles had been sent to intercept a target moving at Mach 58. This had to be a mistake. Russia’s most updated ICBMs topped out at Mach 23. He wasn’t even sure if Gravely’s AEGIS system could provide terminal guidance to intercept a target moving this fast. It really didn’t matter, because it was out of his hands.
The missiles stopped firing, and he ran to the active AEGIS tracking console, still shocked to see the digital representations of his missiles streaking west over Virginia to intercept a track originating from the southwest. Not a single BMD training scenario had involved a missile threat from that direction.
Thirteen missiles had been fired without “skin on track” by Gravely’s AN/SPY-1D phased array radar, meaning that the ship’s radar had not acquired the target. The C2BMC system would guide the missiles until Gravely’s powerful sensors picked up the track. At that point, the ship’s fire control system would provide terminal guidance to ensure that each missile’s Light Exo-Atmospheric Projectile (LEAP) collided with the threat.
The entry hatch to CIC flew open, spilling a panicked contingent of crewmembers into the dimly lit space. Dressed in the digital blue camouflage-patterned navy working uniform, Gravely’s command duty officer, Lieutenant Mosely, pushed the first sailors out of the way and ran to Jeffries.
“What the fuck just happened?”
“Our ship remote launched thirteen SM-3s at an inbound target identified by C2. It’s moving Mach fifty-eight out of the southwest. That’s all I know, sir,” said Chief Jeffries.
“You mean Mach five point eight,” corrected the officer.
“No, Lieutenant. Fifty-eight. Have you called the captain?”
The lieutenant glanced around for a second, clearly confused by the entire situation. Jeffries could understand the officer’s hesitation. Less than a minute ago, the ship had been quiet. Within the span of forty-five seconds, Gravely had autofired thirteen antiballistic missiles, and they had very little information. For all any of them knew, they could be on the verge of a full-scale nuclear war.
“I’ll call him right now. Are you talking to anyone at IMD?”
“Not yet. We barely got our checks done before the missiles launched,” said Jeffries, turning to type into the BMD console.
“Get IMD on the line. They’re running the show.”
“I’m on it, sir. Petty Officer Clark, start making calls to the Integrated Missile Defense command. Get me anyone that knows what’s going on. Numbers are on the card,” said the chief.
He stood up from his chair and turned to the half-dozen sailors hovering near the hatch. “The rest of you get out of here!”
Two minutes later, Chief Jeffries and Fire Controlman Ben Clark watched the AEGIS display in horror as Gravely’s missiles disappeared one by one over central Virginia. Gravely’s fire control system acquired and tracked the target for nine seconds before it vanished in the vicinity of Richmond, Virginia.
“That wasn’t a missile, sir,” said the chief.
“What are you saying, Chief? Hold on, Captain,” said the lieutenant, covering the phone’s mouthpiece.
“Radar cross section was ninety-six thousand,” he said, his voice trailing off in disbelief.
He still couldn’t process his emotions. Everything had happened too fast. Repeating the radar cross section brought a single emotion to the surface. Fear. His family lived ten miles from here, in the direction of Richmond. His vision narrowed, and he barely heard the lieutenant’s reply.
“Meters? That can’t be right,” said the officer, walking toward the AEGIS console. He glanced at the data over the chief’s shoulder and shook his head.
“We have to get IMD on the line, Chief!” yelled Lieutenant Mosely.
“Captain, Chief Jeffries just confirmed that the target had a radar cross section over ninety thousand. Something has to be wrong. That would put the diameter over three hundred meters!”
Jeffries waited for the lieutenant to continue, but heard nothing. He looked up at the officer, who pressed his ear against the receiver and squinted.
“Captain? Can you hear me? Chief, I think my call—”
He was interrupted by a complete and sudden darkness. The Combat Information Center went dead for a second before bulkhead-mounted, battery-powered LED “battle lanterns” started to provide illumination. The eerie silence continued.
“Shore power’s out. We should get power from one of the generators in a few seconds,” said the lieutenant.
Ten seconds elapsed, yielding no change to the eerie silence.
“I think we lost more than shore power,” said the chief, starting to get out of his seat to help Petty Officer Clark with the communications console.
Before he reached Clark, the entire ship slid laterally, knocking everyone inside to the metal grated deck. A severe rumbling enveloped CIC for several seconds, followed by silence. Jeffries grabbed onto Clark’s seat and began to pull himself to his feet when a panicked voice filled the darkened space.
“CDO, they need you on the quarterdeck!”
Chief Jeffries stood up and walked with Lieutenant Mosely toward the hatch, but stopped when the metal beneath his feet shuddered again. Once the ship settled, he unsheathed a powerful LED flashlight from his belt and illuminated the doorway, finding a wide-eyed Hispanic woman in dark blue Gravely sweatpants and a white T-shirt. She wore an expression of terror.
“What happened?” asked Mosely.
“Norfolk Naval Base is on fire—and the ship broke free of the pier.”
Chief Jeffries stared at her with disbelief. All he could think about was his wife and two teenagers.
Chapter 6
EVENT 00:00 Hours
Boston University
Boston, Massachusetts
Ryan Fletcher squinted at his alien surroundings. Unnaturally brilliant light penetrated the translucent curtains, exposing beige cinderblock walls and sparse furniture. The glaring view of his dorm room faded quickly, replaced by a soft flickering light. He raised his head a few inches off the pillow to view the digital alarm clock resting on his desk. A dark object stared back. He raised his left hand to his chest and stared at the illuminated dial until it made sense. 4:59.
Brutal.
His eyes eased shut, and he started to drift back to sleep, until the steel bedframe under his thin mattress rattled against the wooden dresser behind his head. Angry thoughts of the “T” waking him every morning of his freshmen year yanked him out of the murky depths, and he sat up, fully awake and pissed off at his room assignment. Nobody had mentioned the fact that the train made stops inside his dorm room. The vibration intensified, accompanied by a deafening roar.
“No way I’m dealing with this for an entire year,” he mumbled.
The bed heaved upward, tossing him face down onto the carpeted floor. Distant car alarms sounded. He lay prone for a few seconds, stunned by the violent upheaval. Another massive jolt rocked the room. He needed to get out of here.
Ryan grabbed the bedframe and tried to stand, but the room pitched violently, dropping him to his hands and knees. He crawled in the darkness toward the door, tumbling sideways into the wooden dresser beyond his bed as the building swayed. Ryan scurried into the small vestibule next to the door moments before both of the room’s heavy, w
ooden dressers crashed to the floor. He leaned his back into the cold cinderblock wall and pressed his bare feet against the opposite wall.
Adding and releasing pressure on his legs to stay in place, Ryan moved with the building, hoping the walls didn’t collapse. Not that it mattered at that point. The building was nearly fifty years old, and if the interior walls failed, rescue teams would be lucky to find any of them alive. He dug his feet into the wall in front of him and closed his eyes. He was on autopilot, too disoriented and terrified to put any effort into anything beyond his immediate survival. He knew that he should be sitting under the doorframe, but he couldn’t convince his body to give up the stable position he had established between the two walls.
Moments later, the shaking abated, and the thunderous rumble yielded to distant car alarms and screaming. Ryan stood on wobbly legs and braced himself against the walls with both hands, taking deep breaths to fight the nausea. A strong campfire smell drew his attention to the flimsy curtains flapping gently through the jagged remains of the window. A wave of dizziness struck, buckling his knees.
Bright yellow and orange light danced against the room’s dark interior, arousing his curiosity. He had to see what had happened outside of the building. Testing his legs, he edged out of the vestibule and stopped in front of the fallen dressers. Glancing up at broken windows, a flash flood of rational, analytical thoughts overloaded him.
First things first.
He tilted the top dresser upward, letting all of the empty drawers fall to the floor as he heaved it against the opposite wall. His dresser was next, but he took care to keep the drawers pushed firmly shut. Ryan dug through the dresser and quickly replaced his athletic shorts with jeans. Thick wool socks covered his feet, followed by a pair of well-travelled, dark brown hiking boots. He saw no sense in cutting his feet on broken glass before he left his room. He stepped over to the window and brushed aside the flimsy curtains. Flames engulfed western Boston, extending as far as he could see from his sixth story window.
THE ALEX FLETCHER BOXSET: Books 1-5 Page 39