Gauntlet (39 page)

B
RAMBLETON NARROWS was the huge cliffside manor that served as James Turbee’s home away from the boardrooms and airports. With its beautiful oak-paneled rooms and stunning views of Chesapeake Bay, it was the perfect place for Turbee’s rehabilitation. And it was amazing how much they accomplished in one day. Doctors of all specialties were called in for him — orthopedic surgeons, neurologists, psychiatrists, and psychologists, to start. He was taken to a posh local clinic, where he was x-rayed, MRI’ed, and CAT scanned. The verdict was six broken ribs, a pneumotho-rax, severe contusions to his forearms, concussion, a fractured nose, a large laceration in his right eyebrow, and a total of eight taser burns. Fortunately, there was no brain damage, at least not that any of the neurologists could see. Kathy, Turbee’s teaching assistant, was called out of retirement and brought to the manor to take care of him. An attempt was even made to bring his mother back to Brambleton Narrows, but she was drunk and busy spending the spoils of her 25-year relationship with Turbee’s father.

At the end of the busy day, Kingston came to visit. In Turbee’s absence, he had revisited the issue of the
Mankial Star/Haramosh Star
transfer. He too felt that the SEAL team had, somehow, missed the Semtex. He too was disquieted by what had happened to Turbee. And, after days of searching, Kingston had found a gem. A second set of satellite photographs.

“How’re you doing, bud?” asked Kingston. Word of Turbee’s scene with Dan, and the following assault, incarceration, and sojourn at Saint Elizabeth’s, had spread rapidly through the Intelligence Community, egged on by Khasha calling almost everyone she knew. Even the President had heard about it. No one liked it.

“I’m feeling better already,” Turbee answered, glad to see his friend. “My chest is still real sore. They told me I have six broken ribs. I’m not allowed to laugh. Can’t watch the Simpsons. And my nose is sore. It’s broken too. The headache’s starting to go away, and I can get around a bit by myself now that I have support. My dad’s got a bunch of people here looking after me. Khash is here too. All in all,” he added, “it’s not so bad.”

“When are you getting back to TTIC?” asked Kingston.

“I’m not sure I’m going back,” Turbee answered. “Dan Alexander fired me, you know.”

“I know,” responded Kingston. “Actually, we’ve all been talking about that.” By ’talking’ Kingston meant the nonstop multi-party multi-mode electronic buzzing that had been going on within the Intelligence Community since the firing incident. Khasha had single-handedly made sure that everyone she talked to knew exactly what Dan had done, and how. “You were appointed to TTIC by a Senate subcommittee,” Kingston continued. “Only they can fire you. Not that politically ambitious and useless blowhard they made the boss over there. This isn’t done yet. And don’t worry, we’ve got some people working on it. Anyway, I’ve got something for you.”

“What?”

“A second set of images.”

“Images?” repeated Turbee.

“Yeah. Satellite images. A second set of images, taken by a KH-12. On one edge of the images you can vaguely see the
Mankial Star
and
Haramosh Star
linked together. Nowhere near the clarity of the ORION images, but still, a second set.”

Turbee grasped the significance of the statement immediately. A second set, from a different angle. If the two sets could be combined, theoretically, they should result in more clarity. He started babbling questions and answers about the possibilities, almost before Kingston had finished speaking. The conversation kicked up to a higher speed, and Turbee’s voice rose in his excitement.

“How many images?”

“Another four, but two of them are so distorted as to be almost completely useless,” responded Kingston.

“It’s still additional information.” Turbee’s mind was quickly cataloguing all the different ways they could use this new find. “We should be able to sharpen the images we have. Maybe we’ll get a clearer overall image of what was going on there,” he said.

“I agree. Here they are,” said Kingston, handing a CD over to the young man.

“Thanks. Great,” replied Turbee. “Do you have the canned programs that you use for image sharpening?”

“Yup,” said Kingston, handing Turbee a second CD.

“Thanks.”

“Some of that stuff is pretty sophisticated. You may need help using some of the programs,” warned Kingston.

“Yeah, I probably will. But I spent a lot of time with these types of programs when I was doing work for Google, updating their maps. I even found new ways to clarify images. I should be okay.”

“Good. Let me know how you make out, Turb, and if you need any help. Hope you get better soon.”

Kingston left, and Turbee went to work.

He spent the next day playing with the pixels of the seven images he already had — the three old ones from the ORION’s, combined with the four new ones from the KH-12’s. The programs turned out to be much trickier than he’d expected, and he telephoned Kingston at least half a dozen times. Their conversations spiraled into wild technical discussions of Fourier and Langrangian Transforms, multi-dimensional surfaces and structures, and other things that only mathematicians talk about or understand. And gradually, keystroke by keystroke, mouseclick by mouseclick, the images became clearer. It never occurred to Turbee that, in threading through this exercise, he and Kingston devised new techniques for image manipulation that, if marketed appropriately, could gain them fabulous wealth. His mind simply didn’t work that way. He did what needed to be done to solve the problem at hand, and had very little use for anything beyond that.

Two nurses, the doctor, the psychologist, and Kathy, all of whom had been tasked by James with overseeing Turbee’s recovery, were dismayed at his persistence in solving the image problem. He needed rest, they said. He needed to talk about his experience, share, open himself to healing... he needed physiotherapy, psychotherapy, and hot chicken soup. Turbee ignored them all. Sailing a boat in uncharted mathematical seas was all the therapy he needed. Against the advice of his various medical advisors, and to their immediate chagrin, Turbee got his teeth into the mathematical problem and found it impossible to rest or sleep until he had solved it.

At 3AM, almost 36 hours after he started, and going on almost no sleep, Turbee found what he was looking for. Kingston had helped a lot, but Turbee had an instinctive grasp of the algorithms used for clarifying obscure images, and had worked on his own to improve the old techniques to make them more efficient. Now he realized that his initial presentation, convincing though it had been, had lacked image clarity. His audience had squinted to see the cantilevered arms connecting the
Mankial Star
and
Haramosh Star.
They were there, but to the untrained eye, detail had been lacking.

What Turbee was able to do, using the second set of images and various pixel manipulation programs, was create a new set of images that showed better perspective. He placed these new images on the largest screen he had, a 61-inch flat panel. He ran them through a series of form-sharpening algorithms, and then again through a series of multi-dimensional pixel-smoothing algorithms. He mapped the images into a color program that assigned colors on the basis of temperature. Ultimately he was able to combine aspects of all seven satellite images into three super-composite pictures.

What the revised images showed was remarkable. There were definitely two ships — one 75 or 80 feet in length, and the second maybe three times as long. The satellite positioning showed that they were resting side by side near the Maldives, off the southwestern coast of India. The new pictures showed two slender arms connecting the two ships and, between them, third and fourth rails running from one ship to the other. In these new images, some of the large bolts in the connecting structures were actually visible, as were many of the fire extinguishers, smaller winches, and anchor chains on the ship decks.

The clarity he had achieved was astonishing. In the first frame, the center rail mechanisms were clearly visible, as were the three men pushing what appeared to be a large load of some kind from one ship to the other. The second frame showed the bundle almost on board the larger ship. In the third frame the center rail mechanisms were absent, and the two outer arms no longer connected the two ships. The frames revealed a sequence that left little to the imagination. The two ships had been temporarily connected to one another, and at least one package of considerable bulk had been transferred from the smaller ship to the larger.

These details provided a nice backdrop for Turbee’s most spectacular find thus far. Careful inspection revealed that the bulky package in the first and second frames was in fact a pallet, upon which there appeared to be regularly shaped brick-like objects. Across the top of each label was the word “SEMTEX.” Across the bottom, “PARDUBICE CZECHOSLOVAKIA.”

I
T WAS A SOMNOLENT September afternoon at TTIC. Everything had come to a standstill after Turbee left. A sullen resentment toward Dan Alexander had been building in the office, especially when word got out about the attack on Turbee and his subsequent incarceration. On Dan’s order and in Turbee’s absence, most of the brainpower of the center was devoted to chasing shadow nukes, exploring tip after tip that led nowhere. First it was nukes in San Diego, then in New York. Then there was a rumor about a dirty bomb in downtown Los Angeles, or perhaps in Norfolk. Attendance was dwindling as those seconded to TTIC started to gravitate back to the agencies from which they had come. There was hushed conversation here and there, and only an occasional clicking of a keyboard or ring of a cell phone punctuated the heavy atmosphere of the room.

Then the telephone in front of George rang, breaking the silence. It was Khasha.

“How’ve you been, Khash? We’re missing you around here,” said George.

“Yeah, I miss you guys too. But I’ll be coming back in with Turbee in a few minutes. This is your heads up. Turbee has refined those photographs of the
Mankial Star
-to-
Haramosh Star
transfer. Kingston found some KH-12 photos, and Turbee and he have been using the new data to sharpen up the photos that we had. Their new images are incredibly clear.”

“Thanks, Khash,” said George. “See you when you get here.” He hung up and leaned over toward Rahlson. “Turb’s back. This is going to be interesting.”

George didn’t have long to wait. A few moments later, a series of trumpet blasts echoed through the control room.

“What the hell?” exclaimed Dan, rising and glaring around the room. He looked up at the 101’s. There stood Elmer Fudd, at attention, blowing into a trumpet. Smaller versions of Elmer appeared on the outer screens.

“L-l-la-ladies and gent-gent-gentlemen,” Elmer stuttered. “We present th-three im-im-images, created by Turbee and Kingston!”

“Aw Jesus Christ,” cursed Dan, more to himself than anyone else. He was still smarting from the dressing down he’d taken from the Senate subcommittee for firing Turbee, and wasn’t in the mood for any foolishness.

Before he could react, however, the three revised images that Turbee had been working on appeared on the screens. There were some smiles, and even a few cheers. It took a few seconds for the content and implications of the revised images to sink in.

Rhodes leaned over to George. “Hey, George, look at these,” he said, pointing to his computer screen, where he’d enlarged Turbee’s images. “Look at the labels.”

“Holy shit,” said George quietly. “You can actually read them.”

Rahlson had immediately noticed the same thing. “Dan,” he said, “you might want to have a closer look at the 101’s behind you.”

Dan turned around and saw the three frames Turbee had found. “So what?” he asked. “Wait a minute, how the hell did Turbee get into the system?” He was furious, his face slowly turning a dark red. TTIC was supposed to be unhackable.

Rhodes spoke up. “Dan, Turbee pulled those off one of the ORION’s and a KH-12 that’s floating above the Middle East. He somehow combined the two and enhanced the image. Look at the labels.”

“How’d he do that? He hasn’t had access to the system for more than a week,” said Dan.

George grinned. “Dan, you must have realized by now that Turbee can hack his way into anything, and he did refine most of the programming for this,” he said, motioning to the room around him. “He could probably start a nuclear war by himself if he wanted to.”

“If he hacked his way into the ORION’s, he needs to be called to task on it,” Dan said, defensively.

“For God’s sake, Dan, please focus on the issue,” Rhodes snapped. He was close to the end of his rope with the so-called director of TTIC. “Take a close look at the pictures behind you. Think, man!”

Dan did. “So?” he said. “A couple of boats hooked together. So what? We saw these two weeks ago. And it came to nothing.”

Now George started to lose his patience as well. “The labels, idiot. Look at the labels.”

“It’s not just a couple of boats hooked together, Dan,” said Rahlson. “One of those boats is clearly the
Haramosh Star.
The other is the
Mankial Star.
These are the same images we saw before, but Turbee’s sharpened them up considerably. Kingston found some additional images from the same time frame, shot by one of the KH-12’s. Turbee’s used them to get clearer pictures. Look at the center frame. It seems to me that a bundle of something is being transferred from the small ship to the large one. It’s obvious what’s going on here, Dan. Turbee’s found a way to make the evidence that much more clear. He had figured it out long before the rest of us could see it.”

“Again,” said George.

“Well that is just dandy for him,” said Dan in his usual aloof manner. “But the SEALs went through the ship from top to bottom. They went through every single container. Every deck level. The engine room. The bridge. Not only that, but they did it with some of the most sensitive plastic explosive detection equipment that exists today. And THEY DIDN’T FIND ANYTHING.”