Текст книги "Splinter cell : Blacklist aftermath (2013)"

Автор книги: David Michaels

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 17 страниц)

Fisher’s mouth began to fall open as he continued reading the data.

Topeka’s first responders are initially overwhelmed, and it will be hours before significant outside assistance can reach the city.

“What about the contamination?” he asked.

“I mentioned this earlier, but here are the technical facts: Thorium nitrate emits radioactive particles that can be breathed in or swallowed or can penetrate the skin. Most of the initial responders won’t be aware that they’re being exposed to ash and dust from a highly toxic chemical.” Grim checked another data window. “If the stuff’s ingested it can reduce the ability of the bone marrow to make blood cells and, in bone, it has a biological half-life of twenty-two years. In all other organs and tissue the biological half-life is about two years. While it’s not as bad as plutonium, it’ll kill you just the same.”

Fisher continued scanning the medical report near the edge of the screen: Acute potential health effects included irritated skin causing a rash or a burning feeling on contact. Ingestion caused nausea, vomiting, dizziness, abdominal cramps, ulceration, and bleeding from the small intestine, as well as bloody diarrhea, weakness, general depression, headache, and mental impairment. Prolonged exposure could affect the liver, kidneys, lungs, and bone marrow, as Grim had mentioned. The stuff was a recognized cancer hazard and could damage the male reproductive glands.

And yet another window illustrated through a powdery white overlay how the blast would spread a fine layer of radioactive particles and debris onto exposed individuals, homes, vehicles, plants, animals, sidewalks, and highways, while a significant amount would fall into the nearby Kansas River, whose waters flowed eastward.

Fisher realized that such a blast near any river system could cause a catastrophe for future cleanup crews. In this case it’d be a civil nightmare for Lawrence and Kansas City, both downstream of the blast. The terrorists would be contaminating the air and the water.

But there was more . . .

According to the SMI, at the time of the blast the prevailing winds would be out of the south, meaning the contamination would not just be confined to a rough circle with a three-mile diameter. That was the initial zone.

In the minutes following the detonation, an ever-expanding radioactive dust cloud more than two thousand feet high would be depositing psychological terror and physical illness along a twenty-mile swath, five miles wide.

In all, 97,000 of Topeka’s 250,000 citizens would be contaminated in varying degrees.

Many would die in a city that President Caldwell called her hometown.

“Madame President, all eight of those trucks need to be stopped immediately,” said Grim.

“I concur,” said Fisher. “If they’re rigged to blow, EMP’s the only way to take them out.”

“You need to be sure of this,” Caldwell said.

Fisher turned to Kasperov, his voice never more steely. “Are we sure?”

The man nodded nervously. “Stop those trucks.”

27

FISHER caught himself holding his breath as Charlie brought up the I-70 traffic cams from Topeka. They watched as the lead thorium truck was directed off the highway and toward a dirt lot behind a row of warehouses. From there, Charlie switched to the ghost truck’s dash cam, where the driver tapped a command into his keyboard, hit the panic button, then hopped out of the cab.

The SMI next lit up with similar traffic cam footage from the other trucks scattered across the United States, all seven being directed to areas away from the highway to disable their vehicles. Fisher watched one driver in Chattanooga, Tennessee, and the SMI noted that a detonation there would have effectively closed the I-24, I-75, and I-59 interchange, where three hazmat trucking routes converged. Chattanooga’s 180,000 citizens would’ve been thrust into a radioactive hell, even as the Tennessee River carried contamination southwest into Alabama and Mississippi. He could barely imagine what would happen if all eight had gone up simultaneously.

“Madame President, we need a thorough investigation into the Yucca Mountain site security,” said Grim. “Hazmat and EOD teams need to search every one of the trucks. The thorium needs to be removed and transferred to secondary trailers.”

“We’ll be on that immediately,” said Caldwell. “And, Mr. Kasperov, if we do find explosives aboard any of those trucks, then you realize that what you did today saved thousand of lives.”

“Thank you, Madame President. But you must understand that oligarchs have little tolerance for failure.”

“What do you mean?”

Kasperov frowned, glanced at the team, then spoke evenly, “I mean it’s not over. I believe they sent one man to oversee operation, triggerman if you will. He would locate one or more of trucks using spotters along route. He would wait until best moment to destroy them.”

“What’re you saying?”

“I’m saying I know this man, and right now, he’s calling his bosses in Moscow for instructions.”

“What instructions?”

Kasperov’s expression turned grave. “Mr. Fisher, there is always plan B.”

Fisher lost his breath. “We need to find this guy—right now!”

“The NSA’s got tabs on all the big players in Russia,” said Grim. She faced Kasperov. “I need to pursue those names you gave us.”

Kasperov closed his eyes. “Some of these men were once my friends.”

“Not anymore,” said Fisher.

“Can I borrow a computer?” he asked resignedly. “I will help you.”

Briggs rose from his station and escorted Kasperov to his chair, where the man sat and began typing in the names he’d given them: Perov, the arms manufacturer; Yanayev, the aerospace mogul; and Kargin, the investment banker. Charlie and Grim were already patched into his screen, and Grim directed the SMI to access the NSA’s databases and began searching the phone records of those three men, keying in on calls placed within the hour between Moscow and anywhere in the United States. Charlie was monitoring the same feed.

“Got something,” he said. “Gotta be it. It’s the only one. Call coming in to a dacha outside Moscow, one of Kargin’s lines. Well, this is strange. Call was placed from the Omni Houston Hotel at Westside. But it’s not a smartphone. Long distance using the room phone.”

“Why the hell would he do that?” asked Grim.

“Maybe he thinks he’s been compromised already,” said Fisher. “Didn’t want to use his own phone. Maybe that phone was the trigger.”

“Either way we would’ve traced him, so it doesn’t matter,” said Charlie. “I’m already in the hotel, bringing up the security cameras.”

“Flight deck, change course. Get us to Houston,” said Fisher.

“Roger that,” said the pilot. “Any plans to land or just recon?”

“I’ll let you know. What’s our ETA?”

“We’re already in the gulf with a significant tailwind. You want me to crank it up, I’ll get you there in less than twenty minutes.”

“Roger that. Top speed.” Fisher swung around to regard Grim. “Any of the trucks near Houston?”

“No. Not sure why he picked that location. Just random, maybe. Wouldn’t matter where he was if he planned to remote detonate via cell or satellite phone.”

“Check this out, guys,” said Charlie, transferring the hotel’s security camera footage to the overhead screens.

A group of three men were hurrying down a hallway. They were dressed in designer suits and were led by a fourth, an older man, at least sixty, with a gray widow’s peak and carrying a briefcase.

Charlie froze the image and zoomed in on their faces.

“That’s him,” said Kasperov, pointing out the gray-haired man. “I know him only by his nickname, ‘Chern.’”

“Facial recognition in progress,” said Charlie as the image was immediately cut and lifted out of the footage to run against hundreds of thousands of others captured within the Russian Federation.

“Wow, this guy’s really underground,” said Charlie. “Usually get a hit within seconds.”

“He’s supposed to be member of SBP, Presidential Security Service, but he serves unofficially as President Treskayev’s courier. I suppose even this is not true anymore. He’s left to work for oligarchs.”

“And to be honest, sir, I don’t think he ever worked for the SBP,” said Charlie. “We’ve got good records of that organization, and if he’s been there a long time, trust me, we’d have his face.”

Charlie switched to the exterior views from the hotel, and they watched Chern and his men climb into a slate blue Infiniti G37 luxury sedan. Charlie ordered the camera to zoom in and got the tag number. “Rental car out of the airport. Got the record here. Bogus ID and credit card.”

“Charlie, we can’t lose him,” said Fisher.

“We could have local authorities pick him up,” said Briggs.

“He’s already spooked, and he’s too important to trust with some local yokels. Plus we’ve got operational security to consider. Let’s see if we can get to him first.”

“I agree,” said Grim. “We’ll keep Houston police and the local feds on standby.”

“They’re on I-10,” said Charlie. “Just got him on the traffic camera. But they’re heading west, away from the airport.”

Grim zoomed in on the SMI’s map. “The executive airport’s about eighteen miles west of the hotel.”

“Flight plans of everything coming in and out of there,” said Grim.

“I’ll pull those,” said Briggs.

Kasperov rose from his chair and, still staring at the monitors, drifted over to Fisher and muttered in Russian, “This is quite a team you have.”

Fisher nodded. “If you would’ve told me last year I’d be working with them, I would’ve laughed at you.”

“And why is that?”

“Being a team player’s not exactly my MO.”

“I understand. I spent most of my life alone, behind a computer—and now I’m beginning to regret it. But I guess it’s not too late . . . for either of us.”

“No, it’s not.”

“Hey, Grim, there’s a private charter on the ground that’s fueling up right now,” said Briggs. “Flight plan shows it’s heading to Denver.”

“And from there they fly up to Anchorage and on to Russia,” said Grim.

“Flight deck, get us to the Houston Executive Airport,” said Fisher. “Briggs, get ahold of that charter pilot. Tell him I want to speak to him.”

“You got it.”

“Sounds like you have a plan,” said Grim with a gleam in her eyes.

28

TEN minutes later, as twilight washed a pale crimson across the western sky, Fisher and Briggs leapt from Paladin and plunged into the cold air over Houston. After a brief free fall, they popped chutes and floated soundlessly toward the pair of hangars on the airport’s northeast side.

Houston Executive Airport covered an area of about 1,980 acres split by a single asphalt runway designated 18/36 and measuring more than 6,000 feet by 100 feet. The runway ran north–south, and on its west side lay a pair of taxiways joining in a Y shape to form a single road leading to the main hangar/service center and its fuel farm. This, according to the broad placard hanging over the hangar, was Henriksen Jet Center, named after the airport’s founder and owner, local pilot Ron Henriksen.

Fisher took note of the targets below as the pilot’s voice buzzed through his subdermal: “Standing by. Final approach on your mark.”

“Roger that,” answered Fisher.

“Sam, Charlie here. Just spoke with the charter company’s owner. He says the Russians are really pissed off. Pilot says he’s not sure he can stall them any longer. Turns out one of the Russians is an airplane mechanic himself and they’re having a hard time bullshitting him about the engine malfunction.”

“Just need another five minutes. Grim, we need to time this perfectly.”

“Understood.”

“Briggs, how’re you feeling today?”

“Feeling pretty dangerous.”

“Good. Just remember. We keep the old man alive.”

“No lead poisoning for grandpa. Gotcha.”

Fisher steered himself behind the hangar and came to a gentle landing fifteen seconds ahead of Briggs.

Leaving nothing to chance, they’d donned their tac-suits and goggles and had brought along both their primary and secondary pistols as well as SIG516 rifles slung over their backs. The rifles had 10.5 inch barrels and were fitted with thirty round magazines of 5.56mm ammo. Better yet, those rounds were factory fresh, not reloaded by Russians whose fingers were covered in peanut butter. The rifles were also fitted with grenade launchers, but said grenades had been replaced by the less-than-lethal sticky shockers like the ones Fisher had used with his crossbow.

They stored their chutes and vanished into the lengthening shadows behind the facility. The pungent scent of jet fuel hung heavy in the air, reminding Fisher of the Kasperov jet’s crash.

Pistols drawn and with Fisher on point, they darted along the hangar walls, moving across the building to the corner, where Fisher hunkered down, signaling Briggs to halt.

Goggles over his eyes now, Fisher zoomed in on the charter jet, a Citation CJ2 that had been fueled and moved to just outside the hangar. A maintenance panel had been opened on one of the engines, and a mechanic in coveralls stood on a rolling ladder, speaking with one of the suited men Fisher had seen in the hotel camera video. Charlie confirmed that he was one of Chern’s accomplices.

Fisher raised his hand and made a circular motion in the air.

Briggs understood and set free one of the micro UAVs, the tri-rotor humming away above the hangar, then slowly passing it as Fisher activated the drone’s camera, patching the image into his OPSAT.

The building’s rolling metal door was wide open, and inside were Chern; a man dressed business casual who Fisher assumed was the pilot; two other of Chern’s associates; and another man, a heavyset guy wearing Levi’s, gator-skin boots, and a Stetson cowboy hat—probably the charter company’s owner.

“Okay, Sam, I see them,” said Grim.

“Call the owner, tell him we’re good to go,” said Fisher.

“Calling.”

“Pilot, you’re clear,” said Fisher.

“Roger that,” answered the pilot. “Coming in.”

The grumbling of Paladin’s engines grew more distinct, drawing the attention of the mechanic on the ladder and Chern’s associate.

Removing his cowboy hat, the fat man took a phone call, then glanced up and waddled out of the hangar, across the tarmac and toward the ladder. He began waving his hand at the mechanic.

Fisher gave Briggs another hand signal: get ready.

Just as the mechanic and Chern’s man began descending the ladder, Fisher glanced to Briggs and nodded.

They took off running along the side wall, reached the next corner, then crouched down again, the hangar door just around the corner to their right. They could hear the men now, lifting their voices over the Paladin’s rumble. A glance at his OPSAT showed the group leaving the hangar, peering up, one pointing at the bewinged behemoth on its final approach toward the runway.

“That’s a military craft,” cried one of the men in Russian.

“Do you get military landings here?” Chern asked the cowboy.

“Sure, yeah, all the time. Routine.”

“Bullshit! This is private executive airport,” cried Chern.

At that, all three of Chern’s men drew pistols from concealed holsters. They held the mechanic, the pilot, and the cowboy at gunpoint.

“Okay, we got their attention,” said Charlie.

“Sam, you ready?” asked Grim.

“Yeah,” Fisher answered. “Three hostages, four bad guys, one plane . . . no problem.”

“Come on!” shouted Chern. “We’re taking off!”

Briggs came up beside Fisher, shoved up his trifocals, and said, “Got my targets marked.”

Fisher nodded. “Let’s roll.”

29

AS Paladin’s tires hit the tarmac with puffs of burning rubber and the plane’s hydraulic landing gear boomed as it worked to suppress the massive forces of impact, Fisher and Briggs slipped around the hangar and ducked inside, behind the doorway, keeping to the shadows.

“We’re all going for a ride now,” shouted Chern. He gestured to his men that they take the pilot, mechanic, and cowboy owner into the plane.

Briggs lifted his rifle.

As did Fisher.

Freeing the hostages would require three perfectly timed and placed shots. Even the slightest miscalculation might allow one of Chern’s men to reflexively pull his trigger and kill his hostage.

Fisher hoped that any lingering doubts Briggs might’ve had were already put to bed—because he was taking two shots while Fisher took one, focusing all of his attention on the dark-haired Russian clutching the cowboy.

Meanwhile, Paladin’s pilot was steering the C-17 toward the taxiway with the intent of parking the plane between the two exits, creating a 585,000-pound roadblock.

If for some reason, Paladin had been late or the operation on the ground had gone south and the Russians had managed to get near their jet, Fisher had a pair of EMP grenades tucked into one of his belt pouches. Destroying the electronics of an expensive jet was hardly a consideration when it came to matters of national security, but if they could save the taxpayers a hefty repayment to the cowboy they would. Besides, having the C-17 on the ground would allow them to make a hasty exit with their high-value target. Fisher couldn’t wait to see the look on Chern’s face when he was reunited with Kasperov. They would all need glasses of vodka for that conversation.

Judging from Paladin’s current position on the runway and the men now moving toward the jet, Fisher assumed that the charter pilot couldn’t get his plane moving in time. The C-17 was coming, and nothing could stop it.

Chern’s party began storming across the tarmac, their gazes still distracted by the Paladin’s approach.

“Come on, Sam, I got a bead,” said Briggs.

“On three,” answered Fisher. He counted down while staring through his night-vision scope, the reticle centered over the Russian’s head as the man walked toward the plane.

Fisher took a deep breath.

Exhaled halfway.

And slowly squeezed the trigger. The hammer strike was, indeed, a surprise, and before the round even left his muzzle, he could tell this was a good shot.

The round struck the Russian’s head, knocking him forward, onto his stomach.

Briggs’s rifle cracked a nanosecond after Fisher’s, and another of Chern’s men took a round just left of his ear and tumbled sideways, away from the mechanic he’d been escorting.

Then, with remarkable precision, Briggs got on his second target as the man was attempting to hit the deck. Chern’s last associate was a handsome blond man with the trendy hairstyle of a Calvin Klein model. Briggs’s round removed a section of the man’s head before he reached the ground.

The old man Chern whirled and seized the pilot, grabbing him in a choke hold and using him to shield himself against Fisher and Briggs.

Chern stole a glance over his shoulder as Paladin’s nose came up behind the tiny charter jet like a white shark casting its massive shadow over the tarmac.

Fisher burst from the gloom with Briggs at his side. They charged toward Chern, who shuffled in retreat, nearing the open door and fold-out stairs.

Briggs shouted for the cowboy and mechanic to get back to the hangar, and they weren’t arguing. Fisher had never seen a man that large run that fast.

Fisher locked his gaze on Chern and shouted in Russian, “Sorry, this flight’s been cancelled!”

“You think glib remarks can save you now?” Chern cried.

Charlie, who now had control of the drone, brought the UAV in tight over Fisher and Chern.

Meanwhile, Briggs had his rifle raised at the Russian, keeping the man’s head in his sights.

The charter pilot was a clean-cut guy in his thirties, probably a young father who looked tense but was smart enough to keep still and offer no resistance, giving Briggs a cleaner line. Still, a sticky shocker to the head was not a good thing, especially for an old man like Chern. Better to free the hostage and target his center of mass with that shocker.

“Stand down,” Fisher ordered as he lifted his hand toward Paladin. “You’re done.”

Chern took a step back toward the jet. “You’re a little man with a big job. And this job is too big for you.”

“Listen to me,” Fisher cried even louder now, his patience gone, his anger working its way into his hands and the vice-like grip he kept on the rifle.

Chern shook his head. “There are no more words!”

Fisher lowered his rifle and took a step closer. “We know who you are. We know what you’ve done. Don’t waste any more of my time with this standoff—because my partner will blow your brains out.”

“He’ll do nothing! You want me for information!”

Fisher smiled. “I don’t need shit from you. Your plan has three stages. We know all about them. We know who your bosses are, and right now President Treskayev is having them all arrested. It’s over!”

Chern muttered something under his breath, his hair beginning to rage in the engine wash, his piercing blue eyes widening with what Fisher assumed would be a sense of defeat but strangely, something else was there. Something unnerving. His gaze was now borderline maniacal, and whatever he had in that briefcase must’ve been hugely important, because he’d taken the pilot with one hand but had never let go of the case.

Abruptly, he shoved the pilot aside, and the man took off running toward the hangar.

“You made the right decision,” Fisher shouted.

Chern clutched the briefcase to his chest and began shaking his head. “We must all make our sacrifices for the motherland.”

Fisher’s mouth fell open.

There was no computer with satellite link inside that briefcase.

No documents associated with the oligarchs’ plan.

No innocent travel arrangements or pornographic magazines or personal hygiene items.

There was, Fisher concluded in that second, only one thing:

A way for Chern to ensure that he was not captured by the enemy and turned for information.

Chern had been prepared all along for that contingency, and his associates had probably had no idea that inside his simple briefcase were blocks of C-4 rigged to a detonator built into the case’s handle.

Chern’s thumb slammed down on a button at the base of that handle.

Fisher turned to Briggs and cried, “Run!”

Grim and Charlie were shouting in their ears, but it was all white noise as Fisher wondered how many steps he could take before the explosion went off.

An even more troubling thought jabbed like a needle: What if Chern wasn’t just committing suicide?

What if he had something much more powerful than C-4 inside that case?

“There is always plan B,” Kasperov had said.

30

THAT Fisher had run past Chern, beneath the charter jet’s nose, and toward Paladin One was a decision born of experience and not an instinctual reaction to fear. An untrained man would’ve unconsciously retreated to the rear, as nature had intended. You back away from danger, not run toward it.

But Fisher knew that sprinting across the tarmac and back toward the hangar would’ve left them unprotected and that the detonation would’ve first shredded them, then set ablaze what was left of their bodies. Having his remains positively identified by an FBI forensics team was not exactly on his bucket list.

As he and Briggs passed beneath the jet, Chern did, indeed, make his sacrifice to the motherland.

The explosion shook the asphalt and kicked the charter jet back toward Paladin One in the first second.

Next came the concussion that swept Fisher and Briggs off their feet and launched them into the air, even as their ears began to ring.

Strangely enough, as Fisher’s boots left the ground, his thoughts focused not on the impending doom and promise of physical pain but on identifying the nature of the explosion. And he sure as hell knew the sound of C-4 detonating versus other types of explosions. So there was a moment of relief—a sigh that lasted all of a second in knowing that this was a conventional explosion. This was not one of the famed or, rather, infamous RA-115s, aka “suitcase nukes” identified years ago by GRU defector Stanislav Lunev.

Better still, because the charter plane was taking the brunt of the explosion and they were wearing their Kevlar-weave tac-suits, Fisher thought maybe, just maybe, they might actually survive the blast.

They flew nearly twenty feet before crashing and rolling to the tarmac, the fireballs lifting behind them, the fully fueled charter plane engulfed in the flames.

Lying there, just a few meters away from Paladin One’s forward landing gear, Fisher wanted to stand and signal the pilot to get the hell out—

But there was no need. As if on cue, the plane began backing away from the fires, the engines spinning up as Fisher stole a look back, the world still spinning from his fall, the roaring just a muted bass note behind the high-pitched ringing.

The charter jet had been cut in half just behind the wings, its cockpit blown onto its side, the tail assembly lying askew and licked by orange fires spreading rapidly across the tarmac, fed by severed fuel lines. Puddles of pale yellow fluid swelled around the plane and whooshed into flames.

In the distance, a larger group of charter company personnel stood in the shade of the hangar, gaping at the devastation, a heat haze billowing toward them.

Fisher’s OPSAT was flashing with a message from Grim:

911 called. Feds and fire service on the way! Get back to the plane!

“Briggs!” Fisher could barely hear his own voice.

Briggs said something as he scraped himself off the asphalt. He turned back and proffered a hand to Fisher, who groaned and rose.

Just as he caught his balance, the flames roared more fiercely behind them, and Briggs’s lips moved in a shout that might’ve been, “Plane’s gonna blow!” but all Fisher heard was that steady and deafening hum.

They hauled ass out of there, with first responders’ flashing lights now out on the service road and the on-site fire crew rolling forward in their yellow trucks.

With another hollow burst, the rest of the fuel went up, tearing apart the wings with more tremors and sending sharp-edged pieces of the jet boomeranging in all directions.

Fisher charged toward the C-17’s aft, where the loading ramp was beginning to descend.

Something struck him hard in the back, knocking him flat onto his stomach.

He turned his head, saw a section of one seat lying on the ground beside him. He felt something wet on his right hand. More fuel. He shot up, and seeing Briggs race ahead, he dragged himself forward, stumbling in behind the man.

The pilot was wheeling the plane around, and it was Kobin who, with a line and harness attached to his waist, descended the ramp, ready to haul them aboard.

Looking like a bad actor in a poorly dubbed foreign film, Kobin screamed, cursed, and waved them aboard, a few of his words penetrating the hum in Fisher’s ears.

The smuggler seized Briggs, who turned back and took Fisher’s hand, and they bolted up the ramp, dropping to their knees inside the bay.

Fisher’s hearing was beginning to return, if only a little, and he looked at Kobin, whose mouth was still running a mile a minute. Fisher waved his hand then pointed to his ear. Can’t hear you!

A short stop suddenly knocked them to the right, then the plane began to turn once more. Emergency liftoff time.

Fisher and Briggs stumbled their way out of the bay and collapsed into chairs inside the infirmary.

For a moment, a wave of pins and needles passed through Fisher’s shoulders, working up into his head, and he thought, Well, maybe I’m going to pass out.

He didn’t, and when the light returned to his eyes, Charlie and Grim were there, with Kasperov standing behind them.

“I got it all on video,” said Charlie. “Especially the part where you told him we knew who he was and how Treskayev is going after the oligarchs now.”

“President Caldwell has the video, Sam,” Grim said. “And she’s sending it to Treskayev as more proof.”

Fisher nodded, then glanced over at Briggs, whose lip and nose were bleeding. “You all right?”

Briggs looked at him oddly for a second, then nodded, “Yeah, yeah, okay. Still can’t hear very well.”

“Good.” He faced Grim. “I thought Chern might’ve been their plan B.”

“No, they had a van full of C-4 following the lead truck,” Grim said. They tried to get into the zone after the tractor pulled over, but the FBI picked them up. Don’t have anything definitive yet, but rumor is they might be Iranians.”

“They find the explosives on the trucks?”

“Yeah, but only three of the eight were wired. Still, that would’ve been enough.” Grim faced Kasperov. “The president was right. You saved a lot of people today.”

“And so did he,” Kasperov said, lifting his head toward Fisher.

Fisher rubbed the corners of his eyes. “All right, no more messing with Texas. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Too bad we didn’t get Chern,” Charlie said. “But at least nobody else got hurt, right?”

Fisher rose and slapped a palm on the young man’s shoulder. “You’re right, Charlie. You’re damned right.”

* * *

WITHIN the next hour, the blunt trauma to Fisher’s body began to reveal itself in a patchwork of bruises accompanied by deep aches and pains that had him wincing as he sat down in the control center with Charlie and Grim. Briggs took up a chair behind them; Kasperov had returned to the infirmary.

“I wish I could say it’s over, but it’s not,” Grim began. “That hit Charlie got on Rahmani? It’s good.”

Charlie rapped a knuckle on one of his computer screens, where pictures of cylindrical devices with phone-sized or boom box–sized instruments attached to them were accompanied by cross-section drawings, labels, and text. Caps on the tubes’ ends bore stickers displaying the international radiation symbol. “Remember how Kasperov told us about his work hardening thorium reactor control computers against cyber attack? Well, he does a lot of work with a whole lot of energy companies, especially those who do oil and gas drilling. Obviously they need highly secure networks, and a lot of them geared up big-time after Stuxnet.”

Fisher was familiar with the computer worm known as “Stuxnet,” discovered in June 2010 by VirusBlokAda, an antivirus software vendor headquartered in Belarus. The word stuxnet in Russian meant “will spoil” or “will be extinguished,” but the worm’s name might’ve also come from key file names hidden in the code. The worm penetrated the air-gapped Iranian nuclear processing facility computer network in Natanz via infected thumb drives. Once inside, Stuxnet took command of the Siemens S7 industrial control system. The affected S7 sent false “normal” data to monitors while ordering the uranium-enriching centrifuges to spin at speeds outside their tolerances. Hundreds of centrifuges had been destroyed. Whether or not the United States and Israel had partnered to sabotage Iran’s uranium enrichment program with the worm was, for some, still a point of contention; however, Fisher would neither confirm nor deny any information regarding U.S. involvement. Suffice it to say that Iran’s nuclear efforts in the past decade would have been fast-tracked had their facilities been protected by the kind of software that Kasperov Labs produced.