Nighthawk

3

Rudi drove to Upolu Airport, a small strip on the northern tip of the island. A gleaming turquoise Gulfstream waited on the tarmac with engines running. It was a NUMA aircraft, one Kurt recognized as a model with extended range.

The aircraft was buttoned up as soon as Kurt and Rudi took their seats. Moments later, they were screaming down the runway. After a long takeoff roll, the Gulfstream clawed its way skyward and turned east.

As they climbed, Kurt stared out the window. Off in the distance he saw the dark clouds of the tropical depression that had sent the swells barreling to the shore. After a tip of the imaginary hat to the storm, he turned his attention back to Rudi.

Of all the men at NUMA, Rudi was the closest thing to an enigma. Now in his late forties, he had lost none of the intensity and precision that were his trademark. Fiery but close-lipped, Rudi could be jocular and fun but never quite let down his guard. His mind was always active. Even now, as he sat in silence contemplating whatever it was they would soon talk about, Kurt could sense that Rudi was planning, coordinating and rearranging things. He was a logistical genius with a knack for getting things set up in the most efficient order.

Kurt let him be. Twenty minutes went by before either of them spoke. “Are we going to see a flight attendant sometime soon? I could use a drink.”

“You know alcohol is not allowed on NUMA aircraft anymore,” Rudi said.

Kurt chuckled. By the book, as always. “I was thinking a bottle of water or a nice, cold Coke.”

“Oh,” Rudi said. “Sorry. Help yourself.” He pointed to a fridge.

Kurt unbuckled his seat belt and went to the mini-fridge. He opened it and plucked two bottles of Coke from the back, where they’d be coolest. Glass, not plastic, and he noticed the fine print on the label. It was written in Spanish, suggesting the plane had been restocked somewhere south of the border. Turning the bottle in his hand, Kurt found the bottler’s address, nodded to himself and closed the fridge.

He returned to his seat, opened both bottles and slid one toward Rudi. “Time to talk,” he said. “Judging by the long takeoff roll and the slow climb, I can tell we’re carrying a lot of fuel. By our course, I can safely assume we’re not going to Oahu or Los Angeles; and by the wrinkles in your shirt, I’m assuming you’ve been on this plane a long time. Just came to get me and to bring me back, I’d suspect. So where are we headed? Somewhere in South America?”

Rudi was in the process of pouring the Coke into a glass as Kurt spoke. “South America?” he said. “Is that your guess?”

“It is.”

“A rather large place,” Rudi replied with a grin. “Maybe you’d care to be more specific.”

Kurt hemmed and hawed for a second as though thinking deeply on the subject, though he already knew exactly what he was going to say. “Ecuador.”

Gunn’s eyebrows went up.

“Guayaquil,” Kurt added, “to be precise.”

Gunn looked truly shocked. “With all due respect to the great Johnny Carson, Carnac has nothing on you.”

“Not really,” Kurt said, grinning and pointing to the Coke bottle. “These were filled in Quito. But that’s a landlocked city. The largest port in Ecuador is in Guayaquil. And we tend to work on the sea.”

“Hmm,” Gunn said. “Not sure whether to be more impressed or less.”

A red phone buzzed beside Gunn’s chair. He picked up the receiver and listened for a moment. “We’re ready,” he said. “Put them through.”

“If you’re not giving the briefing, who is?”

“A colleague in the National Security Agency.”

“Am I working for the NSA now?” Kurt asked. He’d been loaned out before.

“Not just you,” Gunn replied. “Every NUMA ship and team member within five thousand miles.”

Now Kurt’s eyebrows went up. There could be only one reason for that. “They’ve lost something.”

Gunn didn’t confirm or deny. “I’ll let them explain.”

A flat-screen monitor on the bulkhead wall came to life. It displayed the confines of a briefing room with two men at a desk. The first was an Air Force officer with multiple ribbons on his blue jacket. The second wore a shirt and tie.

The man in the tie spoke first. “Good afternoon,” he said. “My name is Steve Gowdy. I’m the director of ExAt projects for the National Security Agency.”

“ExAt?” Kurt asked.

“Extra-atmospheric,” Gowdy replied. “Basically, anything that takes place above the stratosphere. Including our satellite and maneuvering vehicle projects.”

Kurt nodded to indicate he understood and Gowdy leaned toward the camera like a TV reporter on the evening news. “Before I begin, you have to understand that this project is of the utmost importance and is compartmentally classified on a highly restricted basis.”

Kurt had heard this speech before. “There’s not much in the NSA that isn’t. But I understand.”

Gunn cracked a smile, but Gowdy didn’t seem to get the joke.

“We’ve had our project go off the wire at the last moment,” Gowdy continued. “An experimental craft on a reentry profile over the South Pacific.”

Kurt knew something about the NSA’s space operations. “X-37,” he said, referring to the well-known NSA craft that was launched on a rocket and returned to Earth by gliding back down similar to the space shuttle.

“No,” Gowdy said. “A vehicle we call the Nighthawk. Its official designation is VXA-01. It’s the first of its kind. In a way, the X-37B was a prototype, a test bed used to develop certain technologies. The new craft is twice the size of the X-37 and far more capable.”

“I’m impressed,” Kurt said. “I’ve never heard of it. Not even a rumor.”

“We’ve done our work keeping it quiet,” Gowdy admitted. “By flying the X-37 under mysterious circumstances, we’ve been able to occupy the public’s attention and give them something to be suspicious about. In the meantime, we’ve built Nighthawk and had it up in space for over three years. Unfortunately, it went off course on reentry and failed to answer commands.”

“So… are we worried about losing the warp technology to the Klingons?” Kurt asked.

Gowdy sat in stony silence before answering. “There are no warp drives,” Gowdy said without a trace of humor, “but the Nighthawk is the most advanced aircraft ever built. It was constructed with materials and technology that are two generations beyond anything the European, Chinese or Russian space agencies are using. It’s a revolutionary aircraft. I say aircraft because it looks like a plane, but, make no mistake, it is a spacecraft, capable of maneuvering in orbit, acting autonomously and completing missions the shuttle never dreamed of. And while it doesn’t have a warp drive, it does possess a revolutionary ion propulsion system that could be used for Earth — Moon travel and cut our transit time to Mars in half.”

Kurt nodded. “And you want us to look for it.”

“You’ll be part of a team responsible for a specific sector in the search zone. Naval assets from Pearl and San Diego will be working close by.”

As Gowdy spoke, Rudi Gunn unlocked a briefcase, pulled out a file and passed it to Kurt.

Using the edge of his palm, Kurt broke the imprinted seal. Inside, he found information about the Nighthawk: trajectory data, time sequencing and a map.

“As you can see,” Gowdy continued, “we lost track of it halfway between French Polynesia and the South American coastline. Based on the last telemetry response, and the vehicle’s speed and altitude, we believe it came down somewhere east of the Galápagos Islands.”

Kurt studied a satellite photo with red lines overlaid upon it. The lines showed a widening cone of probability that began just east of the Galápagos. It stretched and widened in a sideways V toward Ecuador and Peru. A scale suggested the calculated odds of the Nighthawk coming down in any particular section.

“Does it have an emergency beacon?” Kurt asked, still studying the map.

“Yes,” Gowdy replied, “but we’re not receiving a signal.”

“So we’ll be looking for debris,” Kurt concluded.

“No,” Gowdy said firmly.

Kurt looked up.

“We have reason to believe the Nighthawk landed intact,” Gowdy said.

Gowdy went on to explain the autoland system and how the internal processors would take over the flight controls once commands from the base at Vandenberg were cut off. He mentioned the word confidence at least three times but never gave a reason why the autoland system should be working when so many other systems on board had failed.

Kurt let it go. “What resources do we have for the job?”

At this point, Gunn took over the conversation. “Everything we could get our hands on,” he said. “NUMA has three vessels in the area. One coming up from the Chilean coast and two coming through the Panama Canal from the Gulf of Mexico.”

Another sheet of paper came Kurt’s way. It listed the various ships.

“Paul and Gamay Trout are already on the Catalina,” Gunn said, referring to two of the most trusted members of NUMA’s Special Projects team. “They were down off the coast of Chile doing an ecological study. They’ll be within range in about fifteen hours.”

“That’s fortunate,” Kurt said.

Rudi nodded. “The Jonestown and the Condor will transit the canal and arrive thirty-six hours later.”

“Thirty-six hours sounds a little optimistic,” Kurt said, looking at the relative positions of the ships. “It’s nearly thirty hours’ sailing time and the canal looks like a freeway at rush hour this time of year. Ships can wait as long as two days to transit.”

“They’re getting a priority hall pass,” Rudi said. “Since NUMA helped prevent the destruction of the canal a few years ago, we’ve had a gold star status anytime we stop by.”

“Ah,” Kurt said, recalling hearing about the operation from Dirk Pitt himself. The fact that NUMA’s Director had been personally involved in thwarting the destruction paid dividends to them all.

Gowdy broke in. “NUMA will be in charge of the southern and eastern patrol areas. In three days, a salvage fleet from the Navy’s 131st Salvage Squadron will arrive from San Diego to search the western half of the target zone, while additional vessels from the Pacific Fleet will cover the western edge of the search area.”

Kurt was looking at the list of vessels. Aside from two auxiliary ships out of San Diego, they were all warships. Destroyers and frigates. “What’s with all the firepower?”

“Unintentional consequence of logistics,” Gowdy said. “This section of the Pacific is a long way from everywhere. Forty-five hundred miles from Pearl. Twenty-nine hundred miles from San Diego. These were the closest, fastest ships equipped to search for underwater targets. Additional salvage vessels are following, but they can’t keep up and are being left behind. In addition, P-3 Orion and P-8A aircraft are crisscrossing the search zone, dropping sonobuoys and other autonomous units to assist the search.”

There was some logic to that, but it suggested panic. “That’s a large fleet,” Kurt said. “Are you sure that’s the best way to do this?”

“What do you mean?”

Kurt closed the folder and leaned back in his chair. “I have to assume you want to keep this quiet. A dozen American ships and a swarm of aircraft surrounding the Galápagos Islands might be tipping your hand. The tortoises might think we’re invading.”

Gowdy nodded appreciatively on-screen.

Kurt made a suggestion. “We could always publish a story that NUMA’s doing an ecological study. Put that out in the press and no one would think twice about a few extra research vessels moving into the area. Once they’re on station, we could deploy their helicopters and survey boats and search to our hearts’ content. All without drawing any attention to ourselves.”

“Not a bad idea,” Gowdy said. “Except we think the Chinese and Russian intelligence services are already clued in. Within hours of the Nighthawk’s vanishing, we noted course changes from several vessels belonging to each country. We’re tracking them. I think you can figure out where they’re headed.”

“The Galápagos Islands,” Kurt said.

“Exactly,” Gowdy replied. “Right for the heart of our search area.”

That suggested other complications. “Do you think they’ll interfere?”

Gowdy shrugged. “I’ve given up trying to predict what our Chinese and Russian friends will do. My job is to keep them from doing it. But after that mess in Ukraine and all the problems in the South China Sea, I don’t put anything past anyone. And once you understand how badly they want what we have, you’ll come to the same conclusion. According to our studies, the Russians have fallen so far behind in technology that they’re in danger of getting lapped. The Chinese are a little better off because they have an army of engineers over there and more spies than you can shake a stick at — but they still operate without much ingenuity and are probably a full decade behind our latest designs. Add in the fact that both countries prefer to catch up by stealing what we have rather than coming up with their own ideas and you can imagine them licking their chops.”

Kurt understood that concept quite well. Spying and stealing have always been a big part of Russian and Chinese research efforts. “There’s a reason the Russian space shuttle Buran looks exactly like the one we designed. A reason their Blackjack bomber is almost indistinguishable from the B-1.”

“Yes there is,” Gowdy said. “In a way, I can’t blame them. In their shoes, I’d do the same thing. But we’re not in their shoes and there are no circumstances under which they’re going to be allowed to get their hands on this vehicle.”

“What if they find it first?” Kurt asked, wondering if Gowdy was talking about a shooting war.

“No circumstances,” he repeated.

The words were cold and unyielding and Gowdy didn’t bat an eye as he spoke them, but that brought to mind another question.

“So why didn’t you just blow it up?” Kurt said, putting the folder away. “Prevent any chance of them finding more than a fragment of the hull?”

Gowdy looked stricken.

“I have to assume it had a self-destruct mechanism?” Kurt asked. “Why not blow it to pieces and avoid all this?”

“We tried,” Gowdy croaked. “The self-destruct command failed. A review of the telemetry data shows a complete loss of communications just before the command was initiated.”

“A game of inches,” Rudi Gunn added. “Or fractions of a second.”

Gowdy nodded.

Kurt turned his attention back to the effort. “How many ships are the Chinese and Russians sending?”

“We count nine Russian vessels, including a few warships. Twelve Chinese ships. All military. Including their newly built aircraft carrier.”

“Thirty ships, from three different countries,” Kurt noted. “All desperately looking for the same thing in a fairly restricted area. What could possibly go wrong?”

“Anything and everything,” Gowdy grunted. “We’re in a race against time. Every day that craft is missing, the danger increases.”

Something in Gowdy’s tone struck Kurt oddly, as did the stony silence of the Air Force officer, who hadn’t said a single word.

“We’re the closest,” Gunn said, jumping in. “NUMA will be on scene days before anyone else. I’ll bet you a bottle of Don Julio tequila that NUMA locates the Nighthawk before either our Navy or the Russian and Chinese fleets.”

Gowdy nodded appreciatively. “I’ll see your bottle of Don Julio and raise you a box of Cuban cigars if you can find it before our adversaries arrive.”

Kurt was listening and thinking at the same time. With only three ships, two of which wouldn’t be there until at least a day after his own arrival, chances of success were slim. But then, Kurt had spent a lifetime figuring out ways to change the odds. As he studied the map, an idea jumped out at him, a way to up his chances and deal a blow to the Russian and Chinese fleets all at the same time.

He looked up with a roguish grin on his face. “In that case, someone better call Fidel and ask him to start picking out the best tobacco leaves on the island. Because if the Nighthawk is out there, I’m going to find it for you. And I’m going to do it before we see any foreign flags on the horizon.”

Gowdy looked on blankly, probably considering Kurt’s boast nothing more than a false bravado. But Kurt had an ace up his sleeve. An ace and an elephant.