by Leslie Wolfe
She turned toward the last man and extended her hand.
“Quentin Hadden, weapons.” Quentin also averted his eyes and shied away from the physical contact of the handshake, making it as superficial and as quick as possible.
“All right, let’s get this show on the road,” Bob McLeod called them to order. “We’re on a very tight schedule.”
They boarded the Fletcher. Alex’s head was on a swivel, taking in all the details.
“Welcome aboard,” a uniformed man greeted them, “I’m Captain Anthony Meecham,” the man said.
Alex shook his hand enthusiastically, and said, “You must be proud of your command, captain.”
The man gave a wide smile, showing two rows of perfectly aligned, white teeth. “I sure am, ma’am.” Based on his record, he was a highly decorated sailor, although he didn’t seem a day older than thirty-two. None of those ribbons hung on his chest though; he was wearing a Navy working uniform.
“Call me Alex, please.”
“Ma’am,” he replied unperturbed, as if acknowledging the order, yet making it clear he was going to maintain his professional distance.
“You act like you’ve never done this before,” McLeod said, causing her an instant adrenaline rush.
Damn . . .
“You’re right, I haven’t,” Alex replied, deciding to go with the least amount of lying necessary. “You’re very observant, Bob. I just got this assignment; they were short on staff and gave me the opportunity to leave my desk and come out here, meet all of you in person and visit the Fletcher, get some hands-on experience. I am thrilled to be able to do that; it will help me a lot in my work.”
McLeod shrugged and went away, probably to start working. Most of the team had scattered the moment they set foot on the ship. They knew their way around, and they had a team of sailors and shipyard workers waiting for them.
“Then maybe you’d like a tour?” Captain Meecham asked.
“I would love it!”
Meecham turned and started walking quickly, after making an inviting gesture with his hand. She scampered behind him, trying to keep up.
“The easiest way to go down these stairs is to descend facing them, like this,” he demonstrated, leading the way below deck. She followed.
“The Fletcher is a stealth, guided-missile, destroyer,” Meecham explained, “or at least it was until now. The installation of the LaWS will enhance the ship’s capabilities, and might even drive the addition of a new battleship type in our nomenclature.”
He stopped and turned toward her, showing her into a large room that resembled an office more than the inside of a battleship.
“This is our operations center,” Meecham continued his presentation. “This is the only class of battleships that features the total ship computing environment. Any operator can control any of the ship’s systems from any of these stations.” Meecham pointed toward one of the computer desks, each featuring three monitors.
Alex looked around the massive room.
On one of the walls, above the operations center, were three main LCD screens displaying radar and navigation information. Alex counted at least twelve of those computer workstations, some staffed, some deserted. At one of the manned stations, an operator was showing something to Faisal Kundi.
She had a million questions, but didn’t want to flaunt her ignorance and raise any red flags. She proceeded cautiously.
“What else is unique to the Zumwalt-class destroyer?” Alex asked.
Meecham smiled proudly and said, “Almost everything. Nearly all systems are integrated; for example, we have an integrated power system, generating electricity for the ship’s propulsion, weapons, and electronics. The propulsion is all electric, quiet, and it can do thirty knots and still power up everything else. Our engines are Rolls-Royce gas turbines driving generators.”
“This is unusual, right?”
“It’s innovative, new, and has only been deployed on this class of destroyers so far. We call it the all-electric ship. And here’s another unique feature—the integrated undersea warfare system,” he said, pointing at a specific area on the ship’s blueprint displayed on a monitor. “It’s an automated system of two sonar arrays, offering early detection for any underwater threats, such as mines, torpedoes, or submarines.”
“How about weapons?”
“Our missile launchers are vertical, buried in the hull along the sides; that’s a key feature to maintain our stealth capabilities. Above deck we have two 155mm guns that can shoot self-propelled, in-flight guided ordnance, with a range of eighty-three nautical miles.”
“Sea targets?” Alex asked.
“Sea, land, and air,” Meecham replied with parental pride.
“How about the new laser cannon? Where are they installing it?” Alex looked at her notes.
“That location was quite the controversy with the Walcott engineering team members. Originally, they wanted to remove one of the 155mm guns, to make room for the cannon. Then someone figured out that because the cannon doesn’t weigh much and doesn’t recoil, it could be installed on top of the helo hangar. After they did a few studies to confirm that the radar cross section or the aerodynamics of the ship would not be impacted by that choice of installation, it got approved.”
He turned and started walking briskly, and she followed, curious to see the cannon’s future location.
They entered the helo hangar from inside the deckhouse; it was deserted and marked with signage to alert that construction was in progress. Noises of hammers hitting metal, and the distinctive sound made by welding torches was coming from outside.
“We needed to reinforce the structure to support the cannon installation. The entire deckhouse, including the hangar, has a composite structure, to make it light and reduce radar signature. Now that reinforcement is complete; they’ve started the actual installation work. Let’s see,” he said, carefully exiting the hangar, trying to avoid tripping on loose cabling, scattered tools, and equipment crates.
Alex saw Sylvia discussing energetically with Bob over a blueprint, their heads close together; from a distance, they seemed to be having an argument, some sort of a technical disagreement.
Quentin was working on a mobile weapons control interface, a device that looked like a rugged laptop. As for Vern, the sex-bomb with a PhD, he was nowhere in sight.
“Do you have women serving on the Fletcher?” she asked innocently.
“Yes, we do. Out of our complement of 140, there are 27 women, mostly in computer operations.”
Probably that’s where Vernon Blackburn was, looking for his next adventure at sea. Alex turned her attention back to Captain Meecham, who stood silently, waiting to be of service.
“How will the laser cannon work? Why is it so special?”
“It will reside in a cupola, whose components will retract allowing the cannon to become exposed and have line of fire with the target. You can see the components of that cupola over there,” he said, pointing at two white quarter-sphere assembly elements. “The cannon brings a sizeable advantage to our weapons array, because of its precision, which is unprecedented, and its low cost to operate. It also brings a humanitarian aspect to our military engagements. With the laser, we can target the propulsion or the weapons systems of an enemy vessel, and cause zero or almost zero casualties. We don’t need to sink ships to disable them; not with the laser cannon.”
“How precise are we talking?” Alex asked. “You mentioned your 155mm guns have in-flight guidance, right? That makes them fairly precise, I’d guess.”
“With the laser cannon we can blow up a can of Coke from the hull of a vessel from 500 yards and leave the vessel intact, that’s how precise it can be. We can take a drone out from the air at 250 yards, where few people even see it. Actually, if everything goes well with this installation, on Memorial Day, we’ll host a ceremony and demonstrate the cannon to SecNav and SecDef.”
“You mentioned cost as being one of the advantages?”
&n
bsp; “Yes, and a major one. An in-flight guided 155mm shell is almost $50,000, and a Tomahawk missile will set you back $1.41 million. Even if you choose to use ‘dumb’ 155mm shells, unguided ones, they go up to $1,000 each, and the cost stacks up fast due to the loss in accuracy and effectiveness. So, you see how the laser cannon brings an advantage at roughly $1 per shot, right?”
“Yes,” she said, absorbing everything and putting it into the perspective of her mission. “Thank you, Captain Meecham, I think I’m good from here,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” he replied. “Please let me know if you have any other questions. You haven’t worked on Navy ships before, have you?”
“N–no, just got the assignment, but thank you for the tour, it was very informative,” she replied without skipping a beat. You have a fantastic ship, captain.”
He smiled and then quickly disappeared.
She turned her attention toward the Walcott team and started approaching Sylvia and Bob, who were still engulfed in their dispute. She decided to spend a little more time watching them from a distance, and stopped near the hangar door. In the meantime, Vern had made his appearance and was working intently on his laptop, installed on a makeshift table.
She heard a faint noise to her left and caught a glimpse of a young sailor sneaking carefully through a bulkhead. He looked left, then right, carefully making sure no one saw him.
“Hi,” she said, surprising him.
He looked down, averting her eyes. He was young, maybe not even twenty years old, and had tousled red hair and the freckled complexion that typically accompanies that hair color. He looked scared, almost as if someone was chasing him, or was about to.
“It’s OK,” she said, “I’m a civilian consultant. Out to smoke?”
He nodded sheepishly, blushing copiously, and throwing guilty glances left and right.
“I don’t really care, you know,” she continued, “go ahead and smoke if you want. It’ll be our little secret.”
The sailor nodded and mumbled something that sounded like “thanks,” then disappeared through the same bulkhead he’d appeared from.
Huh . . . she thought. He’s quite stressed out for someone who just wanted to smoke. I wonder what the deal is with him.
...49
...Friday, May 20, 10:13AM EDT (UTC-4:00 hours)
...Federal Bureau of Investigation—Norfolk Division
...Norfolk, Virginia
“Sir, with all due respect, she’s a civilian!” Jeremy’s voice escalated to the point where SAC Taylor frowned and felt the need to stand up, to assert his position.
“Weber, this is an order, not a debate. If SecNav and the director think she’s good enough to work this case, she’s in. Need I remind you no one here wants to work with you? I have no other partner to give you, and sure as hell you’re not working this case alone, in your typical cowboy style.”
“Yes, sir,” Jeremy replied.
“Let’s see how you make it work with Hoffmann. I better not hear from the director on this issue, do you understand me?”
“Yes, sir, perfectly,” he said, and turned to leave.
“And Weber.” Taylor called.
“Sir?”
“Don’t fuck this up.”
...50
...Monday, May 23, 12:19PM Local Time (UTC+3:00 hours)
...Bon Restaurant
...Moscow, Russia
The modified Kalashnikov rifle made for an interesting choice of tabletop lamp, fitted with a black lampshade. It was unexpected and attention grabbing to see such a weapon displayed so casually. The unusual décor features gave the restaurant its unique personality: sassy, vibrant, screaming high-end cuisine and ridiculous prices. A hangout place for Moscow’s socialites and top politicians, Bon’s black walls, curtains, and accessories contrasted strongly with the white, starched Damascus tablecloths.
The typical lunch hour buzzed with guests, whose reservations had been made at least two days in advance to get a table. That Monday was different though; the restaurant was eerily quiet, and only two men occupied a table. Vitaliy Myatlev and his friend and lunch guest, Mikhail Dimitrov, minister of defense of the Russian Federation.
There were four other men in the restaurant, all standing guard at the doors, carrying automatic weapons. They were Myatlev’s personal guards, all ex-Spetsnaz. As for the servers, they moved almost unseen and unheard, catering to their guests’ connoisseur tastes and healthy appetites as discreetly as they could.
A waiter brought hors d’oeuvres on a set of black plates combined with tiny white bowls, all placed on a sterling silver serving tray. Then he opened a chilled bottle of Stolichnaya, filled their glasses, and withdrew quietly, leaving the two men to talk business.
“Ura!” Myatlev raised his glass, holding it up until Dimitrov clinked his own against it.
“Ura!”
They drank and set down the glasses noisily, a signal for the waiter to approach and refill them.
“It’s good to be out of the office, Vitya, great idea you had to take us out for lunch,” Dimitrov said, taking a piece of fried calamari and savoring it. “I have so many questions for you, after we talked last time. This plan of yours, the mass intelligence gathering, that made me think . . .”
“Yes, Mishka?”
“And the more I think, the more questions I have.” Dimitrov paused a little, delved into a miniature shrimp salad, and chewed with his mouth open.
“What do you want to know?”
“Look, between the two of us we can build a strong plan to rebuild the power of Russia to what it used to be. No doubt about that. Petya believes in us; I believe in us even more. But something I still don’t get, and that is how will you know what intelligence to gather? How are you thinking you can manage and process all that information?”
“If we apply enough pressure on our sources, they will tell us what we need to be looking for, even if we don’t know it yet,” Vitya said, starting to work on his appetizer, a tiny stack of blini, small crepes layered with smoked salmon and doused in a light, savory mayonnaise.
“You told me that last time we spoke, but still I don’t get it. What exactly are you planning to do? We need to get ready to go to war, Vitya. We can’t continue to sit on our asses and look impotent.”
“We are going to war, Mishka. We are at war as we speak. I call it our total war and it started already. There are no innocent bystanders in my strategy, and no one is safe from it. Our handlers will apply the necessary coercion on a variety of sources. Some will deliver; some will fail, or get caught, and will be the casualties of this first stage of total war. But they will be an acceptable loss, Mishka, even if these losses will hit the Russian diaspora living in the United States.”
“You’re targeting the diaspora?” Dimitrov’s eyebrows ruffled, brought together by a deep frown.
“No, but they are the keystones in my plan. They will be the first level of field assets, resources we can use in our deployment of Division Seven agents in the field. You see, given what we’re trying to do and how fast we need to compensate for twenty years of nonexistent military progress, I need to go big, Mishka. I need to go big and fast.”
“I understand, but how will it all come together?”
“Our handlers will recruit assets without a clear agenda in the first phase, leaving it to the assets to fight to prove their value. We cannot do that with incentives without spending billions; we talked about that. That’s why we need to bring more stick than carrot. We can achieve this level of engagement only if we use fear as our currency, and we coerce them into fighting on our side. Then we harness all the bits and pieces of information they will bring, and we will see clusters appear, signaling what we should target.”
“What clusters?” Dimitrov asked, while his eyebrows still furrowed.
“In the massive amount of data we are going to harvest, multiple sources of information will bring pieces of intel around certain items of interest. I’ve assigned a few of my
brightest people to study big data analysis models and come back with plan scenarios. If we cast a wide enough net, we will start seeing clusters of value in certain areas, especially if the assets feel pressured or highly motivated to prove their own value.”
“But the diaspora might not necessarily have access to such valuable intel,” Dimitrov objected.
“Agreed. The diaspora is just the entry point and the support layer for our handlers. We will use the American big data banks and their own patterns of behavior to identify who are the most easy to turn individuals. The Americans have huge databases, but not very secure; nothing that our cyber assets can’t get into.”
“And then?” Dimitrov asked, still unconvinced, while the waiter discreetly removed the appetizer tray and served them hot borscht in small, black bowls.
“Then, when we have clusters formed and identified, we will know what to hunt for, and we’ll send in assets dedicated to certain targets. Let me give you an example of what I mean,” Myatlev said, seeing the unconvinced look linger on Dimitrov’s face. “The laser cannon, did we even know it existed until a week ago?”
“N–no,” Dimitrov replied, visibly uncertain of where Myatlev was going with that.
“Exactly,” he confirmed. “We didn’t know it existed before we sent in our best handler, Smolin, to enroll some assets and see what he could get. He enrolled an asset who brought the laser cannon news to us. Now we know exactly what we need, what to ask for. Smolin has a clear direction on what information he needs to target. He knows we need the plans for the cannon, the list of scheduled installations, everything there is to know about the cannon, about the same laser cannon we didn’t know existed last week.”