Authors: Leslie Wolfe
Olga and Nikolai, Smolin’s cover daughter and son-in-law, had left the dining room immediately after finishing dinner and cleaning up the table. They were still uncomfortable in his presence and kept quiet almost all the time.
Smolin understood how he intimidated them; having a high-ranking SVR officer stationed in their home while on a covert mission in the United States was a dangerous position for them to be in. However, they had been nothing but supportive and dedicated since he’d arrived, proud and eager to serve Mother Russia the best they possibly could.
Well-trained by the SVR, prior to their arrival on a visa lottery green card, the Novachenkos proved to be unexpected assets for Smolin. He had to recognize the wisdom of the case manager who had recommended them and their residence for Smolin’s base of operations.
Alone with his laptop, Smolin logged into his webmail server and started drafting a new message. He no longer used Gmail or Yahoo; not since he’d learned the NSA swept those servers systematically, and that the major technology players of the Silicon Valley had signed secret alliances with the NSA, participating directly in security actions alongside the American government. Bastards . . .
He had moved to a smaller, private server that managed domains for sale, and, under one of those domains, he had set up a webmail account. Well, it hadn’t really been his idea. Valentina Davydova had taught him to bypass the monster servers and go with the smaller, inconspicuous email servers, more likely to be omitted from the systematic security sweeps the NSA conducted.
Smolin typed his email message. The subject line read, “Happy Birthday To You!” and the message body contained a few lines of text.
Dear Mother,
I have arrived home and started preparing your party. I’ve invited a few guests, not too many, but I can invite more if you’d like. I’ve also picked a couple of gifts for you that I hope you will enjoy.
More to come soon. Happy birthday!
Love,
Your devoted son,
Zhenya
When he finished typing, Smolin read the message again and smiled. He was happy with his idea. The message read like a plain birthday email greeting; yet he was clearly telling his boss, Vitaliy Myatlev, that he had deployed his first few assets and already had valuable pieces of information to send home.
Satisfied, he closed the message without sending it, saving it into the drafts folder of his webmail application. Sending it would mean the message would have to go through the NSA’s screening, and why risk it? Even if the message seemed inconspicuous, it was better if he didn’t send it at all.
Instead, he had set up a communications system before departing from Russia. He had shared his username and password for that email account with Myatlev. Soon, Myatlev or one of his people would log in using a proxy server and read the message saved in the drafts folder of the webmail application, then delete the draft or edit it to reply. No email message would ever cross the NSA-guarded servers, because, technically, no information would leave the American-based servers heading toward Russia.
Wasn’t technology great? Too bad he couldn’t use the same method to transmit the actual intelligence; the risk was too big with large amounts of data, schematics, or images that could trigger the interest of who-knows-what network engineer to sneak a peek. Even encrypted photos ran the same risk. The NSA was aware of the practice to embed information into the background of banal photos, and they screened every server, every photo-sharing application, everything. He had to find another way to send the intel home, and he had to move fast. The stuff he was sitting on could do miracles for Russia’s aged military technology. Maybe he could ask Mother how she’d like her gifts sent to her; maybe she had an idea.
He reopened the webmail drafts folder and adjusted his message, then saved the unsent message, closed everything, and went to bed.
Her cell phone chimed, startling her from agitated, restless sleep. She’d been on pins and needles, waiting for the polygraph test result, not very confident she was able to pass, not sure of the consequences of some of the answers she had given.
She picked it up with a groan and checked the new text message responsible for the familiar chime sound.
“Poly passed,” the message read. “Meet the team tomorrow 9.00AM at Naval Station Norfolk—Pier 7, USS
Fletcher
—Jeremy.”
“Yes!” Alex gave an excited yelp, jumped out of bed, and started dancing around the room. “Yes!”
Alex had no problem whatsoever locating the USS
Fletcher
. Her hull was distinctively different, standing out from a distance. She quickly found parking, right across from Pier 7, then trotted toward the vessel, curious to explore.
She’d read about it during the past couple of days, thirstily absorbing every bit of information she could, and hoping she’d be able to retain something. Some of it read like a foreign language, filled with concepts she didn’t understand and had to look up.
Mason had given her credentials to join the team as an engagement consultant, her official cover job being liaison between the project team and the US Navy. Not all projects needed an engagement consultant, but some did, and Mason felt this was the most inconspicuous manner she could join the team with her limited knowledge of naval warfare and laser systems, and limited time to prepare.
She waited eagerly for Walcott’s van to appear and drop off the project team at the pier, so she could finally board the Fletcher with them. She checked every minute or so, but then turned her head back to study the ship’s elegant hull.
There had been controversy about that stealth-hull design, and, apparently, the jury was still out whether its seaworthiness exceeded that of an Arleigh-Burke class vessel, the backbone of US Navy’s destroyer fleet. The
Fletcher
was a Zumwalt-class destroyer, capable of sending more than a hundred guided missiles toward their targets before having to return and rearm. Its hull was what they called a tumblehome design, narrowing up from the water level and giving her a unique silhouette.
That was part of her stealth design; more stealth features were built in, like its inverted bow, designed to cut through the waves and generate minimal wake. The deckhouse was integrated into the hull design, making the
Fletcher
appear smooth in its narrowing toward the top and presenting minimal visible detail into its technical and weapons equipment. The power and propulsion systems were also integrated, none of that equipment visible above sea level. If she were to compare the
Fletcher
with any other type of vessel she’d seen, it would have to be a submarine. Yes, the Fletcher looked just like a submarine, more than 600 feet long, floating proudly on the surface. Amazing.
“And I’ll need you to help me with that, Quentin,” a female voice disrupted Alex’s study of the
Fletcher
.
There they were, passing her by, the Walcott team of five engineers, unmistakable; they all wore color-coded hard hats with Walcott’s logo on them. She caught a glimpse of the Sprinter leaving the dock and she hurried to catch up with the project team.
“Excuse me,” she said, and they stopped and turned toward her. “Are you guys the Walcott project team for the laser cannon installation?”
“And you are . . . ?” the man Alex knew from photos to be Bob McLeod asked.
She extended her hand and gave Bob a firm handshake.
“Alex Hoffmann, engagement consultant for the Navy. I’m supposed to tag along with you guys, help you out with whatever you need, and document and observe the installation, to give our PR something to work from,” she spouted at machine-gun speed. “You do realize they want to make a big deal out of this launch, right?”
“Yeah, we do; we were wondering when you’d come. Sylvia Copperwaite, mobile installations,” the woman introduced herself. She was charming and delicate in person, features that her human resources file failed to convey. She also had a haggard, almost ashen look, covered for the most part with carefully applied makeup, but revealed here and there, especially around her tired, sad eyes.
“Bob McLeod, PM,” the first man introduced himself, a dutiful smile fluttering on his lips for exactly one second, quickly replaced by a look of irritation, complete with clenched jaws and tense muscles she could see knotting under the skin of his cheeks.
“Faisal Kundi, embedded software.” Faisal shook her hand politely, a little hesitant. Alex noticed about him a shyness, almost fear of scrutiny. Faisal averted his eyes immediately after introducing himself, and stared at the blue waters instead.
“Vernon Blackburn, lasers, but you can call me Vern.” This one studied her at large; there wasn’t a shred of shyness in this guy, as he was measuring her from head to toe.
Whoa, buddy, we just met,
she thought, feeling how he was undressing her with his eyes. He was an attractive man, his shoulder-length hair giving him an artistic, rebellious air. The way he studied her, his smile and body language, was a powerful, heady mix.
Mr. sex-bomb with a PhD
, she thought, almost chuckling. She refrained from that and returned a gigawatt smile instead, almost flirting. Sylvia rolled her eyes discreetly; she’d probably seen hordes of naïve women fly like moths into Vernon’s perma-flame.
She turned toward the last man and extended her hand.
“Quentin Hadden, weapons.” Quentin also averted his eyes and shied away from the physical contact of the handshake, making it as superficial and as quick as possible.
“All right, let’s get this show on the road,” Bob McLeod called them to order. “We’re on a very tight schedule.”
They boarded the
Fletcher
. Alex’s head was on a swivel, taking in all the details.
“Welcome aboard,” a uniformed man greeted them, “I’m Captain Anthony Meecham,” the man said.
Alex shook his hand enthusiastically, and said, “You must be proud of your command, captain.”
The man gave a wide smile, showing two rows of perfectly aligned, white teeth. “I sure am, ma’am.” Based on his record, he was a highly decorated sailor, although he didn’t seem a day older than thirty-two. None of those ribbons hung on his chest though; he was wearing a Navy working uniform.
“Call me Alex, please.”
“Ma’am,” he replied unperturbed, as if acknowledging the order, yet making it clear he was going to maintain his professional distance.
“You act like you’ve never done this before,” McLeod said, causing her an instant adrenaline rush.
Damn . . .
“You’re right, I haven’t,” Alex replied, deciding to go with the least amount of lying necessary. “You’re very observant, Bob. I just got this assignment; they were short on staff and gave me the opportunity to leave my desk and come out here, meet all of you in person and visit the
Fletcher
, get some hands-on experience. I am thrilled to be able to do that; it will help me a lot in my work.”
McLeod shrugged and went away, probably to start working. Most of the team had scattered the moment they set foot on the ship. They knew their way around, and they had a team of sailors and shipyard workers waiting for them.
“Then maybe you’d like a tour?” Captain Meecham asked.
“I would love it!”
Meecham turned and started walking quickly, after making an inviting gesture with his hand. She scampered behind him, trying to keep up.
“The easiest way to go down these stairs is to descend facing them, like this,” he demonstrated, leading the way below deck. She followed.
“The
Fletcher
is a stealth, guided-missile, destroyer,” Meecham explained, “or at least it was until now. The installation of the LaWS will enhance the ship’s capabilities, and might even drive the addition of a new battleship type in our nomenclature.”
He stopped and turned toward her, showing her into a large room that resembled an office more than the inside of a battleship.
“This is our operations center,” Meecham continued his presentation. “This is the only class of battleships that features the total ship computing environment. Any operator can control any of the ship’s systems from any of these stations.” Meecham pointed toward one of the computer desks, each featuring three monitors.
Alex looked around the massive room.
On one of the walls, above the operations center, were three main LCD screens displaying radar and navigation information. Alex counted at least twelve of those computer workstations, some staffed, some deserted. At one of the manned stations, an operator was showing something to Faisal Kundi.
She had a million questions, but didn’t want to flaunt her ignorance and raise any red flags. She proceeded cautiously.
“What else is unique to the Zumwalt-class destroyer?” Alex asked.
Meecham smiled proudly and said, “Almost everything. Nearly all systems are integrated; for example, we have an integrated power system, generating electricity for the ship’s propulsion, weapons, and electronics. The propulsion is all electric, quiet, and it can do thirty knots and still power up everything else. Our engines are Rolls-Royce gas turbines driving generators.”
“This is unusual, right?”
“It’s innovative, new, and has only been deployed on this class of destroyers so far. We call it the all-electric ship. And here’s another unique feature—the integrated undersea warfare system,” he said, pointing at a specific area on the ship’s blueprint displayed on a monitor. “It’s an automated system of two sonar arrays, offering early detection for any underwater threats, such as mines, torpedoes, or submarines.”
“How about weapons?”
“Our missile launchers are vertical, buried in the hull along the sides; that’s a key feature to maintain our stealth capabilities. Above deck we have two 155mm guns that can shoot self-propelled, in-flight guided ordnance, with a range of eighty-three nautical miles.”
“Sea targets?” Alex asked.
“Sea, land, and air,” Meecham replied with parental pride.
“How about the new laser cannon? Where are they installing it?” Alex looked at her notes.
“That location was quite the controversy with the Walcott engineering team members. Originally, they wanted to remove one of the 155mm guns, to make room for the cannon. Then someone figured out that because the cannon doesn’t weigh much and doesn’t recoil, it could be installed on top of the helo hangar. After they did a few studies to confirm that the radar cross section or the aerodynamics of the ship would not be impacted by that choice of installation, it got approved.”
He turned and started walking briskly, and she followed, curious to see the cannon’s future location.
They entered the helo hangar from inside the deckhouse; it was deserted and marked with signage to alert that construction was in progress. Noises of hammers hitting metal, and the distinctive sound made by welding torches was coming from outside.
“We needed to reinforce the structure to support the cannon installation. The entire deckhouse, including the hangar, has a composite structure, to make it light and reduce radar signature. Now that reinforcement is complete; they’ve started the actual installation work. Let’s see,” he said, carefully exiting the hangar, trying to avoid tripping on loose cabling, scattered tools, and equipment crates.
Alex saw Sylvia discussing energetically with Bob over a blueprint, their heads close together; from a distance, they seemed to be having an argument, some sort of a technical disagreement.
Quentin was working on a mobile weapons control interface, a device that looked like a rugged laptop. As for Vern, the sex-bomb with a PhD, he was nowhere in sight.
“Do you have women serving on the
Fletcher
?” she asked innocently.
“Yes, we do. Out of our complement of 140, there are 27 women, mostly in computer operations.”
Probably that’s where Vernon Blackburn was, looking for his next adventure at sea. Alex turned her attention back to Captain Meecham, who stood silently, waiting to be of service.
“How will the laser cannon work? Why is it so special?”
“It will reside in a cupola, whose components will retract allowing the cannon to become exposed and have line of fire with the target. You can see the components of that cupola over there,” he said, pointing at two white quarter-sphere assembly elements. “The cannon brings a sizeable advantage to our weapons array, because of its precision, which is unprecedented, and its low cost to operate. It also brings a humanitarian aspect to our military engagements. With the laser, we can target the propulsion or the weapons systems of an enemy vessel, and cause zero or almost zero casualties. We don’t need to sink ships to disable them; not with the laser cannon.”
“How precise are we talking?” Alex asked. “You mentioned your 155mm guns have in-flight guidance, right? That makes them fairly precise, I’d guess.”
“With the laser cannon we can blow up a can of Coke from the hull of a vessel from 500 yards and leave the vessel intact, that’s how precise it can be. We can take a drone out from the air at 250 yards, where few people even see it. Actually, if everything goes well with this installation, on Memorial Day, we’ll host a ceremony and demonstrate the cannon to SecNav and SecDef.”
“You mentioned cost as being one of the advantages?”
“Yes, and a major one. An in-flight guided 155mm shell is almost $50,000, and a Tomahawk missile will set you back $1.41 million. Even if you choose to use ‘dumb’ 155mm shells, unguided ones, they go up to $1,000 each, and the cost stacks up fast due to the loss in accuracy and effectiveness. So, you see how the laser cannon brings an advantage at roughly $1 per shot, right?”