Trident Code (A Lana Elkins Thriller)

by Thomas Waite

  “Noted,” said Holmes. “Any ideas?” He looked around the table. “Anyone?”

  When no one spoke up, Holmes resumed: “Then there’s another question: Why are they quiet? Whoever they are, they’re sitting on a propaganda coup of staggering proportions.”

  “They won’t be quiet for long,” McGivern replied. “First, we’ll see that horrible video on every screen in the world; then we’ll hear their threats.”

  Wourzy nodded. “You can bet on that.”

  “Well,” Lana said, “they are hackers first and foremost. Don’t be surprised if they hijack CNN and FOX and every other media outlet.”

  “That’s what happened last year,” Tenon reminded everyone unnecessarily.

  “They’re holding all the cards,” Wourzy said. “And in a very real sense they’re forcing our hand. If we don’t come forward and announce the hijacking, especially with these deaths now, they’ll do it for us. It’s like we’re shooting at shadows.”

  That phrase resonated strongly with Lana. Shadows. Nothing was ever as it appeared. So if that were the case, then it wasn’t the Russians or Chinese or Iranians or Anonymous or any other antic actors on the cyberscene. The rogues were in the shadows. They were the Ted Kaczynskis of their time. But what alarmed Lana was the continuing recognition that the hackers in the shadows often did work hand in glove with the established war rooms of the world.

  The meeting was interrupted by the sudden opening of the SCIF door. A young female aide rushed in and turned on Reuters News Online. The news channel had obtained video of the interior of the submarine, undoubtedly provided by the hackers, showing the many dead on the vessel, including Captain Hueller. Then a computer-generated voice warned against “anyone” interfering with the nuclear-armed sub, “or else.”

  By late afternoon Lana felt as if all the oxygen had been drained from her own brain. She’d made no headway in cracking the hackers’ code, finding no consolation in hearing from her VP, Jeff Jensen, that he’d made no headway, either. The former navy cryptographer had been in near-constant communications with cohorts in the service, who also found themselves frustrated with every click.

  Lana’s efforts had taken her around the world through a wide assortment of servers. Though dubious, she’d finally gone to work on Anonymous, but after three arduous hours of finger-flying over their terrain she’d come to the same conclusion with which she’d started her trek: no involvement by the most notorious hacker brand.

  Which did have her thinking the Delphin’s hackers were an entirely new crew, or one savvy and technologically sophisticated enough to have cleaned their virtual slate of every last chalk mark.

  Holmes caught her sitting with her fingers sunk into her hair, clutching her head.

  “Magic Dragon’s canceled for tonight,” he announced. “The President has called an emergency meeting at the White House. Admiral Deming and General Sprouse will be joined by the various secretaries.”

  She knew what that meant: Defense, Homeland Security, each of the services, plus the directors of the CIA and FBI.

  “I think you should take this opportunity to go home,” Holmes advised. “Get some rest and get ready for tomorrow. In fact, I’m ordering you to do it.”

  Her first impulse was to resist, but she felt fully depleted after last night’s lousy sleep. Then, of course, she thought of Emma and the National Cathedral and knew where she was headed. But would it be fair to show up when her daughter would be meeting Don, for the first time?

  Of course it would. Do you trust him with her?

  The answer was a resounding no, and why should she? Delaying no longer, she headed for the District, fighting traffic all the way. She would not make a scene with Donald, but she would keep a keen, if discreet, eye on the federal prisoner in his ankle monitor.

  The neo-Gothic cathedral was lit up, brilliantly displayed against the night sky as she walked toward it. Lana heard the choir even before she entered, and as she passed under the exquisite stone carving of the Last Supper over the entrance, she saw that the church was packed.

  She felt fortunate to find a seat in the last pew, barely able to pick out her daughter in the broad display of blue satin up on the wide altar.

  A violin solo rose to the side of the choir as she settled in. Lana hadn’t realized that they would have a full orchestra to accompany them, but she’d been playing catch-up on choral music since Tanesa had led Emma down this artistic path.

  Tanesa’s solo came first, and Lana caught herself digging for tissues and dabbing tears as the girl’s voice filled the cathedral. Tanesa sounded pure and flawless to Lana’s admittedly unpracticed ear, but she looked around and saw many people nodding approvingly.

  She knew little more about St Matthew’s Passion than the name itself suggested: a demonstration of Bach’s fealty for his faith. Lana lacked great devotion to any religion, but did have tremendous admiration for the art inspired by fervent spiritual belief.

  That thought was interrupted when Emma began to sing her solo. Lana did not recognize her daughter’s voice right away, but glimpsed enough of her to be sure that Emma was now the focus of audience admiration wherever she glanced. Her daughter had a lovely soprano voice and handled the German with aplomb.

  How does this happen? she asked herself. Your child leaps from gangly childhood to exhibitions of skill and beauty that you could never have anticipated a year ago. Lana had to dig for her tissues once more.

  After the choir bowed to sustained applause, Lana edged along the side of the cathedral, moving past stately stone columns, hoping to watch Emma meet her father for the first time. Mostly, she wished that she could have rushed to Emma to congratulate her right then. But she had to grant her daughter—and Emma’s father, Damn him!—their first meeting. One more reason to resent Donald Fedder.

  She caught the moment seconds later. Donald, blue suited with a crimson striped tie—looking anything but a convict—shook Emma’s hand. At least he hadn’t presumed to have earned a hug by showing up. Lana had to concede that much.

  For her part, Emma looked curious, pleased, but also tentative as she chatted with him.

  Don gestured to a pew, away from others still congregating near the altar, including the musicians packing up their instruments.

  Lana checked her watch; Don was to have fifteen minutes max. She needn’t have bothered; a woman from the Bureau of Prisons—that was Lana’s bet, in any case—had apparently been dispatched to monitor the pair, which she did from a few rows back. Lana could pick out a spy even in a cathedral. And then she realized, naturally, that she herself was spying, which formed the first direct parallel she could think of between her professional and personal life.

  The watch checking proved unnecessary, in any event; after fifteen minutes Don stood. So did Emma. He reached to shake her hand again, but Emma deftly moved it aside and took her father in her arms instead. It was such a smooth adult move that Lana choked up.

  But Lana also felt a distinct pang of jealousy, followed quickly by a wholly unexpected pulse of happiness on Emma’s behalf: she had found her father, and he had accorded his child the dignity she so richly deserved.

  Lana slipped away quietly, knowing that Tanesa’s parents would bring Emma home.

  As soon as she exited the cathedral, she checked for messages. There were several, but the one from Holmes, presumably sent from the Oval Office, drew her instant attention. It provided a link to the inevitable threat from the hacker-hijackers.

  Finally, she thought grimly.

  Her fierce desire for them to come forward with their “or else” had been satisfied.

  Standing in light bleeding from the front of the cathedral, Lana read the threat twice. It was so unthinkably dangerous to the entire world—and yet so obvious—that she knew the likelihood of an actual missile attack had escalated from the unthinkable to the probable.

 
And it would be far more devastating than anyone, including herself, could possibly have imagined.

  CHAPTER 6

  OLEG WAS SO FRUSTRATED he pounded the trident symbol in the middle of the Maserati’s steering wheel to sound the horn. That earned him the temper of the long-haired blonde in front of him, who made an obscene gesture and honked her own horn. So Oleg roared past her lousy little Lada, gave her another blast, and the same gesture. Wanted to run her off the road.

  Okay, so bad mood, Oleg. Get a grip. Don’t abuse such a beautiful car.

  Why was he in such a bad mood? All he’d wanted when he stopped by to see Galina was a simple apology: “I’m sorry, Oleg, for working for Papa Plutocrat and Dmitri.” That was all she had to say—and then some make up sex to show that she was really sincere.

  Not kiddie cancer. Who wanted to hear about that?

  Secret for girlfriend success: Apology + Sex = NO BIG DEAL.

  And then you’re forgiven. Jesus.

  But she got pissed off.

  Go figure.

  Bigger sturgeon to fry now. Oleg had used his own hacked channels to the White House to let them know about the threat hanging over their heads—and the rest of the world’s—so it was time to make sure Numero Uno hacker, the Ukrainian, was fully in the loop, too.

  Uno was a smart boy, so it was very possible that he’d identified the target all on his own. If not, though, Oleg needed to inform him straightaway because Uno had hacked the sub’s communications and—with some valuable help aboard—would be aiming the Trident IIs. “Like very exciting video game,” Uno had told him.

  The target was not going to be Washington, much as Oleg hated that place, or New York, much as he loved it, or Paris, London, Hong Kong, Beijing, or Flint, Michigan, a shitty city Oleg personally would have been happy to blow up with a thermonuclear device. He had been carjacked there by big black men on a hot summer night when he was just passing through minding his own business and thought it would be a nice boost for the local economy if he bought some excellent crack cocaine for a special friend whose acquaintance he’d made on a street corner a few blocks away. Those American blacks were ingrates. They threatened to tear out his lungs for bringing his “ofay self” into their hood, which had enough problems without “fucking ofays” like him.

  Ofay? Ofay? That’s the best they can do when it comes to name-calling?

  Maybe hard to believe, but the real target was even better than Flint. He smiled just thinking about it, so pleased at finally knowing that he could tell Uno where to aim those nuclear missiles. He was speeding home, prepared to bribe stupid Muscovite cops if he had to. Ripping along at one hundred fifty kilometers an hour, he checked out his mug in the rearview mirror—What was that thump? Potato-faced peasant?—pleased to see the handsome look of the man staring back at him. Who really needed multiple warheads when the target he’d picked out would be like hitting hundreds of cities all at once?

  Leukemia? Oleg dismissed it with a flick of his hand. “Such a trifle.” He’d take care of the leukemia later. Give Galina girl some money. He had a good fund-raising idea that would not cut into Ambient Air Capture profits.

  No, not car wash. What, you think this is America? Need books for school kids? Car wash. Need blankets for squeegee people? Car wash.

  But Oleg’s fund-raising idea did have lots of liquids and—Who knows?—maybe some bright red spots.

  And then, after taking care of the leukemia money, he would accept Galina’s apology for working for Papa Plutocrat and helping Dmitri. Little brother who’s bigger than a horse does not need help. Great life. Hookers and indoor waterslide. For a man with a broken brain, doesn’t get better.

  But right now Oleg needed to get up to his plush penthouse with a skylight in the living room and another one high above his bed with special heating systems to vaporize the snow so he could see the night sky burning with stars that spoke to him in ways he could never quite put into words. His poetic side that wanted to dance with the stars. The real stars, not those losers on bad TV for potato-faced people without satellite or even the crappy Russian version of Netflix.

  When he needed ultimate encryption there was only one safe bet: home sweet home. He thought it and sang it as he drove into the underground garage and waited all of three seconds for the elevator before darting up to the lobby.

  Argh! The cripple. Yes, it was bad to call the wheelchair-bound neighbor a “cripple,” but the cripple was a nasty fuck. And there he was, holding the hand of his crippled girlfriend, both of them wheeling around Moscow like they belonged everywhere. Slowing down everyone. Waiting for the damn elevator. Just getting them on was like loading nuclear pellets. First, she went, doing a six-point turn until she faced out. Then he got on; with even less room to maneuver, he needed a ten-point turn. By then the doors were boing-boinging off his chair. But each of them never seemed to notice because they were always busy flashing big toothy smiles at everyone except him.

  But he didn’t dare rush ahead and close the elevator doors on them. He’d done that last month and they’d filed a complaint with the co-op board, which threatened to force him to sell and leave.

  “If you’re not careful,” he’d warned the board in his most cunning voice, “I’ll buy the building and send all of you packing. Cripples first.” Ha-ha-ha. That had shut them up.

  But now he was paying the price of his impatience because he couldn’t push past them when he really needed to. Too many witnesses getting mail, smoking, talking, watching, and waiting to see what the “Penthouse Prick” would do. That was what a crone on the co-op board had nicknamed him—and it stuck.

  Oleg took the stairs, panting after two flights. Then he had a better idea. He burst through the next stairwell doorway and raced to the elevator, pushing the up button.

  Ding.

  And there they were, just as he figured, staring at him. No toothy smiles now. He pushed the button for the very next floor.

  The doors closed.

  Ding. They opened.

  “Here, cripple girlfriend. You first,” he said, giving her a good shove.

  “And now your turn, Wheel Beast.”

  “No!” the cripple bellowed. “It’s not our floor.”

  “I know, but better—no witnesses,” he added as he pressed a button and closed the doors.

  In seconds he rose to the top floor and stepped into his penthouse, to which only he had the key. Then he rushed to his bank of computers to bring up hacker #1.

  Click-click-click. Then more clicks. Lots of clicks.

  “Okay, hooked up,” he said to himself. “So tell me,” keyboarding to #1, “what do you think ‘or else’ means?”

  Don’t disappoint me, thought Oleg. I want to talk to someone about this most magnificent target in all of world history.

  “WAIS,” was Numero Uno’s total answer.

  But it made Oleg hug himself because Uno was spot-on: West Antarctic Ice Sheet.

  “You are right!” he keyboarded back.

  “Pure genius,” Uno replied. “Theoretically unstable,” he added.

  “Theoretically?” Oleg guffawed so hard he almost fell off his Aeron.

  A renowned geologist had called the massive WAIS an “awakened giant” that could reach a “tipping point”—not a metaphor, for once—and crash into the ocean. Bombing it would create the biggest kerplunk in history and raise sea levels by 3.3 meters (eleven feet, Americans!).

  If the Arctic, with all its gas and oil, was the prize—and it most certainly was—Oleg thought Antarctica, with its deliriously unstable ice sheet at the bottom of the world, would soon provide the punishment for all those other countries that had, once again, underestimated Russian resolve.

  Other than Holland, of course, the nation that would be hammered hardest would be the United States, where 40 percent of the people lived right on or near the coast. And even thoug
h the seas would rise almost everywhere, they would be 25 percent higher on America’s Atlantic and Pacific coasts because as ice melted from the nuclear blast—and vast chunks were dislodged by the explosion—the planet’s spin would begin to change, which would shift the focus of the earth’s gravitational field farther north. That would pile up seas higher on the coasts of North America. The process was already underway. Thanks to climate change, Antarctica had one of the fastest warming rates in the world. The continent had actually shrunk by 125 cubic kilometers every year since the beginning of the decade. But a nuclear blast would make global warming’s impact seem puny by comparison.

  When Oleg had first learned about America taking it on the chin, he thought it was too good to be true. But what was even better was that Russia didn’t have a single city in the top-fifteen list of those most in danger of sea-level rise.

  All through Russian history its leaders had worried about ports. Never enough ports. All the time it was ports-ports-ports and the fear of being landlocked. That was a big reason for taking Crimea from those ingrate Ukrainians—Bad as black men in Flint. Maybe related even—to keep the Port of Sevastopol firmly in Russian control for the Black Sea Fleet.

  But when the seas rose, Russia would be nice and cozy. For the imperialist western powers and the inscrutable Chinese? Disaster. Russia’s great destiny, sought for centuries, would come to completion in the hands of Oleg Dernov.

  Just a single warhead on a Trident II would be dozens of times more powerful than the Hiroshima bomb, and the Tridents with multiple warheads would most certainly drop the entire ice sheet into the ocean in seconds. So Oleg was understandably overjoyed to have someone, at last, to chat with about this triumph. An enthusiast, no less, much like himself.

  “So let’s do it,” Uno wrote.