by A S Bond
“You don’t just mean TVs and phones, do you?”
“No, everything that has an electrical circuit; all computers, the power grid. Think how dependent we all are now on computerized infrastructure, our water and power supplies, food distribution, hospitals, telecommunications, transport, and manufacturing. American supermarkets generally have a three-day supply of food on the shelves. When that’s gone...”
“Chaos.”
“Right. Nothing will work. There will be no information for people, no help. Look at what happened in New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina hit. An EMP strike on any large city would be ten times worse.”
“Is this a weapon that could be used by someone outside of the military?”
“Potentially, yes. The device itself can be almost any size, even small enough to fit into a backpack. There are a lot of uncertainties, and understanding the effects is a complex task, requiring input from expert scientists. Most terrorists, crime syndicates, even rogue states would struggle to get the capability. Or be able to afford it.”
“Do you think this is the next weapon we’ll face in Afghanistan, then? Take out all of our military systems with that EMP thing, leaving us facing the insurgents with a few guns?”
“Maybe.” Dex was thoughtful. “But this is a weapon that is most effective at creating chaos in domestic, communications-dependent environments. Maybe the Afghan war is coming to us.”
There was silence as they allowed the enormity of what they had seen sink in.
“Claude tried to warn us,” Brooke said.
“I don’t blame him for leaving. I just wish I knew where he’s gone and if he’s going report what we found in the forest.”
Brooke said, “After what we saw today, I think it’s clear those men were probably killed because they came across something they shouldn’t have.” It all made sense, she thought; the bullet hole in the center of the forehead, there was no way that could have been an accident. It was an execution. She shivered. While they were both here in this mess together, for Dex, it wasn’t an investigation, it was bereavement. But perhaps he wasn’t letting himself think about that just yet.
“I think I know why, too,” he said. “The idea has been hammering away at the back of my brain, but...”
“Why what?”
“Why they were killed. It wasn’t just that they were in the vicinity, it’s too big, too difficult to patrol. They were some distance from the mine too, but, as we know, within range of the EMP pulse. There have probably been several tests here over however long, I don’t know.”
“So?”
“One of the things I saw when I dived on the plane was a type of magnetometer. It’s a geophysical instrument used to record disturbances or anomalies in the earth’s magnetic field. If they were doing an electromagnetic survey from the air, they would have been measuring the electrical conductivity of rocks, in the hope of finding a conductive mineral deposit, of say, nickel.”
“What were they doing on the ground, then?”
“If the results were positive, they would have believed a metal was present, and then landed to try and get a sample to take back for analysis and confirmation.”
“Why would that get them killed?”
“The electromagnetic pulse would disrupt all that, maybe giving a false positive. They would have realized that when they found nothing on the ground. That’s probably why that claim was available and cheap. Most all the deposits here have been found by now.”
Brooke no longer felt tired.
“So you think they would have reported such a large anomaly at the geological office - “
“Exactly. And that may have lead to more interest, more people, and questions being asked...”
“Just what the people here at Okak don’t want. Shit.” Brooke stared into the river. “Well, there’s only one thing we can do.”
“Paddle like hell away from here and call the police?”
“Get on board that ship.”
Chapter 22
It was close to midnight when Brooke and Dex eased their way down the riverbank and into the mining complex. They had been back and forth over the arguments several times. Dex said it was a no-brainer: they should leave in the dark, and get as far away as possible. Head for the nearest settlement where they could call for help, make reports to authorities, get the RCMP out there. It was the sensible, rational, scientific thing to do.
And it had some appeal, Brooke had to admit. But Brooke also knew that by the time any help arrived, that ship would be long gone, and with it the secret of whatever Maynard had planned for the EMP weapon. The only way to find out was to get onboard. Find it, stop it, and radio for help. One thing was for sure, there would be radio communications on the vessel.
As they approached, there were no lights to be seen, or any sign of the guards they had encountered earlier. Avoiding the gravel trail, they crept towards the jetty, moving from shadow to shadow. There was a waning moon, and the cloudless sky revealed a Milky Way like a million scattered diamonds.
Brooke felt at home in the starlight. A childhood of camping in the country had left her with few fears of the night. It was an advantage she planned to use to the full. She had finally agreed to a compromise with Dex; they would get onboard the ship together, discover its destination, and then get off again before it left. It was a shaky plan at best, but Brooke didn’t relish being on that ship alone.
They rounded the last corner, moving silently in single file next to the bottom of the cliff. The yacht was ahead of them, bouncing gently against the jetty on its buffers. The top two of its three decks were lit up, and Brooke scanned the ship for life. Nothing. It made her more nervous.
“The bridge is our best bet for getting a destination,” Dex whispered. “And I think that’s it, at the top.” He pointed to the upper level, where a radar beacon revolved every few seconds. “It may be guarded, though.”
“I can’t see anyone. I doubt they’re expecting anyone to pay them a visit.”
“They know we’re here.”
“True.” She looked thoughtfully at the yacht, which was large enough to extend past the end of the jetty. “I think using the gangway is out.” She said, looking at it in the full glare of the floodlights.
Just getting to the yacht along the jetty itself was going to be a problem, Brooke saw as they edged towards it. The bow rose high above her head, but the lights lit up so much of the jetty, there was nowhere to hide, should anyone onboard look their way.
Brooke skirted the edge of the jetty outside the circle of light cast by the running lights, then swung herself down onto one of the supporting uprights. Looking down, she could see that the water was calm. Waves barely lapped against the shore, and seaweed drifted lazily back and forth. Keeping her fingers crossed, Brooke peered at the structure supporting the jetty. It was new and robust, and she uttered a small prayer of thanks.
“I don’t believe it could travel at more than 20 knots,” Dex said, “so it’ll still be somewhere in the North Atlantic by the time we get to Nain and report it.”
“Okay. But here—” Brooke handed Dex a scrap of paper with a telephone number on it. “If anything happens to me and you get out, call Scott in D.C. on this number and tell him what we know.” Dex took the paper and tucked it into his shirt pocket, then he swung down next to her and looked through the spars.
“We’ll never get through there.” The gaps between the cross bars were small, as the structure was built to withstand the North Atlantic. Brooke looked at him. At over six feet, with broad shoulders more suited to playing football than watching stars, Brooke could see immediately Dex was not going to slip through it easily.
“You won’t, that’s true.” And with that, Brooke swung across the first beam and out of his reach.
“Brooke. Brooke!”
“You have my back, Dex!” she hissed and stepped into the darkness.
Gently, Brooke edged along the cross beams, moving from one to the next like a child i
n a jungle gym. Fortunately, the low tidal range meant that the sea almost never reached the upper sections, and the wood was dry. A foot or two lower down, and slippery weed enmeshed it, making it impossible for her to get any grip there, or maintain her balance.
She decided her only route onto the ship was from the lower aft deck, where a platform overhung the stern, designed for launching the tender. Yet that was over seventy feet away, and she had a hard time making the distance through the jetty’s structural supports.
It took almost forty minutes, but eventually, she figured she was level with the stern deck. She cautiously poked her head out from underneath the shelter of the boardwalk. There was still no one around, although she could hear voices in the distance, perhaps somewhere inside the ship. Getting onboard from there was easy; she merely stepped across onto the level launching platform and threw herself into the darkest shadows.
She held her breath, listening. Nothing. She took a minute to orient herself. This deck clearly held the crew’s quarters, as there was no exterior passageway and only a single door led into the ship. Stepping away from her position in the shadows, she could see, however, that on the other side of the door was a steel ladder, which led straight up onto the middle level deck. From there, she would only be a few feet from the bridge.
Her heart pounding, Brooke stepped across the brightly lit doorway and scrambled up the ladder before she had time to quit. This deck was the heart of the ship. An open door led directly into the staterooms, which were deserted. Behind them was the main saloon. Originally designed to be luxurious, it was dirty and unkempt, with food cartons scattered about and boxes of supplies dumped around the edges of the room. Brooke’s eyes scanned it briefly for anything of any use, but there was nothing.
The exterior decks were her only route forward, and she chose the one on the port side, farthest from the lights of the jetty. Bending double, she ran along the length of the ship, crawling below every window. At the midway point, another ladder ran up into the light above. Brooke pressed herself against the smooth, white fiberglass of the ship for a few moments, trying to get up the courage to leave the shadows. There was no sound above her. Of course, a guard might be on duty, so, she climbed the ladder cautiously, listening at every step.
The top deck appeared deserted, but Brooke slithered onto it and pressed herself against the outside of the bridge. She was in full view now, so she had to act fast. A glance through the window confirmed the room was empty, and she was in. A bank of sophisticated communications filled one wall, but it was all switched off. Brooke spun around the compact space, hunting for something to indicate the destination of the ship. On the large table in the center of the bridge were nautical charts, and Brooke offered her second prayer of thanks that evening. The captain was obviously as much a believer in the old school approach as she was.
She quickly scanned the thick, creamy white sheets. The top two referred to this section of the north Labrador coast. Pushing them aside, she realized they were in order; the next ones down were of Newfoundland, then the mid Atlantic, then the coast of the north eastern U.S. A route of sorts was plotted in pencil. Whoever had been working on it had left it unfinished, which probably meant they were coming back. Soon.
The last sheet, logically their destination, was of the Chesapeake Bay and the Potomac River.
“D.C. They’re going to hit Washington.”
The realization had barely sunk in when Brooke heard footsteps. Before she could react, the rear door into the bridge opened. It was one of the men who had chased them earlier. He was armed, but his reaction was delayed, and his moment of surprised indecision was to her advantage. He had barely touched his weapon before Brooke disappeared, flinging herself through the door onto the starboard side against the jetty, and down the ladder to the middle deck. Pausing for a nanosecond that seemed like a year, Brooke searched for an escape route. And there it was: the gangplank, barely thirty feet away. Unguarded.
The call went out as Brooke skidded towards that one link back to safety, her wet boots struggling to grip the polished deck. Men appeared. The one in front was between her and the gangplank, and he was huge, with a thick neck and deep-set eyes.
“The bigger they are, the harder they fall,” she whispered to herself. Using a move she had learned playing football with her brothers, Brooke charged at the man, diving low and tackling him before he had a chance to get off a single shot. Adrenaline gave her unaccustomed strength, and she used her momentum and all her weight to flip him over the handrail.
Brooke was rewarded with a satisfying splash as he hit the freezing water below, but there wasn’t time to relax. The sound of running boots came from behind her, and Brooke raced towards the gangplank. Fifteen feet...ten ... five.
“Halt or I will shoot!” a heavily accented voice shouted.
Brooke lunged for the gangplank, but at that moment, another man stepped out of the stateroom door. A muscled forearm hit her in the chest, throwing her backwards onto the deck. Brooke bounced to her feet and tried to dodge the man’s outstretched hand, but he swung around and kicked her in the back of her knees. The blow was hard and it sent her sprawling, her cheek splitting open as it met the deck. Four or five men now stood around her; all she could see were boots.
Someone grabbed her hair and hauled her to her feet. The barrel of a gun sat cold against her neck, and someone else bound her hands behind her back with a single strand of plastic. She felt it cut into her skin.
With one eye blinded with blood and the other dazzled by the brilliant deck lights, Brooke could not see faces, but a second gun barrel loomed across her vision, until it was batted away by a large hand, and the same voice grated out words.
“You cannot question the dead, Kaseem. Take her below. And someone get that idiot out of the water.”
Chapter 23
This is the BBC World Service.
There has been a second deadly attack on US forces in eastern Afghanistan. Six soldiers were killed outright and another fifteen injured when insurgents attacked during a routine patrol, according to a US Defense Department spokesperson. Many of the casualties occurred when Taliban fighters used a surface to air missile to bring down another Apache helicopter, following a similar attack last week when an entire patrol of US soldiers and a British cameraman embedded with the forces were all killed.
The weapon is of a type not previously thought to be in the hands of insurgents, and it has so far proved deadly accurate, with two multi-billion dollar helicopters destroyed. George Rorke, a Harvard academic who specialises in military tactics, has suggested that this is the weapon, he says, “that could turn the tide of this war permanently against the US and her allies.”
US Defence Secretary Johnson this week ordered an extra 1,300 marines to eastern Afghanistan in addition to the current total of 140,000 US-led foreign troops already fighting in the country. Pentagon officials expressed hope that the extra troops would bolster areas recently cleared of insurgents, and seize what is hoped are a small number of the new missile launchers before the planned ‘draw down’ of American troops begins next year.
And in other news tonight; following the further attacks on US military in eastern Afghanistan, hopes have been raised for the whereabouts of the missing British journalist, Daisy Donnelly. Ms Donnelly features in the tragic footage of what is now referred to as the Apache Incident, but there have been suggestions from those on the ground that Ms Donnelly may have survived the attack and is now being kept hostage somewhere in the highly unstable area along the border with Pakistan. The MOD has declined to comment on the latest rumours, but has confirmed that no demands for ransom have been received.
Chapter 24
“Are we actually going to sail this thing?” Mike stopped short on the rickety wooden landing dock, a six-pack of beer in one hand and a crumpled suit jacket in the other. His mouth hung open and an expression somewhere between horror and bemusement crossed his face. “I thought we were just going to hang out and d
rink beer this evening.”
“We are,” Scott said, throwing his own jacket and tie into a corner of the open cockpit. “We’ll just be moving at the same time.” He flashed a smile at Mike, who rolled his eyes and clambered onboard, finding an awkward seat on the small daysailer.
“I really should think about getting some winches,” Scott muttered as he hauled up the red canvas sail. It flapped impotently in the breeze as he wound the thin cord in a figure eight across a cleat. Then he yanked the outboard into life and hauled up the anchor. “Besides,” he continued, “it’s the only place we can guarantee being absolutely alone. No one can overhear us out there.” He gestured across the wide horizon of the Chesapeake, deceptively tranquil in the late afternoon sun
“No one can hear us scream, either.” Mike popped the tab on a can with resignation
“Lets’ hope it doesn’t come to that,” Scott said, as he reversed away from the weather-beaten jetty into the channel.
Clear of the shore, Scott cut the outboard and turned the helm until they were on a broad reach. The sail swelled and the little boat responded with a skip into the slight swell.
“That should be pretty comfortable,” Scott said, looking at the sky. “Not much of a breeze, but enough. Gimme one of those.”
Mike tossed him a can.
The two friends sat in silence for a while, each absorbed with his own thoughts, looking out over the water to the thin green line of the shore, picked out sharply in the clear light.
“Do you ever wish you’d done things differently, made other choices?” Scott said. Mike didn’t answer for a while.
Finally, he said, “Scott, you spend too long brooding about that kind of thing, you miss the chance to do something about the future. You miss what’s going on under your nose.”