“Ichneumon eumerus.” She unzipped the backpack. “It’s a parasitic wasp that preys on ants. It does that by mimicking their pheromonal signature so it can get inside the nest without raising alarm.”
Ripper frowned. “You mean it pretends to be one of them?”
Evans leaned in. “Don’t the ants notice the wasp doesn’t look like them?”
McKinney shook her head. “That’s the thing. Ants don’t process physical appearance—their pheromonal signature is all that matters. That’s how they know their colony mates.” She removed the two metal canisters of perfluorocarbon from the backpack and placed them on the table. “I propose we do the same thing with the helicopter.”
From the expressions on their faces it appeared that minds had just been blown.
Ripper turned to Odin. “Is she fucking serious? Fly right into the middle of thousands of killer drones and do what?”
Odin was pondering it, nodding to himself. “Turn the ship.”
“Are you kidding me?”
Foxy was the first to recover. “That is fucking hard core.”
Mooch shook his head. “But you have no idea whether this will work. And if you’re wrong . . .”
“We know they run on my software model—and that software model is looking for a match on a pheromonal signature variable. If there’s a match, no attack signal is generated. This is how they identify each other. I’m willing to bet my life on it.”
Odin looked up. “You don’t have to be one of those who go, Professor.”
“The hell I don’t. It will take some experimentation to get it right, and no one knows their behavior patterns better than me. Besides, what they’re trying to do with my work might wind up driving humanity to a new form of warfare. I can’t just stand by and let that happen.”
Odin nodded to her with respect. “Understood.”
Ripper was looking from one to the other. “Odin, are we really doing this?”
Odin took a deep breath. “No. The professor and I are doing this. You and the rest of the team are staying here. Except . . .”
Foxy nodded. “You need someone to fly the chopper.” He turned to face McKinney. “Count me in. It should be an interesting trip. So how do we work this pheromone with the chopper?”
McKinney was studying the canister. She tapped the nozzle at the top. “When I saw this on the complete drone we had in Mexico it was smaller, but the perfluorocarbon nozzle was aimed at the body of the drone itself—to mark it. We’ll need to fasten a rig aimed at the chopper fuselage. One that we can manually operate to depress the nozzle and spray the chopper as often as necessary to get the drones to view us as one of their own.”
Odin accepted one of the liter-sized metal canisters from her. “How long will this last us?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know, but they can’t have to recharge too often or it would be impractical. Maybe we can find their supply somewhere on board?”
“We can’t rely on that. We’re just going to have to get this done as soon as possible. Figure we take firefighting gear from the Tonsberg here—oxygen masks to conceal our breath signature and faces. That’ll give us an hour of air.”
Foxy considered it. “As long as they don’t attack us, an hour should be enough time to fly thirty miles or so, land on the ship, get to the bridge, and steer it off course. Helicopter fuel might be a problem, though.” Foxy turned to the captain. “Do you have any Jet-A on board? Any aircraft in storage below?”
The captain shook his head. “No. Just automobiles, buses, heavy construction equipment, railroad cars, forklifts.”
“Great.” He turned back to Odin. “We probably have enough to reach the Maersk at thirty miles, but we won’t have enough to get back.”
“As long as we can get there and turn the ship, we’ll deal with the rest.”
Foxy frowned. “Why not just kill the ship’s engine?”
“Because it’s in the middle of a shipping channel.”
“If we had explosives, we could scuttle her.”
“Well, we don’t have explosives.”
“We could improvise shaped charges with wine bottles, some ball bearings, oil—”
“No, look here. . . .” Odin was studying the chart again. He jabbed a finger at a line to the east of them. “Tancred Shoal.” He nodded to himself. “That’s just off the shipping lane—another twenty miles. This chart shows exposed rocks. We can run her aground.”
“That’s better than just sinking her?”
“Yes. Ritter said these things only have a seventy-two-hour operating life. Whoever’s behind this will try to conceal the fact that this ever happened. And we all know how deep inside our systems they are. If we sink the ship or let them tow it away, they’ll just rebuild and relaunch. But if we run the Ebba Maersk aground on the Tancred Shoals, it’ll take salvage crews months to clean up. A big public demise for the world’s biggest container ship in hotly contested waters—highly visible with lots of evidence left behind. That’s something the world won’t be able to ignore. The physical evidence of thousands of swarming ship-killer drones will show that this isn’t just some terror group. It might force international investigations.”