Abbot Hall, Marblehead, Mass.
Well, that was pretty accurate, he had to admit. There was a drop down menu next to the “Report” field, so he clicked on it and saw a number of options, including a field he could fill in to determine the distance between coordinates and place names. He pasted in the coordinates he had just copied, and typed “Washington, D.C.” into the “distance from” field. Hitting Enter, he saw:
296.47524
That must be a direct line distance in miles. Not too useful for driving. Perhaps for air travel?
“So what did you find?” his father asked.
“Give me another minute.” He didn’t want to spend any more time on the site than absolutely necessary. Since this whole mad saga had begun, he hadn’t done anything illegal, no matter what the FBI might think. Given that the USGS had supplied the log in information he was using he might not even be breaking the law now. But once he started downloading anything from the site, he’d have to be violating who knows how many laws. This had better end well.
He finished setting up the download and initiated the transfer. Then he turned back to his father.
“It looks like a database of geo-coordinates. Hundreds of millions of them. What do you make of that?”
“Well, at the degree and minute level, there’s only so many coordinates you could have – you’ve only got 360 degrees of latitude and longitude to work with, and 60 minutes per degree. So they must be calculating locations a lot finer than that.”
“That’s right,” his son confirmed.
“So let me see... as I recall, a minute of latitude is 1.15 miles, and a minute of longitude can be a lot less than that, since longitudinal lines converge at the poles. When you get down to a 60th of a minute – a second of latitude or longitude – you’re talking about a maximum of maybe 100 feet. So if you’re looking at hundreds of millions of coordinates, you’re probably looking at a database of coordinates accurate to within a few feet.”
Frank nodded. “You’re right. And there’s another thing you should know. The database isn’t static; it’s live. The last digit of one of the numbers changed as I was looking at it. I guess GPS satellites must have a margin for error.”
His father shook his head. “Nope. That doesn’t make sense. Sure, the satellites would have a margin of error, but the earth’s surface doesn’t. There’s no sense changing coordinates around for places that aren’t actually moving. What you’d want to do would be to set up your database software to average out the data downloaded from, say, a half dozen orbits and then fix the numbers for good. There’s got to be another explanation.”
They mulled that one over for a while but got nowhere.
“Okay, so let’s try another tack,” Frank, Sr. suggested. “What’s so special about this particular database of geographical coordinates? I’ve got one loaded in this GPS unit on my dashboard, and it’s almost as accurate as the one you just found. If we could figure that out, we’d probably know why it’s been hacked.”
“Well, I can think of a few reasons,” his son replied. “First, even if the data isn’t more accurate, it looks like they wanted this set to be a whole lot more secure. That way they wouldn’t have to worry about any of the data being corrupted or tampered with. Second, they might have wanted to be sure that it was available when they needed it, so whoever has access to this particular database may have a hardened link in to it. That way they can get to it when they need it, and not have it jammed in transit. Both of those factors suggest a military use.”
“Makes sense so far.”
“The really intriguing part, though, is the dynamic aspect. The military can afford to include high density data storage in whatever they want, so why do they need to have remote access to a database of geocoordinates at all? It must be because this one is changing, rather than fixed in memory, like the one in your GPS.”
“So we’re back to the same question, right? Why is it changing, and why does it matter”
“Right.” Frank mused for awhile before he spoke again. “But how about this: if you’re going somewhere, you not only need to know the coordinates of where you’re going, but also the coordinates of where you are. Otherwise, you can’t calculate what direction to go in, or how far you need to go to get there. Maybe this has something to do with where you are, and not your destination.”
But his father disagreed. “That’s not sounding right to me. That’s what the GPS satellites are for. Wherever you are, you just lock on to them, and your GPS unit calculates your location by triangulation, using the length of time it takes the signals to reach you from three different satellites. Let’s use my GPS again for comparison: the only thing it’s using its internal database for is to display streets and such after the satellites let it figure out where it is. So as long as you’ve got the satellites, you’re only using your coordinates for reference.”
“Maybe that’s the key then. When might you need to know your location when the satellites weren’t available?”
“Well, they could be shot down. But there are twenty-four of them, and only a very few countries on Earth have the ability to shoot one down. I suppose you could jam them, at least in theory. But if someone tried to I assume we could pinpoint the source of the signal, and then take it out. Any way you look at it, if anyone tried to shoot down or jam the GPS satellite system, I have to believe we’d be in the middle of an all-out nuclear war.”
“Okay, so let’s say that’s the case. Let’s assume this database has something to do with nuclear defense capabilities. That sounds plausible – it’s high enough stakes to justify all the hullabaloo the bad guys have engaged in to keep us from focusing on it, right?”
But this time his father didn’t answer. Instead, he was looking intently at his rear-view mirror.
* * *
Vice President Chaseman rose to welcome the Secretary of State into the Oval Office.
“Good to see you, Linda. Have a seat.”
As she walked in, Linda Rauschenberg tried to see as much of the Oval Office as she could without seeming obvious. She thought that it was remarkably poor form for Chaseman to be sitting at the President’s desk at all. At least Chaseman hadn’t replaced the President’s pictures on the wall with his own – yet. Rauschenberg hoped the President would be back in command, albeit from his hospital bed, within a couple of days. Thank God his quadruple bypass surgery had gone well.
“Good to see you too, sir. I assume the topic is North Korea?”
“Pretty safe bet, given that they’ve commenced fueling those damn missiles. Anyway, the answer is yes. More specifically, I’d like you to alert our closest allies of the steps the United States will take if North Korea launches those rockets.”
“Steps, Mr. President? I wasn’t aware that you had already reached consensus with the National Security Council and the Joint Chiefs of Staff on an appropriate course of action?”
Chaseman gave a tight smile and leaned back.
“That’s right, Linda, I haven’t. And I don’t plan to, either.”
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Tell me what section of the Constitution requires that kind of powwow? As I recall, the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the National Security Counsel didn’t exist until the Founding Fathers were long gone.”
“But, sir….”
“Don’t ‘But, sir!’ me! You know that Rawlings was worried about having a heart attack or stroke. I may have my differences with him on other matters, but he did the right thing on this one.”
“As soon as he took office, he had the required letters drawn up to convey the powers of Acting President to me immediately in case he was ever incapacitated. Those letters have been delivered to the Speaker of the House and the Speaker Pro Tem of the Senate and can’t be revoked except by the President himself.
“Until he does, I’m the Commander-in-Chief, and I’m determined to act in that capacity. Now listen carefully.”
Rauschenberg sat straight up in her chair, alarmed ove
r what she might hear next.
“Here’s what you are going to say to the allies: if even one North Korean missile enters U.S. air space, we will immediately deliver, through a means of our choosing, one strategic nuclear weapon over Pyongyang and then trigger that device. If a second missile reaches our airspace, we will deliver a second warhead to a second North Korean target, which will remain unnamed. That device will be triggered as well.”
Rauschenberg said nothing. This was not only nuclear madness, but a terrible strategy as well – why commit ourselves to a confrontation where the other guy might not blink first?
“I assume that you have heard me accurately, so I will continue. You will deliver this message personally by secure telephone to the British, the Russians, the Japanese, and the Chinese.”
“The Chinese, sir? Not the Germans or the Canadians or the French?”
“Are the Germans or the Canadians or the French likely to contact Kim-Lo?”
“No sir, I should think not.”
“Do you expect the Chinese will?”
“Yes sir, of course they will.”
“Good. Then I assume you understand my plan. You’d better get started. We may have as little as twelve hours to work with.”
Rauschenberg started to say, “But, sir!” again and caught herself just in time. “You’re assuming that if the North Koreans get word of our plans that they’ll back down?”
“That’s right.”
“But what if they don’t believe us? What if they call our bluff?”
“Of course they’ll believe us! If we delivered such a threat and didn’t follow through on it the credibility of our nuclear deterrent forces would be destroyed forever! Even Kim-Lo isn’t crazy enough to miss that. If he knows we won’t back down, then he’ll have to. And he’ll stay backed down, assuming he can hang on to power after being humiliated in front of his generals. I’m assuming he won’t, which is the second part of the plan.”
Rauschenberg couldn’t think of another word to start with this time. “But sir – a nuclear weapon? The whole world will condemn us! You’ll have the blood of millions of innocent people on your hands!”
“I believe I covered that point thoroughly during our last Security Council meeting, Linda. The nuclear taboo has served its purpose. I’m prepared to move on.”
The Secretary tried to think quickly; what else could she say that might cause Chaseman to abandon his reckless strategy? Personally, she was unwilling to bet that there was anything that Jong Kim-Lo wasn’t crazy enough to do, and short of a refusal by the military to obey orders, there was no way to stop Chaseman from following through on his plan. But what General would refuse a direct order from the Commander-in-Chief while a possibly nuclear armed missile was headed towards the U.S.? She tried the last argument she could think of.
“Assuming this works, sir, and the North Koreans back down, what will happen the next time? Unless we’re willing to make the same threat every time someone takes us to the wall, we’ll have destroyed the credibility of our nuclear deterrence capability anyway. President Rawlings may be back in charge again as soon as the day after tomorrow, and you know very well that he would never want to follow such a policy if there was an alternative. Do you really want to tie his hands that way?”
Rauschenberg’s last hope evaporated as she listened to her own words. She realized she already knew what Chaseman’s answer would be. The Acting President might be a reckless gambler, but he was clearly a shamelessly calculating strategist as well.
“You’re absolutely right! Before his unfortunate medical episode, Rawlings never would have pursued such a strategy. But by the time he comes back, he’ll have no choice. When you’re only an Acting President, Madam Secretary, you have to work fast.”
* * *
Frank looked over at his father. “What’s up?”
“We’ve got company. See that black Lincoln Town Car up ahead? You’ll notice that it’s slowed down so cars will start passing it. Up until a few minutes ago, it was staying exactly five cars ahead of us. Don’t be obvious about it, but look behind us and you’ll see a gray Ford Crown Victoria slowly moving up on us.”
“How can you be sure they’re after us?”
“Fifteen minutes ago a State Trooper was coming up fast in the passing lane, until he noticed us. Then he started coasting, and when he pulled level, he looked in my direction. After getting a good view of me, he took off.”
“Well, so what? Maybe he’s never seen an old Land Rover before?”
“No, that’s not it. I’m afraid the FBI has figured out you’re not dead – yet – and also put two and two together about our family ties. After all, I did disappear at the same time you did. I was just thinking that they may have put out an All-points bulletin for an old geezer in an ancient, light-green Land Rover when the Town Car and the Victoria showed up. That clinches it.”
“Why didn’t the Trooper just pull us over?”
“I’m betting the FBI is taking no chances this time. If the Trooper had picked us up, the word might get out. But if the FBI does the job, the CIA will never know we’ve been grabbed.
“Here’s what you’re watching: in a couple of minutes, the Town Car will be directly ahead of us. Once there’s a long space between the Victoria and any cars behind it, the driver will move up in the passing lane till he’s right next to me, going the same speed. Once we’re boxed in, the guy riding shotgun in the Victoria will show his ID to me through his window. After that, he’ll start to drift right and slow down. We’ll have no choice but to do the same – the guy ahead won’t be shy about braking till our bumpers touch, if he has to, and then start applying his brakes.”
“Then what happens?”
“Once they’ve got us stopped on the shoulder, they’ll pop us into one of the cars, and leave ours where it is. All very inconspicuous when you do it right and the target doesn’t do anything stupid. They’ll know that I’ll know they’re heavily armed, and more than willing to use what they’re carrying, so they’ll be betting I won’t do anything stupid. Now let me concentrate.”
Frank watched nervously as his father pulled into the passing lane and slowly passed the car in front of them, and then another. As he did, the black Town Car up ahead pulled into the passing lane as well to maintain position, and the gray Crown Victoria behind quit moving closer. Not long after the Land Rover returned to the right hand lane, the gray car behind them started creeping forward again. As soon as it did, his father again entered the passing lane, and once more the FBI cars kept step.
The third time Frank’s father moved to the left, he stayed in the passing lane for quite awhile, not returning to the right hand lane until only two vehicles – the black Town Car and a random Honda sedan – separated the Land Rover from two tractor trailers that were just starting the climb up a long upgrade that stretched ahead. Soon, the gray Crown Victoria was directly behind the Land Rover.
By then, the big rigs were starting to lose speed, and the Honda entered the passing lane ahead. Frank’s father and their shadows promptly followed. What was he up to, Frank wondered?
He didn’t have long to wait to find out. When they were even with the gap between the trucks a few moments later, his father made his move. Without warning, he threw the wheel sharply to the right, shot through the narrow gap between the two trucks and continued across the breakdown lane. As he did, he slammed on the brakes and manhandled the skidding vehicle down the grassy slope beside the highway, barely avoiding flipping the vehicle in the process. Just moments after he had begun the maneuver, they had crossed the strip of grass and were hurtling through the six-foot high weeds of an abandoned farm. By the time the two FBI cars got clear of the tractor trailers, it seemed as if the Rover had simply disappeared off the face of the earth. Frank had been thrown forward against his seat belt and then from side to side as the car rocked and swerved its way off the highway and into the field. His father was still driving as fast as the vintage Land Rover could handle
without flying apart when Frank realized he was holding his breath. He exhaled explosively and turned shakily to his father.
“You skipped the part about becoming a wheel man for the Mafia when you brought me up to date.”
His father was looking pretty pleased. “What’s the use of having an off-road vehicle if you don’t go off-road every now and then?”
Soon they were driving more slowly, bumping over the remnant furrows of what must have been a cornfield only a year or two before; here and there, tall, dry cornstalks stood, sprouted from kernels that had escaped the farmer’s last harvest. Like the enormous weeds that surrounded them, the cornstalks disappeared under the front bumper of the Land Rover and then struggled half-upright once more after they passed.
Fifty yards later, they happened upon a new but deserted road. Frank, Sr. glanced up at the sun, and turned away from it, heading east. As they drove on, other empty roads crossed their own. Street signs marked the silent intersections of what they realized must be a housing development gone bust during the recession.
They continued for another few minutes along the curving road, heading east as much as possible as they sought a way out of the enormous field of weeds, lanes, and cul-de-sacs. Just before crossing Bush Boulevard, though, the black Town Car suddenly shot across just ahead of them, its driver slamming on the brakes as soon as he saw them. Frank, Sr. reciprocated by downshifting and flooring the already much-abused Land Rover.
“Damn! That didn’t take long enough. They’ll be all over us in no time – this thing isn’t built for speed. Hold on.”
The Alexandria Project: A Tale of Treachery and Technology (Frank Adversego Thrillers Book 1) Page 27