“What if someone has found it already?”
“They haven’t,” Kurt said, “or their fleets would have turned around.”
Emma nodded. “All right,” she said. “Do your magic. Send the data back to NUMA and let’s find out what the Russians were doing.”
Kurt presented the black box. “Can you tap into it?”
Joe nodded. “Dataports look fairly standard. I’ll do some quick tests and then send the information to Hiram. Max will be able to decipher it better than we can.”
As Joe went to work, Rudi stepped out to make a call and Kurt took a seat next to Emma. The color had returned to her face. “You like the game?” Kurt said.
“I like to win,” she replied.
“So do I.”
They sat for a moment. “So what did you give them anyway?” she asked.
“Who?”
“My colleagues, Hurns and Rodriguez. When I lifted that case, there was something heavy in there.”
Kurt leaned back in his chair and put his feet up. “A very nice parting gift. One I’m sure they’ll appreciate on their long flight home.”
The NSA-owned Gulfstream was halfway to Houston before Agent Hurns let his curiosity get the better of him. On this mission he was a courier, assigned to pick up and deliver a package. He wasn’t supposed to open it and have a look, but he couldn’t help himself.
He suggested as much to Rodriguez.
“I’m game,” his partner said.
They left their seats, walked aft and lifted the metal-sided suitcase onto a table. With quick fingers, Hurns popped both latches and opened the case.
His face went blank. “What the heck is this?”
Rodriguez stared over his shoulder. “It appears to be a bowl of fruit,” he said, reaching in for a ripe kiwi.
A handwritten note was tucked in between two oranges. It read:
Feed these to the mole.
Best regards,
Kurt Austin
21
Washington, D.C.
Hiram Yaeger had been part of many daring operations during his time with NUMA. But when the data from the black box was finally decoded, he could not help but tip an imaginary cap to the Russians for the sheer audacity of what they’d attempted.
With the full details revealed, he waited in the video conference room at NUMA headquarters while the satellite connection to the consulate building in Guayaquil was secured.
The room was a mix of the old world and the new. Paintings of tall ships lined the walls while a mahogany table from a nineteenth-century yacht dominated the center of the room. It was surrounded on three sides by comfortable chairs, though one had been removed for Priya, who came into the room in her wheelchair. On the remaining side lay a wall of flat-panel screens on which the team in Ecuador soon appeared.
“Good to see you all,” Hiram said.
“Looking forward to being enlightened,” Rudi replied.
Hiram nodded. “I have a feeling you won’t be disappointed.”
He pressed a button on the remote and another flat-screen display lit up. It was divided into three sections. The main part displayed a video image, taken from the Russian bomber’s camera system; the second part of the screen displayed an overhead map view; and the third section displayed the bomber’s cockpit and instrument panel as seen from a high-mounted camera over the pilot’s shoulders. Their helmets and shoulders were partially in view.
“Are you seeing this on your screen?” Hiram asked.
“Yes,” Rudi said.
“Fantastic,” Hiram said. “The Russians use one recorder to collect all vital information instead of two separate recorders for voice and data like the FAA requires. Their system worked well, but we only have the last twenty minutes of the flight. I think it’ll be enough. For your convenience, Max has translated all the voices into English.”
The lights dimmed and the presentation began. The initial image was a gray-scale infrared video. On the right side were various numbers, indicating speed, course and altitude. In the distance, a tiny white dot flared and dimmed while tracking lines indicated it was above the bomber and thirty miles distant.
“Target acquired,” the translated voice said.
“Vehicle speed four thousand one hundred. Engaging scramjets.”
“Did he say scramjets?” Emma asked.
“He did,” Hiram replied. “We double-checked the translation. They’re using a different acronym, but the operation is the same. The bomber was powered by supersonic ramjets capable of taking them up to Mach 6.”
As the scramjets came to life, the video image began to shake and buzz. The Mach number climbed and the voices of the pilot, copilot and engineer were almost overridden by the ever-increasing roar of the engines.
The pilot called out the milestones. “Passing Mach 3 . . . 3.5 . . . Mach 4 . . .”
The acceleration continued for another minute and then slowed.
“Speed locked in at Mach 5.1.”
The copilot spoke next. “Surface temperature within tolerance.”
“He’s referring to the outer skin of the aircraft,” Hiram said.
Emma nodded. She was the aviation expert. She understood instinctively. “At Mach 5, the leading edges of the nose, wings and tail would be suffering tremendous heating. Regular steel would melt. The aircraft skin would have to be made of a special alloy, probably using extensive amounts of titanium.”
“Which explains why the alloy detector and the magnetometers locked onto the wheels and internal parts first,” Joe replied. “More iron, easier to find.”
“Exactly.”
The video continued to play. “Course matched,” the pilot’s voice said. “Releasing controls to the computer.”
The small dot they were tracking on the cameras grew larger as it moved closer until it became obvious they were looking at the Nighthawk. But they weren’t catching up to it; they were allowing it to catch up to them.
“At this point, the bomber is in front of and below the Nighthawk,” Hiram said. “Max, display the course lines.”
On a second part of the screen, the satellite view of the South Pacific and the South American coast sharpened. Two icons appeared, one red, one green. Thin lines stretched out behind them.
“The red line is the Russian bomber,” Hiram said. “The green line is the Nighthawk.”
The two lines soon merged, with the Russian bomber slightly ahead of the unmanned spacecraft.
“Course matched,” the flight engineer’s voice called out. “Distance two miles and closing.”
Another voice sounded on the cockpit recorder. “Signal jamming complete. Vandenberg has been blocked. Nighthawk is all yours.”
“Roger that, Blackjack 2.”
“A second bomber?” Joe asked.
Hiram nodded. “Approximately a mile ahead of the first.”
On the infrared video, the Nighthawk continued to grow larger and move closer. A distance indicator and a series of vertical and horizontal bars appeared on the video feed.
“Range one thousand feet and closing,” the copilot called out.
The Nighthawk approached steadily, looming ever larger in the video. The camera tracked it moving past the bomber’s tail and into a position directly above the Russian aircraft. At thirty-nine hundred miles an hour and ninety-one thousand feet, the two aircraft were now traveling in perfect formation.
The copilot’s voice was calm. “Speed matched. Course steady. We’re in position for the capture.”
“Deploying windbreak,” the pilot said.
A series of small spikes emerged from the back of the Russian bomber. They created a vortex and a low-pressure area across the bomber’s spine that drew the Nighthawk downward. It dropped slowly, kissing the Russian plane gently. It was immediately trapped by a series of clamps t
hat sprung up from the bomber’s fuselage. They grabbed the Nighthawk’s wings and locked it in place.
“Contact made. Snares in place,” the copilot said.
“Deploying secondary windbreak,” the pilot announced.
A triangular wedge of metal rose up in front of the captured spacecraft. It deflected the wind around and away from it. A vapor trail streamed from the top of the windbreak, traveling up and over the nose of the delta-wing craft and back. The ride was smooth.
“They grabbed it,” Emma whispered. “They snatched it right out of the sky.”
“I can’t believe there’s no turbulence,” Kurt said.
“The atmosphere is so thin at that altitude, there isn’t any turbulence,” Emma said.
“But they’re traveling at four thousand miles an hour,” Rudi pointed out.
“Not in relation to each other,” Emma replied. “We dock spacecraft in orbit all the time. On TV, it looks like they’re barely moving, but in reality they’re whipping around the Earth at 17K. In the sixties and seventies, the Apollo and Gemini pilots eyeballed it. I’m sure these guys have the most advanced computers in the Russian catalog at their disposal.”
“Docking complete,” the pilot reported. “Tell Moscow we have the Nighthawk.”
The sounds of a celebration could be heard on the tape, and the next few minutes were routine. A call went out to the second bomber. Tests were done, systems were checked and rechecked. All this time, the Blackjack 1 continued on the same course, traveling at the same incredible speed.
“Reducing power,” the pilot said finally. “Inform Caracas we’ll need refueling.”
“We’re not sure if he means Caracas, Venezuela,” Hiram said, “or if that’s a code name for a refueling aircraft.”
“I’ll bet on the former,” Rudi said. “The Russians have plenty of friends where Hugo Chávez used to rule.”
As the aircraft slowed, there was a noticeable drop in the background noise. The speed fell below Mach 4 and then below Mach 3. At Mach 2.5, the bomber began a shallow turn to the north and, for the moment at least, it seemed as if the Russians had pulled off the world’s greatest hijacking.
A flicker ran through the video, followed by a garbled communication.
A rhythmic vibration grew up and the aircraft began to shudder. Before long, the cameras were trembling.
“Inertial dampers failing,” the copilot said. “Vibration reaching critical.”
“Where is this coming from?”
“We’re getting a strain on the lockdown bolts,” the flight engineer called out. “It’s the Nighthawk; there’s a flutter in the control surfaces.”
The pilot’s next response was unintelligible. He was grunting and breathing hard as he fought the controls.
A call went through the radio. “Blackjack 2, we have a problem. Nighthawk is trying to go active. I repeat, the Nighthawk has woken up. Falconer, use the alpha codes. Shut it down.”
The return call was far calmer. “Are you certain, Blackjack 1? We show no activity. Our board is green. You should not be having any issues.”
The pilot shouted his response. “I’m telling you that damned thing is trying to break free. Boost your signal and order it to shut down—now!”
Whatever Blackjack 2 did in response, the vibration only grew worse. The sound of alarms filled the cockpit. Warning lights came on all over the board.
“Hydraulics,” Priya said. “Vertical stabilizer . . . Inertial dampers.”
The pilot’s breathing was labored. His words marked by cursing and desperation. On the external video feed, the Nighthawk could be seen shaking violently in its locked-down position. Its own flight control surfaces could be seen fluttering. Ailerons moving up and down. Rudder snaking back and forth.
And then it was gone.
In the blink of an eye, the captured aircraft ripped free of its moorings and peeled away, taking a chunk of the bomber’s fuselage with it. Hydraulic fluid and white vapor streamed from the gaping hole it left behind.
“Mayday! Mayday! Mayday!” the pilot called out. “We have an emergency situation.”
Despite his frantic efforts, the plane rolled over slowly and began corkscrewing dizzily toward the ocean. Mercifully, the camera failed a short time later. From that point, only the audio remained, filled with desperate shouts and garbled radio calls, until even the pilots went silent and all that could be heard was the aircraft’s computer warning the pilots repeatedly to Pull up . . . Pull up. And then suddenly everything stopped.
Utter silence filled both rooms.
“We think they blacked out,” Hiram said.
“Why didn’t they eject?” Emma asked.
No one knew the answer.
The Russians might have been their political adversaries and opponents, but the pilots were just men doing their jobs. Men taking a tremendous gamble, and almost pulling it off, before paying with their lives.
“You can’t help but admire their guts,” Kurt said, breaking the silence. “If it wasn’t our plane they were trying to steal, I’d be sitting here wishing they’d succeeded.”
Everyone around him nodded.
“Any idea what went wrong?” Emma asked.
Hiram replied. “As long as the Russian bomber continued on the Nighthawk’s original course, all went well. As soon as the pilot turned away from that course, the Nighthawk went active again, attempting to steer itself back onto the initial heading. That started the vibration which led to separation and the crash.”
“Why would it do that?” Kurt asked.
“We think the Russians hacked the navigation system,” Hiram replied. “They reprogrammed it to head south and rendezvous with the bomber, but they forgot to shut the inertial navigation system off before they commenced the turn to the north.”
“Alpha code is the NSA term for a reboot command. The equivalent of hitting the Ctrl–Alt–Delete buttons on your computer. It’s supposed to break everything and reset the operating system.”
“Any idea what they meant when they called out to the Falconer?”
Emma hesitated for a moment and then spoke. “I’m not sure,” she admitted, “but several years ago we received intel suggesting that the NSA’s space program had been penetrated. Either by a mole working at Vandenberg or through a Trojan horse computer program. There was no way to confirm the information and there were few details in the lead itself. Just a suggestion that vast amounts of data were being passed on to either the Chinese or the Russians. Other than that, we had only the code name.”
“Falconer,” Rudi said, “interesting choice. A falconer trains raptors to fly free and then return to him.”
“The concept was lost on no one,” Emma assured him, “as that’s exactly what we were trying to do with the Nighthawk. Even so, a thorough investigation revealed no evidence that the agency had been compromised. The idea was written off as a red herring. You’d be surprised how much bad and false information is passed along. Most of it deliberately. We do it, too. All part of the game.”
“Something tells me your boss might want to reopen the investigation,” Rudi said.
“Agreed.”
Kurt glanced at the dark screen and then back at Emma. “Well, whoever he was, he failed. The real question is, why? Everything appeared to be firmly in hand.”
“Maybe a stray signal got through from Vandenberg?” Joe suggested.
“We don’t think so,” Hiram replied. “They were using the second bomber as a mobile transmitter, blasting a high-powered signal at the Nighthawk from close range. A setup like that would effectively drown out anything the NSA tried to send through.”
Emma agreed. “Assuming the time on their clock was accurate, we’d already lost total contact with the vehicle when they caught it. It wasn’t our doing. It must have been the autonomous programming. Not that it matters at
this point.” She looked Kurt’s way. “For whatever it’s worth, you were right about one thing: the NSA and Vandenberg have been compromised. If the Russians have the alpha codes, they have everything.”
“Not everything,” Kurt reminded her, before turning back to Hiram. “Any idea where the Nighthawk went after this?”
“We’re working on that now,” he replied. “But it’s difficult to say for sure. The intercept changes all the calculations. The Russians gave it a nine minute piggyback ride at Mach 5, keeping it at full speed and above ninety thousand feet when it was supposed to be slowing and descending. That helpful little boost added seven hundred miles to the maximum glide path. Complicating matters are several video frames where the Nighthawk appears to be turning and shedding tiles, suggesting it was damaged as it broke free. All of that could affect the course, speed and glide path.”
“I’m sure you have something,” Kurt prodded.
Hiram nodded. “Max, show us the new course probability cone.”
An image appeared on the screen. This time, the Ecuadorian coast was much larger and closer. A widening yellow cone curved toward it, crossing southern Ecuador and continuing inland over the mountains and jungles of Peru.
“It could be anywhere in that area,” Hiram said. “Or any other area if the flight controls were damaged.”
“So we are back to square one,” Emma said.
“Not quite,” Priya said. She wheeled over to a keyboard and tapped away on it for a few seconds. “We have this. It’s a video that was released on Peruvian television.”
The recording played for all to see. Shot by an amateur, it went in and out of focus but captured a glowing object crossing the night sky like a fireball. There was some shouting in the background and then the object disappeared beyond the top of a nearby hill.
The camera panned around, briefly capturing the edge of a solar panel and a pile of jumbled stones that looked like the ruins of a Neolithic building. A voice spoke off-camera. “A sign from the gods,” it said in accented English. “The end must be near.”
A few grins broke out among the NUMA staff, but Emma’s lips remained tightly pursed. “Who filmed this video?” she asked. “And where?”