Fallout. Part 7

14.

FISHER felt and heard the Osprey's engines slow as Bird throttled back and rotated the nacelles to three-quarters, bleeding off speed for alt.i.tude as he dropped the craft into the felt and heard the Osprey's engines slow as Bird throttled back and rotated the nacelles to three-quarters, bleeding off speed for alt.i.tude as he dropped the craft into the Gosselin Gosselin's radar bubble. The Osprey would be directly over the s.h.i.+p now, Fisher knew, but in one of its radar blind spots-the other being a ring approximately three hundred yards in diameter around the s.h.i.+p at wave-top height, where the radar's signal would be lost in sea clutter.

"One minute to ramp down," Sandy called in Fisher's ear. "We're matching up the couplers. Stand by."

Like Pave Low special operations helicopters, this generation of Osprey was equipped with what was called a hover coupler. When engaged, the coupler could lock the craft into either a precise fixed spot over the earth's surface or slave its position to a designated target, in this case the Gosselin Gosselin as it steamed out of the St. Lawrence Seaway and into the Gaspe Pa.s.sage. as it steamed out of the St. Lawrence Seaway and into the Gaspe Pa.s.sage.

"Not going anywhere," Fisher replied. Yet. Yet. He felt that familiar and welcome antic.i.p.ation/adrenaline flutter in his belly. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, centering himself. As it always did, the image of his daughter Sarah's face appeared before his eyes. This had become a ritual for Fisher, a good luck touchstone he performed before each mission. He opened his eyes. He felt that familiar and welcome antic.i.p.ation/adrenaline flutter in his belly. He closed his eyes and slowed his breathing, centering himself. As it always did, the image of his daughter Sarah's face appeared before his eyes. This had become a ritual for Fisher, a good luck touchstone he performed before each mission. He opened his eyes. Focus, Sam. Time to work. Focus, Sam. Time to work.

Outside, over the roar of the engines, he could hear the hail-like splatter of rain on the fuselage. "Weather report, Sandy?"

"True winds light, three to five from the northwest; relative winds between us and the target's deck, fifteen to seventeen knots; heavy and steady rain; temperature forty-eight degrees Fahrenheit."

"All in all," Bird added, "a downright lovely day."

"I'm sure they've got coffee aboard," Fisher replied. "I'll see if I can scare up a cup."

"Alt.i.tude, four hundred ninety-one. Ramp down in thirty seconds. We're slaved to the target. As soon as you're out the door, steering and cable slack on your command."

The cabin lights blinked out, then glowed back to life in night-vision-friendly red.

"Roger," Fisher said, and pulled up the hood on his tac suit and settled his goggles over his eyes. A thought occurred to him. He leaned closer to Franco, who was buckling into a safety rig on the bulkhead, and said, "The fairing-"

"Freshly coated in DARPA's own version of Rain-X. Water should bead up and roll away."

"Right."

"Ramp coming down."

A moment later Fisher heard the whirring of the ramp's motors. Accompanied by a sucking whoosh of cold air, the ramp's lip parted from the curved edge of the fuselage's tail, and a slice of black sky appeared. The ramp continued descending, then stopped, fully open. Outside, Fisher could see skeins of clouds whipping past the opening and, in the breaks between the clouds, the distant twinkling of lights; the s.h.i.+ps moving up and down the St. Lawrence showing up as individual specks, the cities and highways along the Seaway as threads and cl.u.s.ters.

Franco patted him on the shoulder again and called into his ear, "Whenever you're ready."

Fisher nodded, performed a final check of his rigging, then turned around so he was facing forward, then back-stepped up to the edge of the ramp until his heels were dangling in s.p.a.ce, then coiled his legs and launched himself backward.

Per the plan, Franco let out an immediate four hundred feet of cable, which brought Fisher to a halt a hundred feet above the Gosselin Gosselin's mainmast, still unseen in the darkness. Though the true wind speed was negligible, Fisher's relative speed through s.p.a.ce was almost eighteen miles an hour, which was enough to turn the otherwise vertical rain into a diagonal, slas.h.i.+ng deluge that peppered the fairing like blown sand. True to Franco's prediction, however, the water beaded up and sluiced away before it could obscure Fisher's vision. Through his harness he could feel the cable thrumming with the tension, like a plucked guitar string.

"Cable stopped and locked," Bird said in his ear. "On you now, Sam."

"Roger."

Fisher powered up his NV goggles and heard, very faintly in his ear, the familiar hum. His vision went to gray green. And directly below his feet, not more than a third of a football field away, he could now see the top of the Gosselin Gosselin 's mast and the crescent-shaped dish of the navigation radar making its slow rotation. 's mast and the crescent-shaped dish of the navigation radar making its slow rotation.

Fisher pushed a b.u.t.ton on the LTD pod on his wrist and then extended his index finger, aiming it at the s.h.i.+p's afterdeck. He'd chosen this spot for his insertion primarily because of the weather. In this rain, if a stern lookout was posted, he or she would have likely withdrawn to the overhanging awning on the second-level aft superstructure. Same for anyone taking a smoke break. He switched his goggles to IR and scanned the afterdeck and superstructure for human-shaped thermal signatures. He saw none. G.o.d bless bad weather, G.o.d bless bad weather, he thought and switched back to NV. he thought and switched back to NV.

"Reading your LTD clearly," Sandy said. "Confirm designated aim point as afterdeck, midline, twenty feet forward of stern."

"Confirmed," Fisher replied. "Give me sixty of cable."

"Sixty feet of cable," Franco repeated. "Spooling now."

Fisher felt himself dropping through the air. He was now aft of the mainmast. The cross-girdered tower, partially obscured by the rain, appeared before his eyes, seemingly rising disembodied from the darkness. He was forty feet above the afterdeck and twenty above the superstructure, almost dead center on the s.h.i.+p's midline.

Fisher felt himself b.u.mp to a stop.

"Cable stopped," Franco called.

"Confirm cable stopped," Fisher replied.

Again he scanned the superstructure and afterdeck and again saw neither movement nor heat signatures. He knew better than to do an EM scan; this close to the Gosselin Gosselin's navigation radar, all he would see is a blinding swirl of electromagnetic waves that would leave him with a three-day headache. He switched back to NV. Down the length of the superstructure he could see the faint yellow glow of light escaping from the pilothouse's port and starboard bridge wing doors-and cast in shadow on either wing a lone figure standing at the railing. Port and starboard look-outs. Not a concern right now. Their attention would be focused forward.

Fisher said, "Give me thirty of-" He stopped. On the afterdeck, a door opened on the superstructure, revealing a rectangle of red light. Standing in the rectangle was a man-shaped shadow. "Disregard my last. Hold cable."

"Holding cable."

The figure stood still for a second, then lifted its cupped hands to its face. Fisher saw the flare of a lighter. The hands dropped away, revealing the glowing tip of a cigarette.

Fisher said, "Stand by. Got a crewman on a smoke break."

Fisher dangled in s.p.a.ce, swaying slightly in the wind, which was partially blocked by the s.h.i.+p's superstructure, for another five minutes until finally the crewman finished his cigarette and then leaned forward and swung the door shut.

"Clear," Fisher radioed. "Preparing to deploy."

He heard the double squelch of "Roger" from Franco in his ear.

He scanned the afterdeck for a clean drop zone. There. A patch of open deck bracketed by a barrel-size bollard near the port rail and the raised, gla.s.sed-in control cabin for the stern winch. Fisher pointed his LTD at the spot.

"Read distance to deck."

Sandy replied, "Thirty-eight feet. Stand by. Calculating vertical variance."

In the c.o.c.kpit, Sandy would be using the flight computer to read the rise and fall of the Gosselin Gosselin's deck on the waves. Nothing got your attention or tended to break ankles like landing on a deck that was bucking up to meet you. It was like stepping off what you thought was the second-to-last step on a stairway only to find one more beneath your foot-only much worse.

"Variance of two feet, Sam."

Four feet in either direction, Fisher thought. Fisher thought.

He said, "On my mark, give me a sharp drop-thirty-four feet."

"Roger," Franco said. "Sharp drop of thirty-four on your mark."

Fisher watched the deck heave and drop below his feet. In the corners of his eyes, beyond the port and starboard deck railing, he could see the roiling, curled white edges of the waves. For a fraction of a moment he felt a wave of vertigo; he focused on the deck and blocked out the peripheries.

Wait for it . . . wait . . .

The deck heaved upward, paused, then dropped again.

"Mark."

He felt his belly lurch into his throat as Franco quick-spooled the cable. Half a second later Fisher jerked to a stop. He hit the rig's quick release, felt himself dropping, then hit the deck on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, dropped his shoulder, and rolled right, behind the bollard.

"Down, safe, and clear."

"Retrieving cable."

"Thanks for the ride," Fisher said. "I'll call you when I'm ready to shake the tree."

"At your service, boss," Bird said.

Fisher did a quick NV/IR scan of the deck around him, then sprinted, hunched over, to the superstructure, where he flattened himself against it. Palms pressed against the aluminum bulkhead, he sidestepped until his shoulder was pressed against the jamb of the hatchway in which he'd seen the smoker. He crouched down, then undogged the hatch a half inch and inserted the flexicam. The lens revealed a red-lit pa.s.sageway, ten feet long, and ending in a split ladder way, one going up and one going down.

According to Grimsdottir, the Gosselin Gosselin's crew numbered eight: captain, first mate, helmsman, three cargo handlers, and two engineers. It was four twenty. Most of the crew would be asleep, with the first mate and helmsman on the bridge and one engineer on duty in the engine s.p.a.ces. The big question mark was, who, if anyone, was guarding Calvin Stewart? Had Legard sent a bodyguard or two to mind the prisoner? He would soon find out.

Fisher withdrew the flexicam, then drew his pistol, opened the hatch halfway, stepped through, and pulled it shut behind him. He crouched for a full minute, listening and watching, until he was sure he was alone, then holstered the pistol.

He tapped the OPSAT's touch screen and called up the Gosselin Gosselin's blueprint. Drawn in green wireframe on the black screen, the schematic was fully three dimensional, and the OPSAT's stylus let him pan, rotate, and zoom the image. He played with it until he found what he wanted: crew's quarters, second level, forward, just below the pilothouse.

He crept to the ladder and peered down, belowdecks, and saw nothing, so he mounted the ladder and climbed upward until his head was even with the deck above. Another pa.s.sageway. This one, which had no direct access to the weather decks and therefore had no chance of emitting light other s.h.i.+ps might mistake for navigation lights, was lit not by red lamps but by wall sconces, which cast pools of dim light on the overhead and deck.

On cat's feet Fisher climbed the remaining few steps, then started down the pa.s.sage. He counted doors as he went. There were ten, one for each crew member and two spares. The doors were evenly split down the port and starboard bulkheads, five to each side, with an eleventh door-a janitor's closet-in the middle of the port bulkhead. As Fisher had feared, there were no name placards on the bulkhead, so finding which room held Stewart would take more time than he had. It was time to test his ruse.

He walked to the end of the pa.s.sage and stopped before the last door, where he crouched. From a pouch on his calf he withdrew a thumb-size cylinder of compressed air topped with an articulated and long-stemmed nozzle like those found on cans of WD-40.

Inside, suspended within the compressed air, were thousands of RFID (radio frequency identification) chips, each the size of a grain of sand-essentially RFID powder. Miracles of miniaturization, RFID chips had initially been designed for loss prevention in U.S. retail stores. Each product gets an adhesive tag into which RFID powder has been embedded and each chip, or grain, is equipped with 128-bit ROM, or read-only memory, onto which a unique identification number has been engraved by an electron beam. When a chip, or a sprinkling of chips, comes within range of a detector, the ID number is read and verified as purchased or not yet purchased.

For Fisher's purposes, the good folks at DARPA had taken the RFID powder concept one step further, first by coating each chip's surface with a silicate that acted much like a c.o.c.klebur that attached itself to anything and everything, and second by affixing to each grain an external antenna-a tiny ribbon of wire half an inch long and barely the width of a human hair-that extended the chip's transmission range to twenty feet.

As usual, of course, Fisher hadn't liked DARPA's official name for the RFID powder, which contained so many letters and numbers it looked like a calculus equation gone wrong, and had renamed it Voodoo Dust.

He pointed the canister at the deck before the door and pressed the nozzle. He heard a faint pfft pfft. He backed down the pa.s.sage, pausing at each door to coat the deck with the powder until he reached the janitor's closet, where he turned around, walked to the opposite end of the pa.s.sage, and then repeated the process, back-stepping until he'd covered each doorway and returned to the closet. He opened the door, slipped inside, and shut it behind him. On the OPSAT, he zoomed and rotated the Gosselin Gosselin's blueprint until the pa.s.sageway filled the screen; there, in the black deck s.p.a.ce between two notional bulkheads, were several dozen tiny blue dots, each one pulsing ever so slightly. Each dot, he knew, represented roughly one hundred RFID chips. The dots were spread down the pa.s.sageway, three or four of them per door.

Into the SVT, he said, "Paint job done. Shake the tree."

"Roger," Sandy replied from the Osprey. "On your b.u.t.ton four. Ten seconds."

Fisher tapped the OPSAT's screen, calling up the communications panel, then switched his earpiece to the indicated channel. For five seconds there was nothing but static, and then Sandy's voice: "Cargo vessel Gosselin Gosselin, this is the Canadian Coast Guard patrol s.h.i.+p Louisbourg Louisbourg, over."

Silence.

"I say again, cargo vessel Gosselin Gosselin, this is the Canadian Coast Guard patrol s.h.i.+p Louisbourg Louisbourg, do you read, over?"

"Yes, Louisbourg Louisbourg, this is Gosselin Gosselin, we read you."

"Gosselin, I am on your zero-five-one, four nautical miles. Confirm radar contact."

Ten seconds pa.s.sed and then, "Roger, Louisbourg Louisbourg, we see you. How can we be of service?"

There was in fact a Canadian Coast Guard patrol s.h.i.+p named Louisbourg Louisbourg, and it was in fact stationed in Gaspe, Quebec, but unbeknownst to the Gosselin Gosselin's captain, Louisbourg Louisbourg was hundreds of miles south, patrolling the coast of New Brunswick. The s.h.i.+p ten miles off the was hundreds of miles south, patrolling the coast of New Brunswick. The s.h.i.+p ten miles off the Gosselin Gosselin's starboard bow was in truth a j.a.panese cargo s.h.i.+p carrying DVD players and plasma televisions to Montreal.

"Gosselin, you are in Canadian territorial waters. You are ordered to heave to and stand by for inspection."

"Uh . . . Louisbourg Louisbourg, we are a cargo vessel home ported in Montreal and bound for Halifax. May I ask the reason for the inspection?"

"Gosselin, you are ordered to heave to and stand by for random spot inspection," Sandy repeated, an edge to her voice now. "Confirm compliance, over."

"Understood, Louisbourg Louisbourg. Heaving to. Gosselin Gosselin out." out."

Well played, Sandy, Fisher thought. Now, with the tree-shaking done, it was time to see what, if anything, would fall out. If Stewart were aboard and not already tucked away into one of the s.h.i.+p's nooks and crannies, Sandy's threat of a boarding party would likely scare his keepers into moving him. Fisher thought. Now, with the tree-shaking done, it was time to see what, if anything, would fall out. If Stewart were aboard and not already tucked away into one of the s.h.i.+p's nooks and crannies, Sandy's threat of a boarding party would likely scare his keepers into moving him.

Fisher snaked the flexicam out the louvered panel at the bottom of the door and switched to a fish-eye view so he could see both ends of the corridor.

Two minutes pa.s.sed without any activity. Then he heard it: a pair of feet pounding down a ladder somewhere forward of him and above. The pounding got louder until the footsteps entered the pa.s.sage outside Fisher's door. A man appeared at the forward end of the pa.s.sage. Fisher tapped RECORD on the OPSAT's screen, then switched the flexicam's lens to regular view and swiveled it to focus on the man, who was now striding down the pa.s.sage. The man stopped at the fourth door on the starboard side, slipped a key into the lock, then pushed through the door. Fisher heard m.u.f.fled voices, then a shout, some scuffling. The figure reappeared, now with a gun in his right hand and the bunched collar of Calvin Stewart in the other. Stewart's hands were duct-taped before him. His captor half dragged, half marched Stewart down the pa.s.sageway, and then they disappeared from view down the ladder.

Fisher withdrew the flexicam and studied the OPSAT's screen. Most of the blue RFID dots remained in the pa.s.sageway, but four of them-about four hundred chips-had done their job and clung to the shoes of Stewart's captor. The dots were moving aft and down. All hail the Voodoo Dust, All hail the Voodoo Dust, Fisher thought. Fisher thought.

He rewound the flexicam's video feed to where Stewart's captor entered the pa.s.sageway, then manipulated the timeline bar, forwarding and rewinding until he had a clear, well-lighted view of the man's face.

"Well, this is unexpected," Fisher whispered.

The face on his screen was Asian-Korean, if he wasn't mistaken.

15.

"I agree," Lambert said in Fisher's ear. "This is unexpected." agree," Lambert said in Fisher's ear. "This is unexpected."

Fisher had already compressed the flexicam's video feed and sent it to Third Echelon via encrypted burst transmission. Grimsdottir had quickly isolated the Korean's face, pulled a still frame from the video, and was now running it through the NSA's database-whose reach encompa.s.sed the CIA, the FBI, Homeland Security, and Immigration-looking for a match.

"You're tracking them?" Lambert asked.

Fisher checked his OPSAT. "Yeah, hold on . . . They just stopped." As he watched, the cl.u.s.ter of blue dots that represented Stewart and the Korean split in half, one staying in place while the other headed forward, in the direction of the bridge. "Okay, I think they parked him somewhere. Gotta move. Sandy's going to give me twelve minutes before she hails them again. Don't know if they'll move him again, but I'd better a.s.sume so."

"Agreed," Lambert said. "Go."

Zooming and panning the Gosselin Gosselin's blueprint as he went, Fisher followed Stewart's RFID cl.u.s.ter down three decks, deeper into the bowels of the s.h.i.+p, then finally into the aft cargo area. He found himself at the mouth of a long, dark alleyway bordered on both sides by winch-lifted cargo bins, each the size of a mobile home and fronted by a padlocked ten-foot-by-ten-foot door.

He flipped down his goggles and switched to NV, then tracked the signal to the end of the alley and stopped before the last bin on the port side. On his schematic, the blue cl.u.s.ter was pulsing steadily on the other side of the door.

Fisher knelt before the door and went to work. The padlock was tough, resisting his picks for a full two minutes before popping open with a muted snick snick. He hooked the padlock on his belt, then unholstered his pistol and flattened himself against the bin, opposite the hinges. Using his foot, he swung open the door and peeked around the corner.

There, lying in the fetal position on the floor of the bin, was Stewart. He looked asleep, but as Fisher stepped through the door, Stewart gave a whimper and curled himself into a tighter ball, forehead touching his knees. He started rocking.