EXOSKELETON II: Tympanum (13 page)

4

Monday, 11 May (5:18 p.m. EST – Antarctic Circle)

McHenry leaned over the shoulder of the pilot of
Little Dakota
and squinted at the computer screen. His eyes had been burning ever since they’d rendezvoused with a frigate to get the extended control cable for the mini-sub. Lack of sleep was taking a toll on everyone.

His nerves were a mess. He was certain they’d been detected by a foreign sub during their last visit to the area. “What’s the depth?” he asked.

“Three thousand meters,” Stuart replied, “and descending.”

The stem of beacon widened with depth, but maintained the same shade of white and uniformly smooth texture as the
Little Dakota
descended. There were no visible seams or markings of any sort.

“Sir, we’ll be at the test depth of
LD
soon,” Stuart said. “Might end up short of the floor.”

McHenry nodded. He knew that the crush depth exceeded the test depth by about 10 percent – in this case about an extra 400 or 500 feet. They had to keep going – they needed a picture of the object’s insertion into the seabed. The
Little Dakota
was expendable.

Twenty minutes passed in silence as the men watched the stem gradually thicken as the camera went deeper.

Stuart broke the silence. “We’re at test depth,” he said. “Shall we use the
Little Dakota’s
ranging sonar to measure the remaining distance to bottom?”

McHenry wanted to avoid using active sonar as long as they could. “No, continue to dive slowly,” he said. “Keep an eye out for the floor.”

The
Little Dakota
descended, and the stem continued to thicken. McHenry estimated that it was currently 40 or 50 meters in diameter at the current depth. It was enormous.

A beeping sound chirped from the computer.

“What’s that?” McHenry asked.

“Hull sensors,” Stuart replied. “
LD
is suffering severe stress. We’re at the limit, but I think I see bottom.”

Stuart panned
Dakota’s
cameras and adjusted the bottom-view lights. It was clear: they were about 20 meters from the bottom, near the limit of their visibility.

“Snap some high resolution images, and let’s get some wide-range stuff, too,” McHenry instructed. “We have to see how this thing is mounted to the floor.”

“I don’t see anything that could be a mounting base,” Stuart said after a few minutes of probing. “The thing seems to grow right out of the bottom.”

“It’s probably buried,” McHenry suggested.

As Stuart panned around and took pictures, McHenry noticed a slight incline of the sea floor – it seemed to rise, going outward from the stem. “Turn and look outward from the stem.”

Stuart turned the
Little Dakota
, and then adjusted the lights and camera. The sea floor rose steeply as it went outward. Being focused on the stem on the way down, combined with the limited visibility, they hadn’t realized that the
Little Dakota
had descended into a crater. It gave the impression that the beacon had emerged from the earth, like a sprouting plant.

McHenry suddenly got a nauseating dose of adrenaline as a red light began flashing on the ceiling to his right. His communicator buzzed and he grabbed it. “McHenry.”

The voice on the other end came back in an artificially calm tone. “Fish in the water, sir. Orders please.”

Torpedo. Shit.
McHenry turned to Stuart. “We have all the data on board?”

“Everything on board is low resolution; high-res data is stored on the mini-sub.”

“Cut the line and close all ports,” McHenry told Stuart. He then spoke into his communicator. “Evasive action. Battle stations – sound the warning. Ready countermeasures. I’m on my way.”

5

Monday, 11 May (4:45 p.m. CST – Baton Rouge)

Will started at the clubhouse and walked around an asphalt running track that followed the perimeter of the apartment complex. About a fourth of the way around he noticed his shoe was untied and went to one of many wooden benches mounted on concrete pads just inside the track, spaced about every 200 feet. He sat down and tied his shoe, and then leaned back on the bench and took in the scene.

A few yards in front of him, just across the track, was a wrought-iron gate to an old cemetery. The late afternoon sun beamed through the branches of Live Oak trees that seemed to both weep for and celebrate those who had passed, and who now resided in graves arranged haphazardly over a couple of acres of land. Will thought that the graves were positioned to avoid the trees, although he had no idea of the age of the oaks.

He had normally waited until evenings to hone his skills, as it tired him, but he needed to develop the ability to separate in public, and with distractions. He straightened his posture and put on sunglasses. He concentrated on the memory of the pain of the bone-bending treatments he’d suffered while in the CP program and separated. He looked down upon is body – it seemed stable.

He turned his attention outward and elevated, going higher and higher until he was 10 to 15 feet above the treetops, more than 50 feet above his body. He faced west and looked directly into the afternoon sun. He felt no discomfort, and his vision didn’t saturate. There were no physiological limitations. Although he’d been told there were other senses, he’d only experienced the standard five while separated.

He descended through the tree branches, looked south, across the track, and viewed his body from the front. It was slouching now, leaning heavily towards the edge of the bench. He spotted a runner making the corner about 200 feet from the bench, and approaching. He went back to his body, recovered his posture, flipped up his sunglasses, and took out his cell phone. Twenty minutes had passed since he’d separated.

The woman transitioned from jog to walk and passed by slowly, and then picked back up to a jog.

He looked back through the iron fence into the cemetery. He’d contemplated death often since his release. Perhaps it was because he’d technically been dead for a short time while in the Red Box – drowned – but they’d brought him back. Or maybe it was because he’d actually seen the soul of a dead man once while separated. The man undergoing a treatment a couple rooms away had died, and his hideous, ghostlike soul tried to attack him. It was both frightening and sad.

Will recalled conversations he’d had while confined to the Exoskeleton. He still wasn’t sure with whom he’d been speaking – possibly himself – but the discussions had often led to dark places, and brought up questions that, although unanswerable, led to profound conclusions. If dead meant being “not alive,” then he’d been dead already – for an eternity. Where he’d been before being born was as surreal a concept as where he’d go after he died. Why did people fear death? The unknown future was more threatening than the unknown past. He understood why that was, but it didn’t mean that they were different. Maybe when he died he’d just return to the place he was before he was born. The real question was
why was he alive now
?

His thoughts turned to his conversation with Jennings in the café. It was unwise of the FBI to involve him in a case where he had such a strong emotional connection. He hated Syncorp, and knew it would be difficult to control that hatred if an opportunity arose.

6

Monday, 11 May (6:14 p.m. EST – Antarctic Circle)

McHenry rushed to the conn and stood next to Diggs. His first officer’s bulging eyes darted around like those of a trapped animal.

“Status,” McHenry yelled.

“It’s a homer, probably Russian,” Diggs said. “Possibly Chinese.”

McHenry swallowed hard. It was a type of torpedo that was launched and then allowed to roam on its own. It used a combination of passive and active sonar, and only pinged when it got into the neighborhood of a target.

“Up 50 meters, and full speed ahead, bear 60° west,” McHenry instructed.

Navigation personnel repeated the orders.

“Ready countermeasures,” McHenry ordered. It had been decades since the Russians made advances in their torpedo technologies – there was even a good chance that this one would malfunction. He didn’t know what to expect if it was Chinese. The U. S. Navy had made significant advances in countermeasures, but this did little to ease his nerves. The countermeasures were still crude devices – just drums of compressed air that released bubbles that sounded like propellers to passive sonar detectors and, en masse, looked like large objects to active sonar systems. The recent advances consisted mainly of sonar-jamming components, and new electronics and sensors that allowed them to delay activation and make a more effective decoy noise. The
North Dakota
also carried a new countermeasure, but it was untested in combat.

“Fish at 900 meters and closing,” it was Finley’s voice over the intercom.

“Launch two sound-makers,” McHenry ordered. “Set to activate when the fish is within 200 meters.”

“Fish at 800 meters and closing,” Finely informed.

McHenry suppressed any outward nervousness by reassuring himself that they were following the correct evasive protocol. He waited as patiently as he could. Where were those countermeasures?

“Seven hundred meters.”

A voice rang out from the intercom speaker. “Two countermeasures launched, bearing set to intercept at torpedo’s depth of 220 meters in 1-2-0 seconds. Set to activate at a separation of 200 meters.”

They wouldn’t have much time if the torpedo somehow defeated the countermeasures. They’d only have one more shot. “Ready the proximity countermeasures,” McHenry said, “all four aft tubes.” It would be the first battle deployment of the US Navy’s new, “hard-kill” torpedo countermeasure system, meaning that the devices were designed to destroy torpedoes rather than confuse them. He hoped they’d be alive to report the results.

A voice chimed from the communicator in the control room: “Countermeasures to activate in 10 … 9 … 8 …”

“Stand by to launch proximity countermeasures, all four,” McHenry said.

The response came immediately. “Standing by.”

“ … 3 … 2 … 1 … activated.”

Now they would wait on edge for about 20 seconds. McHenry had experienced this kind of situation numerous times, but his men hadn’t. Even his first officer wasn’t old enough to have seen any real combat. The next 20 seconds would be the longest of their young lives.

Finley’s voice came through the speaker. “Torpedo has activated its active sonar, stand by for new trajectory information.”

McHenry crossed his arms. This was standard. They’d know in a few seconds.

It was Finley’s voice, “Countermeasures failed. Fish’s active sonar locked in on us. Repeat countermeasure –”

“ – Launch proximity countermeasures, tubes 1 and 2,” McHenry ordered.

“ … tubes 1 and 2 launched,” Weapons replied.

“A hundred and fifty meters and closing …” Finley said.

McHenry waited for 10 seconds and then gave the order, “Launch proximity countermeasures, tubes 3 and 4.”

“ … tubes 3 and 4 launched,” Weapons replied.

The next 10 seconds were quiet. He felt a certain level of peace: it would all be over in seconds, one way or the other.

He grabbed a rail and barely avoided being rocked to the floor by the multiple blasts: he was able to discern the first two, which happened nearly simultaneously, and then two more 10 seconds later. He went to the communicator. “Finley?”

“Searching,” Finley replied. A full five seconds later Finely spoke again. “Fish destroyed. Repeat, fish destroyed.”

The men in the control room cheered, but McHenry suppressed his outward emotions. This result was to be expected. He couldn’t fool himself, but maybe he could give his men some confidence from the experience. “Nice job, men,” he said to the crew. He went to the intercom. “Weapons officer, arm and load homing torpedoes in forward tubes 1 through 4.” He turned to navigation. “Circle back, radius 2,000 meters, depth 200. Let’s find out who attacked us.”

McHenry nodded to his first officer to follow him. They’d go to the ready-room to discuss what had just happened, and what to do next. If it wasn’t before, it was absolutely clear now: others were interested in the mysterious structure –
others who were willing to kill for it.

7

Monday, 11 May (9:22 p.m. CST – Baton Rouge)

When Cho spilled his brandy on his lap, the final wisp of his patience evaporated. He threw the stack of files off the desk and strode to the window and breathed deeply. He’d been in his office reading the entire day and evening and found nothing in the files about Thompson’s current location. In the afternoon, an FBI mole reported that they were having trouble getting access to the information. Maybe the Americans understood the value of what they had. They’d relocated him and were keeping his information safe.

There were resources that Cho could exploit other than the FBI. Thompson had friends and family. They’d be much easier to find, and it wouldn’t be difficult to get information out of them if he employed the right techniques. That is, if they actually knew anything.

He sat at his desk and opened his laptop. It was time to get other assets involved. He had five new emails in his inbox, but the second one from the top made his throat tighten. It was from the Ministry of State Security. The MSS was the main Chinese intelligence agency, and for the past year, he’d interacted exclusively with its director. Their communications had been sparse, and for good reason: as the new CEO of Syncorp, there was to be no connection between him and the Chinese government. That the director was writing meant something was afoot.

He opened the email and read it. His vision blurred as his blood pressure spiked. The Director put a priority order on collecting William Thompson. How did he even know about him? Cho thought he alone was at the cutting edge of this information, and he’d only just learned Thompson’s identity. The order set the first priority for Thompson’s rendition, and the second, his termination.

The orders paralleled Cho’s plans, but there was an added key phrase that made the hair on his arms stand like cactus spines. It was the Chinese phrase for “at all costs.” The meaning was literal and absolute. He had never been given such a directive, but he knew it meant that his Red Dragon project could be sacrificed to accomplish the objective.

Cho stood from the desk, walked to the window, and looked out over the teaming city below. What was happening?