Terminal Run

“Good.” Catardi said. “I’d like a rematch with that computerized witch. This time we “II cheat and put her down.”

“Rob,” McKee said, his eyes narrowed, “this isn’t an exercise.”

Catardi sat back in his seat, stunned.

“I was briefed on this by Patton himself. And he heard it from NSA, the National Security Agency. You’ve worked for them before, Rob, so I don’t need to mention that in addition to their missions to spy on enemy radio signals, phone communications, and E-mails, they have an information warfare tasking, to break into foreign military command-and-control systems. While entering one foreign battle command network, they found out that the U.S. Navy computer networks and command-and-control systems have been penetrated. Correction — not just penetrated, taken over. Our command networks and top-secret communications systems no longer belong to us.” McKee paused. “Every radio transmission you make is monitored, intercepted, decoded, translated, and disseminated to the enemy’s highest levels. Same goes for every E-mail and every phone call — cell, landline, or Web — and for the data passed over the Navy Tactical Data System. So commanders can no longer talk to each other. And the penetrators can give electronic orders, disabling our combat systems when we want them to shoot, or turning our own guns against us.”

“Jesus, that means we’re paralyzed. We can’t do shit without NTDS and our communications network. Who penetrated our command networks? The Red Chinese or the Indians’?”

“It’s complicated,” McKee said. “The electronic attackers are an independent mercenary group of military consultants, the same company that pulled the trigger on last summer’s terrorist assault on the Princess Dragon. It’s possible they did this on behalf of India, but they may be selling information to both sides. That’s where our need-to-know ends. More important to us is that we agree on how we’re going to talk to each other with our com ms compromised.” McKee reached into his briefcase and produced two pad computers, handing both to Catardi.

“These NSA computers, used with the paper sealed authentication system, are the only secure means of communication left to us other than mouth-to-ear.”

The Sealed Authentication System, known as SAS, was a supply of sealed foil packets enclosing paper slips with concealed codes, the packets distributed to each afloat commander. The codes printed on the interior paper slips were used to verify the authenticity of an incoming emergency ac lion message. The system was the only part of the war-fighting network to remain stubbornly nonelectronic. Years before Pat ton had argued to eliminate the system and go completely digital. Thank God he’d been overruled, Catardi thought.

“There will be two National Security Agency employees assigned to your ship, to operate the electronics of the command network as a disinformation program, to keep the enemy confused. The system will belong to NSA. Your actual com ms will use Internet E-mail, encrypted and decrypted by the NSA’s handheld computers and authenticated by using the SAS sealed authenticators.

“Since our command network is penetrated and compromised, we’rein deep trouble with the Snare. Since the battle network is penetrated, we must presume Snare to be compromised. We can’t afford for her to fall into enemy hands. With her deployed in the Atlantic, if she has been taken over, she could target our East Coast subs as they scramble to the Indian Ocean.”

“Indian Ocean, sir?”

“I’m jumping ahead. For now, I want Piranha on a search and-destroy mission. You know the sound signature and inherent operating behavior of Snare, and you’ll find her first. Put the Snare down and hurry. Then get Piranha to the Indian Ocean. I’ll tell you why once you’re on your way.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Ten minutes later the civilian-clothed admiral stood and shook Catardi’s hand. Catardi escorted him topside, and stared after the man as he walked briskly down the pier. Catardi’s mind was still whirling after the admiral’s briefing. Piranha was at war, and he couldn’t tell his crew until the ship was submerged in the Atlantic. The thought occurred to him that the Snare could be lurking out there waiting for him, and that the computerized sub might kill him before he could kill her. “Screw her,” he muttered to himself.

He looked over at the Piranha, at Pacino up in the bridge cockpit. The kid was studying the chart computer and the tides, checking the channel with his binoculars, and looking down at the tugs, occasionally speaking into the bridge communication box microphone or his radio. It was eerie — even though his resemblance to his father was slight, he moved just like the old man, his hand motions and facial expressions identical.