“The meeting began fifteen minutes ago,” said someone identified only as Speaker 1. “The vice president, the director of the National Security Agency, and many other government functionaries are in attendance. Pictures show that sixteen vehicles arrived at the site in the last hour. We believe they are testing the new hardware that was recently installed.”
“What is it?” said Speaker 2. “Titan?”
“We are not yet certain, but most probably it is a more sophisticated processing apparatus.”
“Are we at risk?”
“Absolutely not. No one can penetrate our systems.”
“Gentlemen, we are listening to a general at the Chinese Ministry of State Security in Beijing speaking to China’s vice premier, over a secure, encrypted line. Normally it would take us several hours to break the encryption, if we could at all. As we are all witnesses, the translation is real-time. It seems, Mr. President, that the Chinese are talking about us. They are discussing the demonstration of Titan. Here. Today. Now. The pictures they are referring to come from one of their spy satellites looking down on us from a few hundred miles up. In effect we are spying on our enemies spying on us-and we are having a better time of it.”
In the Situation Room, the president did nothing to hide his pride. “And it’s these new machines that are enabling this?” asked the vice president.
“Yessir,” said Wolfe. “It is. Here’s another we have queued up. This conversation began three minutes ago and is continuing.”
This time it was Arabic voices, but the translation was as timely and accurate as before. Wolfe explained that the group was listening in on a conversation between the Saudi Arabian minister of defense and a man named Mohammed Fawzi, an Algerian who headed up Al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb.
“My forces are being decimated,” said Fawzi. “We have nowhere to hide.”
“Patience, my friend,” said the Saudi.
“Fuck patience. Time is an expensive commodity. We need money to purchase it, money for better communications equipment, for more safe houses, and to pay men to take the place of those martyred.”
“The king will make his usual contribution.”
“Five million dollars isn’t enough. I need at least ten if we are to continue with Paris as the king wishes.”
“The king does not like Paris. He was asked to leave a hotel there once. The Meurice. It is owned by Jews. You must continue with Paris.”
Wolfe killed the feed. “Please be aware that the Central Intelligence Agency has been in the loop about Paris for some time now.”
The vice president raised a hand to summon the room’s attention. “Just one question,” he said. “If you guys can listen to the Chinese all the way in Shanghai or Beijing or wherever the hell they are, and to Al-Qaeda wherever the hell they are, and everyone’s talking on secure and encrypted links, what’s to stop you from listening in on the president when he’s talking to the British prime minister over our own secure encrypted link?”
“Yes,” echoed the president. “How do I know you won’t be listening to me?”
General Wolfe pulled at his cuffs, then adjusted his glasses. His eyes darted to Ian and Bob Goldfarb, then back to the screen. “Because, Mr. President,” he said with a Boy Scout’s solemnity, “that would be illegal.”
These days, thought Ian, the law is the last refuge of a scoundrel.
–
One hour later Ian was back aboard ONE 1, seated in the aft lounge. Katarina had given him his supplements. His IV was dutifully administering his phosphatidylcholine, bathing his telomeres with life-extending nutrients. His laptop was open in front of him, his eyes keenly studying the screen.
Seven years running.
David Gold entered the cabin, slim, tanned, a force. “Ian, you wanted to see me.”
Ian looked up, placing a mental bookmark to remind him where he was. “Yes, David. One question: are we getting all of it?”
“Oh yes,” said the Israeli computer scientist. “Our machines capture everything that goes in and out of the Operations Room. That’s what Clarus does.”
“So I really can listen in on the president and the British PM on their secure line?”
Gold dug his chin into his throat, a man affronted. “Why, of course. Tell me, is there anything that Titan can help you with? Anything that’s of pressing concern?”
Ian tapped his fingers on the table. A name came to mind. A fiery, red-headed Mick with a big mouth and dangerous opinions.
“As a matter of fact, there is.”
85
Gordon May walked around his airplane, the Battleax, stopping here and there and standing on his tiptoes to polish its fire-engine-red fuselage. Three days remained until the last race of the season. Despite his vehement protests, the race stewards had denied his objection. He was baffled how they were unable to recognize that Ian Prince had cut to the inside and forced him out of his pattern, endangering his life. The ruling left the series between them tied at two wins apiece.
Come Sunday, it would be all or nothing.
May climbed into the cockpit and fired up the engine. The propeller stuttered, then caught, the eight-piston engine coming to life, roaring like a bull with its balls caught in the ringer. He taxied out of the hangar and onto the runway. It was another cloudless day in the high desert of northern Nevada.
He planned on a short flight. A run to put the engine through its paces and see if it was capable of holding a speed of 550 knots for prolonged periods.
He gazed at the instrument panel. He’d kitted out Battleax with the same state-of-the-art avionics that powered an F-16. Glass displays. Touch-screen monitors.
Additionally he strapped a tablet to his leg that linked wirelessly to the engine. In this manner he could adjust fuel flow, oxygen mix, and oil pressure, fine-tuning the motor’s torque while in the air.
“Tower, this is Golf Bravo 415 requesting permission to take off.”
“Roger that, Golf Bravo 415. You are number one for takeoff. Runway is yours.”
“Roger, Tower.”
Gordon May continued to the end of the runway, then made a 180-degree turn. He stopped to make a final check of his gauges, then began his rollout. At 90 knots he rotated the front wheel. The nose kicked into the sky and he shot upward like a screaming banshee.
He flew northeast, in the direction of Pyramid Lake. The air was calm. The updrafts and chop that often rolled off the Sierra Nevada to the west were nowhere to be found. At 15,000 feet he leveled off and took a few moments to enjoy the view toward Lake Tahoe to the west and the Oregon border to the north.
May tightened his harness and settled into his seat. Today was about speed. It was about pushing Battleax to her limits.
He made another check of his gauges. Oil pressure was normal, engine temp squarely in the black. Satisfied that his baby was ready to rumble, he laid his hand on the throttle and eased it forward, increasing his airspeed to 400 knots. He smiled. The engine had never sounded better. He felt as if he were strapped to a rocket. Ian Prince didn’t stand a chance.
May increased the airspeed to 500 knots, then 520. The plane kept its nose, the frame as solid as a rock. He pushed the throttle further and the airspeed rose to 550. It was these last few knots he’d lacked during the last race, which had allowed Prince to pass him. He checked the tablet and enriched the fuel mix, adding high-grade test fuel and siphoning out some of the oxygen. The result was an increase of torque, the blast of acceleration an aircraft required to overtake a competitor.