Chapter 9
Beijing
The tension in the MSS operations center was crushing. Zhang Tao had just unleashed a withering tirade. Threatening and berating, it left no doubt in anyone’s mind that careers were at stake. Every face in the room bore the grim weight of a gamble that they weren’t sure would pay off.
Their immediate problem was self-inflicted—they had no way of knowing if their scheme had worked.
The MSS, unfortunately, relied on those same feeds.
Zhang’s skull felt like it was going to explode.
His meds had grown less effective over time and so to compensate, he’d done what he always did in bad moments.
He’d popped an extra dose. It was a slippery medical slope, but for now he ignored whatever rocky landing might be waiting for him at the bottom.
“How long can we continue jamming?” he asked.
The operations center chief replied, “There is no technical limitation, but the longer we keep it up, the more likely our actions will be discovered. Initially, the Americans will view the outage as an atmospheric anomaly. Eventually, however, suspicion will take hold. I think if we continue for more than an hour, they will investigate the interruption and discover our intervention.”
Zhang’s left eye twitched. The use of the jamming system had been a heated point of debate.
It would violate countless aviation and space treaties, but that was of little consequence.
Of greater concern was that it would unveil one of their most secretive capabilities.
To not use it, however, heightened the risk that Sky Fire would fall into the wrong hands.
In the end, the president had made the call, thankfully taking the course Zhang favored.
Flight 777 would slam into the Arctic Ocean, and its wreckage would disappear beneath thousands of feet of water in an ice-clad sea.
Any distress calls would be drowned out by the jamming.
More important, the signals from the aircraft’s two emergency locator transmitters would be temporarily blocked.
The ELTs were tied to the plane’s black boxes, and once those sank into deep water, their transmissions would be severely attenuated. The beacons would still function, but it would take a concentrated undersea search to find them.
Yet because they activated on impact, there was a chance one or both might begin pinging before the wreckage sank.
By jamming communications for a short time, the airliner’s final resting place could effectively be hidden.
There would be a narrow window during which only China knew the jet’s fate.
But even Beijing wouldn’t have a precise fix on its position.
Zhang had known from the outset that bringing the jet down was not enough.
The device in Chen’s possession, the prototype control station at the heart of Sky Fire, had to be recovered.
If that wasn’t possible, it had to be destroyed, although for Zhang this was tantamount to failure.
According to Wu Mei, it would be possible to reverse-engineer the control station, salvaging a decade of work and untold billions of yuan.
But that would most likely take years. If the original device was lost, the stain on Zhang’s career would be indelible.
Never one to waste an advantage, he did have two things going for him. He knew roughly where Flight 777 had gone down. And he had a head start to reach the crash site.
Two operations to press those advantages were already underway.
The first was straightforward. China operated a growing fleet of icebreakers, which were the best option for a recovery.
Better yet, the ship nearest the prospective crash site, the Xue Long 2, had precisely the kind of equipment needed for a deepwater salvage mission.
She was already steaming northward at full speed.
The second operation was far more nuanced, and one for which Zhang had not sought approval. It was precisely the kind of subterfuge his bureau specialized in.
“What is the status of our insurance policy?” he asked.
The ops center chief referenced a nearby screen that was following a Challenger business jet as it streaked across northern Canada.
There had been no recent tracking updates as it neared the North Pole—that aircraft, too, was subject to the regional communications outage. Still, its progress could easily be extrapolated. “They are getting close. I estimate less than thirty minutes from the assigned target.”
“Very well. Give them fifteen minutes beyond that, then terminate the jamming.”
Zhang’s eyes shifted to another map. An X marked the projected final resting place of Hemisphere Flight 777. It was only an estimate, based on course, speed, and the jet’s last known position, but it had to be close. Triple seven, he thought. A sign of good fortune.
With any luck at all, Sky Fire would be secure within forty-eight hours. At that point the professional peril in which he found himself, a very mortal peril, would be lifted.
Zhang considered how he might celebrate. A good meal, some Kentucky bourbon, maybe arrange for a woman. Or perhaps just down enough pills to get a good night’s sleep.
Not once did he give a thought to the fifty-six mortal souls he had just committed to an icy grave.