respectfully.
They knew and used only first names in the project, and his was Franz, at least as long as this job lasted. He was in his early twenties with a smooth-shaven head, and he knew the older man still couldn’t get used to the small gold loop piercing his left eyebrow.
His training was good, however — the best available from one of Germany’s top technical schools. He knew electronics.
Caraco had recruited him straight out of school, promising only foreign work and high pay. Very high. Franz had hesitated only momentarily before agreeing to what he suspected was some sort of illegal activity.
After all, he had come to the United States on a tourist visa — not on one that permitted him paid employment.
The working conditions inside the Caraco compound were hard, almost Spartan. Security was tight. And his new employers had made it clear that questions, of any kind, were unwelcome — perhaps even dangerous.
None of that mattered much to the young technician. Germany’s “miracle” economy had stagnated over the past decade.
Most of his peers and friends were still unemployed — reduced to living on the public dole or squatting in abandoned buildings.
Well, not him. For this two months’ work, he would make enough to live decently while finding a more permanent position.
If Caraco wanted to bend a few petty American laws as part of the bargain, so be it.
To demonstrate his success, Franz, humming along with the radio, touched a test probe to several connections inside the device.
The older man watched carefully and then nodded, pleased.
“Very good. All right, let’s do a navigation check.”
Franz disconnected the unit from the bench’s power supply and picked it up by two built-in handles. Holding it with respect, he followed Klaus over to a long workbench in the far corner of the room.
Together, they fitted the new device, which had a curved underside, to the top of a similarly curved metal plate. Connectors in the device mated with sockets in the plate.
Referring to a checklist tacked up next to the workbench, Franz pressed a square green button on the front panel. Several small green LEDS lit up, and a display on the front came to life.
It was blank for only a moment, then showed the number 1. Another pause and it increased — flickering from 2, to 3, and then on up to 7 in rapid succession. After a few seconds more, an 8 appeared.
Below the green glowing number, several more numbers appeared latitude, longitude, and an elevation above sea level.
They matched the numbers posted prominently on the wall above the workbench, but both men had long ago memorized them.
In theory, it was possible to obtain a good global positioning system (GPS) fix using the signals transmitted by just three satellites, but first-rate accuracy demanded five. The precise number available depended both on the location of the receiver and the orbits of the twenty-four operational GPS satellites. There were always enough above any observer’s horizon for a decent fix, and often enough for an excellent one.
Another light glowed on the unit.
“Receiving GPS correction data,” Franz reported.
“Very good.” Klaus grinned. “Convey my thanks to the U.S. Coast Guard and all the other companies providing us with such services.”
The younger German matched the older man’s grin. The signals transmitted by the GPS satellites were carefully degraded so that civilian-owned receivers couldn’t match the accuracy of those used by the American armed forces. Differential GPS, or GPS, was a technique used to correct those errors. Software inside base station receivers matched their precisely known location against that supplied by GPS, and transmitted error correction data to mobile receivers within range.
The U.S. Coast Guard and a number of private companies had set up systems of radio beacons across North America — supplying constant error corrections to anyone with the appropriate equipment.
Standard civilian GPS sets could provide a navigation fix accurate to within one hundred meters horizontally and one hundred fifty meters vertically. Using five satellite signals and GPS error correction, those same sets could provide a fix accurate to within one meter.
Satisfied that the device’s GPS sub-system was on-line and working, the two men carefully checked yet another set of lights above the test panel. All were green.
Franz made a notation. “The computer is up and running, Klaus.”
“Good,” the older man grunted. He checked a pair of readouts on the workbench. “The processors are in sync. And the data feed is operational.”
The two German technicians tested several more functions on the panel, then, satisfied, disconnected the device. Then the man called Klaus watched as Franz placed it on a rack against one wall — next to several other pieces of electronics. He allowed the younger man one moment of satisfaction before ordering him back to work.
Caraco had them on a tight schedule.
CHAPTER FIVE
LOOSE ENDS
“Bornestangen light bears three two five.”
Captain Pavel Tumarev grunted in reply, studying the radar scope. The Don radar set was stepped down to its shortest range setting, for maximum detail. Even then, he could see three other ships, one in the channel ahead of him and two others in the outbound channel approaching him, but separated by a goodly distance. Star of the White Sea was in her place, on the starboard side of the crowded channel.
Bergen was one of the busiest ports in Scandinavia — a hub for North Sea oil exploration, fishing, and bulk cargo transport. Norwegian radar stations watched all the merchant traffic and Channel 13 crackled with directions from Bergen traffic control.
Tumarev’s ship had been under positive control since passing Sjerkaget light, but if he collided with something, traffic control wouldn’t take responsibility for it.
“Bornestangen light bears three three zero,” reported the port bearing taker.
“Range to Venten Mountain?” Tumarev asked. There was an edge to his question. The radar operator was supposed to report the range every half minute, but he was late.
“Fifty-three hundred meters.”
His first officer looked up from the chart table. “Navigator recommends immediate turn to three three five degrees.”
“Come left to three three five,” ordered Tumarev. “Watch the current.”
They were on an ebb tide, and it might push them out of the channel if they didn’t pay attention.
Tumarev scanned the bridge, then stepped out on the port bridge wing to watch the ship swing. He sensed someone follow him out and knew it was Dietrich Kleiner, Arrus Export’s “senior representative” on board. A nice enough fellow, Tumarev thought sourly, as long as you didn’t try to talk to him or mess up somehow.
Kleiner had ridden his ship many times, always into Bergen.
He always departed at that port — often without saying so much as a word. When he did speak, he used Russian, but it was clear from more than his name that the man was German.
Tumarev grimaced at his own understatement. Kleiner, he thought, exhibited the same Teutonic craving for precision, lust for power, and contempt for Slavs that had led his damned country into two world wars and ruin.
The German was shorter than the Star’s captain, which was saying something, but stocky instead of just
