America jg-9

by Stephen Coonts

  "What about Russian technology? I have heard that since the collapse of communism, all the really great innovations that their research institutes were working on are for sale. For the right price."

  "If Shkval is for sale, I haven't heard about it," Stalnaker replied. "Ask DeGarmo."

  "He would know, wouldn't he?" Flap said, glancing again at Jake.

  "The problem is buying blueprint tech." Stalnaker scratched his head. "It's so damned tricky. You have to know a lot in order to evaluate what the seller is offering."

  "Revelation. Does it work?"

  "Oh, yes."

  Flap asked, "If Russia didn't have it, would they steal a sub to get it?"

  Stalnaker weighed the question. "Maybe. But as I said, stuff leaks. I would be amazed if the guts of Revelation are still an exclusively American secret."

  Jake asked, "If not Russia, then who?"

  "Make a list. A long list. Every country with a high-tech defense industry could make money with the guts of Revelation, which is nothing more than software that runs on high-speed computers. But you should be talking all this over with Navarre." Vice-Admiral Val Navarre was the navy's head submariner. "He knows America inside out."

  Le Beau and Grafton thanked Stalnaker and left.

  In the hallway the two flag officers were met by Captain Killbuck. He handed Jake a sheet of paper. "Here is the America weapons loadout you asked for, Admiral."

  Jake glanced over the list. "Flashlights? Ten of them?"

  "Yes, sir. First operational cruise."

  "Thank you, Captain."

  Back in Le Beau's office, Jake showed the list to Flap. "Flashlight is the new warhead on the vertically launched cruise missile, the Tomahawk."

  "I've read about it," Flap responded after scanning the list. "Maybe they wanted Flashlight more than Revelation."

  Jake's lips compressed into a firm, straight line. He thought for a moment before he spoke again. "The Russians assigned a so-called technical expert to the SuperAegis liaison team last month, a couple weeks after the satellite was lost. Guy's name is Ilin. CIA says he's a spook with SVR. He's been playing me for a sucker." Jake told Flap about Ilin's solo talking and the transmitter in his belt. "The FBI is assembling a serious surveillance team to watch this guy, but…" Jake shrugged. "I don't know what he could be telling the Russians except what he is seeing and hearing."

  "Okay," Flap Le Beau said.

  "We've also got a Brit, a Frenchman, and a German on the liaison team. All are intelligence professionals and freely admit it. I don't know why we do this to ourselves, but we're stuck with these people. The question is, who stole that submarine? If any of those countries are behind the theft, then it stands to reason that their rep knows or has orders to report anything he hears about submarines, etc. In any event, I want to give them something to report. I want permis-

  sion to take them to the war room this evening for the Joint Chiefs brief."

  Flap eyed Jake. "You want to let them see what we are doing to find the sub?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "The Russian too?"

  "Especially him."

  "He'll ride the subway across town to the Russian embassy and tell them all about it."

  "I expect all four to make beelines to their respective embassies. If one doesn't, well, that would be interesting. It would be doubly interesting if we could read some of the intel codes these folks use to communicate with the folks back home."

  "Beats the hell outta me," Flap said slowly, eyeing Jake.

  "My suggestion, sir, is that you talk to the appropriate people at NSA and the White House, see if you can get permission. And we'll see what happens."

  "The White House doesn't want America to slip through our fingers."

  "We aren't close to finding that sub," Jake shot back. "We couldn't be. America is state of the art. We might stumble across her by accident, but we're not going to hear her on the SOSUS or find her with P-3s. The Atlantic is a damned big ocean. We lost a satellite in that pond two months ago and still haven't found it, and everyone was looking right at it when it disappeared."

  "How did that happen?" Flap asked. "NASA and the FBI haven't told us anything."

  "They haven't told the liaison office anything either," Jake said slowly. He ran his fingers through his hair. "It may have been one of those things, the software hiccupped or the rocket burped, whatever, and at the same time the tracking stations' power supply failed temporarily. Far more likely, someone arranged for all that to happen. They haven't found that someone, nor have they found the satellite. And they aren't talking."

  "Do you think the loss of the satellite and the theft of the sub are related?"

  "Yes, sir, I think so. But I can't imagine how. The only reason I can point to is the little lecture I got this morning from DeGarmo, the CIA director, all about high tech and quantum leaps. And the fact that the only people who want SuperAegis in the sky and functioning are the Americans. In every direction, as far as the eye can see, are people who don't want the United States sitting comfortably under an ABM umbrella. The Americans twisted arms in Europe, got them to go along. Very reluctantly. But the Chinese, the Indians, the Arab world were left out."

  "Thank God the missing satellite isn't our problem," Flap said with a wave of his hand.

  "The missing satellite and sub may both be faces on the same Rubik's cube," Jake replied. "If we could figure out how they are related, we'd be a whole lot closer to laying hands on that boat than we are now."

  Flap Le Beau grinned at Jake Grafton. "I'll make some calls," the marine said, "tell them we want to take tourists to the war room this evening. I'll call you at your office."

  "Yes, sir."

  The marine commandant added, "Talk to Navarre and the FBI this afternoon, then brief me in the war room."

  "Yes, sir."

  As Flap started back to his desk, Jake added, "General, I'm curious. Do you still carry any of those knives you used to pack?"

  The motion was almost too quick for the eye to follow. Flap Le Beau reached behind his neck inside his blouse with his right hand, then lunged forward, sweeping his hand down. Jake caught a glint of polished steel flying through the air, then the knife stuck in the far wall with an audible thunk. As it quivered there, Jake could see that the weapon was small, with a handle and blade about six inches long.

  Flap straightened, shot the cuffs of his blouse. "The grunts expect it. I hate to disappoint 'em."

  "Yes, sir."

  Vice-Admiral Navarre was on the telephone when Jake was shown into his office. He was in his shirtsleeves, his tie hanging over his blouse on the back of a chair. He motioned for Jake to sit, then concentrated on listening to what the other person on the line was saying.

  "We can't sit on them, sir," Navarre said. He was on the phone to the CNO. "Sure, we can keep the America crew isolated in debriefing for another day or so, but the families have a right to talk to the press."

  He paused, listening.

  "We had to level with the families. We have to keep faith with our people or we lose our credibility with them."

  After another pause, Navarre snarled, "The White House doesn't send submarines to sea. The navy does. We do. I do! The families had a right to be told what we know, so by God I told them! If the chief of staff and national security adviser don't like it, I'll clean out my desk anytime they want. I'm ready for the golf course. Tell those clowns that I can turn in my ID card and building pass and be on the first tee by five o'clock…."

  He toyed with the cord of the instrument he held, then said, "We can't stop the families from talking to anyone on Earth. And we'd be fools to try."

  The pause was longer this time.

  "We'd look like flaming idiots, trying to hide ten pounds of shit under a cocktail glass."

  He talked in monosyllables for another minute or so, then muttered, "Aye aye, sir," and tossed the phone on its cradle.

  He glared at Jake Grafton. "The families are talking to the press. Some
of them are on television. The White House is upset."

  Jake showed him the letters from the president and General Le Beau. Navarre scanned them and handed them back.

  Navarre's finger darted out, pointing at Jake's chest. "Stealing a submarine was an act of war. Yet the White House approved the theft of a Russian sub — that's the big secret that the politicians don't want anyone to know. Now the fucking Russians have done it to us. Sooner or later this is going to explode in the newspapers and television news shows. Hell, for all I know it's already on the Internet. Congress is going to crucify those silly sons of bitches at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue."

  "DeGarmo, the CIA director, said that the navy wanted the Russians' supercavitation technology."

  "You bet your ass we did. We do. But the idea of stealing a Russian sub to get it didn't originate in this building, and that's a goddamn fact. I didn't know a thing about it until this morning. The idea was absolutely moronic. Those incompetent spook sons of bitches just got fourteen American sailors killed. Or sixteen."

  "Sir, that's a hell of a stretch."

  Navarre took a deep breath, then exhaled convulsively. "You're right. I withdraw that comment. But you've listened to me fulminate enough. What do you want to know?"

  "You've answered most of my questions. Why was Flashlight on ten of the Tomahawks?"

  "Because it's ready to go to sea and America was designed to launch it. That's our job: take the best technology we can devise to sea to defend our country."

  "Was Flashlight always scheduled to go to sea on America?"

  "Yep. We tested it on the operational evaluation workup. On this cruise we were going to launch two of the missiles on the Pacific missile range, ensure the software is bug-free and the warheads work as advertised. America was going to transit around Cape Horn submerged, shoot the missiles, then work an antisub exercise in the Caribbean on the way home."

  "How many people knew Flashlight was on that boat?"

  "Jesus, I don't know. The program is classified, of course, but the number of people who knew it would be on America would be in the hundreds. The people in the company that made the thing who weren't told it was being deployed could certainly make an educated guess. I would estimate that the number is a couple of thousand."

  Jake had a few more questions, but the telephone rang and the admiral snatched it up, so he mouthed a thank-you and slipped out.

  "Ship up there," Turchak said, tapping Vladimir Kolnikov on the shoulder. He had been watching Rothberg construct mission profiles for the Tomahawks, check the coordinates, the firing checklists. Fortunately, as they had been told, the targeting computer database was indeed universal; North America was in there so that missiles carrying dummy warheads could be shot at targets on stateside bombing ranges.

  Kolnikov glanced at the horizontal tactical display, then checked the sonar displays on the bulkheads, which were essentially windows on the sea. With the sonar display enlarged as much as possible the screen was dark, gloomy, illuminated from within by a faint light, a light that signified the noise generated by a ship's propellers and machinery and the hiss of the hull cutting the swells. As he watched, the light assumed a faint shape, the hull of a ship as seen from underneath.

  "It's about fifteen miles, bearing zero one zero relative." Only ten degrees off the starboard bow, the destroyer was almost dead ahead.

  "What do you think?" Kolnikov asked Heinrich Eck, who was manning the primary sonar console.

  "A destroyer with a towed array. He's got a helicopter dipping. I've heard it, but it's too far away to pick up. If we streamed our own towed array, we could triple the range of our system."

  Kolnikov didn't want to stream the sonar array, a raft of hydrophones that could be towed along in the submarine's wake. The array would limit his speed. He looked at his watch. Hours yet.

  No, the thing to do was turn north and get away from this destroyer, then come back to a westerly heading in a couple of hours. He gave the order to Turchak, who was at the helm.

  "Do you think the Americans have heard us on SOSUS?" Turchak asked.

  "No. I think they are just searching." Addressing Eck, Kolnikov asked, "Have you heard any patrol planes?" I wo.

  "Did either of them cross directly overhead?" He wasn't worried about sonobuoys but about the magnetic signature of the boat, which the magnetic anomaly detectors, MAD, in the patrol planes could pick up if they flew close enough overhead. Theoretically, under ideal conditions the MAD gear could detect a submarine as deep as three thousand feet, but that was theory. The practical limit, Kolnikov knew, was much less. And conditions were never ideal.

  "No," Eck whispered, shaking his head. He was listening to the raw audio on his headset, verifying with trained ears what the computer was telling him.

  "They are engaged in a random search pattern. They haven't heard us."

  "Lidar?" The Russians and Americans were experimenting with blue-green lasers mounted in aircraft to search shallow water for submarines. America had lidar detectors mounted on the sail and hull. Kolnikov didn't think the lasers could detect a sub at this depth, five hundred feet, but one never knew.

  "Not a chirp."

  The Russian skipper smoked a cigarette as he monitored the display, watched Rothberg, kept an eye on Turchak and Eck.

  "Are we below the surface layer?" he asked Turchak.

  "I don't know."

  The bottom of the surface layer in the Atlantic should be between three and six hundred feet deep, depending on weather conditions. The surface layer was an area of relatively uniform temperature as the water was mixed by wave action. "Let's go deeper for a while. Go down to a thousand feet. Watch the water temp gauge."

  "A thousand feet," Turchak echoed. "Aye aye, sir." He opened the appropriate flooding valves and eased the stick forward a trifle, letting the boat sink deeper as it took on more water. Passing 575 feet there was a temperature drop, which Turchak mentioned to Kolnikov.

  The destroyer had almost faded from the display when Heydrich came into the control room. He glanced at the heading indicator.

  "What are you doing?" Heydrich demanded. "Where are we going?"

  Kolnikov swiveled the captain's stool until he was facing Heydrich. "There has been a change of plans," he said coldly. He removed his automatic from his trouser pocket and examined it. Heydrich stiffened a trifle.

  The pistol's safety was on. The Russian captain held it up, clicked the safety off.

  "A double cross! I should have known."

  "No double cross," Kolnikov said. "Willi Schlegel will get exactly what he paid for. But we have plenty of time, so Turchak and I thought we would make some money in the interim. Hope you don't mind."

  "How?"

  "We are going to shoot Tomahawks at some targets we selected. Mr. Rothberg has kindly agreed to help. I explained that you wouldn't mind, that this small project wouldn't interfere with our main mission. So he agreed."

  Heydrich didn't take his eyes off Kolnikov. "I cannot understand," he said conversationally, "why you haven't killed me."

  "Don't tempt me. I'm very close."

  "Perhaps you worry that the men are loyal to me, not you. The Germans know who supplied the money. They will do as I say. Even Eck, he works for me. Tell him, Eck."

  Heinrich Eck's eyes widened and he sat up very straight. He looked from Heydrich to Kolnikov, then back again. "Don't get me in this. I do as I'm told. I just want to live to get paid, start out in a new life with a new passport and real money."

  Kolnikov never took his eyes off Heydrich. "Willi Schlegel likes you," he said. "And Willi is paying the bills. Or some of the bills. Still, I do not think he would suffer unduly when this is over if I tell him that you didn't make it. An accident at sea, perhaps. Or a tragic incident with a loaded weapon. Maybe I'll just tell him I killed you because I didn't enjoy looking at you. Schlegel understands the uncertainty of life. You might be the shit that is going to happen." Heydrich eased himself into an empty chair in front of an unu
sed console.

  "Don't sit," Kolnikov said. "You aren't staying. The captain's cabin has a keyed lock on the door. You will stay there for a few days. There are books on seamanship and navigation for you to read. I'll feel better knowing you are there improving your mind."

  As the two men were going down the passageway with Heydrich leading, the German shifted his weight, spun, and kicked with his right foot. Kolnikov had just enough warning. He grabbed the foot and pulled. Heydrich crashed to the deck. Two of the Germans heard the commotion and came running.

  "Back to your stations," Kolnikov said, glancing at them. He had the pistol in his hand pointed at Heydrich. "Heydrich isn't hurt."

  "What is this all about, Captain?"

  "Later. Back to your stations."

  They went. Kolnikov locked Heydrich in the captain's cabin and pocketed the key. He was under no illusions about the strength of the lock, which was designed merely to allow the American captain to ensure that his private papers remained private. If Heydrich wanted out of that cabin badly enough, he was coming out. But that, both men knew, would lead to a final showdown. And Heydrich needed Kolnikov. At least Kolnikov hoped he did.

  When he got back to the control room, he sat down on the captain's stool and lit another cigarette. "Let's run through the launch sequence, Rothberg. Right up until we shoot the first missile."

  Turchak put the boat on autopilot and came over to stand by Kolnikov. He whispered in his ear, "Why didn't you kill him?"

  Kolnikov pretended that he didn't hear the question, and after a bit Turchak went off to the head.

  At the end of the day, after everyone else had left, Zelda Hudson reviewed the E-mail messages Zip Vance had culled for her attention. Tonight there was quite a collection. These were classified, encrypted E-mails, messages sent from one department of the government to another, or to other persons within the department.

  The government's new encryption protocol, developed by two Belgian software designers, was good, very good, but had several small flaws. Zelda's field was computer security, encryption standards, barriers to entry, trapdoors, backdoors, worms, etc. One of the foremost experts in the field, she had worked with the FBI, NSA, CIA, and Pentagon converting to the new protocol. And she had added on a few wrinkles of her own. In effect, she had developed wormholes that allowed her access to the U.S. government's deepest secrets.