“A week after her relaunch, Yorktown was off the coast of Nicaragua in pursuit of a Colombian drug trafficker when the entire ship lost power. Every system down, Yorkie dead in the water, humiliated, towed to port. Unfortunately for the Navy, a reporter from the news program 60 Minutes was on board that day, filming a story about America’s drug war. The most advanced warship in history went dark on national television. Millions of Americans saw the American Navy fail. I’m sure you saw it, too.”
Meng nodded, though Mapes had only begun to translate. Krieger waited for her to finish.
“What caused the failure?” Krieger asked rhetorically. He held up his thumb and forefinger in the shape of an okay sign. “Zero,” he said. “Officially, the Navy said the ship went dark as part of a covert maneuver. The truth was a systems tech accidentally typed a zero into a database field calling for a denominator. You cannot divide a number by zero, but instead of issuing a warning, the ship’s entire operating system crashed. And America’s Smart Ship program sank with it.”
He looked at Meng. “The greatest threat any military can face is doubt. It took ten years for the Navy to risk automating its ships again. Smart Ship Two, they called their next attempt. Perseus Group bid on it. We proposed a fully automated, virtually unmanned naval capability using smaller, more agile platforms—a computer that happens to float and shoot. We were not successful. The Pentagon and our Congress think Big War, and our idea made things small. Instead of reconceiving battle, they green-lighted another retrofit.”
Again, Meng nodded. He knew all this, as well.
Krieger let Mapes finish her translation; then he looked at Meng and smiled. “China is not afflicted with doubt, Admiral. Your military has the full support of your leaders, whether it’s your new Type 055 Renhai destroyer, your Type 002 carrier, or your own fully automated civilian smart ship. When it comes to naval technology, China leads the world. More important, China understands the art of war. As Sun Tzu once said, ‘The supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting.’ Americans don’t understand that.”
Krieger gestured to the stern. The Chinese officers turned and exclaimed, clearly surprised to see an American warship coming into view. The ship’s profile indicated she was a Ticonderoga-class cruiser. The number 67 painted on her hull signaled her identity, the USS Shiloh, a $1.5 billion warship, carrying 370 sailors.
“Shiloh is armed with Aegis,” Krieger said. “It’s the most advanced defense system in the US Navy, able to track ballistic missiles in flight, coordinate the ship’s vertical launch system, and shoot down threats without human intervention.” Krieger shook his head dismissively. “Aegis is fifty years old, gentlemen.”
The Chinese were not listening. They were focused on the incoming warship. Shiloh was not supposed to be anywhere near Mischief Reef. She was part of a joint exercise taking place several hours north.
Krieger had their full attention now.
“Modern warfare will not be fought on the battlefield. It will not be fought in the sky, or on the high seas. It will be fought online, by keystroke and algorithm. America was built on ambush and surprise, but we have forgotten that. We fear another zero in our denominator.”
Krieger stepped forward and tapped one of the computer screens. “As you know, the Seventh Fleet, including the Shiloh, and Japan’s Self-Defense Forces are currently engaged in joint exercises. Here you see what every geospatial indicator on earth sees: Shiloh, seventy nautical miles north of our position, holding the picket during a refueling and missile-transfer exercise, which is what commanders across the Seventh Fleet see.” Krieger’s monitors, mirroring those on warships throughout Shiloh’s carrier group, showed red, green, and black triangles representing the area’s crowded commercial sea traffic, with yellow ships indicating the joint naval exercise underway. One by one Mapes tapped the triangles and the naval vessels’ identities popped up. Every capital ship was in its place, including the operation’s designated perimeter guardian, the Shiloh, located beyond visual range of the exercise.
“And here is what the world sees at our present location,” Krieger said.
Mapes zoomed in on Raptor’s location. Nearby islands fell away until eventually only light blue filled the screens, signifying open water. The warship bearing down on them did not exist. Like Raptor, it was a ghost. “Every monitoring system in the world indicates the same profile. We have been cloaked, too.”
While the United States, Russia, and China scrambled to improve their ability to cloak their own armed forces, Krieger had done their spoofing efforts one better. He had developed a way to cloak one’s enemies. No longer could military leaders be 100 percent certain that the forces they were commanding electronically were actually where their computers said they were. The US Navy thought its Shiloh was seventy nautical miles north. But here she was.
Compared to his new enemy-spoofing technology, hacking into a computerized warship, taking control of her systems—from comms to propulsion—was easy.
Krieger turned to Meng. “You may wish to check with Zhanjiang, Admiral. They’ll find Shiloh in its scheduled position. And they’ll find no vessels indicated at ours.”
Mapes offered Meng an encrypted phone.
But Meng did not move to take it. Instead, with his hands behind his back, he studied the incoming American warship. After a minute, he issued a short grunt and his second officer stepped forward and accepted the phone from Mapes. The officer dialed the phone, spoke for a few moments, and waited. Another minute passed. The officer spoke briefly to Meng and then returned the phone to Mapes.
“Confirmed?” Krieger asked.
Meng nodded.
“We are in disputed waters, gentlemen,” Krieger said. “The Philippines and China claim Dangerous Ground. The Philippines is a US ally. One cannot afford a conflict here. One can afford peace. I would like . . . Perseus Group would like to offer China a new weapon, based on the latest technology. A demonstration of this capacity is my gift to China.”
A numeric code appeared on the center monitor. “Admiral Meng”—Krieger gestured to the keyboard—“the future is yours to deliver. You need only press the enter key.”
Meng tilted his head slightly, his expression curious.
“You cannot destroy a ship that does not exist,” Krieger encouraged. “You will be dividing by zero.”
Krieger waited.
Meng offered no indication of what he was thinking. His latest orders, Krieger knew, were to expand China’s occupation of reefs and islands within Dangerous Ground. The United States challenged China’s claim to the waters, diving her bombers at China’s new Spratly Island airbases, slicing the waters with its ships, and interfering with China’s secret efforts to map an internal sea-lane navigable by its nuclear-powered ballistic submarines. If China’s boomers were able to sail Dangerous Ground, then a third of the world’s population would come within reach of China’s ballistic missiles.
Krieger spoke again. “The ship’s own navigational error put it here, Admiral. That error will compound throughout the ship’s systems in a manner adverse to survival. The fault will lie entirely with the US Navy. Complete mortality. Untraceable. The latest in a string of accidents in these waters . . .” Krieger added a phrase he had been practicing. “Yi chang meiyou xiaoyan de zhanzheng,” he said. War without smoke.
Still Meng did not react. He stood staring out at open water. Krieger believed he knew what Meng was thinking. So many unexplained American naval accidents recently. Collisions, systems failures, even groundings. Blame for the accidents had been widely distributed. First, to the other party—drunk Jordanian tanker captain, a broken Vietnamese drive shaft. Then, to those on the bridge of America’s warships—poor seamanship in the channel, failure to man all stations, dereliction of duty to train operators. Analyses of the ships’ electronic bridge and navigation systems and log data found nothing wrong with the computer systems.<
br />
Meng would be asking himself whether the rumors could be true: that America’s South China Sea problems had not been accidents.
Meng turned to Krieger. “You are betraying your country,” he said in perfect English.
“I have served my country honorably, Admiral,” Krieger replied. “This is business.”
“They were your client,” Meng said, glancing down at the keyboard.
And they might be again, Krieger thought.
“Contracts—like civilizations—end, Admiral. I deal in the future. The future, as I’m sure you’ll agree, is with China.”
Meng stepped away from the keyboard. He held Krieger’s eyes. “Then as a businessman you will understand, China requires that you demonstrate the capability of your product.”
Krieger had hoped Meng would be unable to resist the opportunity to wield the power he offered, but he was fully prepared for the alternative. Hard decisions were what Kriegers made. He stepped to the keyboard and pressed enter.
A flock of small, dark birds hovered above the Shiloh. The birds were quick and maneuvered in perfect harmony. Meng watched them for several moments, then whispered something quietly under his breath. “That species does not fly so far out to sea.”
THE UNDERTAKER’S SON
Washington, DC
Klay walked to the Gray Pigeon. He’d had the dream again about his mother in her red coat. For the first time since he was a boy, she had paused, then turned and looked down at him struggling with his untied shoelace. “What is it, Tommy?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
He pulled on the bar’s door, but to his surprise the Pigeon’s front door was locked. A cocktail napkin was taped to the door’s glass. “Closed,” it said. It was mid-afternoon. He peered inside. The lights were off. There were half-empty glasses and beer bottles on the bar. In all the years he had been coming to the Pigeon, Billy had never closed the bar during business hours. Not during the city’s worst blizzards or when a water pipe upstairs had burst. Maybe he was sick. Klay had spent more time with Billy than just about anyone he knew, and he didn’t have a phone number for him. Didn’t have a phone number for the bar, either. When he wanted a drink, he walked over.
He looked up Pennsylvania Avenue toward the Capitol Building. He didn’t want to drink at home today. Somehow it felt disrespectful to Billy to drink anywhere else on the House side, so he crossed Pennsylvania Avenue and walked north to Massachusetts Avenue.
Everything was sunnier on the Senate side. The restaurants were more sophisticated. The bodegas were called groceries, and had aisles wide enough for two people. The bagel place made their bagels in a brick oven, rather than his usual, a serve-yourself in Saran wrap with lumped cream cheese already inside. Why did he live the way he did? It was only a few more blocks to walk to these places. He should come up here more often, he told himself, change his habits. He’d do it tomorrow, he decided, order himself a cappuccino and a poppy seed bagel warm out of the oven.
He chose a bar in the middle of the block with a brick patio out front that was as big as the entire Pigeon. In the summers, the patio filled with loud congressional staffers holding chardonnay and vodka tonics in plastic cups. “One of them goddamn fern bars,” Billy called it. Sebastian’s was bright inside with an exposed brick wall and little glass flower vases on the tables. It was early enough that only one table was occupied, five young men in college sweatshirts and designer jeans drinking craft beer and watching the game. Klay took a seat at the bar. The bartender, older than Klay had expected for this place, set a napkin in front of him and placed a glass of iced water on top of it. “What can I get you?”
“Booker’s. Neat,” Klay said.
The bartender shook his head. “Sorry. No Booker’s. Kids all drink this.” He took down a bottle of Bulleit bourbon.
“I’ll have a beer,” Klay said. He checked the tap handles. “Guinness.”
It was in motion now. He had his role to play in Barrow’s plan and then he would be free.
The bartender poured the stout. It arrived in front of Klay with a little shamrock design in the foam. Klay took a sip and looked up at the flat-screen television maybe four times the size of the one at the Pigeon. All of the television’s colors were what they were supposed to be, too.
“Would you like some pita chips?” the bartender asked, setting a basket in front of him, along with a dish of hummus.
Klay chuckled.
“What’s funny?”
He reached for a chip. “I’m usually over at the Gray Pigeon. Billy’s not much for snacks.”
The bartender’s face fell. “It’s a crying shame,” he said.
Klay got a sick feeling. “What is?”
“You don’t know?” The older man picked up the remote and began flipping channels. “It’s all over the news.”
“Hey!” The Hill rats looked up from their nachos. “The game!” they said. “Turn it back!”
The bartender ignored them. A PGM news anchor with that somber, post-tragedy newscaster expression was interviewing someone via video link. The camera cut to the interviewee, and Klay sat up. Tanned face. Perfect teeth. Ollie North haircut. A banner beneath the man’s image read “Terrence Krieger, Perseus Group CEO.”
“We grieve for their families,” Krieger said. “We grieve for the Navy. This situation is all the more painful because this type of accident—one of six major accidents in the past two years—could have been avoided . . .”
A chyron scrolling beneath Krieger’s image screamed, “BREAKING NEWS. The US Navy reports a major accident has occurred aboard the USS Shiloh during US–Japan joint exercises in the South China Sea. Dozens of bodies have been recovered. No survivors have yet been found. Search and rescue continues . . .”
“Avoided how?” the reporter asked.
“Proper technology. We don’t yet know the details, but we do know that this ship was near retirement age and terribly off course. Sadly, its Aegis radar system has been around since Richard Nixon, and its navigation software was not designed for this platform. At Perseus Group we’ve developed AI-based systems to eliminate these kinds of disasters. We’ve offered to assist the Navy to evaluate its entire fleet—free of charge. We want to make sure this type of accident never happens again.”
Stock footage of the USS Shiloh filled the screen.
The news anchor returned. “Unexplained systems failures . . . Explosions . . . Possibly an entire crew lost. When we come back, we’ll have the man responsible for the Navy’s Seventh Fleet, Vice Admiral Everett Tighe . . .”
Klay stared at the screen, processing what he was seeing: Krieger, again. The universe conspiring to show him something. Billy’s grandson was on the Shiloh.
Another terrible Naval accident.
What was the opposite of that? Klay asked himself.
Not an accident.
Krieger offering to help the Navy.
What was the opposite of that?
Klay closed his eyes. He could hear Botha’s voice: Who benefits, counselor?
Answer: Krieger, if he could convince the Navy to hire Perseus Group. But hadn’t Krieger been blackballed by the US government?
What if a US Navy contract wasn’t Krieger’s objective?
The next biggest defense contract opportunity in the world was with China. Taking the Ultimate Silk Road Project into consideration, the opportunities for security contracts and attendant services were the greatest in the world. Barrow himself had said Krieger followed China around like a cattle bird. Barrow had it wrong, Klay realized: The target in Kenya was not Bernard. The target was more likely Simon Lekorere, the politician who stood in the way of China’s Ultimate Silk Road Project. Bernard’s death was collateral. No, he checked himself. Bernard was not collateral. He’d been killed to keep Klay chasing Botha. Both murders were planned.
“Forget Krieger,” Barrow had urge
d, patting Klay’s shoulder. “Chuck Yeager was a helluva pilot. But he never went to the moon. Didn’t have to. Moon was for other folks.”
“What other folks?” Klay had asked. “In this particular case.”
Barrow hadn’t tapped his incisor at that. Instead, he’d shrugged. When it came to Terry Krieger, Barrow was toothless. So was the rest of the world.
It wasn’t that different from how Little Nicky took over Atlantic City, only on a much larger and more lethal scale. Anyone paying attention could see what turning the keys over to Terry Krieger meant. But instead of objecting, they gambled. People took what benefitted them and ignored the rest. Conservationists gratefully accepted Krieger’s wildlife-tracking technology. Farmers deployed his agricultural drones. Governments used his security services. People tuned in to his easy-to-digest, hate-mongering Perseus Group News. Even the CIA had invested in Perseus Group stock. The list went on. Behind Perseus Group’s new and popular technologies was a second truth: many of those same technologies were being used for terrible ends. Everyone knew it, but no one did anything about it. They got what they wanted and left policing Krieger to someone else. But there was no one else. Barrow had confirmed that.
Someone had to stand up to him.
“Something wrong?” the bartender asked.
Klay looked up. He’d been talking to himself. “No,” he said. “Just something a friend of mine said once. About history repeating itself . . .”
“It tends to do that,” the bartender said, but Klay didn’t hear him.
He didn’t hear the bartender calling to tell him he’d left too much money, either. He was moving too quickly. Outside, on the sidewalk, Klay took out his cell phone and dialed South Africa.
“Botha,” he said. “It’s time to go hunting.”
In the Company of Killers Page 24