“She’s being towed to Norfolk’s secure shipyard.”
Lambert aimed a remote control at one of the half-dozen plasma screens that lined the Situation Room’s walls. A satellite image of Norfolk harbor faded into view. The Trego was easy to spot. Flanked by three Navy frigates and an Arleigh Burke-class destroyer, the freighter was under tow by a harbor tug.
“They’re prepping a dry dock for the NEST team as we speak.” Lambert said, referring to a Nuclear Emergency Search Team from the Department of Energy.
Before FBI investigators could board the Trego, the NEST would have to determine the source and level of the ship’s radioactivity. Luckily, so far it appeared nothing hot had leaked from the hull — something that certainly would have happened had she run aground.
“And our prisoner and his laptop?” Before boarding the Blackhawk helicopter Lambert had dispatched for him, Fisher had grabbed the laptop and then hoisted the Trego’s lone crewman onto his shoulder. In some cases, prisoners were better than corpses.
“Grim is working the laptop. Whatever key he pressed did more than set the engines to flank. It scrambled the hard drive, too.”
“Yeah, he seemed a tad determined. He’s in medical?”
Lambert nodded. “He’ll make it.”
“Good,” Fisher said, taking a sip of coffee. He screwed up his face and frowned at the mug. “Who made this?”
“I did, thank you very much,” a voice said. William Redding, Fisher’s advance man and field handler, walked through the door. With his horn-rimmed glasses, sweater vest, and pocket protector, Redding was a bookworm of the highest caliber with an almost fanatical focus on planning and details. As annoying as his intensity could be, Fisher couldn’t imagine going into the field without Redding guarding his flanks.
“And by the way,” Redding said, “the nerds from DARPA called. They want to know what you did with their Goshawk.”
Fisher said, “Let me get this straight: You’re calling the DARPA people nerds?”
Lambert chuckled under his breath. Redding wasn’t known for his sense of humor.
“I’m a geek, Sam. They’re nerds. There’s a profound difference.”
“My apologies.”
“The Goshawk?”
“Safe in the equipment room.”
“And its condition?”
“Hard to say, given how little there was left of it.”
Redding’s eyes narrowed. “Pardon me?”
“There was fire—”
“Pardon me?”
“A joke. Relax, it’s as good as new.”
Redding was already heading for the door. He stopped at the threshold, hesitated a moment, then turned back. “Sam?”
“Yeah?”
“Glad you’re in one piece.”
Grimsdottir walked in twenty minutes later. Born in Iceland, Anna was tall and statuesque, with a model’s cheekbones and short, brown-auburn hair — a choice Fisher suspected had more to do with function than it did with fashion. Above all else, Anna was practical. Worry about whether she was having a “hair day”—good or bad — wasn’t on her list of priorities.
“Welcome back, Sam. I don’t see anything glowing.”
“The day is young.”
“I talked to the docs at Aberdeen. They confirmed that whatever’s aboard the Trego, you didn’t receive enough of a dose to worry about.” She walked over to a nearby computer workstation and tapped a few keys. A frisbee-shaped 3D model of what Fisher assumed was the hard drive from Trego laptop appeared on the screen. The disk was broken into irregularly sized geometric chunks outlined in either red, green, or yellow.
Grimsdottir said, “Okay, what do you want first, the good news or the bad news?”
Lambert said, “Bad news.”
“All the red data sectors you see were wiped clean by the self-destruct program. They’re gone, period. No coming back.”
“That’s a lot of red,” Fisher said.
“About eighty percent. Green is probably recoverable; yellow is iffy.”
“And the good news?” Lambert said.
“I may be able to tell who wrote the self-destruct program.”
“How?”
“Most programmers have a signature — the way they block code, handle syntax, write background comments… Those kinds of things. Sometimes it’s as distinctive as handwriting. And I can tell you this: Whoever wrote this program is sophisticated; his signature is unique. It may take me a few—”
Suddenly a muted alarm came over the loudspeakers. In unison, all the computer monitors began flashing, their screens overlayed by a large red exclamation mark.
“Oh, God,” Grimsdottir murmured, staring at the screen.
“What?” Lambert said. “What’s going on?”
“A virus just got past our firewall. It’s attacking the mainframe!”
5
“Silence those alarms, Anna,” Lambert ordered.
The room went quiet.
“How’s this possible?” Lambert asked. “This is the NSA, for God’s sake, not eBay. How could something get past our firewalls?”
“The laptop,” Fisher murmured.
Grimsdottir nodded, eyes fixed on the screen. “You got it. Colonel, there was a virus buried in one of the hard drive’s sectors. A worm, designed to come alive as soon as it detected a connection with any of the laptop’s ports. As soon as I hooked it up to run diagnostics—”
“Can you stop it?”
“Working on it. It’s moving fast, spreading through the mainframe. I’m trying to get ahead of it… set up a firebreak. If I can divert it into a unused server, I can trap it. Damn, it’s moving fast!”
For the next fifteen minutes Fisher and Lambert watched in silence as she worked. Blocks of green-on-black computer code streamed across the monitor. Grimsdottir’s hands became a blur on the keyboard. Slowly the code seemed to lose momentum, coming in erratic bursts, until finally she leaned back and exhaled. Her face glistened with sweat. Her hands were shaking.
“I got it,” she said. “It’s trapped on an empty archive server.”
“How much damage did it do?” Lambert asked.
“A lot, but it didn’t reach the backup systems, so we’ll be able to rebuild most of the mainframe.”
“And the laptop?” Fisher asked.
“Gone. Well and truly dead. One piece of good news, though: There’s only a few people in the world with the voodoo it takes to write that kind of virus. Give me a day, and I’ll have a name.”
“Go,” Lambert ordered.
Once she was gone, Fisher turned to Lambert. “I have an idea about the Trego.”
“I’m listening.”
“I don’t buy the Liberia registration.”
“Me neither.”
“You can disguise a ship in a lot of ways, but there’s one thing you can’t hide: the engine serial numbers. They’re stamped everywhere. Here’s the rub, though: The FBI will eventually find the numbers and eventually the info will trickle down to us—”
Lambert grinned. “I hate the word eventually.”
In this case, “eventually” could mean weeks of bureaucratic wrangling. Fisher returned Lambert’s smile. “Me too.”
Fisher had known Lambert for nearly twenty years, having first worked with him in the Army’s Delta Force, then again as they were both tapped for an experimental program that took special ops soldiers from each branch of the military and transferred them to counterpart units. Rangers went to Delta; Delta went to Marine Force Recon; and in Fisher and Lambert’s case, Delta went to the U.S. Navy’s Special Warfare Sea-Air-Land unit — the SEALs. The idea was to create operators of the highest caliber, trained to be the elite of the military’s special forces community.