Target America

47

The Montana Air Guard F-15 landed on Grosse Ile a few minutes before sun-up, just as Speed was being loaded aboard the Life Flight helo. Doc, the team’s Mexican American corpsman, was more concerned over the fact that Speed had gone into shock than he was by the loss of blood.

“It’s gonna be close,” he said to Gil. “Shock can be a bitch.”

Gil had seen men in worse condition pull through many times, and Speed was as tough as they came. He looked at Pope. “I think you probably saved his life, Bob. Thank you.”

“It’s Couture we need to thank,” Pope said. “He expedited the helo.”

“Be right back,” Gil said. He trotted out to the F-15, where the pilot stood waiting on the wing beside the cockpit.

The pilot handed down the laptop. “The passport’s under the lid.”

Gil opened the laptop and stuck the passport into his back pocket. “Much obliged.”

“You bet,” the pilot said, gesturing at the mammoth C-5 Galaxy. “How the hell they gonna get that thing back into the air?”

Gil shrugged. “Beats the hell outta me, Captain. Safe flight back!”

“You bet,” the pilot said again, climbing back into the cockpit of the F-15.

Pope met Gil at the edge of the tarmac, and Gil gave him the passport. Pope examined the passport photo for a long moment, searching his memory to place the face. “Jesus… this is Nikolai Kashkin.”

“That’s the guy Faisal told us to look for.”

“Damn,” Pope muttered, still studying the face. “It’s too bad your wife had to kill him. He’s very likely the mastermind of this entire operation.” He looked up at Gil. “Kashkin’s father was a colonel in the Soviet tank corps. He fought under his father in the Panjshir Valley, where he was taken prisoner by Mujahedeen. He was rumored to be connected to the KGB through an old-school Georgian assassin. His name was… Mulinkov. Daniel Mulinkov.”

Gil shook his head. “How do you remember all that shit?”

“Partial photographic memory — inherited from my father. He worked in the Magic intelligence program during the Second World War; personally deciphered the Japanese code that lead to the shoot-down of Admiral Yamamoto. Anyhow, my memory’s not like his, but it’s similar.”

A Gulfstream V with USAF stenciled on the fuselage touched down on the runway and rolled past them.

Pope smiled. “It’s a fine, well-oiled machine, the US military. Gather your men and their personal weapons. We won’t have room aboard for much else. We’re leaving for Langley immediately. I need to execute a brute-force attack on the laptop.”

A brute-force attack on a computer was an exhaustive key search used against encrypted data that could — in theory, depending on the size of the bit encryption — require a supercomputer capable of generating an amount of energy equivalent to thirty gigawatts of electricity for an entire year.

Gil put the laptop under his arm. “Shouldn’t we have a go at interrogating al-Rashid first?”

“We’ll get to him,” Pope said. “But now I’m sure he doesn’t have the slightest idea where to find the bomb.” He gestured with the passport. “Kashkin masterminded this operation. He was the linchpin, and we needed him alive. If his laptop’s been encrypted with a two-hundred-fifty-six-bit encryption key, we’ll never crack it. So get your team to bring the prisoners aboard the plane. We’re leaving.”

Langley was the last place Gil thought they should be. “Hold up a second.”

Pope stopped midstride. “What’s wrong?”

“Are you telling me this was a waste of time? The al-Rashids are a dead end?”

“The al-Rashids were the money, Gil. That’s what Kashkin was doing at your ranch — returning their favor.” He pointed at the laptop. “That thing’s our last chance. So if we manage to crack it, Marie really will deserve the Medal of Freedom.”

Gil rolled his eyes. “She’ll be thrilled.”