Tom Clancy's Splinter Cell: Blacklist Aftermath (20 page)

“And it attacks our banking system,” said Caldwell.

“Much more than that. It renders GPS systems useless by exploiting systemic problem
with cryptographic keying scheme.”

“That’s impossible,” said Grim. “The GPS control segment is encrypted and uses top
secret algorithms. It’s managed from five redundant, high-security, and very hard
to reach ground stations all over the world. The master control station is in Colorado
Springs, with a backup at Vandenberg. You guys can’t get into their systems. No way.”

“Calamity Jane takes all of that into account. It brings down banking system. It exploits
vulnerabilities in military computer systems, and it interferes with GPS. Even Chinese
have nothing like it. And more you try to kill it, more powerful it becomes.”

President Caldwell closed her eyes, bracing for impact. “How much time do we have?”

“You’ve misunderstood,” said Kasperov. “I refused to release it. That’s why I ran.
They asked me to construct it, assured me it would be nothing more than deterrent,
and I even convinced myself that creating it would help me to write best software
to combat such virus. Keep your enemies close, right?”

“Yeah, but you had to suspect something,” said Fisher. “You had to know that one day,
they’d ask you to use it.”

Kasperov pursed his lips and shook the hair out of his eyes. “Maybe in more limited
way and on much smaller scale. I always assumed that ruining America’s economy would
ruin Russia’s. Conventional wisdom no longer true for oligarchs. They will take risk
and break world’s dependence on your economy. They say clean break is only way.”

“So they came to you, gave you the orders to throw the switch, and you told them to
screw off and bolted,” said Fisher. “But why the loud exit?”

“I wanted to go quietly, but I knew my people would suffer. I wanted to give them
time for escape. I couldn’t just leave them with nothing.”

“Can the Kremlin gain access to the virus?” Grim asked emphatically.

“No,” said Kasperov. “There is no way.”

“Are you willing to turn it over to us?” asked Caldwell.

“Absolutely not. Men should not wield such power.”

“Maybe you should’ve thought of that before you started banging in your code,” said
Fisher.

“Maybe so.”

“You said their plan has three stages. If you’re out, can they still go through with
the other two?” asked Grim.

“I would think so.”

Grim’s tone grew more demanding. “And what are they?”

“First, some important background. One of my company’s more recent projects involves
hardening thorium reactor control computers against cyber attack.”

“Thorium . . . is that a nuclear material?” asked Fisher.

Grim had already pulled it up on her tablet computer and read from the screen. “It’s
a fissile material that can be used for nuclear fuel. They call thorium reactors the
‘clean reactors.’ The stuff is a lot safer to work with than uranium or plutonium
but pretty toxic nonetheless, especially if you get it into your lungs.”

“That’s right,” said Kasperov. “Well, we received pressure from government to limit
scope of our research—for political reasons, of course. There’s a lot of money at
stake here, so I began small investigation, trying to understand why Kremlin wasn’t
supporting my work.”

“And what did you find?” Fisher asked.

“It was quite simple. Once hundreds of thorium reactors in Europe go online, Europeans
will eventually become fossil fuel independent—and this will destroy Russia customer
base. I had no idea my work would help undermine Russian economy.”

Grim frowned. “But how does that involve us?”

“I’ll tell you how,” Caldwell interjected. “We just struck a deal to sell our current
stockpiles of thorium to Europe, along with moving out some material belonging to
France and India. The buyers were lining up.”

“Yes, I know all about that,” said Kasperov. “And I know that oligarchs are not happy
about sale.”

“Exactly how
unhappy
are they?” asked Fisher, sensing where this was going.

Kasperov hesitated. “Unhappy enough to make sure your thorium never reaches destination.”

Grim’s tone grew urgent. “Madame President, you said we just struck a deal. What’s
the status of the thorium?”

“Final approval on the sales occurred last week. I assume it’s being prepared for
shipment.”

Grim bolted out of her chair and went charging across the room, toward the hatch.

Fisher glanced to Kasperov. “Come with me!”

26

CHARLIE
was calling out to Grim as Fisher and Kasperov arrived in the control center:

“Just got a huge hit on our old friend Rahmani from Bolivia.”

“It has to wait, Charlie!”

“All right, but—”

“Listen, right now we need to get into hazmat transport out of Yucca Mountain, Nevada.
Ghost truck fleet. We need direct access to their command center in Albuquerque. I
need to know if they’re currently shipping any thorium.”

“Did you say thorium?” Charlie looked at her for a moment, letting that sink in.

“Charlie!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m on it!”

“I’ll help him get access,” said President Caldwell, her image coming up on one of
the control center’s big screens.

“I’ll assist,” said Briggs, rushing into the room and dropping into a computer station.

In the meantime, Grim stared determinedly at the SMI’s screen. She brought up a 378-page
Oak Ridge National Lab report on the thorium stockpile in Nevada, and Fisher scanned
a bar graph over her shoulder.

There were 3,500 tons of thorium stored in 21,585 metal drums. Each drum weighed an
average of 330 pounds. The United States owned 18,924 drums of monolithic material,
India had 760 of granulated pebbles, and France had 1,901 of dry powder all stored
at the same site, buried in the side of a mountain.

Not a second after reading that, Grim typed in a request, and a wireframe representation
of a tractor trailer began rotating on the screen, with data scrolling beside it:

A twenty-foot-long truck could hold approximately 120 drums. This was assuming no
pallets, the drums packed into shipping containers. A tri-axel slider chassis could
carry up to 44,000 pounds on U.S. roads. The 120 drums would have a total weight of
approximately 40,000 pounds.

Over 800,000 hazmat shipments hit the roads every day, and all were highly regulated
by the government. There were even classified routes across the United States for
the transfer of such materials, with attempts made to keep them away from large population
centers, but that was often impossible. The most recent map glowed beside Grim’s truck;
however, when the government wanted to ship something highly classified such as nuclear
materials, weapons, or other such top secret military technology, there was no map
to be found, no record of the shipment. They’d call upon a “black” or “ghost fleet”
of trucks whose drivers would not answer to their civilian employers but be directed
by the government operators themselves. No other entities save for the government
could track them or communicate with them. The dispatchers at their respective companies
would be aware that drivers were on the road and transporting “something,” but no
other information would be available.

Ghost fleet cabs were fitted with custom composite armor and lightweight armored glass,
as well as redundant communications systems with dashboard panic buttons. The comms
were part of a Qualcomm-like fleet management computer wired directly into the truck’s
data bus. The command centers could monitor and track a vehicle’s GPS coordinates,
get readings from the dashboard instrumentation, and engage in encrypted communications
directly with the driver via an in-cab keyboard. Drivers or command center managers
had the ability to disable the truck via traditional means such as shutting off the
fuel supply and by the recent adoption of flux compression generators so the vehicle
could not be moved or opened, its electronics permanently disabled by a localized
electromagnetic pulse wave. Drivers had nicknamed that switch the “PON-R,” pronounced
“pone-ar” and meaning “point of no return,” a familiar term also used by aviators
to reference a point where their fuel level would no longer allow them to return to
the airfield.

In addition to the sophisticated kill switches, the trucks were designed to defend
themselves with concealable Metal Storm robotic 40mm guns that could quickly deliver
massive barrages of suppressing fire over a large area.

From the outside, though, you’d never know they were anything but your run-of-the-mill
haulers, with standard diamond-shaped warning placards and labels, and painted with
their company logos. Even the small comm domes atop their cabs were a common sight
on such tractors.

And as expected, sensitive materials were not left in the hands of apprentices. Ghost
fleet drivers comprised some of the most experienced haulers on the road, many with
over two million miles of hazmat transports under their belts.

The data Fisher continued scanning was merely a refresher course. It was his business
to know about the ghost fleet and their operations since hazmat materials were likely
targets for terrorist attacks.

“Okay, got it,” said Charlie. “TSMT’s in charge of the shipment. President Caldwell
just got me access to the ghost fleet’s network.”

Tri-State Motor Transit was one of a handful of companies that specialized in moving
hazardous materials for both civilian clients and government contractors. They had
a reputation for having some of the most adept and skillful drivers in the industry—but
if their shipments had been compromised, then all the safety training and experience
in the world could still fail them.

“Okay, patching through,” Charlie said.

The SMI flashed as a map of the United States blossomed to life, outlines of states
glowing in brilliant green with an overlay of cargo routes shimmering in red.

Grim began pointing to the flashing blue dots on the major highways. “Here they are.
I count eight, Charlie.”

“Confirm. Eight trucks. They’ve left Nevada and are en route to the Port of Jacksonville,
Florida. They’ve scattered the loads, though. Each truck is about eight hours behind
the one in front of it, with a few of them taking a more northern route you can see
there.”

“Do these trucks have escorts?” Kasperov asked from behind them. “Department of Homeland
Security teams or something?”

“No, they don’t travel with escorts,” said Fisher. “Draws too much attention.”

“Mr. Kasperov, you said the oligarchs might attack these shipments,” Grim began. “Do
you have anything more specific?”

Kasperov flinched and could not meet Grim’s gaze.

“If they want to take out the entire shipment, they’ll wait until all the trucks reach
the port,” said Charlie. “They could blow the cargo ship or even launch an air attack
from the shipping yard. Hell, they could already have the shipping yard rigged to
blow.”

Grim raised her voice, her tone twice as emphatic. “Mr. Kasperov? Do you know something?
If you do, you have to tell us. You realize what’s at stake here, don’t you?”

Fisher stepped over to the man. “We rescued your daughter. You do this for her. You
talk
.”

Kasperov nodded. “As I said, their plan has three stages. I was to be first. They
never told me about other stages. One of my best employees spied on one of them, hacked
his computers, and told me about it.”

“Are you talking about Kannonball?” Charlie asked.

“Yes, Patrik Ruggov, Kannonball. He learned about shadow war oligarchs have against
your nation. The president was trying to put an end, but they kept on. He learned
about teams of Iranians they hired who were smuggled into United States across Mexican
border and purchases of large quantities of C-4 explosives from cartels. He told me
about many trips to Nevada. He learned that stage two of attack was to be terror and
contamination. But again, I never thought they would go through with it. Always a
deterrent, a way to threaten Treskayev, manipulate him.”

“Where’s the lead truck now?” asked Fisher.

Grim pointed to the map. “Topeka, Kansas. Looks like it’s nearing exit 361B just south
of the North Kansas Avenue Bridge, rolling at sixty-eight miles per hour.”

“So we’ve got some time before all the trucks reach Jacksonville,” said Fisher.

“Maybe not,” said Grim. “I’ll have the SMI generate a blast scenario—because if you
think about it, multiple hits on multiple trucks would spread the most terror and
contamination. That’s what they’re after.”

“So you think the C-4’s already on board the trucks?” asked Fisher. “They won’t blow
them all in Jacksonville?”

“Not enough bang for their buck. I think the shipping containers were rigged before
the drums were ever loaded. An inside job with security at the site. Launching an
attack along the route requires them to know the route beforehand. Rigging the bombs
on a simple timer or via remote detonation’s a lot easier.”

“Jesus, I hope you’re wrong,” said Fisher.

“Me, too,” said Grim. “Because look at this.”

The SMI had generated a flashing blip with concentric circles to illustrate the explosion
of the lead truck on the I-70 off-ramp at Exit 361B near the bridge.

The shipping containers enclosing the barrels of thorium could withstand external
temperatures as high as 1,400 degrees, but they were never designed to contain the
overpressure and the chemically generated heat produced by an internal detonation
of an estimated two hundred pounds of C-4 needed to fully destroy the shipment.

Windows of data opened up alongside the neighborhood map of ground zero. These boxes
detailed the devastation in the immediacy of present tense:

Twenty-seven vehicles are demolished, their occupants killed outright. I-70’s overpass
collapses onto N. Kansas Avenue directly below, producing an additional thirty-eight
traffic fatalities.

While there is no actual nuclear yield, there is widespread window, roof, and negligible
structural blast damage in residential West Meade, north across the Kansas River to
Veteran’s Park. There are shattered high-rise windows as far south as SE Sixth Avenue
in downtown Topeka, and all the way out to Ripley Park in the east. Flash fires erupt
seemingly everywhere, initiated by falling white-hot debris.

“In powder form thorium nitrate acts as an accelerant in the presence of heat or explosive
devices when detonated,” Grim said. “The same way secondary explosions of accumulated
dust in air vents spread fire through ships and buildings. Check it out. It’s those
secondary explosions that extend the blast area to nearly three miles in diameter.”

Fisher’s mouth began to fall open as he continued reading the data.

Topeka’s first responders are initially overwhelmed, and it will be hours before significant
outside assistance can reach the city.

“What about the contamination?” he asked.

“I mentioned this earlier, but here are the technical facts: Thorium nitrate emits
radioactive particles that can be breathed in or swallowed or can penetrate the skin.
Most of the initial responders won’t be aware that they’re being exposed to ash and
dust from a highly toxic chemical.” Grim checked another data window. “If the stuff’s
ingested it can reduce the ability of the bone marrow to make blood cells and, in
bone, it has a biological half-life of twenty-two years. In all other organs and tissue
the biological half-life is about two years. While it’s not as bad as plutonium, it’ll
kill you just the same.”

Fisher continued scanning the medical report near the edge of the screen: Acute potential
health effects included irritated skin causing a rash or a burning feeling on contact.
Ingestion caused nausea, vomiting, dizziness, abdominal cramps, ulceration, and bleeding
from the small intestine, as well as bloody diarrhea, weakness, general depression,
headache, and mental impairment. Prolonged exposure could affect the liver, kidneys,
lungs, and bone marrow, as Grim had mentioned. The stuff was a recognized cancer hazard
and could damage the male reproductive glands.

And yet another window illustrated through a powdery white overlay how the blast would
spread a fine layer of radioactive particles and debris onto exposed individuals,
homes, vehicles, plants, animals, sidewalks, and highways, while a significant amount
would fall into the nearby Kansas River, whose waters flowed eastward.

Fisher realized that such a blast near any river system could cause a catastrophe
for future cleanup crews. In this case it’d be a civil nightmare for Lawrence and
Kansas City, both downstream of the blast. The terrorists would be contaminating the
air
and
the water.

But there was more . . .

According to the SMI, at the time of the blast the prevailing winds would be out of
the south, meaning the contamination would not just be confined to a rough circle
with a three-mile diameter. That was the initial zone.

In the minutes following the detonation, an ever-expanding radioactive dust cloud
more than two thousand feet high would be depositing psychological terror and physical
illness along a twenty-mile swath, five miles wide.

In all, 97,000 of Topeka’s 250,000 citizens would be contaminated in varying degrees.

Many would die in a city that President Caldwell called her hometown.

“Madame President, all eight of those trucks need to be stopped immediately,” said
Grim.

“I concur,” said Fisher. “If they’re rigged to blow, EMP’s the only way to take them
out.”

“You need to be sure of this,” Caldwell said.

Fisher turned to Kasperov, his voice never more steely. “Are we sure?”

The man nodded nervously. “Stop those trucks.”