Deep Black

by Stephen Coonts; Jim Defelice

  Austin was exaggerating his assignment for sarcastic effect, but not by much. They were to detect any “actual physical threat” against Kurakin and pass the information back to the Art Room, from which it would then go to the White House and back to Kurakin.

  “Why don’t we just have the post office mail him a letter?” said Dan Foreman, the other agent. He was bent over a laptop screen on the floor; three other CPUs were piled nearby. Four twenty-inch flat screens and one that had to be at least thirty-six inches were arranged on a low table against the wall. The large one showed a grid map with position markers on it; the others had a variety of data and, in one case, a video image. A satellite dish sat next to the window, nestled among thick cables that ran to the roof above.

  “How do we know they want to kill him?” asked Dean.

  “We don’t,” said Austin. “Who’re you?”

  Dean told him he was on temporary assignment for the NSA and had been shanghaied.

  “Welcome to the friggin’ club,” said Austin. “We’ll have a little ceremony later where we prick our thumbs and mix our blood.”

  “If I were going to kill the president, I’d use a Secret Service agent,” said Dean.

  “No shit,” said Freeman. “But if you have a way of infiltrating Kurakin’s bodyguards, let us know. We’ve tried. Believe me. Bastards won’t even have a drink.”

  “They’re almost all related to him. The two who are with him all the time are cousins he grew up with,” said Lia. “I doubt they’d give him up.”

  “Nah. Anybody’s going to kill him, they’ll Oswald him,” said Austin.

  “Meaning what?” asked Dean.

  “Sniper. Oswald—Lee Harvey. Get it?” Austin shook his head. “Jeez, Lia, your boyfriend’s slow.”

  “I thought she was queer,” said Foreman.

  “That’s just what she told you to get you off her back,” said Austin. “Probably the nicest letdown you ever got.”

  “What’s the intelligence on the sniper?” asked Lia.

  “Intelligence? There is none,” said Austin. “Talk to your friggin’ boss. This is his show.”

  “We can check his route, places he’s going to be,” said Dean.

  “I see the agency continues to maintain its high IQ standards,” said Austin. “How high can you count, Charlie Dean?”

  “He uses both hands, which is twice as many as you do,” said Lia.

  “Yeah, one of ’em’s always occupied,” said Foreman.

  “I used to be a sniper,” said Dean.

  “Yeah, I once studied law,” said Austin. “Look, Lia, you guys want to help, spell Foreman on the sit map, OK? He needs some sleep. I do, too.”

  “I hadn’t realized you were a couple,” she said.

  “You’re just sharper than a pickax today,” said Austin. “Excuse me while I take a shower.”

  The grid map on the large CIA flat screen was a dedicated locator map tracking the Russian president and IDing, when possible, those around him. The information was correlated from a number of inputs that were being routed into a satellite in geosynchronous orbit and then downloaded into a pair of satellite dishes the size of television receivers on the roof. Under other circumstances the information would have been sent to the CIA “bunker” inside the Moscow embassy, but since the Russians knew about the bunker it was likely they would take steps to isolate it when the coup started.

  The Russians also knew about the satellite, and so there were two contingency plans in case its transmissions were blocked. One involved an elaborate routing system through secondary satellites and telephone lines; the other, even more desperate, called for a special balloon launch from the Zamoskvoreche district. The fact that the balloon would fly over the Church of the Resurrection added nothing to the odds in favor of success.

  Additional signal intelligence interpretation was being handled back in Crypto City and provided on an as-needed basis.

  “All we have to worry about is what happens outside the Kremlin,” she told Dean. “Inside is moot—unless we’re part of his security team we’ll never be close enough to detect something before it happens.”

  “So we look for the sniper.”

  “Yes,” she told Dean. “They already have.”

  “You think they know what they’re doing?”

  Her answer was to pound the keyboard of one of the laptops. A map of the city appeared with several dotted lines in yellow.

  “He has a meeting at the new Education Building down here at two P.M. These are his likely routes. After that, he’s supposed to go to a senior citizen housing project for a dedication. He’ll be there at five.”

  “What’s it look like?” asked Dean.

  She pounded the keys again. A 3-D view appeared on the screen. Dean leaned down to look at it, brushing lightly against her arm. She didn’t react; neither did he.

  “That would be a pretty good place for an ambush,” he said.

  “Where would the sniper be?”

  “I’d have to see it in person.”

  “Let’s go there,” said Lia.

  “I thought we were going to watch their gear.”

  “Bullshit on that. I guarantee they’ve had more sleep in the past forty-eight hours than we’ve had in a week.” She went to the door of the bathroom, listening for a moment before pushing in. Dean, who was standing behind her, saw Austin sitting naked on the toilet bowl.

  “Hey!” he said.

  “We’re going to check the housing site for snipers. We’ll be back.”

  “Shit!”

  “Yeah, I can smell it from here.”

  60

  Malachi had flight control of the second plane in the two-plane element, wingman to Train’s lead. They flew a sucked echelon, a formation that had Malachi’s F-47C riding a sixty-degree angle off Train’s tail. Their altitudes were offset as well; Malachi tracked 5,000 feet higher than Train, who was at 35,000 feet. Their indicated airspeed was pegged at 580 knots, a bit under Mach 1.

  The two MiGs approached from the southwest at high speed. According to the RWR, they hadn’t spotted the two Birds—but they had a perfect intercept plotted out.

  Interesting coincidence.

  “We’ll bracket,” said Train.

  “Roger that.”

  “Intercept in zero ninety seconds.”

  “Roger that.”

  Malachi leaned forward in his seat, heart thumping so loudly it could have set the beat for Fat Joe. Their formation was aggressive—arguably too aggressive for manned fighters since it limited defensive maneuvering and made it easier to cull off one of the fighters, usually the wingman. But the unmanned planes were designed to be aggressive. The formation allowed them to concentrate their attack in a variety of ways, most of which a pilot in a teen jet—an F-15, for example—would have salivated over.

  The top screen of Malachi’s cockpit area showed the enemy planes coming toward them, rendering them as red double triangles. The screen had a yellow bar and letters at the top, telling the pilot that his Sidewinder AIM-9 M missiles were ready. Just as in a “real” plane, the all-aspect Sidewinder would growl when it sniffed the MiG in the air ahead. Either Whacker or the pilot could make the call on when to fire the missile; in this case it was Malachi’s decision.

  Malachi felt the muscles in his forearm and fingers starting to freeze on him. He glanced sideways toward Train and for some reason was reassured by the veteran pilot’s quizzical stare.

  “Break,” said Train.

  Malachi leaned on his stick a little too hard, then got befuddled by the transmission delays. The plane dropped two thousand feet as he backed off, and now he started to fall behind it—the nose of the small robot pointed too far east, then too far west as he found himself wallowing through the turn. He was a far better pilot than this—far better—but he lost his concentration and then his target; if it weren’t for the dedicated sitrep or bird’s-eye-view screen sitting between the two flying stations, he might have lost himself as well.<
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  He wasn’t that far from where he was supposed to be. He started to nudge back on the stick, and the enemy plane came across the top edge of his screen. The Sidewinder growled, but Malachi hesitated. The target pipper included a distance-to- target reading that told him he was 3.5 miles away, which was at the far end of the Sidewinder’s range.

  He was gaining on the MiG. If he could hold off a few seconds he’d have him.

  “Fire Fox Two,” Train called his shot on the lead plane. Fox Two was a heat-seeking missile.

  Train added something else, but Malachi lost it as the MiG he was attacking jerked to his right, aware that he was being hunted. Malachi went to follow but lost the MiG as it started a series of zigging turns—though it was extremely maneuverable, the slight time lag in the control system made it impossible for the F-47 to stay with the MiG. Instead, Malachi backed off his throttle, waiting for the MiG to commit to a real turn. That was stock MiG strategy—use his plane’s extreme maneuverability to cut inside his pursuer, ending up behind him in what would have looked like a swirling ribbon if the movements were painted on the sky.

  Rather than following him, Malachi would aim at the point where he came out of the turn, hoping to nail him there. A larger plane, of course, would never be able to make that sharp a cut. The MiG moved left, then right, then left, committing itself. Malachi went for the gas—“Fire Fox Two,” said Train.

  A second later, the lead plane’s missile flashed into the side of Malachi’s screen and merged with the tailpipe of the other plane.

  “Splash two MiGs,” said Riddler from the back.

  “Fuck,” said Malachi as the screen blanked. The simulation over, he put his head over the back of the seat.

  “You took way too long,” said Train, who had swiveled to the side.

  Malachi nodded. “Yeah.”

  “You had trouble on the bracket,” said Whacker. “You went at it too hot and you got sucked into a pursuit. There’s too much lag in the controls. That second is a killer. Use your missiles. You could even have launched the AIM-9 when the MiG first started to cut. At that point I think you would have gotten him.”

  “He would have gone to flares and stuff.”

  “Yeah, but you would’ve had a shot.”

  “I sucked,” admitted Malachi. “I got the jitters when we picked them up.”

  Train stood up. “All right, guys. Take five. Germany should be ready for us soon. You OK, Reese?”

  “Yup.”

  Train had the option of flying both planes in a combat intercept; the computer would actually take the wingman position, following a prescribed routine based on Train’s movements as well as those of the bandits and a tactical library. But Malachi had shown a million times that he could beat the computer.

  A million times in simulations, that is.

  “Malachi, you all right?”

  “Major, I’m kick-ass OK,” he said. “Just need a quick kick from Speedball and I’m set.”

  “Speedball?”

  “Music group,” said Malachi, taking the MP3 player from his pocket. “Only on break. I promise.”

  61

  Karr stayed in the shower until his toes wrinkled. The hot water washed away seven thousand miles’ worth of grime, then ground away at his skin, shaving off several epidermal layers. Back in the kitchen in fresh clothes, he made a whole pot of very strong coffee and sat at the table, reading an old issue of Car and Driver stowed here at his request. The magazine was several years old and he’d already read it cover to cover perhaps three dozen times; one of the cars it featured was no longer even offered for sale. But he read it eagerly, even thoughtfully, his mind absorbed by details of the Mazda RX-8’s cornering ability and a rant about how hard you had to mash the Z car’s gas pedal to get it really moving.

  Between the coffee and the shower, Karr decided he was awake enough to forgo a stimulant patch; the time-released amphetamine made him feel a little too jumpy and he’d only used it once since coming to Russia. It allegedly wasn’t habit-forming, but he figured that was complete bull. His concept of the body as temple for the spirit did not preclude trading vodka shots, eating double cheeseburgers, or forgoing some of the precautions they preached in health class, but he was enough of a control freak to dislike operating in a submerged haze of consciousness.

  He closed his magazine and got up from the table. He retrieved a large metal attache´ case from the bottom cabinet next to the stove, opened it, and took out a laptop. Then he went back to the table, pulled out the chair he’d been sitting on, and got down on his hands and knees, feeling carefully for the right tile—he could never remember which of the four beneath the table it was. Finding it, he pressed on one corner and tried lifting it with his fingernails, but they weren’t quite long enough. He tried two more times—he’d actually managed to get it the last time he was here—then gave up and got a pair of knives whose thin blades were hooked slightly; he jostled up the tile with a flick of his wrists, retrieving a large coaxial cable from a compartment next to the plug.

  The system took a while to boot up and then check itself. Karr poured himself a cup of coffee in the meantime, sliding back into the chair. As the test pattern came up, he took out his satellite phone and called Blake Clark in St. Petersburg, an MI6 contact whom he’d asked to meet Martin when he arrived. The British agent answered the phone with a sharp “Clark.” Glasses clinked in the background.

  “How’d my package do?”

  “Arrived and left.”

  “Take the flight to Finland?”

  “Said you’d told him there was a change in plans,” said Clark.

  “Yeah. Which plane?”

  “You didn’t tell me I had to baby-sit the chap.”

  “He’s gone now?”

  “At least an hour.”

  “You’re sure he got on a plane.”

  “He didn’t come out of any of the entrances. My people were watching for him.”

  “Thanks, Blake. I owe you one.”

  “Actually, if we’re keeping track, you owe quite a bit more.”

  Karr hit end, then keyed Bori Grinberg. Grinberg answered on the first ring.

  “Da?” Grinberg’s accent—and language—always started out somewhere around Berlin but could range over to Paris, up to Krako´w, and back to Moscow depending on the circumstances.

  “It’s Karr. So?”

  “Meter never moved.” Grinberg’s English had a Russian tint to it, which made Karr suspect that he was in fact Russian, though definitive information was impossible to come by. His first name was Norse—but names meant nothing.

  “You’re at the terminal?”

  “Da.”

  “OK, I need you to walk through the building, back near the gate, rest rooms, all that, see if the marker was offloaded. Keep the line open.”

  “Walking.”

  Karr had slipped three pimple-sized “markers” onto Martin’s clothes before packing him onto the aircraft. The markers contained radioactive isotopes, chosen for their uniqueness and ability to excite the detector Grinberg had in his hand. Karr had told him to wait at the airport and see if the meter flipped.

  Grinberg was a freelancer believed to retain ties to Russian intelligence. Karr found him valuable nonetheless, though admittedly he had to use some precautions—such as, in this case, not identifying whom Grinberg was looking for.

  Unfortunately, to get Grinberg to do the job, Karr had had to blow one of his equipment cache points in St. Petersburg. Such points were difficult to come by, and replacing it would take several days of angst—not to mention a trip to St. Petersburg, a city he didn’t particularly like. It also meant he compromised all of the technology in the cache, which Grinberg could be counted on to help himself to.

  Which was why all of the technology—the most notable items beyond the tracking gear were some eavesdropping kits and a pair of stun guns that looked like wristwatches—had been purloined from the Russians themselves.

  “How we doing?�
�� he asked Grinberg. He could hear him walking through a crowd.

  “Nee-yada.”

  “You trying to say ‘nada’?”

  “Da.”

  “You have to work on your slang. But before you can do that, you have to figure out your nationality, ja?”

  “Hai!” he said.

  “I haven’t heard Japanese from you before. Thinking of moving?”

  Grinberg let off a string of Russian curses, apparently aimed at someone who had bumped into him in the airport. It was already clear to Karr that Martin had in fact boarded an airplane—that or bribed Grinberg and Clark to make it look as if he had—and so he turned his attention to the laptop. After clearing himself into the system, he initiated a program that put him on the Internet, spoofing a German gateway into thinking he was in Du¨sseldorf. From there he accessed a file on a server and downloaded a program to his laptop’s prodigious RAM—there was no hard drive. With two keystrokes Karr hacked into the reservation system controlling flights out of St. Petersburg, a destination he had chosen specifically because he found this system so easy to access.

  “Ne rein,” said Grinberg.

  “French, right?” said Karr, recognizing the phrase for “nothing.” “No trace anywhere in the airport?”

  “Nope.”

  “Now comes the hard part—I’m going to give you a plane to check out.”

  “Plane?”

  “Yeah. Actually, it’s still at the gate. I know the flight.” If Grinberg didn’t find the markers on the plane, then Martin had to be still wearing them, which would make the next step considerably easier. Karr keyed his computer and saw that the flight would be leaving in exactly forty-five minutes. “I need you to check the trash and then the plane—they won’t have vacuumed it.”

  “Mon dieu.”

  “Yeah—uh, you’ll find a ticket waiting at the gate. Round-trip.” He hesitated, waiting for the screen to refresh. The hack was perfect, but the system wasn’t particularly user-friendly—he had to enter Grinberg’s name with an asterisk before each letter. He screwed something up and it came out as “Grinnberg,” which he figured was close enough. “You’re misspelled in the computer, just so you know.”