To Hunt a Sub Page 3

  Curt Sauvain. They had been partners at LAPD. James yawned. 9:27 in Los Angeles. Curiosity got the better of him.

  “Bobby! Glad you’re working late. Something good I hope?”

  “According to Churchill.” The British Prime Minister had famously proclaimed that success was going from failure to failure without loss of enthusiasm. “Congratulations by the way, on your promotion.” Last year, Sauvain became LAPD’s Chief of Detectives.

  Sauvain chuckled. “Enough about me. You read about the Zematis case?”

  “It was all over the news.”

  “What the press doesn’t know is the murderer pounded a note into the old man’s chest threatening more deaths if our Trident subs don’t return to base.”

  “The fourteen SSBN submarines—”

  “—the most powerful offensive weapon platforms on the planet, armed with enough ballistic missiles to destroy our enemies ten times over. Yeah, those Tridents.”

  James’ instincts pinged. Zematis’ murder was about two weeks ago. Now the Navy had a missing sub. James had never met a coincidence he trusted.

  He said nothing because Sauvain had no need-to-know. His ex-partner continued. “The Navy says docking the Tridents is non-negotiable regardless who might be killed, though they put Kings Bay and Bangor—the two primary home ports—on alert.”

  James fidgeted with his glass. “Have there been more deaths?”

  “Not yet. I have one loose end I hope you can help with. D’you know a Columbia student named Kalian Delamagente?”

  James had dated a few grad students, but not from Columbia. “No. Should I?” He tapped ‘Zematis’ and ‘Delamagente’ into the FBI’s Criminal Justice Information Services Division Next Gen ID system. It could identify suspects by DNA, fingerprints, palm prints, or at least a dozen other methods and then used a subsystem called ‘Rap Back’ to cross-reference them to crime scenes and suspects. The only connection between these two names was the Zematis case.

  Sauvain continued, “Delamagente provided police with the physical address where Angel’s torture/murder occurred and proof the simulacrum was juxtaposed on her body, to make the suffering look fake and real at the same time. Double jeopardy prevents us from retrying Alland, but we could go after who bankrolled his defense.”

  A story popped up. “Delamagente will be at a DARPA—Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency—competition this weekend in New York City. I’ll see what I can find out.”

  James hung up and clicked open his address book. He knew just the guy for the job.

  Chapter 3

  Saturday

  Close to a decade working together and Zeke Rowe had never received three calls in thirty minutes from Bobby James. It was either a concerted effort to say hello or—more likely—he needed help, neither of which Rowe had time for.

  Among other things, he had to do something with his front yard. Right now, it was all weeds and brown cracked dirt, but had great potential—according to the real estate agent who’d sold it to him. Throw around grass seed, water it. Soil is perfect. That was just one of a long and growing list of deferred maintenance mentioned in the latest official letter from his homeowner’s group. Yesterday, he promised them he’d fix the sagging, weather-beaten, warped eyesore-pretending-to-be-steps before leaving the country for a three-week archaeologic dig. Today, he had to admit, he needed a Homeowner 101 course.

  He’d been sanding for close to three hours, with ample breaks to drink beer, watch a spider spin a web, and review plans for his field study. As sawdust floated through his fingers, a sense of giving new life to damaged wood warming him, he thought back to that Joint Task Force where he and Bobby James met. A Pakistani cell based in France had been selling American weapons out of Los Angeles. He was with Naval Intelligence at the time, sure he knew more than the civilian police and angry with Bobby James for wasting his time. James was in charge because it was LAPD turf. Rowe had been warned to play nice while offering what he could to assist.

  He got there early, eager to start, finish, and head home. James arrived late. One look at the man’s chiseled face, bull neck, wide shoulders, and seven percent body fat on a 250 pound six-foot frame was all it took. Rowe knew the type, good looking man’s man with a big personality that covered a paucity of skills. The fact he brought donuts did nothing to assuage Rowe’s simmering anger, though he ate four.

  Rowe spent the next eight hours arguing with everything James said, but the man refused to engage. At five p.m., James invited the team to dinner. Rowe tried to beg off, but James clapped him on the back and said it would be fun. He’d even drive.

  By half way through the meal, Rowe had slipped into a sullen silence, ignoring the buzz of friendly chatter, waiting for the first opportunity to leave.

  “Your turn to share, LT Rowe. Friends call you Zero. Is there a story there?” James found Rowe’s eyes, head tilted slightly, a half-smile playing on his lips.

  Rowe said nothing, but was impressed despite himself James had dug deep enough to come up with that closely-held nickname. When the silence became uncomfortable, James continued softly, “You’re intelligent, knowledgeable on this subject, with a reputation for connecting the dots with scary accuracy. How do you see this playing out?”

  Rowe waited a beat, but James remained motionless, face benign, eyes steady. Rowe decided to answer the question.

  For ten hours, as the other task force members listened, yawned, and finally lumbered off to bed, the two men verbally sparred, blew holes in theories, discussed evidence, and researched options. They moved from the restaurant to the hotel lobby and to the conference room when night turned to dawn. By the time the team reconvened at 8am, Rowe and James had a plan. It took less than a month to arrest the ring leader.

  When the courts released him on a technicality, James quit in disgust.

  Rowe had started sanding the last step when his sat phone rang again. He squinted at the blazing sun, still two hands above the horizon, took a gulp of beer, and answered.

  “You want me to attend a grant competition? I’d rather go out with your ex-girlfriend, the one who dumped you for a woman.”

  Rowe wiped his palms on a tattered t-shirt. The slogan—SEAL: Often mistaken for the wrath of God—had faded, but he owned ten more like it. Some days, his favorite was I don’t need a weapon. I am one. Other days, If I weren’t supposed to kill people, God wouldn’t have made me so good at it. It depended on his mood.

  Instead of one of James’ signature quips, he got empty air. “Bobby. I’m close to unraveling the mystery of man’s African exodus. Don’t come to me with a problem only I can solve. I don’t have time.”

  “Can’t a friend buy a friend lunch?”

  Rowe checked his watch. He could take a break. Why not? They agreed to meet at a local Mexican cantina.

  The sharp tang of peppers saturated the air as Rowe popped another tortilla chip into his mouth. James swatted a handkerchief over the booth before sitting. No surprise he was late.

  “Zeke, buddy! Good to see you. You never call. Never write.”

  The years since they’d last seen each other had been good to James. He was fit and tan with the presence of a man used to being listened to.

  “I ordered. Figured it would save time.” Rowe lasered in on James’ suit. “Is that red in your jacket the same as the shirt? Who does that?”

  “Magenta.” James corrected. “My personal shopper picked it. Not too much, right?”

  Rowe had no idea, so kicked James’ shoes. “What happened to the Blahnik’s?”

  “You like these?” James flapped his foot. “GQ gives them better style marks.”

  The only magazine Rowe read regularly was the American Journal of Archaeology, and it didn’t cover fashion. He fumbled for a rejoinder. “Do they get you where you’re going?”

  The adobe walls and overhead fans provided a welcome chill from the New York heat. The lunch crowd had left and dinner guests were still in the bar. Dishes clattered in the bac
kground, punctuated by Spanish. After the waitress delivered their food, James got down to business.

  “I only need you for one day. You’re the only guy I know with a Ph.D. in—what’s it called?”

  “Paleoanthropology. How I pay my bills.”

  When SEALs and the fast-moving drama of Navy Intel ended, Rowe reverted to a subject he loved: the study of man’s roots. He became renowned for both his research-intensive field studies and his well-evidenced articles written in words the armchair scientist could understand. His prose were said to do for ancient man what Margaret Meade’s did for anthropology. The zeitgeist of life was subtle, but satisfying. Rowe had no intention of returning to the snake pit.

  “Where are you going this time?”

  Rowe patted his pockets for a cigarette before remembering he’d given them up about the same time he quit doing stuff he didn’t want to do.

  “Israel, to research a theory about early man’s exodus from Africa.”

  “Isn’t that what you got your Ph.D. in?” When Rowe nodded, James added, “I thought our predecessors left via the Arabian Peninsula.”

  Rowe perked up. “That’s the conventional theory. I think their exit was the Rift Valley. With this field study, I hope to put a fork in the argument.”

  Rowe’s eyes flicked to a neighboring table, a family celebrating what looked like a birthday party. Both parents wore uniforms—the dad for a security company and mom a local pastry shop, faces tired but happy. The man’s blue-black hair was sprinkled with gray, but his eyes sparkled. Despite the faded look of hand-me-downs, the children’s clothes were spotless, the youngest in a frilly yellow dress and paper crown with crayon stars along the edges. When she caught Rowe staring, she broke into a beatific smile.

  Rowe turned away. Happiness depended upon who traveled with you. This nameless man was living Rowe’s dream.

  “What’s so important about this conference, Bobby?” His voice was gruffer than he intended.

  “One of our subs missed three call-ins.”

  Rowe masked his surprise. That kicked in an automatic protocol that would either find the sub, end the Captain’s career, or both.

  “The last position was west of Florida, almost home. We’re hoping to find it with comms and engines incapacitated, but that’s a big patch of ocean to search.”

  James stalled, like he ran out of words, but Rowe knew he was deciding how much to say.

  “Why involve you, Bobbie? The Navy has plenty of resources—” He stopped short. Unless they thought it was terrorism.

  James caught Rowe’s eye. “NCIS was tasked with background. They’re worried more subs are in danger. I know a guy there and he knows my experience. He asked me to get involved.”

  Rowe’s neck muscles tensed, but he kept his face a mask. “Again, why me? The FBI has its choice of prominent paleoanthropologists. I’ve been out of Intel for too long to be of any help, even if I wanted to be.”

  “NSA picked up chatter about a DARPA presentation. They don’t know the connection and neither do I. That’s where you come in. The presentation is by,” James pulled a notebook from his breast pocket and thumbed through it, “Kalian Delamagente. Something about tying ‘paleoanthropology’ to submarines. You may be the only intel guy alive who can understand the connection, maybe find a thread to our missing sub and its crew. I’m only talking a day. Surveil. Take pictures. Enjoy yourself.”

  Rowe eyed James, not satisfied at all with his friend’s explanation. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  James sipped his coffee, scanned the room, and checked his phone before answering. “Odd coincidence. I got a call from a buddy in Los Angeles. That murder trial that was all over the news—Zematis vs. Alland. Somehow it also connects to this Delamagente lady. She didn’t do it, but maybe she can lead the LAPD to whoever did.” He dipped his head and then eyed Rowe. “That old man didn’t deserve to die, and his daughter didn’t deserve what Alland did to her.”

  Rowe had seen the story. He remembered thinking no way was the torture in those images fake. “I can’t spend more than a day, Bobby.”

  James grinned. “That’s all I need. Just show me the slope. I’ll bring the skis.”

  Chapter 4

  Saturday night

  Kalian Delamagente pawed past half-used tissues, spare change, and AA batteries. I really need to clean out my purse, she thought, choking down the reflex to vomit. She closed her eyes against the fluorescent lights and fumbled blindly.

  “OhthankGod.”

  She teased the headache pill from a fold at the bottom of her bag, bit it in half and dry swallowed, then pressed her palms against her eyelids. Fifteen minutes and she’d be good.

  She’d had headaches since high school. Aspirin did nothing except churn her stomach. Normally, she went home to sleep it off, but tonight that wasn’t an option. She had only until Monday to convince a hunk of circuits with a god complex to help her.

  Technically, Otto was an AI—artificial intelligence—programmed to collect data and draw conclusions based on an objective interpretation of facts, immune to the prejudice of human emotion and experience. Though intrinsically capable of speech, facial recognition, lip reading, interpreting emotions, and game-play, she lacked funds to activate those functions.

  She built Otto for her early man research. He would collect billions of megabytes about the era’s flora and fauna, paleoclimate, and paleogeography, evaluate them and present his conclusions as a video—a movie with ancient man the star and his life the plot. Half-way through her research, as her funding came up for reconsideration, her Ph.D. advisory committee reclassified Otto as ‘paleoanthropology’—early man—where grants required an archaeology background. To get around this, she unveiled Otto’s intriguing research skills at local schools where he was an instant hit. In seconds, he could provide answers to everything from ‘Who’s the leader of Luxemburg’ to ‘What noise does a tree make if it falls in an empty forest?’ Because many schools lacked the robust infrastructure required to run Otto, she operated him off a network of slave computers called ‘zombies’, similar to what was used by the Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence—SETI.

  Despite these successes, funding continued to elude her. Monday’s DARPA presentation could change that, thanks to Catherine Stockbury—Cat—Kali’s best friend and office mate. Calling Cat smart was like calling Shakespeare a playwright. Besides a 188 IQ and a passion for reading, Cat had a caustic attitude and no patience for arguments lacking logic or evidence. Where those traits drove most people away, Kali liked the challenge and invariably came up with a new twist to the Gordian knot of her friend’s thinking.

  Months ago, Kali had been watching a video Otto created about man’s primeval world when Cat blurted, “I smell red oats grass...”

  Kali took a bite of the tuna sandwich she brought from home. “That’s from Otto’s sensory ports.” She indicated a tiny window on the front of Otto’s CPU. “He has access to millions of olfactive files to incorporate in whatever scene he displays, to provide more authenticity. Red oats were common in East Africa during this time.”

  “Proustian memory. Clever, but this comes and goes, like on a breeze.”

  “Otto stitched the paleobiology of the area into a 360-degree four-dimensional panorama—”

  “You include time.”

  A tingle washed over Kali, her sandwich frozen in midair. “Yes, of course. This,” she poked an elbow toward her screen, “is as close as anyone will get to Plio-Pleistocene Africa without a time machine. Let’s take the pothole the female hominid stepped in. The equatorial heat spiderwebs the savanna with crevices, but I might forget to add it. Otto wouldn’t.”

  Cat tossed a file to Kali.

  “Funding for Strategies in Support of Trident Submarines. Fascinating.” Where was this going?

  “Go online and apply.”

  “But Otto is an educational tool.”

  “You described an intelligence tool, Kal. Every day, US agents try to de
tect threats to our country based on millions of intercepts. The sheer volume overwhelms the effort. Connecting those dots—as Otto does—is what they seek.”

  “I know nothing about submarines.”

  “Ask Otto for the connections. We’ll go together.”

  Riverside Church’s seventy-four bells chimed ten pm. If she leaned just right, she could peer out the tiny slit that was her view of the outside and find the cross atop the twenty-four story Gothic structure.

  Tonight, she barely had time to use the bathroom. Thirty-four hours to show time. Two thousand forty minutes. Thrice as much time wouldn’t be enough. No matter how she refined Otto’s programming, he still wouldn’t listen. He treated deadlines and rules as suggestions. Qualitative attributes like ‘team player’ meant nothing to him. An hour ago, she had given up and told Otto to do what he thought best as long as it met her—their, he pedantically corrected in a typed message that appeared on her screen—goals. If he failed, they’d both be deactivated.

  It got worse. Her son Sean wanted to attend college next year. Kali struggled to keep him in peanut butter sandwiches and clothes much less class credits and textbooks. She needed this funding.

  “I’ll make it work, Sean.” For years, her promise was meaningless. Now, it was their bond.

  Her stomach growled, which happened when she missed lunch and dinner. As Otto rendered the next scene, she grabbed a handful of change and an empty plastic cup, and headed for the vending machines. Her senses pricked at the crack of a door slamming. When her name had been revealed during the trial of Angel Zematis’ murderer, a man named Salah Al-Zahrawi had offered to fund her research if she would use Otto to find something he had lost. She refused, explaining Otto was an academic tool, not a gun for hire. Al-Zahrawi didn’t like her answer.