Shadow Tyrants (Oregon Files 13)

As the flames faded and the smoke dissipated, the attendees sat down again.

“Although what you just saw is chilling, that’s not the end of our demonstration. We have an even more dangerous possibility to consider. Like you, I have heard rumors that the incident on the U.S. naval base at Diego Garcia several days ago was not simply an equipment malfunction. Rather, every piece of technology on the island was rendered inoperable by an attack on its computer systems by a non-nuclear electromagnetic pulse device.”

Mallik didn’t really think they’d heard that rumor, but his pronouncement got the response he wanted: another murmur from the crowd.

“The Indian Air Force contracted my company to build a similar device of our own,” Mallik went on. “It is code-named Vajra. Although it has limited range, it is quite effective for short periods of time. And you can bet that if we have developed it, our enemies are working on something similar or have already deployed it in the field.”

When he called on the radio again, he said, “Start second attack run.”

This time, four Arjun tanks raced forward while the T-55 moved toward them.

Using the same app on his phone, Mallik found the button marked EMP. When he pressed it, his phone went blank.

At the same time, the four Arjun tanks literally stopped in their tracks.

But the T-55 was unaffected. It continued into range and started blasting away at its immobile opponents. One by one, the Arjuns were covered with fire and smoke until all four were “destroyed” in the war game. The T-55, having emerged victorious over six superior rivals, turned and trundled back the way it had come.

One of the colonels in the audience stood and said, “That’s just a simulation. I can’t believe our tanks would be that susceptible to an EMP attack when their circuitry is supposed to be hardened to that kind of weapon.”

Mallik grinned and spoke into the microphone, which was unaffected because of its simple electrical functionality. “This wasn’t a simulation. Look at your phones. You’ll find that all of them are switched off.”

Every person except Ghosh took out their phones. They were amazed when they saw that the phones wouldn’t turn on.

“Don’t worry,” Mallik said, “the effect is only temporary. They’ll operate normally again in a few minutes.”

“I hope you have a solution to these problems,” Ghosh said.

“I do,” Mallik replied. “I have invested billions of rupees into developing backup systems for the most crucial weapons in our inventory. Those Arjuns that are now smoking can be retrofitted so that they will operate even if their computers are rendered useless. In fact, I’ve designed all of my factories to work without computers as well in case our cities are attacked with the same kinds of weapons.”

Ghosh joined him at the front of the stands and said to the crowd, “I’ve already approved of Romir Mallik’s designs for two of our frontline divisions, and those units will be in place any day now. Several naval ships and Air Force squadrons are also using his retro technology that will enable military operations to continue even with disabled computers.”

“Not just to continue,” Mallik clarified, “we will be victorious if we are the only ones ready for this eventuality. If computers are taken out of the equation, no military in the world will be able to match up with India’s.” It was true that he was trying to save the human race from itself, but if he could also make India the world’s next great superpower in the bargain, that would be the best way to rebuild society once his satellites were fully operational.

Ghosh turned to him and said, “Thank you for a very effective demonstration. I think we’ve all learned a lot today.”

Mallik nodded. “See you at the party.”

The audience started to disperse, and Mallik heard the same colonel who’d doubted the effect of the EMP grumble to the person next to him, “I’d rather bet on our technological superiority than some fifties-era equipment.”

Mallik shook his head but said nothing. The colonel would find out very soon how badly he’d lose that bet.

THIRTY

JHOOTHA ISLAND

Night had fallen, and the Oregon maintained a position thirteen miles off the coast of Jhootha Island, just beyond India’s territorial waters. The Indian Coast Guard now had no jurisdiction over the ship and its crew, so the Corporation was in a strong negotiating position for transferring the rescued prisoners over to the waiting cutters. Juan was awaiting Langston Overholt’s call in his cabin to finalize the arrangements.

Juan was finally able to take a shower after making sure all of their guests were cared for and the ship had moved into international waters. He toweled off and hopped over to his closet, where he kept an array of prosthetic legs for different occasions and fieldwork.

One prosthesis was his “combat leg,” reinforced with carbon fiber to withstand the rigors of battle and equipped with hidden weapons, including a .45 caliber ACP Colt Defender pistol, a ceramic knife, a packet of C-4 plastic explosive smaller than a deck of cards, and a single-shot .44 caliber slug that could be fired from the heel. Another leg was used for smuggling items inside an undetectable storage cavity. But since he would be staying on the ship for now, he chose his most comfortable prosthesis, a leg so realistic that it had hairs embedded in a surface that felt just like skin.

He carried the leg over to his desk chair and sat down, massaging the stump just below his right knee. The pain had always been there since his leg was blown off by a Chinese destroyer’s cannon shell, but now it was more of a dull ache that he stopped noticing once he got moving.

He put on the leg, cinching the straps down with a well-practiced rhythm. When he was sure it was tight, he stood and took his clothes out of the bedroom and into the office so he could watch the running lights of the cutters on the camera feed piped into his cabin. He was happy to see that the Indian Coast Guard ships were keeping their distance. The 4K monitor took up the entire wall of his office, and its resolution was so good that anyone else would swear they were looking out a window despite being in the center of the ship.

Like the other members of the crew, all of whom lived full-time on the Oregon, he received a generous budget to decorate his cabin. He preferred a classic 1940s style based on Rick’s Café Américain from the movie Casablanca. Humphrey Bogart would have felt right at home with the antique desk, dining table, chairs, and old-fashioned black telephone. Even the bedroom’s massive black safe was vintage. It held Juan’s personal weapons and the ship’s working cash, including the gold bar they’d used to take over the Triton Star. An original Picasso hung on the wall opposite the monitor. Although the Corporation owned pieces of art for investment purposes, most of them were kept in a bank vault when they weren’t on display in the halls of the ship. This small oil painting, however, held a special meaning from a past mission and would never leave the Oregon.

Juan was just pulling his pants on when the phone rang.