by David Poyer
Into blackness, at last. Here it came. Thank you. Thank you.
Then someone tapped on his door.
* * *
THE CO’s at-sea cabin was smaller than the scientist’s, Aisha noted, and looked far more lived-in. Dirty laundry was stuffed into a corner. Books, binders, and papers were stacked under the folded-down desk, nearly to toppling.
Lenson stood in the doorway, a blue robe with yellow piping pulled over his underwear. His hair was rumpled and looked wet. He tapped the back of a fist against his mouth. “XO. Agent … Sheriff Toan. Fuck’s going on?”
“Sorry to disturb you, sir.”
“Whatever. I wasn’t … well, I wasn’t all the way asleep. Come on in.”
After telling the chief to close the door, the exec briefed him in short sentences. Toan held up the evidence bags. Lenson’s face grew stony. “In his stateroom? But … a lot of people carry knives aboard ship. And an old blanket … Not exactly open and shut. Is it?”
“The DVDs probably show the rapes,” Aisha said. They’d tried to view them on a computer in Staurulakis’s office. “But they’re encrypted. We tried the numbers on them as passwords, but they didn’t work. We know he’s got a camera. If it has an infrared setting, that might be how he took video. We have cybertrained agents in the field offices; they can examine them. Or DCFL—the Defense Computer Forensics Laboratory.”
“I told her she needs your permission to take him into custody,” the exec added, slouching against the bulkhead as if her bones had softened.
Lenson fingered his chin. “But if they’re encrypted … in MDA jewel boxes? Could be diagnostic software. Aegis patches.”
“But those would be classified,” Aisha said. “Should be in his safe, right? Plus, Longley’s seen that same blanket every time he’s picked up laundry. Terranova and Colón confirm it sounds exactly like what the rapist seated them on. Soft, with a satin border. Circumstantial, so far, but I’m convinced.”
Lenson groped for a chair. “He’s always had an attitude, but I never thought Noblos was capable of this.”
“There’s a shadow side to these guys,” Aisha told him. “It’s almost a cliché to say they seem like they couldn’t do it. We need to make an arrest. Take him into custody before he attacks another girl.”
“You think he would?”
“I guarantee it.”
The CO rubbed his face with both hands—a habitual gesture, she’d noted, when he was buying a couple of seconds, especially when he was tired. If not sick, too. The cramped space smelled of sweat. “Is there still room for doubt? I mean, that he might not be our guy?”
“Not much,” Aisha said. “The blanket, the knife, the disks. Once we break the encryption, that last two percent will disappear.”
Lenson looked troubled. “The thing is, right now—I hate to say it, but we need him. We’ve got to keep those system numbers up. Under normal conditions, I’d notify Fleet Forces, get a replacement in the pipeline, and fire him off the ship. But that’s not gonna happen. Not now.”
“Operational necessity,” Staurulakis said, not looking at Aisha. “I agree, sir. At least until we’re out of the combat zone.”
Lenson nodded. “Uh-huh. Also, now that I think about it … is he even under Navy jurisdiction?”
They all looked at Aisha. She said, “Um, to be honest, that’s not a black-and-white situation.”
Lenson closed his eyes. “What kind of ‘situation’ is it, then?”
“Well, Captain, first of all, you’re right. He’s not under UCMJ. Not as a civilian.”
“He’s a contractor, aboard a U.S. ship in international waters,” Staurulakis said.
“That’s true, yes ma’am. Which means we can possibly charge him under U.S. Code, under MEJA—”
Lenson interrupted, “Which is what?”
“The Military Extraterritorial Jurisdiction Act permits federal prosecution of crimes committed abroad by DoD civilian employees, or contractors thereof. There’s also CEJA, the Civilian Extraterritorial Jurisdiction Act, which lets us prosecute employees of non-DoD federal agencies. I’m not clear yet who his employer is, or who he’s subcontracted from.”
Lenson said, shading his eyes, “Johns Hopkins, I think via the Missile Defense Agency. We can get the specifics off his clearance. Pull that from Radio, XO.”
“Good, but it can be hard to get a case tried under either statute,” Aisha added. “If we still had the DNA evidence, it would be easier.”
“You just said you were ninety-eight percent certain.” Staurulakis frowned.
Aisha smiled painfully. “My being sure, and persuading a prosecutor to take a case to trial, are two different things, Commander.”
They gave her the same disbelieving stares she was used to from military people whenever she tried to explain civilian law. At last the captain sighed. “I don’t doubt you’re right. And I agree, we need to protect our female crew. But I just can’t take him out of circulation right now. We’re still on the firing line here.”
“I understand you need him. But you’ve got to restrict his movements in some way,” Aisha told him. “I can keep tabs on him if you want me to, but he’s going to notice things are missing. Then what?”
Outside, in the passageway, the 1MC crackled. “General quarters. General quarters. All hands man your battle stations.” Simultaneously the 21MC on the bulkhead said, “CO, TAO: major movement here, multiple incomers. Need you in CIC, right away.”
“Gotta go,” Lenson said, bolting for the door. He threw back over a shoulder, “Stay in your stateroom, Agent. We’ll reconvene on this, all right? If we come out the other side.”
25
THE general quarters alarm rang on and on. Then cut off as abruptly as it had begun. Savo creaked like an aging carriage as she leaned into a slow turn.
Letting himself into CIC, Dan ran his gaze over the displays, the combat systems summary, the surface summary. On the far right, System Availability. Green across the board: SM-2s up, guns up, VLS, TLAM, Harpoon up, and Phalanx ready. But the weapons inventory was sobering. Savo had expended all her Harpoons. Her magazines held no more Sparrows, and only two Block 4 antimissile rounds. The seas were heavier tonight. The winds were increasing. The gun video showed the dead black of a night sea, the sparkle of stars. The forecastle camera was focused on the missing bow. The truncated, torn-up ground tackle was only just visible in the starlight.
On the rightmost display, the Aegis picture. As he sank into the command chair, tucking the worn blue plebe-issue bathrobe against the contact of bare skin with icy leather, a new constellation glittered at extreme range. Wenck and Terranova had their heads down at their console, palavering in low voices.
The callouts identified the USS Franklin D. Roosevelt battle group. The carrier. A cruiser. Three destroyers. And the replenishment ship that would refuel Savo before she and Curtis Wilbur headed back to Guam.
After that … it was out of his hands. For good, or ill.
“FDR’s three hundred miles away,” Singhe murmured, beside him. “Call sign of battle group commander is ‘Shangri-La.’ Ten, twelve hours out, if the seas don’t get any steeper, and they maintain speed.” From the strike officer, the familiar scent of sandalwood. From him, he was afraid, the reek of sleep, perspiration, and unwashed underwear.
“Okay, but why’d you sound GQ?”
“We received a launch cuing, Captain.”
“From where? All our satellites—”
“Not a satellite. From AWACS. Passed to us via the Slow Lead data link.”
“Dave got that set up? I never heard—”
Singhe blinked. “I believe he told you, yessir—”
Dan twisted in his seat, cutting her off. “Donnie? Chief Wenck?”
“Yessir, we’re lookin’ for it.” His and Terranova’s intent frowns, lit a jaundiced amber, hovered above the console.
“Where do they cue it to … okay, yeah.” He read the note, in Singhe’s handwriting, on a message l
og beside the red phone. The launch coordinates were far inland, in the Wuyi Mountains. Farther than he’d thought AWACS could reach. They must be at extreme altitude, max radiated power. Trying to fill the gap left by the loss of the satellites. Or else the allies had some other reconnaissance asset out there. Perhaps a high-altitude drone.
“Shifting to ALIS mode,” Wenck announced. “But it’s probably out of range.”
Dan took a last glance at the rightmost screen. “Put up the gun radar.”
Terranova’s soft voice: “All stations, Aegis control. Stand by … shift to BMD mode.”
The god’s-eye view vanished, succeeded, in the next blink of an eye, by the fanlike sector scan. The gun radar came up on the port display, providing at least a little local awareness. Dan felt naked without Stonecipher watching his back. But nothing threatened on either screen. Just the random freckle of terrain return from far inland. He flinched away as someone set coffee down next to him. When he looked up, it was Fang. The liaison’s shoulders sagged.
“Thanks, Chip. You bearing up?”
“Doing okay. Look like you need a jolt, Captain.”
Dan took a slug, monitoring the ALIS output on the rightmost display. The search beams clicked back and forth. The sea between Savo and the Chinese coast gave nothing back. The coastline came up clearly, outlined in honey yellow. Behind it, a variegated clutter of mountain return. To southward, a ghostly-faint return from northern Taiwan.
The display blanked, changed. “These coordinates,” Wenck announced at the same time the forward door creaked and someone else let himself in. Dan spared a quick glance. It was Dr. Noblos.
The man they’d just fingered as Savo’s resident rapist.
The scientist was in slacks and a homey-looking green cardigan sweater. His short white hair was brushed back. He leaned against the jamb with arms folded and chin up. “Those launch coordinates are out of your range,” he said, with an air of being glad to say so.
Dan said, “Can we get on it when it’s in range?”
“Doing that now, sir,” the Terror muttered.
The forward door creaked open again. Really, he had to get somebody to check out the hinges and seals. A noisy watertight door was one ready to fail. Savo was getting weary too. She deserved a spell in port. An overhaul.
A slight figure in blue coveralls slipped in. Noiselessly, it drifted to a corner opposite the scientist. Chief Toan, the “sheriff.” Keeping an eye on Noblos, as directed.
Dan shifted his attention back to the situation at hand. “Good on ya, Terror. Amy, any way we can get updates on the track via—”
“On it, Captain. Those go to ALIS automatically as they’re generated. This is just a slower data link than satcomm used to give us.”
“Understood.” He stared up at the screen, hands flat on the desk. Waiting for their cued target to come over the horizon, to where the radar could grab it.
“There it is,” Terranova murmured at the same moment Wenck said, “Locking on. Jeez. Like a bat outta hell.”
The brackets vibrated around a small, fast-moving white dot just off the coast. It clicked forward with each sweep, as if escapement-loaded. Headed toward Taiwan, but the altitude and speed from the swiftly climbing readouts told him, even in the absence yet of a predicted impact point, that it wasn’t aimed at the island itself. “Missile lock-on, designate contact Meteor Juliet. Going way too fast, too high, for Taipei,” Wenck called.
Singhe murmured, “Not coming our way, either. Azimuth’s too far south.”
Dan blew out and relaxed in his chair. Exchanged a relieved nod with Fang. “So … where is it aimed?”
Singhe typed, then studied her screen. “Someplace to the east. We’ll know in a couple of minutes. Once ALIS generates aim point.”
“Impact point. Not aim point. They’re different, Amy. Intent versus result. You hardly ever hit exactly where you aim.”
“Thank you, Captain. Correction noted.” She jotted something on her notepad.
Captain Fang lifted a headphone from one ear. “I have speed and altitude data from our Patriot battery. By voice.”
“Good. Can they take it?”
“No. They can track, feed us data, but they are out of missiles, Dan. As I told you? They were all expended countering the attacks.”
Why did everyone keep telling him they’d already told him things? Obviously, a conspiracy. To gaslight him. Or else he was missing stuff. He grunted, “Uh-huh, understand. Anybody got an ID?”
Terranova said, head down, “Seems to be a two-stager … we saw separation … but still, a pretty big return … could be a DF-21.”
“Intermediate range. Solid-fuel, two-stage, road-transported,” Chief Wenck added.
Dan leaned back and stretched, frowning. It was clearer with each second that the missile, still gaining altitude as it arched over the west coast of Taiwan, wasn’t headed for that island. But if not, where? Or was it just a threat, a demonstration, on the order of “your antimissile capabilities are exhausted; Taipei is helpless now”?
Noblos, bending next to him. “You haven’t figured it out yet, have you, Captain?”
Dan snapped, “If you have, Doctor, please enlighten us.”
The scientist leaned forward, over his shoulder, and tapped Dan’s keyboard. The screen jumped back.
Dan stared, his spine going rigid. The display jumped again, zooming away. Showing the missile’s extended track.
Pointed almost due east.
Three hundred miles to the southeast of Savo, four hundred miles east of Taiwan.
At the battle group. And even as he watched, an IPP blinked into existence on the rightmost display. An oval, outlined in blinking yellow. Quivering at the edges, like some invertebrate alien life-form not yet decided on its shape as ALIS calculated and recalculated ten times a second.
Centered over the far-flung circular formation of the oncoming carrier and its screening units.
“Pass to FDR, pass to Fleet, pass to PaCom. Flash red. Incoming ballistic missile, type unknown, possible DF-21.” But next to him, Singhe was already typing. He unsocketed his handset, waited for the red light, and went out on high-frequency Fleet Warning. “Shangri-La and all stations this net, Shangri-La and all stations this net: Flash, flash, flash. From Ringmaster. Ballistic-missile launch, targeted roughly 21 degrees, 46 minutes north, 123 degrees, 40 minutes east. Premliminary IPP, location Shangri-La. ETA one-one minutes. Flash. Flash.”
He repeated it, then signed off without waiting for acknowledgment. Swung to yell across the compartment, “Donnie, can we take it?”
“It’s a crossing engagement,” Noblos observed. “You’d be wasting your ordnance.”
“We only have two Block 4s left,” Singhe murmured.
“That’s FDR it’s targeted on, Amy. Remember, intel said they were deploying on an anticarrier weapon.” He pushed back and joined Wenck and Noblos as they huddled behind Terranova at the console. The chief looked worried. “Can we take it?” Dan asked again.
“Wait one … trying to get you an answer on that, Skipper. But the numbers aren’t good.”
Dan waited. Then, putting his revulsion aside, faced Noblos. “Doctor, we need your advice here.”
The bristly eyebrows lifted. “Really? I don’t see why. If you plan to throw your rounds away.”
Dan tried for patience. He gritted his teeth. “How to maximize our probability of kill. If we take this guy on. Anything we can do?”
“Oh. Absolutely.” The physicist nodded, all too smugly.
“Then what?”
“Be three hundred miles south of here.” The physicist smiled. “Short of that, all I can say is, remember, the Block 4 is a terminal-phase interceptor. It’s not designed for midcourse, in-space interception at the velocity and altitude this thing’s traveling at. If you shoot too soon, the sustainer will burn out before it gets up there.”
Noblos lifted his gaze to the overhead. “Your optimal intercept point will be the product of it
s closest slant-range point of approach to you. And long enough after it starts its descent so the terminal body still has enough fuel to maneuver to a collision. You can plot the vectors. A three-dimensional solution … On second thought, better let ALIS do that. Once your target crosses 125 degrees longitude, it’ll be traveling away from you. Converting from a crossing engagement to a tail chase. In which case, it will actually be moving faster than your own warhead.”
“I could have told you that, Dan,” Donnie Wenck said. His cheeks were flushed; his hair was pawed into a roostertail. “We don’t need this asshole to explain the obvious.”
“This, from the technician who doesn’t know how to tune for temperature differences across the array face.” Noblos smiled sadly, and shook his head. “Fools,” he whispered, just loud enough to be heard.
Dan slid between them, figuring Wenck was just hot enough to throw a punch. Not that he didn’t feel like it too, but … “Leave it. Leave it! Yeah, we’re just the button monkeys, Doctor. Help us out. Show us how it’s done.”
Noblos cleared his throat. With a superior smile, he leaned in to type rapidly on Terranova’s keyboard. His left hand came to rest on her shoulder. She looked up, and her eyes widened. Dan tensed, began to grab for it, but the hand removed itself to enter another command.
Noblos straightened. “There. They’ll still miss, but it’s the best you’re going to do.”
“Donnie. Terror. Does that look good to you?” As they nodded he called across the slanting space, “Amy, did FDR roger on our flash?”
“Yes sir. They rogered up. Asked if we could intercept.”
Terranova murmured, “ALIS is giving a probability of kill of less than ten percent.”
“Thanks, Terror.—Tell ’em we’re trying, but the odds are against it. Do what they can. It’s”—he eyed the screen—“eight minutes out. Prepare to engage.”
Singhe muttered, “Fire authorized?”
“Not just yet, Amy. Goddamn it, don’t hurry me!”
He regretted the outburst at once, but set it aside as the CIC officer laid a red-bindered book atop the console. Pointed to a subhead. “It’s probably just a warning shot,” the officer muttered.