by Tim Washburn
Corporal Gary Rutledge, manning the satellite tracker, plucks one of those phones from the console and punches a button. When the call is answered, he says, “Sir, first signs of life from NORAD object three-nine-zero-two-six.” He waits for the reply and sits up straighter in his chair. “Yes, sir,” he replies before hanging up the phone. The object, a satellite, is of particular interest to those at NORAD.
Within moments, the duty officer, Captain Brice Tremblay, arrives at Rutledge’s desk. “What do you have?”
Rutledge clicks on a video clip and turns the monitor for the officer to see.
“A course correction?”
“Appears so, sir,” Rutledge replies. “The satellite has been tracking more northwest to southeast.”
“And now the track is more north and south?” Tremblay asks.
“Yes, sir. I’ve extended the track out.” Rutledge clicks on another video clip that projects the satellite’s new course.
“The next pass brings it right across the central portion of the United States?”
“Yes, sir. Think they’ve been playing possum the entire time?”
“With them, you never know. What altitude?”
“Around three hundred miles, sir.”
“How long to make the next loop?” the duty officer asks.
“Approximately ninety minutes.”
“Task every available resource to track the target, Corporal. I want eyes on. I’m going to contact Space Command to see if they’ve intercepted any communications to or from the satellite. Notify me immediately if there are further changes.”
“Will do, sir,” Rutledge replies. As Tremblay retreats, Rutledge tags the satellite for easier tracking then searches the databases for any and all information on KMS-4, the latest North Korean satellite to enter Earth’s orbit.
CHAPTER 8
White House Situation Room
President Aldridge and Isabella Alvarez reenter the Situation Room before the one-hour deadline has elapsed. Aldridge takes his usual seat and Isabella slips into a chair at the back of the room. Back on the video screen are Alyx Reed and Zane Miller.
“What do we know?” the President asks. The eyes of those around the table remain downcast. “Damn it, there has to be something.” He glances at the screen. “Mr. Miller, Ms. Reed, anything on your end?”
“Sir, the staff here is combing through all of the signals intelligence,” Zane says. “As of now, we’ve yet to find anything even vaguely related to the infiltration. Whoever is behind the hack, they’re remaining tightlipped. The search is ongoing and something may eventually turn up.”
President Aldridge sighs and leans back in his chair. “Ms. Reed, any input?”
“I did find a partial IP address. Ran it through our databases and received about ten thousand hits. I narrowed the search to include likely bad actors and ended up with about a hundred hits. Interestingly, several of those were servers located in western China. I’m not sure it means much. They’re almost certainly spoofing the attack.”
“And by spoofing, you mean?” Aldridge asks.
“They’ve concealed their real IP addresses by hijacking other servers. That’s what I would do.”
Aldridge turns his attention to Admiral Hill. “Admiral, where are we with the nuclear weapons?”
“We’re working it hard, but, as I said before, a software vulnerability could be a line or two of code out of millions upon millions. The weapon systems are extremely complex. Manpower isn’t the problem, sir, it’s time.”
“Meanwhile, we don’t have a clue what’s in the works,” Aldridge says.
“Kevin, are you picking up any chatter?” Vice President Camila Martinez asks.
The director of the CIA (DCI), Kevin Wilson, shakes his head. A tall, round man with a hairline in rapid retreat, he removes his steel-framed glasses and twirls them by the stem. “We’re scanning every scrap of intel and pumping every asset we have for information. It’s eerie how quiet it is. But, I don’t think the silence can be sustained. I believe that whatever is going to happen will happen quickly. Otherwise, why reveal themselves?”
“Is there anything significant about today’s date?” Martinez asks. Fifty-three, the former senator from Texas was a collegiate volleyball player who is still in remarkable shape. “An Islamic holiday? Or something of historical significance?”
“Not that I know of,” the DCI says. “But I’m not a holiday kind of guy. Could be today’s the day everything fell into place.”
“Hell, we’re just speculating,” Aldridge snaps. “If we don’t have a clue about who the hell it is, we sure as hell can’t arrive at a motive. So, do we sit here with our thumbs up—”
The intercom chimes. “Sorry for interrupting, sir,” the voice says, “but I have an urgent call for Director Wilson on line four.”
Rather than take the call at the table, Wilson stands and works his way to a phone at the back of the room.
“We need contingency plans,” Aldridge says. “Both military and cyber. I want to hit these assholes with everything we have in our arsenal.”
DCI Wilson returns to the table, his face ashen. He pulls out his chair and sits. “Sir, one of our flight teams has lost control of a drone.”
“What do you mean, ‘lost control’?” Aldridge asks, the veins visibly pulsing in his forehead.
“They said they’ve lost all flight capability and the drone is not responding to commands. I hate to say it, sir, but they believe the drone has been hacked.”
“What type of drone?” Aldridge asks, his voice tight with anger.
Wilson glances at the video screen then at those assembled in the room before turning back to the President. “The newest one we have, sir.”
The President glances away then whips his head back. “What?”
Wilson glances, again, at the screen. “Sir, can we lose the video feed?”
The President clenches his jaw. Only two other people present know what Wilson is referring to. He looks up at the screen and makes a snap decision. “Mr. Miller and Ms. Reed will stay with us, Kevin. They may be able to provide insight on the computer systems used to control the drone.”
“But, sir?” Wilson pleads.
“What the hell is going on?” Martinez asks. “Just shoot the damn thing down.”
“It’s more complicated than that, Camila,” the President says. He sags in his chair. “Lay it out, Kevin.”
“Sir?” Wilson asks, his face as red as that of a toddler pitching a fit. “This entire project is need-to-know only.”
“Well, now they need to know. All of it.”
Wilson sighs, throws his hands up, and takes a moment to ponder the best way to present the information while still covering his ass. He takes a deep breath and says, “The drone we are discussing is not a run-of-the-mill drone. Code-named Stalker, the drone is a highly modified MQ-9 Reaper.”
“Modified how?” Martinez asks.
Wilson loosens his tie. “The drone is a special DARPA project that’s been years in the making. Powered by a small nuclear reactor, the drone can stay aloft indefinitely and cruise at altitudes beyond seventy thousand feet.”
“If we’re worried about military secrets, just obliterate the damn thing,” Martinez says. “It’ll be in so many pieces no one could ever reverse engineer it.”
Wilson straightens a stack of paper on the table. “We can’t, Madam Vice President, because of the drone’s armaments.”
Martinez leans forward in her chair. “Still, we’re not talking about a nuclear warhead,” Martinez says, watching both the President and DCI as their gazes drift toward the table. “Oh, Jesus, please tell me we’re not.”
Wilson takes a sip of water, his hand trembling. “Unfortunately, we are. The drone is armed with two tactical nuclear warheads.”
Vice President Martinez tosses her pen onto the table. “What in the hell were you thinking? Seriously? A drone armed with nuclear weapons?”
Admiral Hill finds his voice.
“The drone is a last-resort weapon in our fight against ISIS. The weapon would only be deployed under the most extreme circumstances.”
“Well, Admiral,” Martinez says, her voice filled with venom, “we no longer have control of your last-resort weapon.” She turns her withering gaze on Wilson. “Where, exactly, did you lose control of this drone?”
Wilson grimaces. “Along the Iraq-Iran border.”
CHAPTER 9
Semnan Missile and Space Center
Semnan, Iran
Buried deep underground, two hundred kilometers east of Tehran, is the command and control center of the Islamic Republic’s Revolutionary Guard’s aerospace division. This morning, the center is fully staffed and everyone is on high alert. Six years in development, the secret plan between Iran and North Korea will be enacted today. Even with the recent easing of sanctions, the Iranian bitterness lingers like a festering wound.
Today the wound pops.
Brigadier General Amir Mohammadi, commander of the aerospace division, is pacing the perimeter of the room. He stops, again, next to Saman Rezaei, the major in charge of communications. On that long-ago day, an e-mail account was established where both countries could communicate by using the draft function and never posting e-mails online.
“No change, sir,” Rezaei says. “The satellite will be in position at the appointed time.”
General Mohammadi glances at the clock on the far wall. Thirty minutes from execution of the grand plan. Thirty minutes for something to go wrong. Or worse, be discovered before implementation. There are a few things the United States didn’t know when negotiating the latest nuclear agreement. The reason Iran was so willing to agree? They already had a fairly substantial stockpile of nuclear warheads. Mohammadi glances at the clock again and resumes his pacing. He stops at the missile launch console. All is in order. Birds are ready to fly. Mohammadi moves down the line, coming to a stop at the drone flight control center. “Where is the drone?”
“We’re crossing the Caspian Sea, sir, at an altitude of twenty thousand meters. We will reach Russian airspace very soon.”
“And the target?”
“We’ll be on target, sir, at the eleven-hundred-hour deadline.”
“Detonation altitude?” Mohammadi asks.
“If all goes according to plan, sir, three thousand meters.”
“Excellent,” the general says. “If antiaircraft fire becomes a problem, you are ordered to detonate.”
“Yes, sir,” the pilot says.
Mohammadi turns away and circles back to Saman Rezaei’s station.
“No new e-mails, sir,” Rezaei says. “Sir, have we . . . have we considered . . .”
“Spit it out,” the general orders.
“Have we . . . considered . . . the implications . . . of our . . . actions?”
“Of course. Our supreme leader has a precisely detailed plan. Do you prefer to be relieved of your post, Major?”
An image of a firing squad pops into Rezaei’s brain. He wipes a bead of perspiration from his forehead. “No, sir.”
The general pivots on his heel and kicks his pacing into high gear. After a few moments, he returns to the communication console. “Is the link to the supreme leader open and secure?”
“Yes, sir,” the lieutenant answers. “Would you like to speak to him?”
Not wanting to hear, again, what will happen to him and his family if he fails, Mohammadi waves away the request. The supreme leader is buried deep in a bunker beneath Tehran, surrounded by his five wives, a brood of children, and numerous other family members. The bunker is fully staffed and stocked with enough food and clean water to support the leader’s family for months. The general’s family remains topside and will move into the bunker only if Mohammadi is successful.
He glances at the clock, again—ten minutes and counting.
CHAPTER 10
NORAD
Operated jointly by both the Americans and the Canadians, personnel from both countries rotate through NORAD. Captain Brice Tremblay of the Royal Canadian Air Force is today’s duty officer. A quirky man who favors precision, he glances at the clock to watch it click to the top of the hour before pouring his final cup of coffee for the day. Another of his quirks has earned him the nickname Tugger, for his nervous habit of tugging his left earlobe when stressed.
Corporal Gary Rutledge is watching intently as the North Korean satellite passes over eastern Texas. Traveling at 17,000 miles per hour, the satellite covers nearly five miles every second. Moments later the satellite is nearing Kansas City when the image disappears from the screen. “What the hell?” Rutledge mutters.
A second later his muttering is drowned by the shouts of “Detonation!” from a senior airman on the opposite side of the room.
“What type of detonation and where?” Captain Tremblay asks.
“A high atmospheric explosion over Kansas City. Wave signatures suggest it may be nuclear.”
“Communications, work the phones. Send an urgent message up the chain of command to alert them of a possible EMP event.”
Corporal Rutledge jumps to his feet and races across the room. “Sir, we’ve lost contact with the North Korean satellite.”
Tremblay tugs his left earlobe. “We didn’t lose contact. It exploded. Now we need to find out if the satellite—”
“Sir, I have multiple missile launches outbound from Iran,” another airman shouts.
“What’s multiple?” Tremblay shouts. “Two or twenty, for fuck’s sake?”
“At least a dozen, sir.”
“Heading?” Tremblay latches on to his left ear and gives the lobe a hard tug.
“Veering west, sir.”
“Seal the blast doors until we can figure out what the hell is going on.” Tremblay picks up the phone and calls the four-star in command, Air Force General Amy Carlyle. “Ma’am, Captain Tremblay, NORAD.” He’s in the process of explaining what has occurred when he’s interrupted by another shout: “Detonation!”
“Hold one, ma’am.” He covers the mouthpiece with his palm. “Where?” Tremblay shouts to the room. His shoulders sag when he hears the location. He takes a deep breath and removes his palm, placing the phone to his ear. “Ma’am, we’re tracking another large airburst explosion near Krasnodar, Russia. Could be nuclear in origin.” He replaces the handset and begins scanning the room for someone with more embellishments on their collar, and spots Colonel Hal Hooper surging into the room. Tremblay waves a hand to flag him down.
Colonel Hooper, a tall, stout man, bulls his way through the gathering crowd.
“What’s the situation, Captain?”
Tremblay begins to explain when his voice is drowned out by shouts of “Missile launch!”
“Where?” Hooper shouts.
“Israel, sir. I count twenty missiles currently outbound,” a master sergeant replies.
Hooper glances around at the growing crowd and shouts, “If you don’t work in this room, get the hell out. And that’s a direct fucking order.”
People begin scurrying toward the door as the colonel picks up the phone. Bypassing about ten layers of command structure, he says, “Get me the President.”
CHAPTER 11
Weatherford
Gage is finishing up with the brakes when the interior of the hub lights up like a mirror reflecting the sun. The flash of brilliant light is followed by a deep rumble of thunder, and Gage is wondering if he has slipped into another dimension. He glances up to reconfirm what he already knows—there’s not a cloud in the sky. He stands, stretches his achy back, and steps over to the side, thinking there must have been some type of explosion. But there’s not so much as a puff of smoke on the horizon and no visible signs of anything amiss. When he steps over to the town side of the turbine, his brain registers something different, but he can’t pinpoint what it is. Shrugging his shoulders, he returns to work.
After a few minutes, the niggle in the back of his mind pushes its way to the surface. He retraces his steps f
or another look. Very few automobiles are moving and a good number of them are stopped in places where a person wouldn’t normally stop. A couple of pickups are stopped in the middle of the road leading out of town, and two dusty sedans are stalled out in the middle of a busy intersection. Closer in, the farmer who was raking hay is down from his tractor, the hood up over the engine. Gage turns his gaze back toward town and, upon closer examination, discovers the interior of the Quick Stop dark. The owner, an asshole new to town, usually has about a half-dozen signs flashing, but they, too, are dark. Last week there had been a fire at the electrical substation that knocked out power for a couple of hours . . . but that doesn’t explain the auto situation, Gage thinks. His mind spins through possible scenarios as he shakes his head and shuffles back to his work area.
Something else he’s seen is bothering him, but he can’t put his thumb on what it is. He steps over to the ice chest for another bottle of water, and it hits him. The other turbines aren’t moving. Turning for another look, his recollection is confirmed—all the turbines are as still as statutes. “Huh,” Gage mutters. Digging around in his bag, he grabs his laptop and plugs a cable into the computer of the turbine he’s working on and hits the power button and waits for the computer to boot up. And waits. And waits. He punches the power button again, but the whir of the hard drive remains silent. Gage checks to make sure the battery is properly seated and gives the laptop a shake before trying again. Same result. He remembers putting the laptop on the charger before hitting the sack last night so it can’t be a dead battery.
Curious now, Gage sets the laptop aside and approaches the rack of computer equipment mounted on the back wall of the nacelle. None of the lights are flashing and Gage can smell burned plastic. A tingle of dread starts at the base of his neck and inches down his spine like a spider. Although Gage didn’t finish college, he knows a little about a lot of things. Putting everything together in his mind, there’s only one reasonable answer for what’s happening. And as improbable as it sounds, it’s the only valid explanation—an electromagnetic pulse.