Текст книги "Checkmate (2006)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 21 страниц)

36

THIRD ECHELON

“ WOULDyou bet your life on it?” Lambert asked. “Would you bet a war on it?”

Fisher considered the question. His gut instinct said, “Yes,” but Lambert’s point was well made: Lives were at stake—many thousands of lives that would be lost in a war that would not only forever change the Middle East but also America’s place in the world. Decisions of this gravity weren’t made on instinct.

“My life—yes,” Fisher replied. “A war . . . No.”

Fisher was convinced there was a game being played here, and that all the pieces had yet to be uncovered. But who was the driving force? The case against Iran was seemingly solid: the FBI had three suspects in custody, all of whom were talking, laying a trail a evidence that pointed to Tehran. And what did he have to counter that?> A now-destroyed yacht and a corpse with vaguely Asian features.

After taking a dozen digital pictures of the corpse and then covering the grave again, Fisher had retraced his way through the forest to the main road. As promised, Elena had been waiting.

Wordlessly, she drove him to within a few blocks of the Exclusion Zone checkpoint. Their good-bye was awkward. Something had clearly grown between them over the past two days, but Fisher knew the situation was impossible. He briefly considered trying to take her out with him—CIA be damned—but he quickly quashed it. If they were caught, she would be imprisoned and, at best, he would be detained for questioning. There was too much at stake and too little time. In the end, all he could do was promise to talk to the CIA on her behalf. She’d simply nodded.

“So why the hesitation?” Lambert asked now.

“You mean, why am I not playing the good soldier?” Fisher replied. “Why don’t I just take my marching orders and march? You know me better than that, Lamb.”

“I do. And I also know how much you hate politics.”

“When this started, you told me the President wanted all the t’s crossed and i’s dotted before he pulled the trigger. Consider this an i without a dot.”

Pushing through the Situation Room’s door, Grimsdottir said, “Colonel, there might be something to that.” She sat down at the conference table and slid a manila folder across to Lambert. “I managed to pull a good chunk of data from the hard drive Sam brought back from Hong Kong.”

Lambert studied the folder’s contents for a few moments. “Give it to me in English.”

“First of all, I found traces of Marcus Greenhorn all over the hard drive. I think I’m starting to learn his tricks. There was no virus, but he’d written the code for the CPU’s built-in firewall. Too bad he’s dead; I wouldn’t mind going up against him again.”

A phone at Lambert’s elbow trilled and he picked up. He listened for a moment, said, “Escort him up,” then hung up. “Tom Richards.”

When Fisher had touched down at Andrews Air Force Base, his sample from Chernobyl had been taken by special CIA courier to the Department of Energy’s Oak Ridge National Laboratory for anaysis.

“Before he gets here,” Fisher said, “I need a favor.” He explained Elena’s situation. “She’s burnt out, Colonel. Sooner or later she’s going to get caught.”

Lambert nodded thoughtfully, but Fisher could see the doubt in his eyes. While of value, the information Elena had been feeding the CIA wasn’t earth-shattering, and in terms of lives and resources, it probably wasn’t worth the risk of extracting her.

“I’ll look into it, Sam, but you know what they’re likely to say.”

“Pull some strings.”

A chime sounded at the Situation Room’s door. Lambert pushed a button on the table; with a buzz, the cypher lock disengaged. Tom Richards walked in and sat down. “I’m short on time, so I’ll get to it: The sample you brought back from Chernobyl is a perfect match with what we found aboard the Tregoand at Slipstone. No question.”

“Where does that leave us?” Lambert asked.

“The President is scheduled to speak to the nation tonight. An hour before that, he’ll be meeting with the ambassadors for the Russian Federation and Ukraine. The message will be simple: Either by negligence or complicity, Moscow and Kiev are each equally responsible for failing to properly secure the material used in the attacks.”

Richards’s words were clearly based on the talking points the public would hear again and again in the coming weeks from senators, representatives, and White House and Pentagon officials. This shot across Russia’s and Ukraine’s bow was as much an accusation as it was a warning: Don’t interfere in what’s coming.

The question was: Was it too late to stop the machine before shots were fired?

“Those are pretty broad strokes, Tom,” Lambert said.

“The evidence supports it. The material came from Chernobyl—probably sold by that now-retired Army area commander—and it ended aboard a ship set on a collision course with our shores and in the water supply of one of our towns. At last count, over four thousand people are dead in Slipstone. Someone’s going to answer for that.”

“You still haven’t answered my original question,” Lambert said. “Where does all this leave us? Until I hear otherwise, I’m going to assume the President’s order still stands. We’re still on-mission.”

Richards shrugged. “That’s above my pay grade, Colonel. I serve at the President’s pleasure.”

“As do we all. Now spare me party line, Tom. What’s the feeling at Langley?”

Richards closed his briefing folder and leaned back. “The case is solid. Almost airtight. But there’s a feeling on our side—on the Ops side—that we’re missing something.”

“Join the club,” Fisher replied.

“Here’s my problem. Taken together, the Tregoand Slipstone operations were far more complex than what happened on 9/11. The level of operational sophistication and financial backing required for this was enormous. To me, that usually means state-sponsored. But I can’t shake the feeling we caught these guys a little too easily—maybe not the guy aboard the Trego,but the Slipstone suspects for sure. They were sloppy. Slow. Didn’t have a layered exfiltration plan in place. The disparity between the operation itself and the way these guys behaved afterward is disturbing.”

Grimsdottir said, “Maybe Tehran wanted them caught. That leaves them the option to either deny involvement or claim credit, depending which way the wind is blowing.”

“We’ve thought of that,” Richards said. “In the end, though, all out speculation changes nothing. Countries have gone to war with less provocation and evidence. We’ve got the support of the Congress, the United Nations, and most of the world.” Richards checked his watch, then gathered his folder and stood up.

Lambert said, “Thanks for coming by, Tom.”

“My pleasure. Good work, all of you.”

After Richards was gone, Lambert said, “You heard the man: The clock is ticking. After the President’s address tonight, we’re on the eve of war. Have we got anything to suggest that’s the wrong course?”

Grimsdottir cleared her throat. “I might.”

37

“ WE’REall ears,” Lambert said.

“It’s ironic, really,” Grimsdottir said. “Whoever tried to erase the hard drive before it was returned to Excelsior did a decent job—or would have, if not for Greenhorn’s firewall. It protected not only a chunk of the drive for itself, but a buffer zone, too. That’s where I found this.”

She held up a computer printout that looked to Fisher like nothing more than a series of random numbers separated by colons, periods, and semicolons. There was, however, a highlighted portion that looked generically familiar:

207.142.131.247

“It’s an IP address,” Fisher said.

An IP, or Internet Protocol, address is a unique identifier assigned to any network device—from routers to servers to desktops to fax machines.

“A gold star for Mr. Fisher,” Grimsdottir said. “This is the best clue we could have gotten. This particular IP led me to a service provider in Hong Kong, which in turn led me to an e-mail account, which finally led me to a mother company called Shinzhan Network Solutions based in Shanghai. Shinzhan specializes in wireless satellite Internet service.

“According their records, this account beams a broadband five-megabyte signal to an island off the coast of China called Cezi Maji.” At this, Grimsdottir paused and looked at each of them in turn. “Nothing? That name doesn’t ring any bells?”

Fisher and Lambert both shook their heads.

“Cezi Maji is the island that Bai Kang Shek allegedly disappeared to fifteen years ago.”

Fisher leaned forward. “Say again?”

“Bai Kang Shek. That’s his island—or so the legend goes.”

Fisher was as surprised to simply hear a Chinese name reappear in the puzzle as he was to hear that name in particular.

Bai Kang Shek had been called the Howard Hughes of China. In the late 1930s, Shek’s father had owned a small fleet of tugboats in Shanghai. After World War II, as China tried to restart its devastated economy and infrastructure, Shek Senior had gone to the government with a proposal: Give me exclusive salvage rights on all shipping sunk during the war in the East and South China Seas. In return, Shek Senior would sell back to China the scrap metal it so desperately needed.

A bargain was struck and the Shek family went to work, including young Bai Kang, who served first as a deckhand aboard his father’s tug, then as a mate, then finally as a captain at the age of sixteen.

By the time Shek Senior retired and handed over the reigns to Bai Kang in 1956, the empire had expanded from salvage work into transport, manufacturing, arms production, agriculture, and mining.

For the next forty years, Shek stood at the helm of Shek International as the business grew. In 1990 Shek’s personal net worth was estimated at six billion dollars. Then, one year later, as if someone had flipped a switch, Bai Kang Shek changed.

His behavior became erratic. He was prone to outbursts; he decreed that board members must wear hats during meetings; he began moving from place to place, staying in one of his dozens of homes for precisely eleven days before moving on to the next; he was said to have given up solid food, taking his meals only in blended form. The list went on.

Several times the board tried to wrest control of the the business from him, but despite his growing eccentricities, he remained formidable and able. Though his personal behavior grew more bizarre by the day, his mind for business never faltered as Shek International continued to show record profits.

And then suddenly in 1991, Shek called a rare press conference. Dressed in a long-tailed tuxedo and carrying a cane, Shek announced to the world that he was retiring to pursue “spiritual endeavors” and that he had sold his stake in Shek International to the board for what amounted to sixteen U.S. dollars. Then he clumsily turned his cane into a bouquet of flowers, bowed to the assemblage, and left. The last time he was seen or photographed was as he climbed into his limousine and was driven away.

For the past fifteen years the rumors and tales of conspiracies surrounding Bai Kang Shek had grown to mythic proportions, but through them all was a common thread: He was still alive, sequestered from the world in some private sanctuary.

“Don’t get me wrong,” Fisher said. “I’m glad we’ve finally got something that supports my hunch, but the idea that our best suspect is someone who used to wear gold-sequined swim goggles in public makes me a little nervous.”

“Ditto,” Lambert said.

Grimsdottir spread her hands. “All I can give you are the facts: The engines aboard the Tregowere purchased by Song Woo International, which has an account with Shinzhan Network Solutions, and that same account is paying for satellite Internet access for the island of Cezi Maji in the East China Sea.

“Which in turn may or may not be home to a recluse, who may or may not be insane, and who may or may not be alive,” Fisher said.

“That’s about the size of it,” Grimsdottir said. “Except one last detail.” She clicked the remote at a nearby flat-screen; the image of a heavily jungled island appeared. “According to reliable reports, Cezi Maji has a security system worthy of a military base: patrol boats, sensors, armed guards, and fences. Whether that’s Bai Kang Shek out there or not, I don’t know, but somebody’s pretty serious about their privacy.”

Fisher stared at the image for a few seconds, then said, “Sounds like an invitation to me.”

38

PAVE LOW HELICOPTER, EAST CHINA SEA

THREEhours and one midair refueling after leaving Kadena Air Force Base in Okinawa, the Pave Low’s pilot slowed the craft to a hover. The vibration that had been been jarring Fisher’s butt and back for the last six hundred miles diminished to a tremor. The pilot’s voice came over Fisher’s subdermal. “Sir, we’re at the rendevous point.”

“Radio contact?”

“None. We’ll wait them out. You know how squids are; probably got lost.”

“Play nice, Major.” Fisher checked his watch. They were on time; the submarine was late. “How’s your fuel?”

“We’re good. Thanks to whatever mojo you’re carrying, we’ve got a Comet all to ourselves.”

“Comet” was short for Vomit Comet, the nickname for the KC-135 Stratotanker, which did double duty as an in-flight refueling aircraft and a zero-g simulator for astronauts—the latter achieved through rapid climbs and sudden dives that left the occupants weightless and often violently nauseous. Currently, a Stratotanker from Kadena was orbiting above them at 35,000 feet, waiting to top off the helo should it become necessary.

Seated across from him on the bench were the Pave Low’s two gunners/specialists. As they had been for the last hour, they were engrossed in a game of gin. Accustomed to ferrying dangerous men into dangerous areas, Pave Low crew members took everything in stride and didn’t ask questions. Aside from a nod as Fisher had climbed aboard, neither man had paid him any attention.

The MH-53J Pave Low was a special operator’s dream. Designed to covertly insert soldiers into denied areas, and then extract them out again, it was fast, quiet, and equipped with an avionics package that left nothing to chance: FLIR (Forward-Looking Infrared Radar), inertial global positioning system (GPS), terrain-following and terrain-avoidance radar.

Fisher glanced out the window. The helo’s navigation strobes were turned off, but thanks to a full moon he could see the ocean twenty feet below, its surface chopped into mist by the rotor wash. This was another Pave Low specialty—the hover coupler, which, in conjunction with the GPS, could keep the helo fixed precisely over a spot on the earth, give or take six inches.

Ten minutes later, the pilot was back in Fisher’s subdermal: “We’ve got company, sir. Marlin is on station, ready for pickup.”

“Roger,” Fisher said. “Tell them five minutes.”

“What’s your pleasure?”

“Ten feet will do. Don’t wait around.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yep, go home. Thanks for the ride.”

He caught the attention of the two specialists, then pointed to himself and jerked a thumb downward. They went into action. The cabin lights were switched to red and life vests were donned. The first crewman motioned for Fisher to stand up and turn around for gear inspection, then patted him once on the shoulder.

The second crewman slid open the cabin door. Legs braced at the threshhold, one arm braced across the door, he motioned Fisher forward. Fisher felt the whump-whump-whumpof the Pave Low’s rotors in his belly. Cold mist blew through the door and he tasted salt on his lips.

At the door, the crewman cupped his subdermal against his ear, then said something into the microphone. He flashed five fingers at Fisher once, then again, then laid his palm flat: Steady hover at ten feet.

Fisher nodded.

The second crewman pulled a chem-light from his vest, broke it open, and shook it until started glowing green, then tossed it out the door. It hit the water and started bobbing in the chop. In the darkness, the glow would give Fisher a reference point for his jump. The crewman at the door stood aside and gave Fisher an “after you” flourish.

BODYvertical, arms crossed over his chest, he plunged into the dark water. The thumping of the Pave Low’s rotors became muffled, and for a brief second Fisher allowed himself to enjoy the quiet before finning to the surface. He raised a thumb above his head. The red rectangle of light that was the Pave Low’s side door went dark as the crewman closed it. The helo lifted up, banked left, and skimmed away into the darkness.

Somewhere to his right, Fisher heard a rush of bubbles followed by a hissing whoosh. Thirty seconds later, a dot of light appeared in the darkness; it blinked once, then twice more. Fisher swam toward it.

THELos Angeles-class submarine USS Houston,SSN– 713, call sign Marlin, was sitting low in the water, deck partially awash, its sail looming out of the darkness like a two-story-tall building. A seaman was crouched on the deck at the head of a rope ladder. Fisher climbed up. If the crewman was fazed by picking up a lone man in the middle of the East China Sea, he showed no sign of it.

“Captain’s compliments, sir. If you’ll follow me.”

He led Fisher aft along the sub’s deck, past the sail, to an open escape trunk. At the bottom of the ladder, another crewman was waiting with a towel and a set of blue coveralls emblazoned with the Houston’s “Semper Vigilans” crest on the breast pocket.

Once Fisher was dried off and changed, he was led past the radio room and into the Control Center. The Houston’s captain, in a blue baseball cap with gold oak leaves on the brim, was standing at the chart table. Fisher was momentarily taken aback; this was an old friend.

“Welcome aboard, stranger,” Captain Max Collins said, walking over.

Fisher shook the extended hand and smiled. “Permission to come aboard.”

“Granted.”

“Good to see you, Max. Been a while.”

“Yeah, and as I recall, last time we didn’t have to pluck your sorry butt out of the water. You walked aboard like a regular human being.”

“Didn’t want you to think I’d gone soft,” Fisher replied.

Houstonwas home-ported in Apra Harbor, Guam, which is where Fisher had last boarded the sub for a mission. Before that, they’d worked together half-a-dozen times while Fisher was still attached to Navy Special Warfare. Arguably, Collins was one of the best “shoehorns” in the fleet, having earned a reputation for not only slipping operators into hard-target denied areas, but also getting them out alive again.

In Fisher’s case, Collins had once sailed the Houstontwenty-two miles into North Korea’s heavily guarded Nampo harbor, all the way to the mouth of the Taedong River, then waited, dead silent, keel resting on the seabed, for eighteen hours as Fisher finished his mission and returned.

Characteristically, Collins attributed his success to his crew and to the Houston’s extraordinary “aural footprint”—or lack thereof. Driven by nuclear-powered, turbine-driven electric motors, Los Angeles-class submarines were so quiet they were known colloquially as “moving holes in the water.”

Collins grinned. “Going soft? Hell, Sam, I know better. How about a cup of coffee?”

THEYsettled into Collins’s cabin, a cramped space with a fold-down desk, a bunk, and a small sink and mirror. As submarines went, it was luxurious. A steward knocked on the door and handed Collins a tray with two mugs and a carafe of coffee. Collins poured Fisher and himself a cup each. Fisher could feel the thrum of the Houston’s engines through his feet.

“I just got updated surveillance shots for you,” Collins said. “I see you’re invading another island all by yourself. Shame on you, Sam.”

Fisher sipped his coffee; it was hot and bitter and overcooked—the Navy way. He loved it. “Just being a good soldier, Max. So, how’s it look?”

“Ugly. What’s the story?” Collins caught himself and quickly said, “Never mind, I don’t want to know. With luck, we’ll have you there in fourteen hours. Get some sleep, then I’ll show you what you’re facing.”

39

ASthey always did, the sounds of a submerged submarine lulled Fisher into a deep sleep. The combination of the hum of the engines, the faint hiss of the water skimming along the outer hull, and the white noise of the air circulators acted as a tranquilizer.

He needed the sleep. He’d been going hard since the Trego, and as accustomed as he was to the lifestyle, he knew the stress and lack of sleep would eventually catch up to him, slowing his reactions and his thinking. Given where he was headed, he couldn’t allow that.

Four hours after Collins left the cabin, he returned and gently shook Fisher awake, waved a mug of coffee under his nose, and said, “Had enough beauty sleep?”

Fisher groaned and sat up, planting his feet on the deck. “You tell me.” He took the mug and sipped. It was scalding hot and salty.

Collins said, “Briefing in the wardroom in ten minutes.”

FISHERwas there in five. Like the rest of the sub, the officers’ wardroom was a cramped affair: three sets of vinyl bench seats, tables bolted to the deck, and a small kitchenette in a side alcove. Pictures of the Houston, from her keel-laying to the current crew photo, lined the walls.

Waiting with Collins was his executive officer, Marty Smith. Fisher had never met Smith, but knew of his reputation. Halfway through his career, Smith had had a change of heart, leaving behind Naval Intelligence for a fleet posting, where he’d worked his way up the ladder of submariner billets—Supply and Admin, Weapons, Sonar, Engineering, to finally XO. In another five years he’d have his own boat to drive.

Fisher sat down and Collins made the introductions. “I asked Marty to sit in because of his intel background. He’ll have some insights on the material we’ve got for you.”

Collins opened the briefing folder and spread a series of ten eight-by-ten photos across the table. Each showed Shek’s island, Cezi Maji, from different altitudes, angles, resolutions, and formats, including infrared, EM, and night vision—all taken either by satellite or P-3 Orion flights while Sam had been en route to Kadena.

“A little background first,” Smith began. “Cezi Mali is part of the Zhoushan Archipelago at the mouth of Shanghai’s Hangzhou Bay. It consists of fourteen hundred islands spread across seventy miles of ocean. Of those, only about a hundred are inhabited. Cezi Mali is roughly seven thousand acres, or nine square miles.”

“Terrain?” Fisher asked.

“A good-sized cove and natural harbor on the north side of the island; on the south, east, and west sides, the place is a fortress: fifty-foot cliffs and narrow beaches. The interior is triple-canopy rain forest punctuated by exposed rock escarpments, peaks, and ridges.”

“Peachy,” Fisher said, taking a sip of coffee.

“Now, the fun part,” Smith said, pushing a photo across the table at Fisher. It was from a P-3, Fisher could see, but it was color-enhanced. Using a pen, Smith traced a faint white line that seemed to follow the contours of the cliffs. “That’s a road. A dirt path, really, but wide enough for these.” Smith pointed again, this time to a rectangular object on the path.

“Jeep,” Fisher said.

“Yep. Six of them patrol the cliffs day and night, rain or shine. Two armed guards per vehicle.”

“Pattern?”

“That’s the good news. They’re on a schedule. Your people loaded the details onto your thingamajig. She said you’d know what that meant.”

Fisher nodded. OPSAT. Good ol’ Grim.

“Once past the cliff road, you’ll have a three-mile slog through the rain forest. More good news. No patrols and no EM emissions anywhere, which means no cameras or sensors. The wildlife probably makes them useless. More bad news. No matter which route you choose, you’ll have two escarpments and three gorges to deal with.”

This fact, more than any other, had ruled out a parafoil insertion. Jumping into triple-canopy jungle was dicey enough, but given its thickness, there was no way to tell what lay under it. Dropping through the canopy to find yourself plunging into a gorge tended to put a damper on your day.

“Once through the jungle,” Smith continued, “you’ll come to what I’ve named the inner ring. Whoever owns this place is diligent about his security. For a one-mile radius around the estate—which I’ll get to in a minute—they’ve cut the rain forest back to single-canopy. Mother Nature’s on your side, though. Jungle is hard to control, so there should be some cover on the forest floor—providing you don’t mind crawling.”

“I love crawling,” Fisher muttered. “The cutback means cameras and sensors, I assume?”

Smith nodded. “Lots of them, but they’re plotted and loaded on your . . .”

“Thingamajig.”

“Right. Now, guards. The inner ring is divided into zones—twelve of them, like a clock. One guard per zone, moving randomly. No patterns or consistent timing that we could see.”

This was a mixed blessing for Fisher. Sentries on random patrol could turn up anywhere at any time, and usually, per Murphy’s Law, at the most inconvenient of moments. On the upside, sentries were only human, and the human mind subconsciously gravitates toward order and pattern. With enough patience, Fisher might be able to find a gap in the coverage and slip through.

“Radio signals?”

“All guards have portable radios, but it looks like there’s no scheduled check-in procedure.”

“Probaby by camera,” Fisher replied.

Each guard was likely required to regularly appear before a camera in his zone and give an “all clear” signal. A missed check-in would either trigger a visit from a security supervisor or raise an alarm.

“Once through the cutback area, you’ll find yourself facing fifty yards of open, well-groomed lawn.”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope One of these pics even shows a groundskeeper on a riding mower. Across the lawn is twelve-foot-high hurricane fence topped with razor wire.”

“Of course there is,” Fisher said.

“It’s not electrified, though. The island is on the outer edge of the archipelago, so it gets a fair number of storms, which means a lot of blowing debris. Hard to keep an electric fence running smoothly when it gets bombarded frequently. There are sensors, though, attached to the fence. There’s no way to tell whether they’re motion, touch, or beam.

“Now, the estate itself,” Smith said, pushing another photo across the table. “There’s a central building—this one here with the red tile roof. It’s a six-story Chinese pagoda. It’s surrounded by smaller buildings, probably staff quarters, storage, workshops, utility spaces, all of them inside the fence. Lots of guards here, about eight per shift. As for the pagoda itself, we’ve got nothing. No details of the interior. Guess you’ll have to play it by ear.”

At this Max Collins smiled. “As I recall, Sam, playing it by ear is what you do best.”

Fisher went silent for ten seconds, absorbing the details. “How long to the insertion point, Max?”

“We’ve only got about sixty miles to go, but there are a couple Ninety-threes in the area.”

Collins was referring to Chinese Type 093 nuclear hunter-killer subs. Almost as quiet as the LA class, 093s boasted a sophisticated sonar package, including bow, flank, and towed passive arrays. Worse still, rumors had been floating around that Moscow had provided Beijing with enough core technology to copy the Russian Skval torpedo, which was said to travel at 200 to 230 miles per hour.

“It may take a little time to pick our way around them,” Collins said.

The growler phone on the bulkhead chirped and Collins picked it up. He listened for a moment, then hung up. “We’ve got ELF traffic.”

ELFstood for Extremely Low Frequency, a band used to signal submerged submarines. Fisher followed Collins and Smith to the Control Center, where the OOD, or officer of the deck, handed Collins a sheaf of paper. “Surface for signal, sir.”

Collins scanned the message, then handed it to Fisher. “Somebody wants to talk to you.”

Not good news,Fisher thought.

“Officer of the Deck, let’s poke the wire.”

“Poke the wire, aye, sir.”

The Control Center went into action as the crew brought the Houstonup to antenna depth. It took six minutes. “Antenna depth, Captain.”

“Very well.” To Fisher: “This way.”

Fisher followed Collins to the radio room, where a senior chief radioman was waiting. “Link established, encrytion running. Call sign Xerxes.”

“Thanks, Chief. Give us the room.”

The senior chief ushered the other radiomen outside and closed the door behind him. Fisher donned the headset and keyed the microphone. “Go ahead, Xerxes.”

“Sam, we’ve got a problem. Two hours ago there was an incident with a BARCAP,” Lambert said, referring to Barrier Combat Air Patrol. Whenever a U.S. Navy carrier was on patrol, it was guarded by a ring of fleet-defense fighters, either F-14 Tomcats or F/A-18 Hornets.

“The Iranians claim we were in their airspace. They sent up a flight of F-16s. There was furball, some missile lock-ons, and then a midair bump—one of their Falcons and one of our Hornets. Both pilots had to bail out.”

“Good Christ,” Fisher said. Back when the U.S. was on speaking terms with Iran, the Pentagon had sold the IAF hundreds of F-16 Falcons and Tomcats. “Escalation?”

“Nothing yet. Both pilots were recovered, which helps, but this is just the start. Next time it won’t be a bump. Next time it’ll be missiles.”

And once that happens, we’re effectively at war,Fisher thought.

“If there’s anything on Shek’s island that can point us in another direction, we need it.”