‘Could they really have controlled somebody like Thompson in such a way? Wouldn’t a four — star general have been able to mentally fight back?’
‘That depends on what his mental state was like at the time,’ Hellerman countered. ‘Remember, the implant we found could have been capable of altering his mental state too. If he felt as though he were in a dream of some kind, barely conscious, then he may not have had any awareness at all of his situation. That’s what this tDCS represents, the ability to directly affect not just mental state but actual cognition through electrical stimulation of certain brain regions. If this technology is good enough then one human being could come under the control of another human being and be completely powerless to oppose their commands not through a lack of will, but through a lack of awareness that they’ve been hacked at all. Like I said earlier, they may have felt as though they were asleep and may not have had any recollection of their actions at all.’
Ethan looked at the image on the screen for a moment longer and then at Jarvis, who was leaning against another wall and listening to the conversation.
‘We can’t track these people down,’ he said, somewhat alarmed. ‘We don’t have a damned thing to go on and they could be out of the country by now.’
‘We need more signals data,’ Jarvis agreed. ‘And for that, we’ll need…’
‘Another attack,’ Lopez finished the sentence. ‘Damn, we really don’t know who or where they’re going to strike next?’
‘We’re blind,’ Hellerman confirmed. ‘Just like their victims we don’t know anything about the next target. Our country is facing lone wolf terrorist attacks where even the wolves don’t know they’re the enemy.’
‘All we have is General Thompson’s medical history,’ Ethan said. ‘He was targeted somewhere by somebody. We need to know how that implant got into his head.’
VIII
‘Razor Flight, approach vector, ETA overhead sixty seconds.’
Commander Sandy Vieron kept his gaze fixed on the F–18C Hornet fighter upon which he was formating as the two aircraft descended through broken cumulus cloud that raced past them, the wingtip of his formation leader barely eight feet away. The surface of the vivid blue ocean sparkled beneath them, cloud shadows drifting across it as Sandy changed hands on the control column and without looking pulled a lever that extended the arrestor hook from the stern of his fighter.
Beside him, he saw the lead F–18’s black and white striped hook lower at the same time, a visual signal to the Landing Signal Officer that both aircraft intended to land after their overhead pass.
Bright sunlight flared between the clouds as Sandy switched his hands back to the throttle and stick, shadows flickering across the cockpit in quick succession as Sandy input tiny variations on all of the controls to maintain position in close formation with his leader as they levelled out below the broken cloud base, descending to eight hundred feet above sea level at three hundred fifty knots.
The mission had been an uneventful Combat Air Patrol some two hundred fifty nautical miles to the west of the carrier’s position, close to the border of Iranian airspace. Now, close to bingo fuel status and tired after four hours in the saddle, Sandy was looking forward to some rest and a meal. The sunlight flickering through the canopy lulled his eyes and he felt the warmth from it, so hot and irritating up until now, suddenly cosset him in a blanket of warmth and safety. Sandy smiled beneath the plastic oxygen mask he wore as he held station alongside Razor One and saw their runway appear from the surface of the ocean before them.
The huge nuclear aircraft carrier USS Carl Vinson was a thin strip of dull metallic gray, her hundred thousand ton steel hull dwarfed by the vast and pristine ocean. The two Hornets were approaching the immense vessel from astern in close formation, and as they passed overhead Razor One called their position.
‘Razor flight overhead for recovery.’
As Sandy held position and the carrier rushed by eight hundred feet below the flight leader’s Hornet suddenly rolled onto its side, displaying to Sandy an oil — streaked belly and combat load of sleek air — to — air missiles and a pair of five hundred pound laser — guided bombs. The fighter pulled away hard, vapor trails spiraling off the wing tips as it broke into the pattern.
Sandy watched the Hornet pull away and then without thinking he rolled and pulled too, G — forces crushing him into his ejection seat as the fighter loaded up into the turn. Sandy blinked, coming awake as though from a dream as he pulled the fighter through the turn and heard his leader report his position, downwind to land.
‘Razor One you’re number one to land, report ball.’
Sandy levelled his Hornet out, now a nautical mile abeam the carrier as he rapidly selected his undercarriage, lowered the flaps and went through the pre — landing checks that he had carried out hundreds of times before, finishing with locking his ejector seat harness. As the G — forces eased he felt the warmth returning, began to smile to himself once more. He looked up through the Hornet’s Heads Up Display, and through the flight information displayed on the glass he saw his flight leader turning onto his final approach.
‘Razor one, you’re at three quarters of a mile, call the ball.’
‘Razor one, ball, clara one decimal eight.’
‘Roger, Razor.’
Sandy listened as he heard the Landing Signal Officer, himself a fighter pilot, take control of the landing phase from the carrier’s tower as the Hornet descended toward the rolling, pitching deck. He smiled as he watched his leader making a perfect approach, reveled in the warmth of his cockpit and fought the urge to sing a song as he flew by unthinking reflex toward the final turning point and eased his Hornet into the base — leg turn, the fighter’s wings rocking on the wind currents and the G — force increasing gently again as he turned.
Hypoxia.
The word leaped into Sandy’s mind and his brain sharpened once more as he glanced at his oxygen indicators. Hypoxia, the result of oxygen starvation to the brain, started with feelings of inexplicable comfort and then euphoria, swiftly followed by unconsciousness, coma and death. Sandy and all military pilots were trained to identify the onset of hypoxia before it became lethal but as he looked at his oxygen indicators he realized that both were in the green, normal flow, plenty of oxygen available. Sandy blinked, confused as he continued his turn and levelled out, his Hornet fighter now just four hundred feet above the ocean and a nautical mile astern the carrier.
‘Razor Two you’re at three quarters of a mile, call the ball.’
Sandy glanced at the ball, a series of lights on the port side of the massive carrier’s deck called a Fresnel lens that indicated how far, if at all, he was high, low or adrift of the optimum glideslope to bring the Hornet slamming down onto the crowded deck and decelerate from one hundred forty knots to a standstill in the space of a hundred feet.
‘Razor Two, roger ball, clara one decimal six.’
Sandy completed his final checks, the ocean sparkling before him and the sunlight flickering through the clouds drifting high above. Fuel checked, harness locked, weapons cold… Sandy’s eyelids drooped even as he heard the LSO’s gentle commands.