Threat Vector Read online

  He knew a pilot in another squadron named Mangler, for example, which sounded cool as hell to Trash until he learned the poor guy received the moniker after one night chugging margaritas in a Key West bar. On his stagger out of the men’s room the young nugget zipped his balls in his fly, couldn’t get them out, and was rushed to the hospital. The medical term the ER nurse wrote down on his paperwork was “testicular mangling,” and though the young lieutenant recovered from the unfortunate incident, he was damn sure never going to be allowed to forget that night in the Keys, since it became his permanent call sign.

  Earning a call sign as a play on one’s last name, as Trash White had done, seemed like a hell of a lot less trouble.

  As a boy, Brandon had wanted to be a NASCAR driver, but by his mid-teens a ride-along in a friend’s father’s crop duster set his life’s course. That one morning he spent streaking low over soybean fields in a “two-holer,” a two-seat open biplane, showed him that the real excitement was not on the oval track but rather in the wide-open sky.

  He could have gone into the Air Force or the Navy, but a friend’s big brother joined the Marines, and then sold Brandon on the Corps the night he came home from Paris Island and took his kid brother and his friend out to McDonald’s and regaled them with stories about what a badass he was.

  Now White was twenty-eight, pilot of an F/A-18C Hornet tactical fighter, an aircraft about as far away from that first Air Tractor crop duster as one could get.

  Trash loved flying, and he loved the Marine Corps. He’d been stationed in Japan for the past four months, and had enjoyed himself as much as anyone could. Japan wasn’t as much fun as San Diego or Key West or some other places he had been stationed, but still, he had no complaints.

  Not until the day before yesterday, when he was told his squadron of twelve aircraft would be heading out to the Ronald Reagan to make haste toward Taiwan.

  The day after the U.S. announced the Reagan was moving closer to the Republic of China, People’s Liberation Army–Air Force warplanes began harassing Taiwanese aircraft around the Strait of Taiwan in retaliation. Trash and his Marines were ordered to the carrier to bolster the Navy Super Hornets already on board. Together the Navy and Marine aviators would be flying combat air patrol missions on the ROC side of the centerline of the Strait of Taiwan.

  He knew the Chinese would probably go ape shit when they saw American aircraft protecting the ROC, but Trash didn’t care. He welcomed the opportunity to mix things up with the Chinese. Hell, if there was going to be action and F/A-18Cs were going to be involved, Trash damn well wanted the Marine Corps there, and he damn well wanted his own aircraft in the thick of it.

  But he hated boats. He’d qualified on carriers—every Marine has to qualify on carriers—but he had fewer than twenty traps under his belt, and all twenty of those were more than three years ago. Yes, for the past couple of weeks, he’d been on FCLP, field carrier landing practice, at a field in Okinawa, where he landed on a stretch of runway fixed with arresting wires just like on a carrier, but that flat stretch of concrete hadn’t been Dutch rolling in the dark in a rainstorm like the deck of the Reagan below him.

  FCLP was a long way from what he was going through now.

  Two minutes ago Trash’s flight lead, Major Scott “Cheese” Stilton, touched down on the deck and caught a four-wire for a long but acceptable landing. The other ten Marine F/A-18C pilots coming in this evening had all landed before Cheese. Trash was the last one in the sky tonight, with the exception of the refueler, and this sucked for Trash, because the weather was getting worse by the minute and Trash was down below six thousand pounds of fuel, meaning he would get only two passes at the deck before he’d have to refuel and try again, making everyone down there in flight ops on USS Ronald Reagan wait.

  “Power. You’re low,” the landing signals officer coached Trash in over the radio.

  Trash had backed off the throttle too much. He goosed it forward again, which pushed his jet too high.

  Too high meant he’d either catch the four-wire, the last wire on the deck, or he’d bolter, meaning he’d miss all four wires and roll down the deck. In the case of a bolter he’d fly right off the end, climb back into the soupy black sky, and reenter the landing pattern.

  Too high would not be good, but it was a hell of a lot better than too low.

  Too low, not catching the one wire but really too low, meant a ramp strike, which was carrier-ops speech for slamming into the back of the boat, killing yourself and sending your burning wreckage rolling across the deck in a fireball that would turn into a video to be used in carrier training curriculums as a bright and shining example of what not to do.

  Trash didn’t want to bolter, but it sure as shit beat the alternative.

  Trash was focused on the meatball now, the illuminated amber bulb in the center of the OLS that helped pilots maintain the proper approach angle down to the deck. As much as every human instinct told him to eye the deck itself as he approached it at one hundred fifty miles per hour, he knew he had to ignore his impact point and trust the meatball to bring him down safely. He was on the ball now, it was nice and centered in the middle of the OLS, indicating a good glide path, three-point-five degrees of descent, and he was just seconds from touching the deck. It looked like he was on his way to a safe three-wire, a nice landing considering the weather.

  But just a few moments before his wheels and his tail hook touched down, the amber ball rose above the center horizontal green datum lights on the OLS.

  The LSO said, “Easy with it.”

  Trash quickly pulled back on the throttle, but the ball rose higher and higher.

  “Shit,” Trash said between two heavy breaths. He came off the power even more.

  “Power back on,” admonished the LSO.

  It took Trash a moment to realize it, but that was only because he wasn’t a Navy pilot used to carrier landings. He had been lined up perfectly, but now the pitching deck was dropping away as the Ronald Reagan sank between massive ocean swells.

  Trash’s wheels touched down on the deck, but he knew he was long. He shoved his throttle forward to the full power detent, and his speed shot up. He raced down the deck toward the impenetrable darkness ahead.

  “Bolter! Bolter! Bolter!” called the LSO, confirming something Trash already knew.

  In seconds he was back in the black sky, climbing over the sea, reentering the bolter/wave-off pattern with his plane as the sole aircraft.

  If he could not land on this next pass, the air boss on the carrier, the officer in charge of all flight operations, would send him to gas up behind the F/A-18E that was circling around ahead and to the left of the bow of the Reagan.

  Trash had a strong suspicion the pilot of the refueler didn’t want to be up here in this black soup any more than Trash did, and was probably wishing that a-hole Marine pilot would put his jet on the deck already so he could call it a night.

  Trash concentrated on his instruments as he leveled out and began a series of turns that would put him back on final.

  Five minutes later he was lined up on the carrier once more.

  The LSO came over the radio, “Four-oh-eight, this is Paddles. The deck is pitching a bit. Concentrate on a good start and avoid overcontrolling in the middle.”

  “Four-oh-eight, Hornet-ball, Five-point-one.” He watched the ball, it was just about the only damn thing he could see at this point, and he could tell he was high.

  The LSO said, “Roger ball. High again. Work it down.”

  “Roger.” Trash pulled back slightly on the throttle.

  “You are high and lined up left,” called the LSO now. “Easy with it. Right for line up.”

  Trash’s left hand twitched the power back again and he pushed the stick to the right.

  He centered nicely on the deck ahead and below, but he was still too high
.

  He was moments away from another bolter.

  But just then, as he crossed the threshold of the rear of the massive carrier, he saw the lights of the deck rising underneath him, he watched the deck push up into the black sky toward the bottom of his aircraft like it was on a hydraulic lift.

  His tail hook caught the three-wire, and the arrester cable yanked him to a stop with the effect of bringing a loaded semi-trailer traveling at a hundred fifty miles an hour to a complete halt in under three seconds.

  Trash jerked to a violent but welcome stop on the deck of the Ronald Reagan.

  An instant later the air boss came over his headset. “Well, if you can’t come to the Reagan, the Reagan will come to you.”

  Trash gave an exhausted chuckle. His landing would be scored; all carrier landings are scored. It would be judged fair, which was fine with him, but the air boss made it clear he knew that the only reason he’d not boltered again was that the boat had reached up and snatched him out of the sky.

  But he was glad to be on the deck. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “Welcome aboard, Marine.”

  “Semper Fi, sir,” Trash said with a bit of false bravado. He took his gloved hands off the stick and throttle and held them up in front of his face. They shook a little, which did not surprise him in the slightest.

  “I hate boats,” he said to himself.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  The office of SinoShield Business Investigative Services Ltd. was located on the thirty-third floor of IFC2, Two International Finance Centre, which, at eighty-eight stories, was the second-tallest building in Hong Kong, and the eighth-tallest office building in the world.

  Gavin, Jack, and Domingo were dressed in high-dollar business suits, and they carried briefcases and leather folios; they fit in perfectly with the thousands of office workers and clients moving through the hallways of IFC2.

  The three Americans checked in with the receptionist for the floor, and she called Mr. Yao and spoke to him briefly in Cantonese.

  She then said, “He will be here right away. Won’t you sit down?”

  They got the impression that several small companies shared the check-in desk, the receptionist, and all of the common areas here on the thirty-third floor.

  After a few minutes a young handsome Asian man walked up the carpeted hallway into the common space. Unlike most Chinese businessmen, he was not wearing his suit coat. Instead his lavender dress shirt was somewhat wrinkled and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. As he closed on the three men in the waiting area, he ran his hands over his shirt and straightened his tie.

  “Good morning, gentlemen,” the man said with a tired smile and an extended hand. He possessed no hint of any accent, save perhaps a touch of southern California. “Adam Yao, at your service.”

  Chavez shook his hand. “Domingo Chavez, director of corporate security.”

  “Mr. Chavez,” Yao replied politely.

  Both Jack and Ding recognized immediately that this kid was probably a great intelligence officer, and likely a hell of a poker player. Every last member of CIA’s Clandestine Service would know the name Domingo Chavez in a heartbeat, and they would also know the man would be in his middle to late forties. The fact that Yao did not bat an eyelash and let on that he recognized a CIA legend was a testament to his good tradecraft skills.

  “Jack Ryan, associate financial analyst,” Jack said as the two men shook hands.

  This time, Adam Yao did show genuine surprise.

  “Whoa,” he said with a bright smile. “Jack Junior. All I knew about Hendley Associates was that Senator Hendley was running the show. I didn’t know you were—”

  Jack interrupted, “Yeah, I try to stay pretty low-key. I’m just one of the grunts working a keyboard and a mouse.”

  Yao gave a look like he found Jack’s comment to be just modesty.

  After Yao was introduced to Gavin Biery, he led all three back toward his office.

  Chavez said, “I’m sorry about springing this meeting on you like this out of the blue, but we were in town with a problem and needed somebody who knew the lay of the land.”

  Yao said, “My secretary said representatives from your company were in town and asked for a brief consult. I honestly wish I could offer you more than twenty minutes, but I am slammed. As I bet you can imagine, intellectual property investigations in HK and China keep a guy in my profession busy. I’m not complaining, even if I am reduced to catching catnaps on the love seat in my office instead of going home and having a life.” He waved a hand over his slightly wrinkled shirt, making an excuse for his worn look.

  As they entered his small and spartan office, Jack said, “We appreciate any time you have to talk to us at all, we really do.”

  Yao’s secretary brought coffee service for the four men and placed it in a small sitting area in front of Adam’s messy desk.

  Jack wondered what was going on in Yao’s head. Having the son of the President of the United States in his office must have been somewhat cool, as laid-back as Jack was about his family name, he recognized at least that much. But meeting and chatting with Domingo Chavez would be, Ryan had no doubt, one of the seminal events in this CIA officer’s life.

  “So,” Yao asked, “how did you guys find out about me?”

  Jack said, “There was an article that named your firm along with a couple others a few months ago in Investor’s Business Daily. When our own problems brought us over here to Hong Kong, we dug it out and gave your office a call.”

  “Ah, yes. A case we worked on last year involving some high-tech patents being counterfeited in Shenzhen. Happens all the time, but it was nice to get the free advertising.”

  “What sorts of projects are you taking on these days?” Jack asked.

  “Could be anything, really. I have clients in the computer industry, in the pharmaceutical industry, in retail, publishing, even in the restaurant business.”

  “Restaurants?”

  Adam nodded. “Yep. There’s a prominent chain in southern California, over sixty locations. Turns out they have eleven more locations over here that they didn’t know about.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Biery.

  “Nope. Same name, same signs, same menu, same little hats on their heads. Except the owners of the chain don’t see a dime of the profits.”

  “Incredible.”

  “It’s happening more and more. They just busted a ring of fake Apple stores over here selling Mac knockoffs. Even the employees thought they worked for Apple.”

  “Must be tough shutting them down,” Ryan said.

  Yao smiled pleasantly. “It is tough. I enjoy the investigation part, but dealing with Chinese bureaucracy is . . . What’s the word I’m looking for?”

  “Bullshit?” Jack said.

  Yao smiled. “I was going to say ‘tedious,’ although ‘bullshit’ is a better description.” He regarded Ryan with a smile. “So, Jack. Why don’t I see a couple of square-jawed security guys in black suits and earpieces standing behind you?”

  “I rejected my Secret Service detail. I like my privacy.”

  Chavez added with a smile, “I watch his back, when necessary.”

  Yao chuckled, took a sip of his coffee, and shuffled in his chair. Jack caught him looking at Chavez for a moment. “Well, gentlemen, what sort of mischief has China made for your financial management firm?”

  Gavin Biery said, “It’s cybercrime, essentially. My network has been getting hit with a series of very well thought-out and organized hacking attempts. They managed to get in and to steal our client lists. Obviously this is extremely sensitive data. I was able to trace the source of the intrusion back to a command server in the U.S., and I hacked into that server.”

  Adam said, “Good for you. I like a company that’s willing to fight back.
If everybody did that, we’d sure as hell be in a better place as far as commercial theft. What did you find on the server?”

  “I found the culprit. There was data on there that told me who was behind the attack on it. Not a real name but his online handle. We also were able to establish that the attack originated here in Hong Kong.”

  “That’s interesting, and I’m sure that was tough to trace them all the way back here, but there’s something I don’t get. Once these folks get the data they are looking for off your network . . . there is no point getting it back. It’s out there, they’ve used it, copied it, compromised you. What’s your objective coming over here?”

  Chavez stepped in. “We want to catch the guy who did this so he can’t do it again. Prosecute him.”

  Yao gave the three men a look like they were hopelessly naive. “My professional opinion, gentlemen, is that that is highly unlikely. Even if you could prove this crime, the criminals won’t be prosecuted here, and if you’re thinking about extradition, you can forget about it. Whoever this guy is, he is working here in HK because this is a damned convenient place to commit such crimes. It’s getting better, HK is not the Wild West it once was, but you guys are in over your heads. I hate to be blunt, but better I tell you honestly before you burn a hell of a lot of money over here finding out the same thing.”

  Jack said, “Maybe you could take us on as a client, just to investigate a bit. If nothing comes from it, well, it’s our money to burn, right?”

  Adam said, “The problem is, these cases are built very slowly and methodically. Right now I’m working on a case that’s four years old. I wish I could tell you things over here moved faster, but it won’t serve anyone’s purposes to mislead you about what you are faced with.

  “On top of all that, I’m much more versed with the intellectual-property side of fraud over here. Cybersecurity is a growing problem, but it’s not my specialty. I honestly think I’d be somewhat out of my lane.”

  Chavez asked, “Do you have any contacts or resources at all? As Mr. Biery said, we’ve got a user name for the perpetrator. We were hoping there might be someone over here with a database that could get us a little more information on this character’s operation.”