“Depending on the substrate—silt, sand or clay—anywhere from a quarter to half a meter deep.” Anticipating a follow up question, Yuri continued. “The purpose of burying the units is to hide them from divers or AUVs that might check the bottom.”
“How big are these things?” asked Lieutenant Shtyrov.
“I thought you might all be interested in that.” Yuri reached under the table. “I brought a couple.” He retrieved a canvas bag at his feet and placed it on the table. “This is one of the units,” he said with just a trace of a grin as he removed the device and set it on the conference table. About a foot and a half in diameter with a six-inch-high domed profile, the high-tech spy gadget was similar in shape to a sea turtle’s shell. Constructed of rugged epoxy plastic, it weighed about fifteen pounds.
Yuri’s audience gawked at the creature-like object.
“Officially, it’s called Project X One Five One,” Yuri said. “Unofficially, we refer to it as the Remora.”
“How does it work?” asked Captain Petrovich.
Yuri reached into a pocket of his jumpsuit and removed a key fob. He pressed one of the buttons.
The Remora sprang to life as ten aluminum mini leg-like struts protruded from its underside, five on each side. “Looks like a giant crab,” muttered Petrovich.
CPO Dobrynin peered at the underside of the gadget, its base now elevated about three inches by the legs. “Are those suckers?” he asked, pointing to several cup-like rubber knobs protruding from the bottom.
“That’s right, Chief. They’re designed to grab hold and hang on, just like the remora fish you see on sharks.”
“Grab what?” asked Lieutenant Tumanov as he examined the underside.
Yuri picked up the Remora, flipping it upside down. He triggered the fob and the legs retracted into the main body. He stepped to a nearby bulletin board fastened to a bulkhead. A duty roster, maintenance schedules, and other non-digital paraphernalia covered the board. Yuri picked a clear spot and placed the Remora on the board, holding it in place with his right hand. With his free hand, he pressed another button on the fob.
The suckers worked in unison, responding to a vacuum pump inside the robot. Yuri removed his hand. The robot remained in place, its underside flush with the board.
Yuri gestured to Dobrynin. “See if you can remove it, Chief.”
Dobrynin stepped to Yuri’s side. “Just grab it?”
“Yes, try to pry it free.”
Dobrynin grabbed the Remora with both hands and pulled.
No movement.
He tried twisting.
Again, no movement. He braced himself and yanked hard, grunting in the process. “It won’t move,” he said, defeated.
“Nice try, Chief. Once it becomes attached to a host, it’s damn near impossible to remove without the release command. Hang on to it again and I’ll let it go.”
Yuri pressed the fob. The robot dropped into Dobrynin’s hands. He returned it to the table next to Tumanov.
“Just what is this thing supposed to attach itself to?” Captain Petrovich asked.
“The hull of a submarine—like the Novosibirsk.”
Petrovich glared at Yuri. “Please elaborate.”
“The Remora has been under development for several years at a robotics lab on the St. Petersburg base. It’s designed to function just like you thought—a crab. In particular, it was modeled after the common rock crab, but much larger.”
Petrovich gestured for Tumanov to pass the Remora his way.
While Petrovich examined the gadget, Yuri continued, “Once it’s released, it will crawl along the bottom to a designated location and bury itself. It will then wait for the target to depart its mooring and—”
“But how will it know that?” interrupted special operator Shtyrov.
“It has a mini hydrophone that deploys as it buries itself in the muck. Looks like a twig.” Yuri extended an arm, pointing at the dome side of the Remora. “It releases from this compartment with a tiny cable.”
Yuri returned to his chair. “It sits there quietly listening, waiting for a reactor to start up. That process is relatively noisy for a sub that’s been on shore power. The Remora’s computer compares the sounds it detects to startup recordings for dozens of different types of submarine reactors. If it detects a similar pattern, that signal will be enough to activate it.”
“But the Chinese boats may not have the same startup procedures,” Petrovich said.
“Correct. The same applies to the American, British, and French subs. The Remora uses artificial intelligence software to assess whether what it hears is a probable reactor startup or not. It’s already been field tested on several subs plus one of our surface nukes.”
“What happens after it detects a reactor start?”
“It waits. The Chinese, just like the Americans, use divers to inspect all submerged hull surfaces before departing on a mission.”
“Of course, we do the same,” Petrovich said. “Looking for limpets or other types of mines or trackers.”
“Yes, sir. After confirming reactor activation, the Remora waits until the boat moves away from the pier on its own power—divers would be out of the water at that time.” Yuri said. “It has a bladder inside, similar to a ballast tank. After confirming departure, it backs itself out of the mud and inflates the bladder using gas from an internal high-pressure cylinder.”
Yuri picked up the Remora and turned its underside up for all to view. “Now neutrally buoyant, it swims to the hull, homing in on the reactor area.” Before the obvious question was asked, he once again activated the fob. Two openings about an inch in diameter appeared at either end of the device. “There’s a hydraulic jet pump inside. Propels the Remora like an octopus—quite agile. Fast and silent.”
Yuri continued the briefing. “It swims to the underside of the hull and flips over. It then attaches itself to the bottom. The suckers work well on steel surfaces and all known coatings and tiles.” He referred to the rubber-like anechoic tiles used on modern submarines to absorb sound energy from active sonar and to attenuate internal noise generated by the sub.
“What about biofouling?” asked Lieutenant Shtyrov.
“Not a problem. The suckers work on algae-coated surfaces, even with barnacles.”
Petrovich grinned. “The sub is just a giant shark. This thing gets a free ride.”
“Exactly, Captain. But in our case the Remora is just getting to work.”
“Please enlighten us, Kirov.”
“The Remora is loaded with sensors. Besides internal hull acoustics, it records water depth and temperature and provides a record of where the sub operates.”
“How does it do that?” asked Tumanov. “GPS doesn’t work underwater.”
“Correct. It has a micro inertial navigation module that continuously keeps track of heading and distance. Combined with the depth recording, a complete profile of the sub’s mission can be resurrected when the data is recovered.”
“And just how is that accomplished?” Petrovich said.
“Two options are available. First, it can wait until the ship returns to its original departure point or wherever it docks next and switches to shore power. It will recognize the reactor shutdown. The Remora detaches, sinks to the bottom and then crawls away from the target vessel. Later, during darkness it surfaces and broadcasts its data to one of our satellites. It sinks back to the bottom, digs itself in and self-destructs.”
Lieutenant Shtyrov rejoined the discussion. “What’s the other option?”
Yuri took a swallow of tea. “The second opportunity allows for quasi real-time tracking of the host.”
That grabbed Captain Petrovich’s attention. “That sounds interesting.”
“It is, sir. Very clever.”
Yuri spent the next five minutes describing the Remora’s alte
rnative tracking system.
“Incredible, Kirov,” Petrovich said. “I’ve never heard anything like that before.”
Yuri drained his mug. “Captain, amazing as the Remora is for tracking subs, the boys at Peter developed another modification that is truly unique.” Yuri reached under the table and retrieved a similar but smaller version of the Remora already sitting on the table.
“This one is called the Crawlerbot,” Yuri announced. “It’s not designed to attach itself to a sub. Instead, its purpose is to secretly explore and record naval installations.”
Yuri opened the device’s cargo compartment. He extracted one of the objects stored inside the compartment, a tiny mechanical device that looked like an insect. Yuri held it in the palm of his hand. “Gentlemen, meet the Firefly.”
“What is it?” asked Captain Petrovich.
“It’s a miniature aerial drone that has mind-blowing capabilities.”
Petrovich smirked. “Tell me more.”
Yuri did.
Chapter 40
The two men sat inside a Toyota Highlander on State Route 520 heading into Redmond. Both men were in their early thirties. Each was dressed casually—designer jeans, short sleeve shirts, and track shoes. They had arrived in Seattle the previous evening on a non-stop flight from Shanghai, traveling with tourist visas.
It was 6:35 P.M. and the freeway remained sardine-packed. The Friday afternoon eastbound lineup stacked up for over a mile back to the Microsoft campus. The driver tapped his hands on the steering wheel. “This damn traffic is almost as bad as Shanghai.”
“It’s awful all right,” the passenger concurred. “But at least the weather is better here.”
“Warm but no humidity—that is nice.”
The MSS agents spoke in Mandarin. The passenger checked the navigation display on his cell phone. “After she exits, it should clear up. When it does, don’t get too close—she might spot us.”
“I won’t.”
Laura Newman was five vehicles ahead in her BMW, inching forward.
The agents picked up Laura when she drove out of the parking garage of Cognition Consultants in downtown Bellevue.
* * * *
“Amanda, I’m running a little late. Five-twenty stinks again.” Laura continued to crawl forward on the freeway off ramp as she phoned the nanny.
“That’s okay. Don’t worry about it.”
“I probably have another fifteen minutes before I make it home.”
“No problem.”
“How’s Maddy?”
“Fine. She’s napping.”
“Okay, see you soon. Good-bye.”
“Bye.”
Laura settled back into the leather seat. She had used the dashboard hands-free phone system to make the call. See issued a new verbal command: “Call Bill Winters’s cell.”
The phone rang twice. “Hello.”
“Hi Bill, Laura here.”
“Oh, hi.”
“I’m heading home now and thought I’d just check in to see how you and NSD are doing.”
“I’m well and so is the company, especially after you sweet-talked Aurora. That extra time really helped.”
“I’m happy to hear that.”
Several days earlier, Laura had called the CEO of Aurora Offshore Systems. She requested a two-week extension for the commencement of NSD’s survey of a new Alaska offshore lease tract for the oil exploration company. When the oilman learned that Yuri’s significant other was calling on behalf of NSD, he took the call. After Laura explained she was pinch-hitting for Yuri while he tended to an ailing sibling, the CEO agreed to the extra time without hesitation. Earlier in the year, Yuri and the NSD crew helped Aurora climb out of a very deep pit. The chief executive remained grateful.
Winters said, “We’re all set to head up to Barrow next week and start the work. We have a workboat lined up, and the weather’s looking good.”
“How’s the oil spill cleanup going?”
“Still a mess.”
“Will that impact your survey work?”
“It’ll be a nuisance but we’ll work around it. Most of the time Deep Guardian will be submerged under pack ice, out of the spill zone. “
“Good.”
Winters changed subjects. “How’s John?” he asked, using Yuri’s alias.
“Okay. I haven’t heard much other than he seems to be coping.”
“Any idea when he’ll be returning?”
“Not yet. Everything’s still up in the air.”
“How’s his sister doing?”
“Not well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. That’s got to be tough on John—and you.”
“It is.” Laura invented the affliction—lung cancer—for Yuri’s phantom sibling.
“Please tell him I said ‘hi’ next time you talk to him. Everyone here misses him.”
“I’ll let him know.”
Laura pulled onto East Lake Sammamish Parkway NE and headed south along the lakeshore.
* * * *
“Here she comes,” announced FBI Special Agent Todd Rossi.
His boss swiveled in her chair to view the wall-mounted flat panel screen. A silver BMW four-door turned off the public street and drove onto a hillside driveway. “She’s a little late today,” Special Agent Michaela Taylor said.
Rossi and Taylor occupied a private home near the Newman residence.
“I wonder if she’ll order out again tonight.”
“What’s wrong with that?” Taylor glared at her charge.
“She doesn’t seem to cook much.”
“She’s tired, Todd—works all day and then comes home to care for her daughter. Give her a break!”
“She must be up to something.”
“I’m not so sure. She’s just a single mom working her butt off.”
“But she’s loaded. Where’d all that money come from?”
Michaela retrieved an inch-thick file folder from the tabletop and tossed it onto the desk where her assistant sat. “Read her history then you’ll see how she earned her way.”
Rossi picked up the document and thumbed through it. “I know. I’ve seen this before.” He set the report back on the desk. “It just seems to me that she must have had help to get where she is—all that money and still so young.” Rossi’s voice grew animated as a new thought flashed. “Maybe the Russian government set her up—like in The Americans.”
“The TV show?”
“Yeah. Maybe she’s an illegal and this Kirov fellow is her handler. He might be back in Moscow right now getting new instructions.”
Taylor rolled her eyes. “Newman is not a plant. We know she was born here.”
“But then why is she living with the guy?”
“My guess is that he’s been using her as cover. Somehow, he won her heart and she takes care of him, not knowing he’s really manipulating her.”
Rossi rubbed his eyes. “I suppose that’s possible.” He checked his wristwatch: 6:55 P.M. “We’ve got a long night ahead. I think I’ll brew a pot.”
“Good, we’ll need it.”
Taylor and Rossi would be relieved at six in the morning. Michaela would never have been able to remain with the Bureau without her widowed mother’s help. Her mom cared for the girls while Michaela pulled all-nighters and worked late at the office.
The FBI continued to monitor the Newman residence, but the around-the-clock team of agents no longer needed to use the van. Instead, they occupied a 4,400-square-foot contemporary four houses away. Technical staff had completed installing the equipment the previous afternoon.
The main floor of the home had a terrific western view of Lake Sammamish, but Agents Taylor and Rossi occupied a windowless utility room in the basement. Multiple widescreen displays mounted to a wall provided real-time surveil
lance of the interior and exterior of the target residence.
The FBI rented the home, using one of its surrogate businesses to execute the transaction. The bogus company signed a one-year lease, ostensibly as quarters for a visiting executive. If needed, the FBI would have purchased the home.
The investigation of Russian operative Yuri Kirov and his presumed American accomplice Laura Newman was now the number one case in the Bureau’s Counterintelligence Division. FBI Headquarters ran the entire investigation from D.C.
Chapter 41
Day 21—Saturday
The MSS agents sat inside the parked Toyota SUV on the shoulder of the public street. The asphalt driveway that led to Laura Newman’s home was adjacent to the right front fender of the Highlander. At a few minutes past three o’clock in the morning, there was no traffic on the road.
“Her house is down this drive.”
“I don’t see it. Trees are in the way.”
“Here, look at this.” The passenger peered at the Google Earth image displayed on the driver’s smartphone. “This is where we are,” the driver continued, pointing a finger at the edge of the road. “The driveway winds down the hill to the house.”
“It’s secluded. Is this only access point?”
“We could try coming in from the sides, but the vegetation is too thick. The driveway is our best bet on foot.”
“When do we go?”
The driver checked his wristwatch. “I want to get this over with. Let’s get going now.”
“Where do you want to park?”
The driver again pointed to the Samsung’s screen. “This side street up ahead should work.”
“Good, let’s do it.”
* * * *
“What are they doing?” asked Michaela Taylor. She eyed the video monitor that displayed the feed from the high-def camera mounted to a telephone pole.
“Just sitting there.” Todd Rossi sat at his desk, staring at the same video image. Set to infrared mode, the camera broadcast black and white images.
“Same vehicle?”
“Yep, plates match.” Rossi checked a notepad beside his PC. “This makes the fourth drive-by. These turkeys are definitely up to something.”
The Faithful Spy Page 16