Protocol 7 at-1 Read online

  “Thank you, Captain,” Simon said.

  “Don’t mention it. Your guys in the military pay me a good sum for this bloody job.”

  They looked at each other for a moment, and then Simon turned away and asked for directions to the hull.

  I wonder if you’d say that, he thought wordlessly as he moved below decks, if you knew what we were actually planning to do.

  THE SOUTHERN SEA

  S.S. Munro, 10:46 AM

  As Simon entered the main cabin, he noticed the team gathered around the table waiting for him. He could sense the hesitation and fear but was glad to see that everyone was there on time. Max was the last to walk in. He looked at his watch and smiled at Simon.

  “I think this is the first time you’ve beat me.” He dropped his bags at the door and said, “Okay, we need some coffee.”

  Simon noticed Nastasia in the corner, chatting away with Samantha and Hayden. Ryan greeted him with two mugs of coffee-one for Simon and the other for Max.

  “Here you go. Just poured.”

  Hayden looked back at Simon and said, “Nastasia tells us there’s a storm approaching. We need to go downstairs and power up the Spector.”

  Donovan paused at the door long enough to scrape the room with his eyes. “Lines are free,” he said. “We’ll be on our way in a moment.” His gaze held Simon’s for a moment. “Hope she’s intact,” he said referring to the cargo, and then he was gone.

  Max turned to Simon with a look of stunned surprise. “What?”

  “He knows, Max. I think he knows something.”

  “Andrew could have guided the ship remotely from here on in. There was no reason-”

  “He could, but why? We have one of the best captains working for us, and he’s willing to help. That’s far better than a remote handheld console, calibrated by Andrew.”

  The vessel’s engines rumbled like an awakening beast as the Munro pulled gently away from the dock, and Donovan guided her massive bulk through a maze of other vessels almost as if the fog wasn’t there at all.

  Closer, Simon told himself. Closer.

  He stood silently for a long time deep in thought, until Max put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Come on, we have to go over the gear and exercise one more time.”

  They had started doing drills with the extreme weather gear that Nastasia had provided Simon in Santiago, but practice was important for them all-important for survival. He turned to call to the rest of them when Donovan suddenly appeared at the door again.

  “Look smart,” he said. “The Chilean Port Authority is coming alongside.”

  Simon turned quickly and peered out one of the cabin’s portholes. A sleek Coast Guard vessel with blinding lights was heading toward them at high speed, even as Donovan used the ship speakers to order his crew to the fishing equipment. He barked an order to the bridge as well, and the Munro immediately slowed in the water.

  “You all stay here,” Max said to the rest of the team. They were standing together in the center of the room, looking wide-eyed and nervous. “Simon? Captain? Let’s see what this is about.”

  As they moved down the corridor, Donovan noticed the pistol hidden behind Max’s back, held in an open holster and inches from his hand. “Hmph,” he said, catching the man’s attention. “Just so’s you know, there are a few more of those hereabouts. I’ll show you where I stash them.”

  Max gave him a cold smirk.

  The Coast Guard vessel closed the gap between them and pulled alongside. Donovan appeared topside just as the Guard’s spotlight cut through the lifting fog and illuminated a sharp-edged circle on the deck. At the same instant, the thin ribbons of a bright blue scanning laser blossomed from the Guard’s cutter and scanned the Munro’s hull, looking for data on the cargo as well as the identification tag embedded into the ship’s superstructure, along with its registration and shipping license-a mandatory series of serial numbers displayed for satellite and ocean-going recognition.

  Simon stood out of sight, at the hatch that led below deck, and held his breath. He knew that the original ‘owners’ of the Munro and the Spector alike had prepared for this eventuality. There were scramblers, not unlike Andrew’s own, already mounted in the hold, set to broadcast false data about the cargo: all they would find were nets, trawling lines, and empty bins-the detritus of a fishing vessel that had just left port.

  “Identify yourself,” said an almost mechanical voice from the cutter. It gave the same instruction in English, French, Portuguese, German, Chinese, until Donovan pushed the loudspeaker button on the ships console and said, “Fishing Vessel Kappa Alpha Theta Three One Niner Niner Four Alpha Sigma, designation Munro. Captain Dominic Donovan here.” As soon as he spoke English, the mechanical voice responded in kind. Simon had done his reading; he knew the code was a specific number given to certain ships, allowing them a short window of time to be in the open sea. The scarcity of sea bass and the decline of other species in the ocean had caused very strict regulations to be enforced, with precise limits on fishing times per vessel. And meanwhile, the Guard’s radar was being shown exactly what they expected to see: an empty hold with scattered fishing nets and gear.

  “We have an eight-hour pass for commercial fishing,” Donovan said through the megaphone, trying to sound bored and slightly annoyed, just as a commercial fisherman stopped for inspection would sound.

  “Noted,” the Guard voice said so quickly that Simon wondered if it was, in fact, an AI. Was the entire cutter being remotely guided? “Munro, your radar and navigational systems are shut down. Are you in need of assistance?”

  “Damn it,” Simon muttered under his breath. The systems were down to avoid showing any electronic signature at all, even less than Andrew’s scrambler would show. They hadn’t considered that the absence of the signature during visual contact would make them more noticeable.

  But Donovan was a quick thinker. “You notice the lousy catch hereabouts?” he said, letting some anger into his voice. “Soon as I have a decent haul, I’ll have the money to repair and upgrade all that fancy tech, but until then-this is what I got to work with.”

  “Regulations strongly suggest electronic augmentation even on retrofitted-”

  “I know what ‘regulations strongly suggest,’ thank you. I also know it’s not required, and I promise you I can navigate with a handheld and stick to the eight-hour window without assistance. We will be perfectly safe.” The captain took his finger off the loudspeaker button and Simon held his breath. The Guard could order them back to port for any damn thing they wanted. If the AI had any reservations…

  “Window is reduced to six hours due to incoming inclement weather conditions,” the accent-less voice said.

  “Fine,” Captain Donovan said, obviously anxious to end the conversation. “Six-hour window acknowledged. Clear to sail?”

  Without another word the lights from the Port Authority cutter snapped off, and the boat roared to life and veered away into the disappearing fog at breakneck speed.

  The captain watched it go for a moment, and then released a huge sigh of relief to match Simon’s own. Then he spun on his heel and bellowed, “Current heading, full speed ahead! Full throttle!”

  The Munro boomed and surged into the open ocean, spray pouring over the bow as it crashed through the rising swell.

  Simon backed down the stairs and Donovan joined him. “All right then,” he said, “we’re heading south toward Antarctica now. We’re already running silent, and we’ll be in international waters in four minutes or less. A set of slightly more precise coordinates would be appreciated.”

  “I’ll see what I can do,” Simon told him. “In the meantime…full speed ahead.”

  Donovan snorted. “As if I had a choice.”

  * * *

  Simon’s team assembled in the hull of the ship-a surprisingly huge space from top to bottom and side to side, filled almost entirely by the bulbous, dead-black mass of the Spector VI, wrapped in a radar-invisible, non-metallic, sound-abs
orbing neo-fabric that defied scans of any kind. The inside of the ship looked nothing like its aged exterior. The hull itself was scrupulously cleaned and recently repainted; Donovan ran a tight ship, and there wasn’t an oil stain or a misplaced bolt anywhere in sight.

  The sheer physical size of the space needed to transport the Spector impressed Simon all over again. The eight-inch-thick cloaking material made it even bigger, but still, the vessel was much larger than the loading hatch above it. At the moment, it crouched on the deck like a dangerous thundercloud being held captive.

  The team was close behind him and completely cowed, looking at Spector VI with a mixture of awe and terror. The gigantic vessel looked nothing like what they had seen in the holographic image. In real life it was menacing-harsh, sleek, and mechanical. Donovan shouted from above deck. “Guys, looks like the storm will hit sooner than expected. We have to speed things up.” The roar of the Munro’s engine surged even higher-though Simon hadn’t thought that was possible-and the feeling of speed pulled at them more strongly than ever. The Spector VI, still in its cloak, swayed slightly in response.

  “Time to unwrap our present,” Simon told them. “We’ll need everyone’s help.”

  This was another process they had discussed and trained for. Each of them carefully moved into position to unlock the connectors that attached the sections of the fabric.

  As Max started to open his section of the cover, he got his first good look at the reflective “smart skin” that covered the craft, and his eyes opened up in absolute amazement. Fascinating, he told himself. It was both translucent and metallic at the same time, and absolutely without temperature-not cold, not warm, not even cool. It exactly matched the temperature of the air in general, and of Max’s own fingertips, so it felt rather unusual. Even his time in Special Forces had not exposed him to anything like this.

  Hayden grinned as he looked over at Simon, whose contribution to the surface materials used on the Spector was pivotal. Simon shrugged easily and gave him the “go ahead” gesture.

  “What you are looking at is an intelligent surface,” Hayden said, “thanks to research that was originally done by Simon. Once we turn this baby on, you will not be able to see it. The surface is charged with super molecules that not only conceal and mimic the environment but they are also intelligent.”

  “Intelligent?” asked Samantha.

  “Yes,” Simon answered, “but to activate the surface molecules to their maximum potential, the mainframe of the Spector needs to be fully functional, and that means going inside and powering up.” He turned to Hayden and almost bowed to him. “Hayden?” he said. “Would you do the honors?”

  Hayden reached into his pocket and took out a device the size of a small cellular phone. He moved his hand across it to reveal the remote console. He spoke into it: “Hayden Sebastian Paulson,” then wrapped the device’s wristband around his right forearm, close to the wrist.

  “Hayden Sebastian Paulson acknowledged. Welcome.”

  “Welcome to you, Spector VI. Open up, please.” He motioned everyone to step aside, and what felt like a long minute later, the vessel shifted its skin like a recoiling insect. Layers of the exterior shifted, revealing what seemed to be a hybrid of a submarine and a tank. The metallic blue material resembled molded steel but seemed different than that somehow-more like fabric in some places and ceramic in others. The name was etched on the side in letters that glowed slightly and seemed to stand away from the surface itself: Spector VI.

  The vessel automatically opened its hatch doors and turned on its interior lights. Hayden climbed up the molded steps to the hatch and entered, barely pausing long enough to motion for everyone to follow. Max, with a look of absolute focus, motioned for everyone to get in. “Come on,” he said. “We’ve gone through this before. Bring only your life support gear and essentials.”

  The Munro started to sway more vigorously than before. Many of the team lurched and grabbed for handholds for support, trying to balance themselves, but the message was clear.

  “We need to get this thing out of here sooner rather than later,” Hayden said. “Or something very unpleasant is going to happen.”

  ANTARCTICA

  Ross Ice Shelf

  Blackburn’s chopper descended in the pitch-black darkness of the early morning sky, completely undetected by radar as it approached the giant iceberg off the coast of Antarctica. The special landing pad floating on the ocean less than two hundred feet from the ice made it especially dangerous for the pilot to navigate the descent. Blackburn knew that this would be his last chance. It would take him eight hours to reach the asset, and if this time he was unsuccessful, he would not have another opportunity. As the chopper descended, he and his team geared up into the special suits that would shield them from radar and satellite detection. They were used to this procedure, and it was necessary for the secrecy of the mission. The chopper contacted the launch pad, magnetically connecting to the moving structure, and they felt the violent surge of the ocean as they exited. Twenty-five seconds later, the four men entered into the launch pad through a special hatch underneath the aircraft. As the door closed behind them, compressing the air to create a watertight seal, the chopper detached, disappearing silently like a ghost. Then, with a deafening hiss, the launch pad submerged into the icy waters in less than a minute.

  THE SOUTHERN SEA

  Spector VI Boarding

  The Spector had been fully provisioned for a six-week test cruise before it had been concealed in the Munro’s hold. The first thing Samantha and Ryan did was check to make sure the rations-stored in the same space that had been designed to be taken up by military gear-was filled and secure, and that the oxygen tanks were topped off and ready. They were. Then they moved to their second set of objectives even as the rest of the team made their way inside.

  Andrew helped Nastasia climb aboard. She was carrying a small satchel. As she entered the first alcove, the satchel she was clutching onto fell from her hands. It hit the deck with a soft exploding sound, and the contents skittered across the floor.

  Embarrassed and slightly annoyed, she moved quickly to gather the scattered belongings. Andrew bent to pick up a small white inhaler that had shot halfway across the alcove.

  “Give me that!” she said frantically.

  He looked up surprised and handed it over immediately. It was a standard, flat white inhaler used by people with asthma or other lung disorders. In fact, a lot of drugs were delivered as aerosols these days; it was simple, cheap, and sanitary.

  “Sorry,” he said briefly. “Just trying to help.”

  Nastasia colored for an instant, then composed herself. She took the inhaler from him as if she was receiving an offering. “I apologize,” she said, her Russian accent thicker than normal. “I am slightly embarrassed by my…condition.”

  “No need to be,” he said. “I-”

  “Come on, people,” Simon said sharply. “Let’s get moving!”

  All the team members-now the crew-had assigned tasks, and they got to them now with a sense of renewed urgency. There was little conversation and no time for small talk. The pressure was mounting.

  It took less time than they had anticipated to convert the experiment monitoring consoles that lined the bridge into actual work stations for team members who were taking over for the sidelined AIs. In less than an hour, Andrew and Ryan had rigged an eighty-inch holo-screen just in front and above the captain’s chair to deliver a direct feed of the visual data that the wireless cameras were receiving from outside the ship-a virtual picture window of the forward view, eighty degrees wide, just as Max had insisted on. He could even pan left and right an additional fifteen degrees each way, for a full one-hundred-twenty degree arc.

  “That’s more like it,” he muttered as he ran his forward-facing holo-screen through its paces.

  Barely more than an hour after boarding, the new crew of Spector was released to explore their tiny quarters and prepare for entry into the frigid Southern S
ea. Simon, Max, Hayden, and Andrew found themselves alone on the bridge.

  “Do you think we should tell the crew before we do it?” Andrew asked Simon.

  Simon had thought it through. “No. There’s nothing they can do but worry.”

  It was time to activate the power source-the incredibly powerful, dangerous energy system that had caused the military and the British government to make the decision to send the Spector halfway around the world for its initial test.

  It truly was black-and-white decision, Simon knew. The power plant would either work as planned, or a fraction of a second after activation it would vaporize everything within a quarter-mile sphere of the source-point, leaving absolutely nothing behind-not even hard radiation.

  Simon glared at the panel that would do the work. “So?” he said. “Turn it on.”

  Hayden looked up at him from the console and said, “You’re sure?”

  “I’m sure,” he said grimly.

  “You’re positive?”

  “Hayden, for god’s sake, just do it.”

  Hayden smirked. “I activated the damn thing two minutes ago. We’re fine.”

  For one instant everyone froze. Then Andrew burst into laughter, and everyone else joined in.

  Everyone but Simon. There was nothing to laugh about-not yet. And one ugly task still lay ahead.

  He forced a thin smile and said, “Max? We’d better get this done.” Then he turned away and drew Max to a far corner of the bridge while Hayden and Andrew double-checked the power curves.

  “You’re sure there’s no other way to do this?” Simon asked his old friend.

  “I’ve been over it and over it,” Max said. “And no-there’s not. Look, Donovan seems like a good man; I’m as sorry as you are. But even if the weather were better-and it’s not going to get better, Nastasia says, not for at least a week-we can’t have the Munro operating that winch and powering up those systems in broad daylight, or even in the dead of night.” He put his hand on his friend’s shoulder.