Shadow Tyrants--Clive Cussler

by Clive Cussler

  She narrowed her eyes at him. “If I go down, you go down in a ball of flames with me.”

  He put up his hands to calm her down.

  “I’m not suggesting you go to prison. You’re going to have to disappear. Once Colossus is operational, that will be an easy process.”

  “But my face,” Taylor said. “They know who I am.”

  Carlton looked his bodyguard up and down, then said, “I know the finest plastic surgeons in the world. With a nip here and a tuck there, and Colossus to cover our tracks, we’ll make you a completely new woman.”

  She seemed appeased but still wary. “I suppose that would work.”

  Carlton was pleased that she saw the logic of his plan. “In the meantime, it will take a while for the authorities to identify you, so you’ll still have freedom of movement. If we can, we need to eliminate Mallik to keep him from launching his satellite. But, he isn’t our sole concern anymore. Your face isn’t the only thing the prisoners from Jhootha Island know. Although the name of our project has never been shared with them, how much can they reveal about Colossus?”

  TWENTY-NINE

  POKHRAN TEST RANGE, INDIA

  The Thar Desert of northwest India served as the home of the country’s underground nuclear weapons tests. But Romir Mallik had come for a different kind of test. He’d had to leave Asad Torkan back at the entrance to the classified Army base since a former Iranian Special Forces operative wouldn’t have been welcome. This test demonstration wouldn’t have been necessary if his satellite launch had succeeded, but its failure meant going ahead with the exhibition.

  Although the reviewing stand was shaded from the intense sun by an awning, the generals and other officers in attendance looked as if they were going to sweat through their uniforms. The civilians wearing suits didn’t look any happier. Mallik, on the other hand, was quite comfortable in a loose-fitting shirt and cotton slacks as he sauntered over to General Arnav Ghosh, head of the Indian military’s weapons procurement program. The general was the one who had asked for this demonstration.

  “Thank you for braving this heat, General,” Mallik said, shaking his hand.

  “When one of our preeminent contractors says he has something important to show us,” Ghosh said with a smile, “I make the effort.”

  “I hope you and your staff will also join me at my home in Mumbai two days from now for my evening party.”

  Although Mallik hated cultivating government dignitaries, corporate executives, and celebrities, it was a necessary annoyance he had to endure to enable his future plans. His connections would allow him to unite the country behind him after the Vajra system threw the world into chaos.

  “We wouldn’t miss it,” Ghosh said, grinning at the prospect of meeting beautiful Bollywood starlets.

  Mallik lowered his voice. “I wonder if you’ve heard any developments about the discovery of Xavier Carlton’s missing plane on Jhootha Island.”

  He’d watched the reports on the news as they’d flown to Pokhran, reveling in how Carlton must have been stewing about the surprise disclosure. Mallik had originally intended the BrahMos cruise missile loaded with Novichok to kill everyone on the island and leave the facility intact for the Indian government to find, but his alternative of attacking Diego Garcia to lead authorities to Jhootha Island had worked out even better than he’d hoped.

  General Ghosh shook his head in wonderment. “The initial reports are sketchy. We know there are survivors from the plane, which they say didn’t crash but actually landed on the island. I’ll believe that one when I hear more.”

  “Have the survivors been interviewed yet?”

  “They’re still being treated after being held captive for eighteen months.”

  “Who was it that found the island?”

  “Apparently, a passing freighter saw smoke coming from the island and investigated. Some of the crew happened to be former U.S. military and were able to rescue the survivors. Quite lucky, if you ask me.”

  “Quite lucky indeed,” Mallik said, trying to contain a grin since he was the one who led them there. The Colossus Project was in true danger of being exposed now if any evidence from the computers on the island could be recovered. The plane passengers could provide some information as well, but nothing that could lead back to Mallik.

  “Shall we get on with the demo?” Ghosh said. “This had better work as you said it would.”

  “I have no doubt it will, and your team will be impressed,” Mallik replied. He went to the microphone at the front of the stands while the two dozen attendees took their seats.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for being here,” he said. “Although most of you know me for my satellites and rockets, I have also been expanding over the last few years into other areas that can benefit our great military. Threats posed to us from Pakistan and China, as well as from terrorist groups, mean we must always be looking toward the future to combat these threats. I brought you here today because I think that also means looking to our past for solutions.”

  He spoke into a radio and said, “Bring them into position.”

  As he continued talking, six high-tech Arjun main battle tanks raced toward the range in front of them a half mile away. From the opposite direction came a single obsolete T-55 tank dating to the 1960s.

  “On my left are six models of our premier tank, the Arjun, deployed with our most elite regiments. On my right is a lone T-55 that played a major role in our victories during the 1971 war with Pakistan. Obviously, the T-55 doesn’t stand a chance against sophisticated weaponry like the Arjun, which has laser targeting and automated fire control, all commanded by advanced onboard computer systems. Today you are going to see that T-55 defeat all six of its opponents.”

  That brought a mixture of laughter and scoffing from the audience.

  Mallik simply nodded and smiled. “I understand your disbelief, but we know there are unique new threats to our military out there. Software hacking is one dire hazard that we are unprepared for, as you will now see.”

  He radioed to the tank commanders. “You may now begin your first attack run.”

  Two of the advanced Arjuns took off at high speed toward the T-55, which remained stationary.

  “Yesterday, we supplied a software control update to these two tanks,” Mallik said. “It was supposed to increase targeting speed by twenty percent. What the commanders of these tanks do not know is that the software update also installed a patch to the tanks’ communications arrays. I now have full control of them. First, I think I want them to stay where they are.”

  Mallik made a show of taking out his phone. He tapped on a specially designed app and hit STOP.

  The tanks ground to a halt behind him. That brought a murmur from the crowd. He could only imagine the surprise on the faces of the tank crew. Only Ghosh, who sat there with a bemused look on his face, had known what was going to happen.

  “Instead of the T-55 defeating its enemies, why don’t we have them do it themselves?”

  Mallik tapped a preprogrammed button labeled CROSS FIRE.

  The barrels of the two tanks whirled around to face each other instead of the T-55. As soon as each of the guns was in position, they fired.

  The massive rifled cannons belched flames, and explosions bloomed simultaneously on the hulls of the two tanks. Their barrels dipped as if the tanks were blown away, but in reality the explosions were flashbangs that were harmless to the heavily armored vehicles.

  But the explosions made an impression on the crowd. As the sonic booms reached the stands seconds later, most of the audience stood up in awe at seeing the tanks suddenly turn on each other. Ghosh simply nodded at Mallik in appreciation of what he’d just witnessed.

  “Please be seated, ladies and gentlemen,” Mallik said. “No one was injured in the demonstration, but I think it points out how vulnerable our military hardware could b
e to outside hackers.” Once Colossus was fully operational, it would have no trouble installing all manner of malicious software into any military system on earth.

  As the flames faded and the smoke dissipated, the attendees sat down again.

  “Although what you just saw is chilling, that’s not the end of our demonstration. We have an even more dangerous possibility to consider. Like you, I have heard rumors that the incident on the U.S. naval base at Diego Garcia several days ago was not simply an equipment malfunction. Rather, every piece of technology on the island was rendered inoperable by an attack on its computer systems by a non-nuclear electromagnetic pulse device.”

  Mallik didn’t really think they’d heard that rumor, but his pronouncement got the response he wanted: another murmur from the crowd.

  “The Indian Air Force contracted my company to build a similar device of our own,” Mallik went on. “It is code-named Vajra. Although it has limited range, it is quite effective for short periods of time. And you can bet that if we have developed it, our enemies are working on something similar or have already deployed it in the field.”

  When he called on the radio again, he said, “Start second attack run.”

  This time, four Arjun tanks raced forward while the T-55 moved toward them.

  Using the same app on his phone, Mallik found the button marked EMP. When he pressed it, his phone went blank.

  At the same time, the four Arjun tanks literally stopped in their tracks.

  But the T-55 was unaffected. It continued into range and started blasting away at its immobile opponents. One by one, the Arjuns were covered with fire and smoke until all four were “destroyed” in the war game. The T-55, having emerged victorious over six superior rivals, turned and trundled back the way it had come.

  One of the colonels in the audience stood and said, “That’s just a simulation. I can’t believe our tanks would be that susceptible to an EMP attack when their circuitry is supposed to be hardened to that kind of weapon.”

  Mallik grinned and spoke into the microphone, which was unaffected because of its simple electrical functionality. “This wasn’t a simulation. Look at your phones. You’ll find that all of them are switched off.”

  Every person except Ghosh took out their phones. They were amazed when they saw that the phones wouldn’t turn on.

  “Don’t worry,” Mallik said, “the effect is only temporary. They’ll operate normally again in a few minutes.”

  “I hope you have a solution to these problems,” Ghosh said.

  “I do,” Mallik replied. “I have invested billions of rupees into developing backup systems for the most crucial weapons in our inventory. Those Arjuns that are now smoking can be retrofitted so that they will operate even if their computers are rendered useless. In fact, I’ve designed all of my factories to work without computers as well in case our cities are attacked with the same kinds of weapons.”

  Ghosh joined him at the front of the stands and said to the crowd, “I’ve already approved of Romir Mallik’s designs for two of our frontline divisions, and those units will be in place any day now. Several naval ships and Air Force squadrons are also using his retro technology that will enable military operations to continue even with disabled computers.”

  “Not just to continue,” Mallik clarified, “we will be victorious if we are the only ones ready for this eventuality. If computers are taken out of the equation, no military in the world will be able to match up with India’s.” It was true that he was trying to save the human race from itself, but if he could also make India the world’s next great superpower in the bargain, that would be the best way to rebuild society once his satellites were fully operational.

  Ghosh turned to him and said, “Thank you for a very effective demonstration. I think we’ve all learned a lot today.”

  Mallik nodded. “See you at the party.”

  The audience started to disperse, and Mallik heard the same colonel who’d doubted the effect of the EMP grumble to the person next to him, “I’d rather bet on our technological superiority than some fifties-era equipment.”

  Mallik shook his head but said nothing. The colonel would find out very soon how badly he’d lose that bet.

  THIRTY

  JHOOTHA ISLAND

  Night had fallen, and the Oregon maintained a position thirteen miles off the coast of Jhootha Island, just beyond India’s territorial waters. The Indian Coast Guard now had no jurisdiction over the ship and its crew, so the Corporation was in a strong negotiating position for transferring the rescued prisoners over to the waiting cutters. Juan was awaiting Langston Overholt’s call in his cabin to finalize the arrangements.

  Juan was finally able to take a shower after making sure all of their guests were cared for and the ship had moved into international waters. He toweled off and hopped over to his closet, where he kept an array of prosthetic legs for different occasions and fieldwork.

  One prosthesis was his “combat leg,” reinforced with carbon fiber to withstand the rigors of battle and equipped with hidden weapons, including a .45 caliber ACP Colt Defender pistol, a ceramic knife, a packet of C-4 plastic explosive smaller than a deck of cards, and a single-shot .44 caliber slug that could be fired from the heel. Another leg was used for smuggling items inside an undetectable storage cavity. But since he would be staying on the ship for now, he chose his most comfortable prosthesis, a leg so realistic that it had hairs embedded in a surface that felt just like skin.

  He carried the leg over to his desk chair and sat down, massaging the stump just below his right knee. The pain had always been there since his leg was blown off by a Chinese destroyer’s cannon shell, but now it was more of a dull ache that he stopped noticing once he got moving.

  He put on the leg, cinching the straps down with a well-practiced rhythm. When he was sure it was tight, he stood and took his clothes out of the bedroom and into the office so he could watch the running lights of the cutters on the camera feed piped into his cabin. He was happy to see that the Indian Coast Guard ships were keeping their distance. The 4K monitor took up the entire wall of his office, and its resolution was so good that anyone else would swear they were looking out a window despite being in the center of the ship.

  Like the other members of the crew, all of whom lived full-time on the Oregon, he received a generous budget to decorate his cabin. He preferred a classic 1940s style based on Rick’s Café Américain from the movie Casablanca. Humphrey Bogart would have felt right at home with the antique desk, dining table, chairs, and old-fashioned black telephone. Even the bedroom’s massive black safe was vintage. It held Juan’s personal weapons and the ship’s working cash, including the gold bar they’d used to take over the Triton Star. An original Picasso hung on the wall opposite the monitor. Although the Corporation owned pieces of art for investment purposes, most of them were kept in a bank vault when they weren’t on display in the halls of the ship. This small oil painting, however, held a special meaning from a past mission and would never leave the Oregon.

  Juan was just pulling his pants on when the phone rang.

  He picked up the receiver. “Yes?”

  It was Hali. “I’ve got Langston Overholt on video for you. Should I patch him through on your screen?”

  “Give me a minute.” He laid down the receiver and shrugged into a light sweater, wincing as he stretched his chest, which was still sore from where Lyla shot him in the ballistic vest. The nasty black and blue bruise was a testament to the fact that the body armor didn’t absorb the entire impact of the bullet. He picked up the receiver again and said, “Okay, put him through.”

  He sat down and hung up the phone as Overholt’s craggy face replaced the ocean view on the monitor.

  “You’ll be happy to know that the State Department has gotten the Indians to agree to our terms,” the CIA official said.

  Juan was always impressed at how
fast Overholt could pull strings in the government. “We’re free to go?”

  “As soon as you deliver the prisoners from Jhootha Island to their Coast Guard. The Indians will accept the story that you were just Good Samaritans who happened to be sailing by when you saw something suspicious. In return for not having you involved any further, they’ll take the credit for rescuing the survivors of Xavier Carlton’s missing plane. Have you found out anything useful from the prisoners?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Juan said. “I’m having the crew do subtle interviews while we feed them and provide clothing for them.”

  “What do they know about the Oregon?”

  “Only that we’re a cargo ship called the Goreno. They were hidden in a container when the shipboard weapons were being used. They’re currently being taken care of in the fake mess hall.”

  “Then your cover is intact. Did you see anything on the island to connect the facility there to the Triton Star incident?”

  Juan shook his head. “They blew it up before we could search it.”

  “Well, we do know that there is some connection.”

  “How?”

  “The team investigating the Triton Star found a receiver and targeting computer inside the container that held the cruise missile. That’s how it was launched remotely by Rasul. The investigators determined that the attack on Diego Garcia was a last-minute change and were able to decipher the coordinates of the original target. Guess what it was.”

  “Jhootha Island.”

  “Exactly. Whoever paid Rasul wanted to wipe out the island with the Novichok, kill the Triton Star crew, and leave evidence for whoever found the ghost ship that would lead straight to that prison facility. Either that evidence was planted or the plotters were incredibly stupid. Given how complicated the plan was, I don’t think they’re incompetent.”

  “So now we need to know who Rasul was working for. Do we even know his last name?”

  “Now that the CIA has a good scan of his face, we do,” Overholt said. “His name is Rasul Torkan. Former Iranian special ops. He has an identical twin brother named Asad. They both left the service at the same time.” Overholt switched the video to side-by-side photos of Rasul and Asad Torkan. They were so similar that Juan couldn’t tell which one he’d killed.