He then mentally used the grid and the sequence to compose a regular-looking message, filled in this case with standard boyfriend-girlfriend chat, remarks on the trip so far, and a few sexually suggestive lines. The recipient would use the same grid and sequence to pick out characters to form the message. All special ops guys had to learn this system by heart and be able to execute it without using pencil or paper to encode or decode, which took time but was a very effective poor man’s secure telephone.
The phony girlfriend’s e-mail address actually went via several secure servers directly to Patrick McLanahan. OK HERE he wrote. Those six letters took an entire 160-character SMS message to write.
McLanahan had a computer that would do the encoding and decoding for him, but he knew to keep the messages short because Whack had to mentally do the decoding. Patrick replied, GUARDS 24. That was a doubling of the known number of Russian guards at the facility, a sign that the mission could be compromised.
Whack sent: GIA.
Patrick replied: NO WORD.
Damn, Whack thought, it’s gotta be tough on the old guy. He wrote: GIA OK.
Patrick: CUSTOMS.
Whack: CURIOUS.
Patrick: GEAR.
Whack: ALL HERE.
Patrick: ASSEMBLED.
Whack: VISITORS.
Patrick: COPS.
Whack: MAIDS.
Patrick: LUCK.
Whack: GIA OK, then LATER.
Check-in done, he prowled around the house and the grounds. He found plenty of Irish whiskey, Scotch, bourbon, and tequila semihidden in the kitchen, got out a bottle, dumped a little in the sink to make the bottle look used, poured himself a half glass of water, and strolled outside-just in case he was being observed, it hopefully would look like he had fixed himself a drink and was settling in for the night. He then went back to his laptop and reviewed the information on the robotic fish-trap thingy he was supposed to demonstrate in a couple days.
About an hour before sunset, the motion sensor alerted him to a vehicle in the driveway, and a few minutes later Salam al-Jufri’s family arrived in a dilapidated Toyota pickup. Whack thought they acted as if he’d given Salam a yacht instead of a twenty-dollar tip-they bowed profusely every time they made eye contact, they brought enough food to feed a family of six, and they lit enough lanterns around the place to land a Boeing 747. The mother handed Whack a message written in broken English saying that they’d be back around seven A.M. for their morning chores, and reminded him to keep the big lantern near the front door lit so they would know not to disturb him in his bedroom as they worked. After they departed, Whack took the time to look around the compound for signs that any of the family had stayed behind. Satisfied he was alone, he got to work.
It took him just minutes to assemble the Tin Man armor exoskeleton from the parts in the big duffel bag, then hide it in the bathroom. He waited another hour until well after sunset, donned the Tin Man armor, then slipped on the exoskeleton and powered it all up using the battery packs in the duffel bag, which had been redesigned to resemble scuba diver’s weights. Everything appeared normal-another big hurdle crossed.
Now using the suit’s built-in secure communications system, he radioed: “Whack here.”
“Good to hear your voice,” Patrick McLanahan responded.
“Same here, General. Anything on Gia?”
“Navy helicopters have been on station for about two hours. They found wreckage but no survivors. No beacons. A destroyer from the Reagan carrier group will be there in a couple hours to assist.”
“She’s okay, General. They’ll find her.”
“Head back in the game, Whack. You copy the message about the guards?”
“I’ll be ready for twice that number.”
“You think customs suspects something?”
“The inspector didn’t look like your run-of-the-mill Jamaican glorified skycap-turned-customs-agent, General,” Whack said.
“He made me as military right away. I’d be surprised if he didn’t drop a dime.”
“Then maybe we’d better wait another night or two,” Patrick suggested.
“They won’t be expecting a Tin Man, General,” Whack said. “I assume the Russians are watching the house, and I assume they’ll be watching to see if I take off in the Range Rover-I’m a good six miles from the airport and to town at least. My tails will stay with the car, and I’ll be out and back in no time while they twiddle their thumbs. I say we press on.”
Patrick hesitated, but only for a moment, before replying, “Okay, Whack. Press on.”
WENCHANG SPACEPORT, HAINAN ISLAND, PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF CHINA
THAT SAME TIME
Riding an immense column of fire, the Chinese Long March-5 booster rocket lifted off from its launchpad on Hainan Island into the chilly, clear early morning sky. The massive rocket, China ’s heaviest-lifting model, had a three-stage, fifteen-foot-diameter core, with four ten-foot-diameter strap-on boosters, for a total of almost a million tons of thrust.
The launch window was very narrow for one reason: The payload for this mission was Shenzhou-10, the next component of the Chinese military space station, which was to link up with Shenzhou-7, already in orbit. Like the earlier spacecraft, Shenzhou-10 comprised three modules: the orbiter section, where most work was done; the command module, which was designed for reentry and had accommodations for the three-man crew; and the service module, which had all of the systems and equipment to support the spacecraft and also provided storage space. The payload also contained a docking module.
The launch was a complete success, and Shenzhou-10 entered its orbit in perfect synchronization with SZ-7. It would take just two orbits to close the distance between them, and then docking would commence. That would double the size and personnel aboard China ’s first military space station, Tiangong-1…
…which happened to be in precisely the same orbit as Armstrong Space Station.
TEN
The most rewarding things you do in life are often the ones that look like they cannot be done.
– ARNOLD PALMER
SOCOTRA ISLAND, REPUBLIC OF YEMEN
A SHORT TIME LATER
Whack waited until two A.M. before venturing outside via the back patio and roof of the house. He made careful scans of the area with the Tin Man suit’s millimeter-wave radar, infrared sensor, and sound amplifiers. Sure enough, there was a car parked about thirty yards east of the driveway, tucked behind a tree, with a view of the Range Rover parked at the base of the lighthouse.
“One tail on the main highway,” he radioed to Patrick McLanahan via his secure satellite transceiver built into the Tin Man armor.
“How many observers?” Patrick asked.
Through his telescopic low-light sensor he could see a lone white-skinned occupant in the vehicle, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper, with what appeared to be a camera with a long lens on a monopod. “One. Distracted. Good time to leave.”
“Roger.”
Whack dropped off the house, then down the embankment to the shore. He ran until he saw lights from a fishing boat, then climbed back up the rocky ledge and scanned again. He was out of the line of sight of the surveillance car, and the way was clear, so he went south of the highway, scanned again, then started running west toward Socotra Airport. The terrain was rocky and barren, with few places to hide, but it would make it easy to spot pursuers or locals. The land rose steeply at first, then dropped into narrow crevasses and then smoothed out to vast wastelands. Running and jumping would’ve been easier closer to the ocean, but he wanted to avoid fishermen and patrols.