“Way ahead of you. I’ve been on this for a while now. The plane, a C130J, flew to Greenland and back.”
“That’s it? No payload? Just there and back?”
“Payload, apparently, was a person. The plane had one less crewmember when it returned to Andrews, but no one got off in Thule.”
“What’s in Greenland?”
“A Russian mining operation,” Tolliver said, even more excited now. “The plane flew within ten miles of the mining camp before heading for Thule and refueling. A few days after the flight, a Russian research ship showed up at the mining camp for less than a day. Guess where it went?”
“Janet, we don’t have time. We’re on the run here.”
“Spoilsport. All right, it sailed to Kotelny Island, the air base the Russians rebuilt there. A few hours after it anchored, a Russian destroyer left, sailed east to the Bering Strait, and is now headed for Hawaii.”
“Holy shit! You’ve been busy, girl,” Reyna said with admiration. “Look, we just learned from a Russian crime boss that someone in the Russian military might want to start a war. We’re thinking maybe RIMPAC.”
“That would be my guess.”
“Did you take this to Hinson? He should know.”
“Yeah, I did.”
Reyna heard the defeat in her voice. “And?”
“He threatened me with a court martial. He’s none too happy with you, either.”
“Damn. Okay, Janet, keep your head down. I’ll take it from here. I really appreciate all you’ve done, but I can’t ask you to risk your career, too.”
“My choice, Commander.”
“Thanks. That means a lot. Let me think this through, and I’ll get back to you with anything else we need.”
“What are you going to do?”
“Not sure yet. Hopefully, stop a war before it starts.”
Chapter 54
July 28—Seattle
Reyna put her hand on mine this time, her touch warm and feather-light.
“Are you okay?” Worry lines creased her forehead.
“Just another day at the office.” Speaking felt like gargling with glass shards.
She didn’t buy my attempt at a smile. Neither did I. The image of Dmitrov’s face popped into my head, the evil emanating from his eyes, his pores, so palpable I nearly choked on it. I touched my throat, nearly able to feel the imprint of Dmitrov’s fingers, and thought of the barely containable rage that had pushed aside all doubt and hesitation. I wondered if, going forward, the only way to hold the PTSD symptoms at bay was to stay pissed off at the world, angry enough to kill. I pressed my hands on top of my thighs to stop the trembling. Four days with almost no sleep and several attempts on my life had frayed my nerves to thin strands that barely held me together. Reyna’s small hand barely covering half of my big one made me feel safer than I had in months, pushing the irrational fears out of my periphery. The rational ones stayed with me. I rubbed my bruised jaw.
“Will the bad man follow us?” a small voice said behind me.
I craned my neck to see the little girl in the back seat. She didn’t look frightened. She simply wanted to know, to evaluate her future prospects.
“No, Katya,” I said gently. “He’s never going to bother any of us again.”
For a moment her face scrunched up as if she wanted to ask something else, but she came to some sort of decision, face smoothing into untroubled innocence, and looked out the window.
“I thought you were dead,” Reyna said softly.
“Just resting my eyes,” I croaked.
“Damn it, Blake, it’s not funny!”
I turned my hand over and laced my fingers in hers. “I thought I was dead, too. If I don’t laugh at it, I’ll start thinking about how close Dmitrov came to killing me, and I might just lose it on you.”
She considered it.
My thoughts had already jumped elsewhere. “Do you think it’s remotely possible that Trip Macready is involved in this somehow?”
She considered that, too. “He doesn’t have the only dolphin-rescue program going, but I think if the right person asked him nicely, for the right reasons… Yeah, he could be the Greenland passenger. So, given his skill set, someone wanted a closer look at the Russian mining camp than what satellite imagery could provide.”
“What’s in Greenland that’s so important to D’Amato’s Lodestar project?”
Wheels turned behind that pretty face of hers. “It’s no secret that DARPA and the navy have been trying to crack the challenges of blue-green lasers for years.”
“What do you mean? We’ve got Blu-Ray. And those green lasers that kids keep using to blind airline pilots.”
She shook her head. “I’m talking about a laser that can penetrate seawater and used to communicate with submarines.”
“Okay, back to the question. What’s in Greenland?”
“There’s a place not far from our air base in Thule called Savissivik,” she said slowly. “In the local language it means ‘place of iron knives’ because of all the meteorite fragments there. I’m thinking out loud here, but what if the Russians discovered another meteor impact site, one that contained the rare elements needed to produce a particular kind of laser.”
“You’ve lost me, professor.”
“High school physics. Laser is an acronym, remember? Light is amplified by exciting the photons. There are a bunch of ways to do that—gas discharge, solid state, diode pumped, fiber…” Her voice trailed off, a light bulb appearing over her head, glowing brighter with each passing second.
“I’ve seen summaries of some of the research projects,” she said. “ONR, for example—Office of Naval Research—a few years ago gave a guy at Boston University a big grant to research fiber lasers. He found a way of modulating the optics in the fiber—”
A glance showed her the confused look on my face.
“Okay, look, the problem with underwater lasers is they have to be powerful enough to penetrate to depths where subs operate, and they have to be able to change colors, or modulate, in the blue-green range to account for the color range from deep to shallow water. Lasers using fiber optics offer the greatest potential for power in a small enough package, and they can be modulated. From what I’ve read, one way is by doping the fibers with rare earths.”
“Wait. Doesn’t most of that come from China?"
“China is the biggest source.” Her voice grew more excited. “But that’s the point. What if the Russians found a new source in Greenland? If D’Amato figured out how to treat the fiber so the laser could produce a full range of blue-green light, he’d have a way to communicate with subs hundreds of meters beneath the surface. Now, they have to surface to use radio.”
“He did,” Katya piped up.
Reyna glanced in the mirror. “Who did what, sweetie?”
“My daddy said he made the laser work.”
I turned to look at Katya. “He told you that?”
Her head bobbed up and down.
Feeling a sudden case of nerves, I stared over her head out the back window for a minute, checking the traffic. An SPD cruiser a couple of cars behind us didn’t ease my mind, but it didn’t give us lights or siren.
“You think he got the stuff he needed from the Russians?”
“Maybe,” Reyna said. “He was selling them information. Until he had a change of heart. No reason they couldn’t have been supplying him with materials he needed in exchange.”
“So, what? Macready, or whoever, drops in to see what the Russians are doing. Then what?”
She was silent for a moment. “Putting myself in Macready’s shoes? He’s a patriot, an ex-SEAL. Heck, he’s not even getting paid. He’s doing this for a donation to his rescue facility. Guys like that operate differently, think differently from the rest of us. I guess if he had a chance to find out where the mined elements were going he’d tag along, see where they led.”
I tried to follow that logic down the path Tolliver had traced on a world map. “You
really think he got on the research ship, hitched a ride to a Russian air base, jumped ship and then set sail on a Russian destroyer for the Pacific Ocean?”
She grinned. “Sounds a little crazy when you put it like that. But, yeah, I think if anybody could do it, Macready could.”
She had a point. After what he’d done to save Molly from terrorists a few months before—Seattle, too, for that matter, from a dirty bomb the terrorists planned to set off atop the Space Needle—I admired and respected the man. I also felt pangs of jealousy that he had eyes for my ex, and I had no say in the matter.
“I’m hungry,” Katya said.
I looked at Reyna. “Me, too. What say we get some pancakes while we’re figuring out our next move?”
Reyna sucked the corner of her lower lip between her teeth and checked the rearview mirror. I turned to follow her gaze. The cop was still there.
“He’s been back there a while now,” she said, a note of concern in her voice. Putting a smile on her face cheer and lightness in her tone, she said, “Sure. Why not? Pancakes it is.”
* * * * *
I shepherded them to a booth at my favorite all-night diner on the south side of Capitol Hill. The breakfast shift had wound down, and lunch hadn’t yet started, so we had the place mostly to ourselves. The cop had turned into the parking lot, but hadn’t gotten out of his car. He wasn’t there for coffee. Reyna was already on her phone as I slid in next to Katya and opened a menu for her. Phone held to her ear, Reyna glanced nervously toward the door over the back of the booth.
“What’s going on?” I murmured.
“I’m guessing they were monitoring Janet’s phone, and got a lock on this cell number when I called her.”
She put up a finger and spoke into the phone. “I don’t care what Captain Hinson’s doing. He damn well better talk to me. Tell him it’s Chase.”
She tapped the table impatiently with a fingernail. “Sir, since you’ve obviously sicced the dogs on me I have maybe two minutes, so listen up… No, you listen. The asset you sent to Greenland will be compromised if he hasn’t been already… I think that’s bullshit, sir, but if you don’t know you better find out, and damn quick. The Russians have most of the components for a blue-green laser capable of communicating with submarines at depth. That could change the balance of power… No, sir, we both know that’s not science fiction. If it is then why is a Russian destroyer commanded by Admiral Leonid Orlov headed for RIMPAC as we speak?”
She craned her neck toward the door. In quick succession, three SPD cruisers and two black, unmarked government sedans pulled into the lot and spread out, grills diving for the pavement as they screeched to a halt.
Reyna focused on voice on the phone again. “I—we—have something the Russians need to make the laser operational, the last piece that D’Amato took from Lodestar… I know a lot about it, sir, because I’m good at what I do. That’s what you pay me for. I had a little extra incentive this time since no one at ONI, including you, sir, was willing to back me up, even after two commendations and a goddamn medal… Hell, yes, I’m angry. I don’t have time for this, sir. Your storm troopers are about to descend on us. I’ll give up what we have on two conditions. One, you confront Orlov immediately and get him to stand down before he does whatever he’s got planned. Two, you call off the dogs and give us immunity… Yes, damn it, both of us! … I don’t care if he’s a civilian, you wouldn’t have any of this without him, or me… You better hurry…”
I glanced toward the door. At the same moment, an endless stream of uniformed men with guns drawn burst in the front door and the door leading from the kitchen, all shouting at us to put our hands on our heads and heads on the table. Katya clapped her hands over her ears and screamed.
Chapter 55
July 28—North Pacific Ocean
Macready had run out of time. They’d come for him and he’d gotten lucky. If Umarov hadn’t tipped his hand, he might be in the brig, or they all might be dead. He and Dudayev had suspected each other, overlooking the corpsman. But Macready didn’t think Captain Marinesko and Admiral Orlov would overlook him. His behavior since he’d come aboard had been too out of the ordinary for them not to suspect him of something. Macready had a feeling that even if Rostropovich’s body hadn’t been found yet, at this point either man would likely call Moscow to verify Macready’s—or Rostropovich’s—identity. And that would be the end of it. He had no choice now. If he couldn’t discover and report the Russians’ plans, he’d have to fuck up their high-tech gear somehow.
He left the mess as soon as the MAs cut him loose, and made his way aft. He had no time to retrieve the weapons he’d hidden when he’d boarded, no time to collect the satellite phone and report in. Maybe later, if he lived, he’d be able to let those who sent him know what he’d done.
The sun shone brightly in a clear sky so blue it hurt to look at it. Gentle swells stretched out as far as the eye could see on an ocean that reflected the atmosphere above, only several shades darker. The naval jack fluttered and snapped in light winds of ten to fifteen knots on the bow mast, as did the white and blue naval ensign, the flag of the fleet commander and the masthead pennant from the rigging atop the radio antennae. Dozens of men lounged on the waist deck, lying on towels or sitting in camp chairs, soaking up the sunlight. The temperature stood only in the mid-50s, but after weeks of arctic cold, the day felt balmy. Every sailor on a naval ship worked long and hard, and treasured a little R&R between watches whenever possible. Macready took it all in on his way to the flight deck.
White foam curled away from the bow as it cleaved the water, the spray sparkling in the sun and forming rainbows over the waves. Pacific white-sided dolphins ride the bow wave and cavort alongside the ship. Fun-loving, social creatures, they traveled in large groups, identifying one another with their unique whistles. They cared for each other, forming close-knit groups within their large communities. Sometimes Macready thought they were far more well-adjusted socially than humans. He suddenly realized how much he missed Alison and the rest of his crew in San Diego.
He shifted his focus to the task at hand. He climbed the companionway to the flight deck and strode across the deck toward the tied-down chopper. From the corner of his eye, Macready saw the FDO standing by the hangar doors, surrounded by his colorful flight crew—mechanics in green, a flight director in yellow like the FDO, and a couple of “grapes,” their purple jerseys marking them as fuel handlers. Their laughter carried on the breeze. Macready didn’t look, zeroing in on the helicopter, noting the co-pilot in the cockpit conducting instrument checks. No helmet, so the chopper had no immediate flight plans. Macready circled the chopper to the co-pilot’s side, reached up and pounded on the canopy. The co-pilot glanced down, puzzled.
Off to Macready’s right, a voice shouted, “Prekrashchat'! Stop what you’re doing!”
Macready ignored it and kept his expression calm. He motioned to the co-pilot to open the canopy. Curious now, the co-pilot complied, popping the canopy open several inches. From the corner of his eye, Macready saw the yellow jersey of the FDO crossing the deck. If the co-pilot looked out the windscreen, he’d see the FDO and wonder.
Macready quickly cupped his hands around his mouth and said, “I need to speak with you. One minute. Please come down.”
The co-pilot pushed the canopy all the way up and stood to swing a leg over the side and step on the rung on the side of the chopper. As he shifted his weight onto the outside leg, Macready reached up, grabbed his belt and pulled him down. The man flailed as he fell, grasping at Macready’s uniform. Macready shrugged him off, and as the co-pilot hit the deck, Macready dropped to one knee on his chest, driving the air from his lungs, and followed with a vicious jab to the bridge of the man’s nose, slamming his head against the steel deck. Macready quickly spun around to face the FDO, running now, and pulled the co-pilot’s pistol from his holster.
The FDO pulled up short when he saw the gun in Macready’s hand and shouted. “What the hell are you
doing?”
“No closer,” Macready called. “I will use it.”
No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the FDO took a halting step toward him. Macready fired a warning shot, the bullet spanging off the deck near the FDO’s feet. At that, the FDO whirled and shouted instructions at the flight crew. They scattered in all directions. Macready didn’t bother to watch them go, instead ducking under the stubby wing of the chopper to inspect the laser mounted on one of the hardpoints usually reserved for a missile. His fingers felt along the seams until they found a space where his fingers could get a grip on a metal lip. He pulled hard, and a plate popped loose, exposing wiring and control circuitry.
With a quick glance toward the hangar to make sure no one was advancing on him, he hitched himself closer and peered into the small space, trying to decipher the laser’s inner workings in the dim light. He was no engineer, and he didn’t have time to figure out how the damn thing worked. Sweat breaking out on his face, he reached into the space, grasped a circuit board and yanked it out. He slipped the board into his pocket and slammed the metal plate back into place.
Macready scrambled up the side of the chopper and tumbled into the cockpit. Sliding into the co-pilot seat, he scanned the instrument panel. The laser controls would be an add-on, something out of place in the already crowded space. The mechanics hadn’t had time to install anything as sophisticated as the gyro-stabilized, gimbal-mounted video cameras that news helicopters carried. The pilot would have to aim it manually, which meant some tricky maneuvers. But the damn thing had to have at least an on-off switch. There! Macready spotted a small box mounted on the bottom edge of the instrument panel.
Shouting brought his head up. Through the windscreen he saw half a dozen MAs armed with carbines spreading across the deck and moving toward the chopper, followed by excited flight crewmembers waving their arms at each other. Macready pulled the pistol from his waistband, held it by the barrel and hammered the box with the butt until the smashed faceplate fell off.
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