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  STRIKE FORCE

  THE CARDS IN THE DECK #2

  ROBERT STANEK

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters, names, places and events portrayed in this book are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to any actual locale, person or event is entirely coincidental.

  STRIKE FORCE

  THE CARDS IN THE DECK #2

  Copyright © 2014 by Robert Stanek.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced in whole or in part, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Reagent Press LLC, Attention: Permissions Department, P.O. Box 362, East Olympia, WA 98540-0362.

  Text and illustrations copyright © 2014 Robert Stanek.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. First Printed in the United States of America.

  Reagent Press LLC

  www.reagentpress.com

  REAGENT PRESS

  Also by Robert Stanek

  Ruin Mist Chronicles

  Keeper Martin's Tale

  Kingdom Alliance

  Fields of Honor

  Mark of the Dragon

  Scott Evers Thrillers

  The Pieces of the Puzzle

  The Cards in the Deck

  The Pawns on the Board

  The Players in the Game

  Absolutes & Other Stories

  Look for spoken-word versions of these

  and other Robert Stanek books!

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  World Time

  Mountain Time, USA

  Coordinated Universal Time -07:00

  Brussels, Paris & Madrid

  Coordinated Universal Time +01:00

  Beirut, Cairo & Tripoli

  Coordinated Universal Time +02:00

  Chapter 1

  Bluffdale, Utah

  Afternoon, Previous Day

  Outside it was a scorching 82 degrees and that was oddly hot for the mountains of Utah, even if it was the height of summer. Dave Gilbert powered down the window of his black BMW X5 as he pulled up to the security checkpoint outside Camp Williams. The Harman Kardon sound system was playing Slow Cruel Hands of Time, a beautiful acoustic performance by Band of Horses, one of his favorite groups.

  After showing his ID to the guard at the gate and getting waved through, he cut across the camp's six square miles of flatland and made for the more mountainous area at the back. He was headed for the National Cybersecurity Initiative Data Center, aka the DC.

  Entry into the DC perimeter was secured as well. He stopped at the second checkpoint and flashed his NSA contractor badge.

  "Afternoon, Mitch," he said as the guard on duty waved him through the checkpoint.

  Although Camp Williams was an army garrison, most of those on duty here were from the Utah National Guard. Dave liked that since he'd served in the Guard years ago. Plus, the guardsmen were more relaxed than the soldiers he occasionally encountered.

  The area around the DC had been used as an airfield previously, but there was little left from those days. Now the area was largely occupied by the massive data halls, multistoried buildings that housed the high-speed computers and enterprise data storage equipment used for mass global surveillance. There were also various administration and support buildings.

  His destination was the administration building where he did most of his work as a senior data mining and analysis specialist. He preferred the admin building to the data halls. Mostly because the admin building was usually a comfortable 72 degrees, rather than the cooler 68 degrees of the data halls.

  Before he could get into the administration building, he had to pass through a third security checkpoint, which largely amounted to him touching his NSA contractor badge to a card reader while a guard made sure the reader light turned green and not red.

  His workspace was on the third floor, all the way on the far side of the building. He made a sharp right to the stairs, walked up to the third floor, and then hurried along the main corridor to the 3C suites where he worked.

  When Dave logged into the main system, he was an hour and 45 minutes early for his shift, but he had promised to prep the query engine updates for the swing shift analytics team and so he immediately started work on setting up the precursors. Following the mandatory revisions checklist, he validated the backups of the existing query structures, notified users the systems would be going down at the previously announced outage time, and then accessed the new code in the version control subsystem.

  Before taking the system offline, he entered a simple query using the native query language: BASE X:MEDSEA -24H SS:* & 2>1 TEST.LOG. Aside from the final part that displayed the result totals to his screen and also stuffed the full results in a log file for later comparison, the query was a standard one. After serving in the National Guard, he'd been a crypto-analyst at NSA headquarters in Ft. Meade. His last assignment had been the Mediterranean desk and the query was one he'd used often to check live activity levels.

  As soon as he pressed Enter, the query ran and the * ensured it was applied to all NSA surveillance systems. Soon encapsulated summaries for the past 24 hours from the Mediterranean region were being logged. The rapidly updating report totals told him most of the summaries were coming from PRISM, the super secret surveillance program that allowed the NSA to monitor all Internet communications.

  Although this was all work he usually enjoyed, his thoughts wandered. The other reason he'd come in early was to review the results from his latest D-Wave tests. The latest version of the D-Wave was decidedly different from its predecessors, though still a 10-foot high black box containing a cylindrical cooling system wrapped around a niobium computer chip chilled to about as close to absolute zero as mankind could get. There were only three of the latest generation of the multimillion-dollar chips in existence, and one of those was sitting in its massive black box inside his testing room on loan from In-Q-Tel, the high-tech investment arm of the CIA.

  Quantum computing was still so radical and strange that even some of the most advanced engineers in the world were still trying to figure out what it was for and how to use it. As one of the few people with access to the exotic technology, he was working to create optimized algorithms that allowed anyone to tap into quantum computing's unparalleled potential for solving the world's problems. At times, it seemed he was tapping into the very fabric of reality in ways no one had ever previously thought possible.

  Chapter 2

  Mediterranean Sea

  Early Morning, Tuesday, 19 June

  To the east, the first faint light of morning was consuming the darkness. On the deck, the crew hurried about their tasks. Hidden from view, a powerfully built woman with bright blue eyes watched with the intensity of a leopard waiting to pounce on its prey. Her gaze was sharp. Her traditional robes covered her black scuba suit. Her hijab covered her close-cropped blond hair and was up around her face so that only her stunning blue eyes showed.

  Though many prepared themselves for the mission, everything was quiet and calm. It was the kind of reassuring tranquility that steeled her heart to her task.
r />   She watched as the men checked their weapons and she watched for her target, knowing the target was somewhere below decks. The target was the one complication. The one kink in an otherwise flawless plan. A kink she'd soon eliminate.

  Still in the shadows, she crossed to the port side of the boat where a dozen strongboxes and crates were piled high. She opened one of the boxes and retrieved its contents--in this case, the instrument of her target's demise.

  She laid out the 7.62mm semi-automatic rifle, using the stack of crates in front of her as a base for its tripod. As she relaxed her breathing and set her right index finger alongside the trigger, she peered through the sight of the 6x48 riflescope, made a two-click adjustment for the slight breeze and the distance.

  Today would be the prelude of tomorrow's glorious beginning. The culmination of a masterful work--and the next 48 hours would decide everything.

  Nothing left to chance.

  She switched off the safety on the rifle, signaled to the captain to set the boats on a drift course toward the Sea Shepherd. On her signal, the attack began. No weapons at first, only the heavy chain links the fishermen would have used--if there were actual fishermen on any of the boats in her tiny fleet.

  Predictably, those she watched responded by sounding a ship-wide alert. She watched and waited as they responded with fire hoses and stink bombs. Any other day such a response would have sent the fishermen running, but today wasn't any other day.

  The L129A1 Sharpshooter she used was effective at a range of up to 800 meters. Her target would be much closer and she was confident there would soon be one less complication.

  She stared through the sight, blocking out everything else as she controlled her breathing and prepared to take the shot that would change everything.

  One bullet. One bullet to erase the trail and blaze the way to tomorrow.

  The target came up from below decks like a Brahma bull out of a chute at a rodeo. She sighted the target in her scope and squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter 3

  Mediterranean Sea

  Afternoon, Tuesday, 19 June

  The amphibious assault ship USS Kearsarge turned slowly toward its rendezvous with the battle group led by the aircraft carrier USS Harry Truman. The Kearsarge was alive with activity, like a hornet's nest that had been kicked hard.

  Scott Evers was exhausted, and only adrenalin from all that had transpired kept him on his feet. He followed Midshipman Tinsdale as she led the way from the ship's mess. Being a civilian, former NSA operative or not, he wasn't allowed anywhere aboard the Kearsarge without escort.

  Being designed for amphibious assault meant the Kearsarge was part aircraft carrier, part guided missile cruiser, and part troop transport. Not only was the Kearsarge 844 feet long and 106 feet abeam, but the ship also had an impressive displacement of about 40,500 long tons, which made her roughly half the size of the USS Harry Truman.

  The Kearsarge's armament included two short-range anti-aircraft and anti-missile weapon systems; two infrared homing surface-to-air missile systems; three radar-guided 20 mm Gatling guns designed to defend against anti-ship missiles; and eight .50 machine guns. In addition to a complement of about 4000 combat-ready sailors and marines, the Kearsarge carried 22 Ospreys, 6 Harrier IIs, and 6 Seahawks.

  As Ospreys were tiltrotor aircraft with both a vertical takeoff and landing (VTOL) and a short takeoff and landing (STOL) capability, they were essentially half conventional helicopter and half long-range turboprop aircraft. Harrier IIs also had V/STOL making them very capable ground attack and armed recon fighters. Seahawks were capable combat helicopters equipped for naval warfare missions as well as search and rescue operations.

  In the tight quarters, the crew practically had to crawl over each other at times. Midshipman Tinsdale was overly formal. She hadn't said a word as she sat across from Scott in the ship's mess. Scott's mood was such that he wasn't really hungry, but he had eaten because he knew his body needed the sustenance.

  Now the midshipman was mutely leading Scott back to infirmary, but he didn't want to go back to infirmary. He didn't want to sit beside Edie as she clung to life. What he wanted was answers. Answers he would only get if he made his way to the operations room. Serious obstacles to that though were his escort and the civilian clothes he wore.

  Scott suspected the clothes were donated by someone of a similar build, but he didn't know by whom. The black, long-sleeved t-shirt, the gray sweat pants, and the white sneakers all seemed to be someone's idea of after-hours dress. He was thankful for dry clothes after his ordeal in the water, but he really wished he was in uniform now.

  If he was wearing a uniform, he could go just about anywhere on the ship. Looking down at the shirt that he'd hastily pulled on earlier, he grinned when he saw the Kearsarge's insignia over the right breast with the "Proud – Trustworthy – Bold" motto stitched beneath in white letters.

  One good thing about the seat he had chosen in the mess was that the ship's diagram had been on the wall directly opposite him. The diagram, meant to show evacuation routes, helped him deduce the location of the operations room relative to the mess and the infirmary. If his assessment was correct, the passageway ahead ran nearly bow to stern. The midshipman would turn and follow the passageway toward the stern and to the infirmary. He'd turn the opposite direction and follow the passageway toward the bow.

  He took careful, measured steps behind the midshipman, awaited his chance. The turn came. The midshipman turned right. Scott took two steps in her direction before turning sharply on his heel and then steadily pushing his way through toward the bow as fast as he could. He expected to hear shouts at any moment. He waited, steeled himself for it, but the shouts never came. Instead, he soon found himself standing outside "Sit 1." Sit 1, he assumed, stood for Situation Room 1, which he was certain was the Kearsarge's main operations room.

  Scott was contemplating whether to enter when he noticed the sentries standing on either side of the closed door. As he looked over at one of the sentries, a uniformed officer pushed past. As the door opened, he followed the officer into the room without hesitation.

  The situation room was filled nearly to capacity. Scott joined the uniformed officers and crew standing at the back of the room. A uniformed officer at the front of the room was slapping a situation map with a long pointer. The officer's back was turned to him, so Scott couldn't see the officer's name tag.

  "As you know search and rescue recovered the second inflatable in waters near Sea Shepherd some hours ago," the officer was saying. "We've rejoined the main strike group. Gettysburg and Bulkeley are performing protective maneuvers for Harry Truman. Mason and San Jacinto are under way and will rejoin the strike group by 18:00.

  "Aboard Harry Truman, Carrier Air Wing 3 is on full alert. Strike Fighter Squadron 32, the Swordsmen, are on CAP now, with four fighters performing continuous protective ops while the Marine Fighter Attack Squadron, the Checkerboards, continues seek and destroy ops.

  "The Seahawks are up performing airborne early warning. AWACS and EC recon are on route from Naples. ETA 18:30. Full theater security and response will be in place at that time."

  Scott studied the e-wall on the far side of the room as he listened to the briefing. While the e-wall itself was a single paper-thin screen covering the wall completely, it was comprised of many individual display areas. The main display, which dominated most of the space, was a real-time tactical map of the Mediterranean Sea showing the locations of Naval vessels and items of interest like the last known position of the Bardot and the Shepherd.

  As the speaker stepped aside, Scott saw a Navy captain. The name tag said Howard, but Scott didn't need the name tag to recognize the captain.

  "Thanks for the update, lieutenant," Captain Howard said, as he stood to address the room. "Well, gentlemen, ladies, that's the current situation in a nutshell. Full response, with ongoing seek and destroy. Rest assured, we will find those responsible, and when we do they will know the full might of the U.S.
of A."

  Chapter 4

  Ligurian Sea

  Afternoon, Tuesday, 19 June

  Fifty miles off the coast of the French Riviera, the 65-meter luxury yacht Il Ferdinand motored through gently rolling swells toward Nice, France. The ship's sleek hard-chine hull featured a pelican-beak bow and was painted snow white, ensuring it would reflect the shimmer of the waves and the froth of the ship's wake.

  The $180 million vessel featured all the usual amenities. Cabins on the lower deck, including a VIP suite. Social areas and formal saloon on the main deck, along with an owner's suite. An upper deck with alfresco seating and a circular sky lounge with a magnificent 270o panoramic view. A 30-meter sundeck with a shaded bar, sunbathing areas and luxurious Jacuzzis.

  The ship's owner, who had taken delivery of the vessel three years ago, spent much of his time on the lower deck. Here, he'd retrofitted the space and removed half of the original cabins. These standard cabins he converted into offices. The VIP cabin he converted into a control room. Together, they became his electronic command center whenever he was at sea.

  The control room was the heart of the ship. It's where the dedicated satellite feeds and redundant arrays from terrestrial relay stations could be monitored by the technical staff, which included an operations coordinator, three technicians and two analysts. The small technical staff was complemented by a security detachment of former Royal Marines Commandos and support staff--cooks, service team and cleaning crew. Including the ship's captain and the first mate, there were twenty who lived on board and shared quarters on the lower deck. Il Ferdinand was in fact the owner's floating office suite and he ran it more effectively than his actual suite of offices in Nice.

  To his employees, the ship's owner was known as "the director." He was a large, tall man with a full head of dark hair that was turning gray at his sideburns, the tanned skin of one who spent too much of his life outdoors, and eyes of a green so deep they seemed to speak of the ocean's depths. His gruff mannerisms were well suited to one who had begun his career as a Special Forces Officer and later made a vast fortune providing discreet services to elite clientele.