“And this Braxton fellow?” asked Reid.
“He would have been involved as well.”
“The aircraft was recovered by a small submarine, roughly the size of a pleasure boat,” said Breanna. “There are a lot of similar craft in Australia and on our coast — rich people’s toys. They don’t go very deep or very fast, but they’re hard to detect by surface ships or planes that aren’t looking for them. And the Navy doesn’t keep track of something so small.”
“Yes,” said Rubeo. He got up from his seat and walked toward the wall, staring at the map.
“Wouldn’t it have to be pretty substantial to launch a plane?” asked Reid. “Even a small one.”
“They didn’t launch from the sea,” said Rubeo.
“How do you know?” asked Reid.
“You said it yourself, the submarine is too small. The most difficult problem to solve has to do with wings. The wingspan here is too large for the submersible we saw. The submarines are used for recovery only. And it may have been a backup in any event. Remember, it was being pursued, and its mate had been shot down.”
“I still see an Iranian or Chinese connection,” said Reid. “For me, the submarine clinches it. It could be working with a larger ship.”
“Braxton hates governments, all governments.” Rubeo pictured the young man: bright red hair, skin so white it seemed almost opaque. Quiet, as a general rule, but when he did talk, passion glared behind his bright green eyes. He was a pure libertarian, a young man who thought Locke was practically a fascist, and had in fact told Rubeo so one late night. Science had to be pure and divorced from the corruption of governments and anything that stole individual freedom.
So governments are a necessary evil? Rubeo had asked.
Governments are evil, period, Braxton answered.
“Politics and war make for strange bedfellows,” said Reid. “He may very well have decided that to accomplish his Kallapsis or whatever his nirvana is called, he needs to take temporary steps with temporary alliances.”
Reid went back to his spot at the conference table. Waving his hand over the surface, he brought up a virtual keyboard and commanded a small window to appear in the main screen. Typing furiously, he tapped into the joint intelligence network, then over to the Navy tracking site where the latest fleet data was kept. The program showed the last known positions of all fleet vessels, American and foreign. He zeroed in on the South China Sea, then filtered for submarines. The nearest submarines — both American vessels — were several hundred miles away; one was with the Marine task force and another was shadowing a Chinese carrier.
“I would expect that if they were working with the Chinese, we would see a Chinese vessel,” said Rubeo. “I realize it’s not definitive, but we have checked. I’ve checked.”
“I’ve requested antisubmarine assets be moved into the area,” added Breanna. “The problem is, the Navy doesn’t have a lot of them, and they’re stretched thin as they are.”
A patrol aircraft was being detailed from Japan and would be on station within twenty-four hours. But the Navy was scrambling to find not only a secure base closer to the area that it could use, but a relief plane to extend the search times. Antisubmarine air patrol was not glamorous, and with the demise of the Cold War, had never received the funding it deserved.
“At the moment, our elint drones are the best bet,” Breanna said. “We can go back and look at all transmissions in the area, and try correlating that with places that might be used as bases, both offshore and in Indonesia and Brunei.”
“It must be offshore,” said Reid. “If it were in Brunei or Indonesia we’d have picked it up.”
“In a way, it’s certainly simpler for us if it’s offshore. But the modeling of the possible airport hasn’t found any matches.”
“The modeling must be wrong,” said Reid.
“Obviously. Ray?”
He looked at her.
“If we can get close to one of these, can we take it over?” Breanna asked. “Since it uses our coding?”
“We’re looking for vulnerabilities,” he said. “There aren’t many.”
“Isn’t there a way to convince it that it belongs to us?” Reid asked.
“Only if Jennifer Gleason told it to,” said Rubeo. “And she doesn’t appear to have done that.”
12
Danny Freah ran his hand over his head, mopping off the sweat, as he walked down the rear ramp of the Osprey after landing back at the Marine base. He’d never been a big fan of hot weather, and the wet heat of the South China Sea was starting to get to him.
Captain Thomas was waiting on the tarmac.
“Colonel, a word,” said the Marine officer, in a tone that suggested he was barely holding his temper. He turned and began stomping toward the bunker.
Danny had heard about Turk’s fuel problems, and while he would have preferred it if the pilot had contacted him before crossing Indonesian airspace, it was nonetheless far superior to allowing the aircraft to crash. Washington had already rung with the protests, and Danny was sure the heat was being turned on the administration. But he couldn’t figure how the fallout had gotten to Thomas — “stuff” might roll downhill, but the Marine ground commander had no role at all in the decision. At this point, the operation was Danny’s, and there shouldn’t be any “stuff” falling on any of the Marines, let alone Thomas.
Danny sighed to himself and followed along, prepared not only to defend his pilot but to tell Thomas the facts of life, as gently as possible. He was a good commander; no need for him to get bent out of shape.
Though cleared of major debris, the bunker looked somewhat worse for wear. Several piles of dirt lined the side, and a mangled desktop had been propped against the wall. The Marines had determined that the damage had been done by some sort of rocket rather than a mortar shell. There was no evidence yet about whether or not it was guided, but the direct hit made them strongly suspect that it was.
Thomas had reestablished his “office” in a small corner at the rear. His backup satellite link and other com gear had been set up on a portable table; a laptop was on the floor. It wasn’t the most private spot in the world, but the two other men in the bunker were wearing headsets.
“Where did you find Mofitt?” Thomas asked.
“Excuse me?” asked Danny, completely taken by surprise.
“Corporal Mofitt.”
“When, during the attack?”
“Yes. I need to know.”
It had only been a few hours ago, but so much had happened that Danny had trouble recalling the specifics of the incident. “I was running — he hadn’t made it to the perimeter forces,” he said. “He — I found him on the ground maybe fifty yards from them. No, I guess it was closer to the bunker, because I brought him back here. Or I started to. That’s when we got hit.”
“He had made it to the forces?” asked Thomas.
“No,” said Danny. “I’m pretty sure he didn’t get there. Because they hadn’t heard anything when I went back. What’s this all about?”
“Mofitt wasn’t hurt.”
“Yeah, we were outside of the bunker when the missile or whatever it was hit.”
“Before then. Somebody saw him standing in the compound, frozen, a little while before you came by,” said the Marine captain. “I think he froze under fire.”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m pretty sure.”
“He was fine the other day,” said Danny. That encounter was more vivid in his memory. “We had contact, we took fire, he shot back. He seems pretty reliable.”