Ripple (Breakthrough Book 4)

by Michael C. Grumley

  Caesare inflated the sleeve and counted. “Ninety-one over sixty.”

  “Okay. Keep monitoring and tell me if it falls significantly below that. How long until you reach Busan?”

  Clay looked at his watch. “About fifty minutes.”

  “Good. We’ll have a team standing by.”

  ***

  On the other end of the call, Kanna stared across the table at Neely Lawton, who looked just as worried.

  “Do you think it will work?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s a long shot.”

  It was more than a long shot. Medically induced comas were typically little more than last ditch attempts to save a patient’s life. And it was literally the only idea they had to save Li Na––to shut her brain down and force it to rest.

  “The problem,” Kanna said, “is that keeping someone under for too long brings on more problems––worse than just low blood pressure. Under a coma, the entire body begins to deteriorate quickly. If this bacterium she has cannot counterbalance that…”

  “It may not be enough,” finished Neely gravely.

  “Correct.” Kanna leaned into the phone. “Gentlemen, keep monitoring. I’ll call you back in ten minutes.”

  ***

  “Roger that.” The call ended and both men leaned back.

  Clay stared down at Li Na, then continued watching the monitor before finally turning to Caesare. “How do you think he knew?”

  “How who knew what?”

  “How did Borger know she was on that ship?”

  Caesare blinked, thinking, then shook his head. “Beats the hell out of me.”

  114

  Alone in her lab, Neely sat on a metal stool in silence, staring at the empty refrigerator. It had been the only way she could think to limit the attack on the ship, to end the Russians’ search and keep them from killing more of the ship’s crew.

  Let them have the bacteria. Leave it in plain sight and let them have it all. At least then they would stop looking.

  And they did. They took it and fled to the Valant, where it was subsequently destroyed, along with the entire Russian team. And where Les Gorski lost his life.

  Through the window, she watched the fire, still raging. Blanketing the entire area beneath an eerie yellow glow.

  Outside, the rest of the crew moved about the ship, assessing the damage. The lights of two Navy battleships approached steadily in the distance.

  Neely exhaled and gently reached into her pocket, where she pulled out a flat, round object––a sealed petri dish filled with a pink culture.

  She held the container up and studied it under the light. The Russian soldiers might have noticed if some of the test tubes were missing. But they would never have looked for her petri dishes.

  ***

  When the sun rose that next morning, Neely was still in her lab, now studying a large monitor on the table in front of her. What she found was muted by the somber mood throughout the ship, leaving her staring quietly at the readout for a long time.

  On the stern, Alison sat quietly with her legs gently dangling over the starboard edge. With both a safety line and arm wrapped around a large stanchion, she stared out over the glimmering water. The crew worked behind her, repairing their largest winch. She ignored the loud clanging of metal and smiled as some of the first dolphins appeared above the water.

  She never moved, not even as Neely approached and sat down beside her.

  “You okay?”

  Alison nodded.

  “Waiting for Dirk and Sally?”

  She nodded again. After a long silence, Alison spoke with a soft voice. “How’s Li Na?”

  “Still stable. For now.”

  “Good.”

  Together the pair sat, appreciating the tranquility, as the dolphins played. After several minutes, Neely broke the silence.

  “So…there’s something interesting.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I got back some of the sequencing results for the mice.”

  “The ones that all died?”

  “Yes.”

  Alison looked at Neely expectantly. “And?”

  “Some of their DNA is different.”

  “That’s significant, right?”

  Neely nodded. “Several genes that are normally dormant were changed. Most likely by the bacteria.”

  “Changed how?”

  “Instead of remaining dormant, like in other mice, they appear to have been reactivated, or switched back on.”

  “But without them being alive—”

  “I don’t know what those genes did,” acknowledged Neely. Thoughtfully, she continued staring out over the water. “But I’m wondering if the same thing has happened to Li Na.”

  Alison had just turned to look at her, concerned, when some of the dolphins began speaking to her. She spun back to see Dirk and Sally peering at her from the water.

  She reached down and turned on her vest.

  “Hello, Dirk. Hello, Sally.”

  Hello Alison.

  Sally swam closer. You hurt.

  Alison managed a grin. “I’ll be okay. Thanks to Dirk.”

  Dirk promptly rose up out of the water, slapping his flippers before falling backward. Me love Alison.

  From the edge of the ship, she peered at him curiously. He had never said that before. “I love you too, Dirk. And Sally too.”

  Alison looked down to see Sally still watching her. “What is it, Sally?”

  Me tell Alison.

  Alison wrinkled her brow. “Tell me what?”

  What Sally said next took both Alison and Neely by surprise––something neither one had expected, but in hindsight, would seem quite obvious. Me mother.

  115

  Captain Zhirov moved through the hatches in near-total darkness, feeling his way along the familiar metal corridors until he reached the control room. The emergency lighting was barely functioning and what little remained of their reserve power was dwindling rapidly. Which meant the ship was completely paralyzed.

  Nothing was working. The engines were dead, communications and sonar gone. Even the ventilation systems could no longer scrub the deadly carbon dioxide from their air. It was as if all the energy had been completely sucked out of the sub. They were stuck to the bottom of the ocean floor, unable to move and now facing a death sentence if they did not begin emergency evacuation immediately.

  The effectiveness of their submarine escape training would prove to be the difference between life and death. And Zhirov was thankful they were not any deeper.

  Several of his officers were already in the control room, awaiting the order they all knew was coming––to abandon ship.

  Zhirov opened his mouth to speak but stopped when he heard the noise. It was a loud and slow scraping sound, coming from above. The sound of metal against metal.

  The Russian crew all peered up, listening. After a short silence, another series of sounds reverberated through the sub’s hull––bumps and bangs followed by more scrapes.

  It was the Americans.

  After a couple minutes, a much more distinct pattern began to resonate, loudly and repeatedly. They were using Morse code.

  Several of the officers began deciphering the letters, forming words in their head until the short message ended. Clear and concise, and sarcastic.

  Knock knock. Guess who.

  116

  Several hours later, Dima Belov sat pensively, somewhat uncomfortable in his cold metal chair. His hands were cuffed behind his back.

  In front of him sat a young American officer and his interrogator, flanked on both sides by three captains, judging by their insignias.

  After a barrage of questions, Belov had revealed nothing. Not even his name. Instead he wore a bemused expression, studying the men in front of him. They were inconsequential. The real interrogation would begin later, when he was transported off the ship. For now, he was merely buying time.

  He needed more leverage. He already had infor
mation the Americans would undoubtedly find valuable––he knew that. But nothing that would keep him out of prison.

  What he needed was something better. Something he would soon have, with just a little more time.

  After another twenty minutes had passed, the old man finally leaned forward and spoke in a thick Russian accent.

  “What day is it?”

  The captains looked at each other for agreement before nodding to the younger officer.

  “Friday.”

  “What time?”

  “About three thirty.”

  “Morning?”

  The younger man shook his head. “Afternoon.”

  To that, Belov simply nodded. It was all he needed to know, and those would be the only words they would get from him. For now.

  Because what none of the men sitting before him realized was that Belov knew much more than anyone thought. He knew all about the Pathfinder ship, the original discovery, and the bacteria. He knew about the Valant acting as a decoy. But he knew much more. He also knew about the team secretly reporting to their Joint Chief of Staff, Admiral James Langford. He knew of the men named John Clay and Steve Caesare, and more importantly, he knew about Puerto Rico.

  He knew about the research center and the computer system they were hiding––the one that allowed them to speak to the dolphins. And how integral that computer system and its data were to the Americans’ secrets.

  He also knew that, in a matter of hours, they were about to lose it.

  ***

  Ironically, the team was not Russian. They were German––former members of CASCOPE. Mercenaries, unattached and hired out to the highest bidder. And utterly ruthless in their indifference.

  They had been hired by Belov to commandeer a computer system at a civilian facility, and by the looks of it, one that was poorly guarded.

  They had already studied the location several days before. And now, lacking any word from Belov, they had their signal to execute.

  As evening fell, the moving van pulled into the empty parking lot and stopped near the side entrance. Two of the Germans rolled the cargo door up, jumping down onto the cracked asphalt as the truck began backing up. Slowly and silently.

  One of the men held up his hand, and the truck lurched to a stop. Two more immediately exited the cab carrying rifles, while the first two grabbed theirs from inside the cargo area.

  They were through the door in twelve seconds, easily disabling the alarm on the other side. Without a word, they moved smoothly and efficiently down the hall, quickly reaching the computer area.

  There, all four stopped and stared into the dimly lit room, then looked at each other. Dozens of vertical server racks lined the entire wall, all firmly bolted into place.

  But each one…was empty.

  117

  Will Borger shoved the gearshift into second, causing the truck’s giant engine to roar as the vehicle lurched, climbing the windy road of Highway 10. With a steep mountain on one side, the narrow shoulder completely fell off on the other. There was only darkness, dotted by the faint flickering lights of Puerto Rico’s western coastline. Ahead, the truck’s headlights illuminated the winding road, which only seemed to steepen the further they drove.

  In the end, it was not Borger who figured out where to hide IMIS. It was Lee Kenwood, the twenty-five-year-old computer engineer sitting next to him in the passenger seat.

  And even Borger had to admit, the solution was brilliant.

  “So, kid,” he said, shifting gears again, “you study any astronomy?”

  “Um, not too much,” Lee responded. “A little.”

  The older Borger nodded. “You ever hear of the Drake Equation?”

  Lee shook his head. “No.”

  “It’s a logistical argument made by a guy named Frank Drake back in the sixties. An argument to realistically estimate the number of intelligent civilizations in the universe.”

  “That sounds interesting.”

  Borger nodded, gripping the large steering wheel with both hands. “It is. The bottom line is that there’s predictably a lot of alien life out there. And a lot of it has probably been around for a while.”

  “Makes sense.”

  Borger grinned at his companion across the darkened cab. He liked this kid. “So then answer this––if there’s so damned many, why haven’t we seen any…until now?”

  Lee thought about the question. “A lot of people think they have.”

  “Maybe some. But most of ‘em are quacks,” Borger retorted. “Some events, like that Nome Alaska thing, may be true. But for the rest, there’s no definitive proof. No evidence. Except what we’ve just found. Any of that strike you as a little odd?”

  “Uh…”

  “What I’m saying is in all this time, and with all these civilizations out there, how can we have only been visited by one or two?”

  “You mean the vaults.”

  “Right. Two official footprints out of everything out there. To me, that means either they’re the only ones to have come here…or those are the only two we’ve found.”

  Lee looked at Borger as he slowed and navigated a tight turn. “You think there’s more?”

  “What I think,” he replied, “is that humans have been crawling all over this planet for an awfully long time. We can’t be the first ones to find something. I mean, look at those vaults. They’ve apparently been here since our ancestors were the same as Dulce’s. Could they really be the only things?”

  “It doesn’t seem like it.”

  “No, it doesn’t. The reason I’m bringing this up is because of what you were able to do not too long ago, having your IMIS system decipher some of those old hieroglyphs. The ones that helped us locate the first vault in Guyana.”

  “Right. The Mayan symbols.”

  “So,” Borger continued, “what if there are more finds out there, still hidden? And we just haven’t found them yet. And what if other discoveries were written down by people or cultures that were here a long time ago?”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  Borger motioned toward the back of the truck. “And if there are, maybe this computer system of yours can find them.”

  Lee was now staring at Borger, fascinated. “I think it could.”

  “I was hoping you’d say that. And there’s something else too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Ancient writings are a good place to start. But there are a lot more secrets out there than that. Things not nearly as old.”

  Lee raised an eyebrow. “I don’t think I’m following.”

  “What I mean is that there are all kinds of secrets in this world. Would you agree?”

  “Of course.”

  “And who has more secret data buried than anyone else?”

  Lee thought for a minute. “The NSA?”

  “Bingo.”

  “You want to break into the NSA?”

  Borger grinned. “Break-in is such a negative word. I was thinking more like…perusing.”

  “You want to peruse the NSA’s data?”

  “Well, it’s not that easy. The NSA’s data is encrypted.”

  “Then I’m not following again.”

  “What a lot of people don’t know is that for years the NSA has been in the business of collecting everything on the internet. Calls, text messages, emails, everything. And they’ve been doing it for a long time. Forty years almost.”

  “Okay.”

  “Like I said, it’s all encrypted. But here’s the thing–– encryption, just like any technology, evolves. So what we have today is not what we had before. Computers, networks, cars, light bulbs, everything.”

  “Including encryption algorithms,” added Lee.

  “Exactly. The encryption these days is uncrackable.”

  This time, Lee smiled. “But not the encryption used decades ago.”

  “Right again,” Borger nodded. “Even the encryption used ten years ago is not nearly as strong.”

  “So,
a lot of the NSA’s data is not crackable,” Lee said.

  “But an awful lot of it is.”

  “And you want to know if IMIS can do it.”

  “No,” Borger replied. “I want to know if IMIS can be taught to crack it.”

  Lee was silent, staring out the windshield into the darkness as they drove. Borger shifted in his seat, waiting for Lee’s answer.

  “Yes. I think it can. With enough computing power.”

  Now Borger was the one smiling in the glow of the truck’s dashboard. “Have you heard of Hewlett Packard’s new computing platform called The Machine?”

  “No.”

  “It’s powerful. Really powerful.”

  A wide grin spread across Lee’s face. After several minutes of silence, he looked at Borger. “So what’s the plan?”

  “First off, we’d need some help.”

  ***

  The international terminal at Puerto Rico’s Luiz Muñoz Marín Airport was busy. It wasn’t surprising for a Friday evening. Thousands of passengers were walking briskly to and from the dozens of gates in what could only be described as a controlled mob––trying either to make their flights or thankful to finally be off one.

  One such person, twenty-something and wearing wrinkled clothes, looked up and down the wide corridors for signs pointing to baggage claim.

  His straight, dark hair hung disheveled and down past matching eyebrows, stopping just short of his tired but youthful eyes. The young man patted his jacket to make sure the passport was still there and fell in behind a throng of people headed in the same direction.

  The Chinese passport listed his real name as Yong Yang––a name that had been thoroughly scrubbed from China’s government records. But not by them, by Yang himself. In an attempt to save his own life.

  It was his only option left. To disappear. He knew too much––about the Chinese government. About their secrets, and about their search for Li Na Wei––the daughter of General Wei.