Maden Mike - Tom Clancy Firing Point

For her, speed was sex.

The only sound she heard inside her helmet was the rush of cold night wind. The carbon fiber, all-electric Saroléa Manx7 sped along in utter silence. An extravagant gift from her doting father, the Belgian bike wasn’t even in production yet. It was everything she dreamed of—and the perfect escape from her lab in München. At work, the project controlled her.

Out here, she was free.

The bike was flawless, and stunningly fast. Unlike a gasoline engine, an electric engine accelerated near instantaneously—the same way an electric light turned on as soon as the switch was flipped. The Saroléa could go from zero to one hundred kilometers in three seconds. As soon as the mechanical limitations were addressed, the time between full throttle and full speed would approach zero.

Fast as light.

She leaned left into the next curve, her leathered knee nearly touching the ice-slicked asphalt. The grippy tires held firm.

She laughed.

Thank God no other vehicles were on the two-lane road this late at night.

Otherwise, she’d be dead.

She straightened up out of the turn and saw the long straightaway pointing toward the next turn and the starlit sky beyond.

She twisted the throttle full open.

The bike bolted forward. The speedometer jumped. The engine was software-limited to just 240 km/h. It was capable of far more than a human could handle.

Well, most humans.

But she wasn’t stupid; 240 km/h was a handful, even for her.

The Saroléa was nearing 150 km/h. She dared not take it further. In the next two seconds she needed to ease off the throttle and gently brake, then lean hard right into the next curve.

She eased the throttle.

The bike accelerated.

From 150 km/h to 270 km/h in the blink of an eye.

What happened?

The turn was on her. Faster than she could react.

Joy turned to terror.

She jammed the brakes.

Too late.

—

The man in the BMW coupe on the next ridge watched it all through his night-vision binoculars. He had timed the signal transmission perfectly.

The woman and the bike separated just moments after they launched into the air. He lost track of both as they tumbled into the rocks three hundred meters below.

Too far away to hear her scream.

Too bad.

OCTOBER 26

21

WASHINGTON, D.C.

THE WHITE HOUSE

President Ryan convened the emergency meeting of a very small and select national security team in the Situation Room.

Only Secretary of Defense Robert Burgess, Secretary of State Scott Adler, Director of National Intelligence Mary Pat Foley, Admiral John Talbot, and Arnie van Damm were present. They all sat in the high-backed leather chairs clustered on one end of the long mahogany table, Ryan at the head. Thick ceramic mugs with the presidential seal stood at each place, brimming with hot coffee or tea.

“Thank you all for coming on such short notice,” Ryan said, a pair of reading glasses perched on the end of his nose. “I want to keep today’s meeting brief. Given the gravity of the potential threat, the fewer people that are in the loop, the better. You’ve all been briefed about my conversation with Buck Logan.

“I don’t need to tell any of you what’s at stake. Like the historian said, Whoever commands the seas commands everything. And while I don’t yet consider this to be a direct national security threat, I do see it as a challenge to our capacity to protect the sea lanes and our global economic interests.”

SecDef Burgess added, “If the Chinese or our allies in the Pacific aren’t already aware of the situation, they soon will be. They’ll be watching how we handle this. Our failure to solve this problem will erode confidence among our friends and embolden the PLAN”—the Chinese Navy.

“If this thing escalates, it could panic global markets and destabilize the entire global economy,” SecState Adler said.

“Our job is simple, but not easy,” Ryan said, folding his hands on the table. “We need to figure out who’s behind this, how they’re doing it, and how we’re going to stop it.”

Ryan turned toward Admiral Talbot. “John, you’re up.”

Talbot clicked his laser presenter. The monitor showed four graphical images of satellites in geostationary orbit around the Earth.

“Let’s start by trying to answer the ‘how’ first and maybe that will get us to the ‘who.’ Before we begin, let’s discuss the national-technical means at our disposal.

“What you’re looking at here are the four SBIRS, Space Based Infrared System satellites, deployed by the Air Force Space Command. This is the backbone of the OPIR missile defense early- warning system. SBIRS provides us with an unblinking infrared eye—a global persistent stare. These satellites deploy the most sensitive infrared sensors in our inventory and are designed to detect primarily missile launches.

“SBIRS enabled us to determine that it was an SA-11 Gadfly missile launched from Russian-backed rebel territory in Ukraine that shot down Malaysia Airlines Flight 17. SBIRS tracked the missile from launch origin through trajectory to the final explosion that killed all 298 passengers.”

“Amazing,” Arnie said.

The admiral continued. “As it turns out, SBIRS is also able to pick up other man-made and natural heat events, such as conventional explosions, volcanic eruptions, artillery fire, and even midair aircraft collisions.”

“Was SBIRS able to detect any explosions related to the sinking of these ships?” Arnie asked.

Talbot shook his head. “The four SBIRS satellites are in geostationary orbit.” He drew a circle around one of the SBIRS satellites with his laser pointer. “Unfortunately, the satellite positioned over the Asia-Pacific quadrant failed three months ago. Its replacement is being readied and is expected to arrive on station early next year.”

“In other words, the almighty, all-seeing eye in the sky got a cataract,” Foley said.

Talbot nodded. “Yes, ma’am. One of them did. Some sort of a software glitch. But in truth, as I said before, SBIRS is primarily designed for detecting significant heat signatures—high-energy events like burning LOX rocket fuel. Even if SBIRS had been fully functional, it’s not clear that it would have alerted us to the sinking events.”

“I don’t understand,” Arnie said, frowning deeply. “Wouldn’t an explosion large enough to sink a ship generate enough heat to be detected?”

“That’s a very good question, Mr. van Damm. Let me be more specific. I’m referring to two possibilities. First, even if SBIRS had detected an explosion, it may not have conformed to the heat signature of a missile launch. So the event would have been stored as data and not brought to our attention.

“These infrared satellites are enormously sensitive and are picking up hundreds if not thousands of heat events every day. We couldn’t possibly respond to each of them or even sort through them with the human eye—which is why we use high-speed computers and complicated algorithms to do that automatically.

“The second reason why SBIRS may not have alarmed is because of the type of ordnance. For example, if it occurred underwater, like a mine, the thermal effects would have been significantly reduced. Like lighting a flare at the bottom of a swimming pool.”

Ryan leaned on the table, folding his hands. “If SBIRS had been in operation, it also could have detected an anti-ship missile launch, which would have answered even more questions for us.”

Talbot nodded. “Yes, sir. Air, land, sea, or sub-based launches could have all been detected.”

“A damn lucky coincidence for the bastards behind all of this,” Arnie observed.