Ghost fleet pdf free download

It is advised to read it promptly. You can also find other related best action thriller novels books. Similar books in the same genre and many other numerous books on our website. Ghost Fleet: A Novel of the Next World War is in every bit as enjoyable as all the top mystery and thriller novels out there.

Because there may already be thousands of mystery and thriller stories available but. I know how I will be spending the rest of my summer! Need a good thriller book to read? Though it was hard to obtain for free, thanks to this website, I found it. What a stunning story with an astonishing plot that keeps you guessing from one second to the next, with characters so well-developed Ghost Fleet: A Novel of the Next World War pdf novel will make you feel like you are watching a movie play out before you!

If you enjoy thrillers, get this book into your hands Immediately! Ghost Fleet: A Novel of the Next World War download free is worth it for anyone who can lay their hands on a copy of it. Download or Buy eBook Here. The growing production of the country demands it. These are words of power, but also responsibility. We now must face the demands that shape our own destiny.

Even though they no longer need the foreign energy resources they once reached out and grasped, we must still endure their interference in our interests in Transjordan, Venezuela, Sudan, the Emirates, and the former Indonesia.

Navy LCS warship escorting a Philippine coast guard vessel that had been damaged in the Red Line skirmishes right after the Dhahran bombing. That it took place in the midst of our own domestic transition meant we had no choice but to acquiesce. Their failure to understand our new strategic and domestic reality gives us no choice, as it threatens what we in this room have built.

Even now that we are once more whole, their Congress threatens energy sanctions at the slightest whim, waving about an economic sword like a drunken sailor.

This is because we have no alternative. And then the country had no choice but to assume its new responsibilities, including protecting the system from the powers of the past that would threaten it. I mentioned their thinker Mahan. Soon after he laid out the new demands upon the United States, war with Spain followed, as you remember, and the Americans reached across the Pacific, thousands of miles beyond their home waters, extending to the Philippines, patrolling not just our ports but even our very rivers.

Just as Mahan told them, we similarly have no choice but to meet these demands. A civilian on the far side of the room took the pause as an invitation. We always have choices. Does your old vision of power actually matter anymore in a world where we can choose to buy anything, anywhere?

These notions you describe risk all that we have accomplished. Along the wall, the naval commandos stood unnervingly still and held their weapons at the ready.

Wang smiled at them and continued. We chose to act. Thousands of years have brought us to this point. We protected China from the party leaders who held the country back, and we should not grow meek on the brink of the next great step. While the old man might have known Sun-Tzu by heart, Wang doubted Muyi did. He noticed the Directorate commando closest to him shift his weight slightly.

Maybe they were not naval commandos at all, despite the uniforms. Could they be from the th Regiment, which protected the Presidium? Were they letting him hang himself, word by word, for threatening the status quo that so many in the Presidium had profited from? She was likely researching a retort. He realized that he had to move the discussion beyond the level of trading quotations. Wang turned to the wider group.

Our population demographics are not optimal, they say. Our trade routes are too vulnerable, they say. Our need for outside energy is too great, they say. These statements are all true. And they will always be true if we turn our backs on our duty to make our destiny manifest. The worst thing we can do is fear our own potential.

He saw a few instinctively nodding their approval, reliving the moment when they had remade China into their vision. Second, what do you expect the Americans to do once they learn of our energy discovery? Third, and most important, is a simple question of the arc of history: If now is not the time, then when? Wang noticed that the commandos now surrounded them. Perhaps he had gone too far. He could find faults with his performance, but he was at peace. At the elevator door, the commandos stood in silence.

Wang wondered where they would take him next. Then he noticed that they were tensing up as the elevator lights numbered ever closer to their floor. The door opened and another armed phalanx emerged; these bodyguards were Caucasian in ethnicity and wearing civilian suits, but they were clearly military. Red diamonds and purple hearts reflected in his traditional eyeglasses. He was surprisingly fit for his age, but supposedly the old Russian spy was addicted to memory-improving games, an effort to stave off what Directorate intelligence suspected was dementia.

A strong body still, but not the mind. So, Wang realized, this had not been a strategy session but an audition. The Presidium had already made its choice. Part 2 Attack your enemy where he is unprepared, appear where you are not expected. As his mentor Dr. Jimenez had explained so long ago, the key to precision was to move slow but steady, advancing the blade at a consistent pace.

The cut complete, Chavez reached down, picked up the withered rose branch, and placed it into the faded canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He could get angry or he could focus on achieving the little perfections that made life satisfying. As he trimmed the flowers at the base of the sign, he glanced at the etching in the black marble: Defense Intelligence Agency.

Hadid, his supervisor, said it was something like the CIA, but for the U. The landscaping crew was almost done here. Because of security, the landscapers were not allowed inside the building. When break time came, the others gathered in the shade, but Chavez walked over to sit by the small decorative pond beside the entrance doors.

He flipped open the tablet he kept in his pocket to see if he had any messages. The screen projected a 3-D packet from his cousin back in Caracas. More pictures of his granddaughter. Such lovely eyes. The imagery analyst had gotten stuck in the traffic on I on her way back from a networking lunch out at Tysons Corner. And now she was late for the staff meeting. A localized wireless network formed for exactly 0.

In that instant, the malware hidden in the video packet from Caracas made its jump. As Chavez finished the iced tea his wife had made for him the previous night, Swigg approached the security desk manned by a guard in a black bullet-resistant nylon jumpsuit. A compact HK G48 assault rifle hung from the glossy gray ceramic vest that protected his chest. The only insignia on his uniform was the eagle-silhouette logo of the security company that guarded the DIA headquarters.

No Personal Devices Allowed read the sign suspended above a row of silver turnstiles. As she walked toward the gate, the software in her badge automatically communicated her security clearance to the machine via a radio signal. And at the same moment of network linkage, the malware packet jumped again in less time than it would take to read the engraving on the entrance wall: Committed to excellence in defense of the nation.

The turnstile gate lifted. When the guard walked his rounds, the packet jumped into the environmental controls that cooled a closet full of network servers supporting aerial surveillance operations over Pakistan. At each stop, all the packet did was link with what appeared to the defenses as nonexecutables, harmless inert files, which they were, until the malware rearranged them into something new.

Each of the systems had been air-gapped, isolated from the Internet to prevent hackers from infiltrating them. The problem with high walls, though, was that someone could use an unsuspecting gardener to tunnel underneath them. Shanghai Jiao Tong University A thin teenage girl stood behind a workstation, faintly glowing metallic smart-rings on all her fingers, one worn above each joint.

Her expression was blank, her eyes hidden behind a matte-black visor. Rows of similar workstations lined the converted lecture hall. Behind each stood a young engineering student, every one a member of the th Information Brigade — Jiao Tong, a subunit of the Third Army Cyber-Militia.

On the arena floor, two Directorate officers watched the workers. Jiao Tong University had been formed in by Sheng Xuanhuai, an official working for the Guangxu emperor. The school was one of the original pillars of the Self-Strengthening Movement, which advocated using Western technology to save the country from destitution. Hu Fang hated that moniker, which made it seem as if her school were only a weak copy of an American original.

Today, her generation would show that times had changed. The first university cyber-militias had been formed after the Hainan Island incident. A Chinese fighter pilot had veered too close to an American navy surveillance plane, and the two planes crashed in midair.

The smaller Chinese plane spun to the earth and its hot-dogging pilot was killed, while the American plane had to make an emergency landing at a Chinese airfield on Hainan. As each side angrily accused the other of causing the collision, the Communist Party encouraged computer-savvy Chinese citizens to deface American websites to show their collective displeasure.

Young Chinese teens were organized online by the thousands and gleefully joined in the cyber-vandalism campaign, targeting the homepage of everything from the White House to a public library in Minnesota.

That had all taken place before Hu Fang was born. What Hu thought was a curse became a blessing: her father, a professor of computer science in Beijing, had started her out writing code at age three, mostly as a way to keep her busy inside their cramped apartment.

She got to play with the latest technology, and the missions the officers gave her were usually fun. The Americans, though, were the best to toy with — so confident of their defenses.

But it was not the reward that mattered to Hu; rather, it was escaping the physical limitations that had once defined her life. When linked in, Hu felt like she was literally flying. The powerful computers she drew on created a threedimensional world that represented the global communications networks that were her battlegrounds.

Hu had made her mark by hacking phones belonging to civilian employees in the Pentagon. Despite the restrictions on employees bringing devices into the building, a few did so every day. She noticed with pleasure her pump kicking in. Access to the latest in medical technologies was another perk of the unit. The tiny pump, implanted beneath the skin near her navel, dumped a cocktail of methylphenidate and other stimulants into her circulatory system.

Originally designed for children with attention deficit disorder, the mix produced a combination of focus and euphoria. It was a risk, but it paid off. She raised the dose level by percent. No more steady-state awareness. Now it was like falling off a skyscraper and discovering you could fly right before you hit the ground. Hu moved her hands like a conductor, gently arcing her arms in elliptical gestures, almost swanlike. The movement of each joint of every finger communicated a command via the gyroscopes inside the smart-ring; one typed out code on an invisible keyboard while another acted as a computer mouse, clicking open network connections.

Multiple different points, clicks, and typing actions, all at once. To the officers watching below, it looked like an intricate ballet crossed with a tickling match.

The young hacker focused on her attack, navigating the malware packet through the DIA networks while fighting back the desire to brush a bead of sweat off her nose with her gloved hands. Her left arm coiled and sprung, her fingers outstretched. Having gained access, she set about accomplishing the heart of her mission. Some GPS signals would be off by just two meters. Others would be off by two hundred kilometers.

Of course, shutting it all down would be easy. But she could swing that hammer later; today was all about sowing doubt and spreading confusion. This wrench, though, had been produced from a design pirated by a patriotic hacker unit based in Shenzhen and manufactured at the Manned Space Engineering Office in Beijing. The problem was that, unlike the wrench, the bolt that Chang was trying to pry free was not a perfect copy and had become stuck.

He saw the three other taikonauts reentering the Tiangong-3 space station. Lucky bastards. After the Shenzhous came the first Tiangong space station, a ten-meter-long, eight-thousand-kilogram singlemodule test bed that launched in Soon after, the program accelerated fast enough to finally match its competitors.

Western commentators no longer mocked but instead marveled that in a decade and a half, China had achieved what it had taken NASA sixty years to accomplish. The twenty-five-meter-long, sixty-thousandkilogram Tiangong-3 space station was the pride of the nation, its launch celebrated with an official state holiday.

It had seven modules laid out in a T, including a core crew module that could support six taikonauts; four solar panels that extended out a hundred and twenty feet; and a docking port that could accommodate four ships. At the two upper ends of the T were parallel laboratory modules designed to conduct various experiments in microgravity. At least, that was what the rest of the world thought. The port-side module actually had a different purpose. The station crew had realized they were moving to war footing twelve hours ago when Huan switched off the live viz feed of their activities.

But it still felt slightly unreal. Once the taikonauts were all inside the station, Huan powered up the weapons module. Air Force in the late s. But the Americans had ultimately decided that using chemicals in enclosed spaces to power lasers was too dangerous. The Directorate saw it differently. Two modules away from the crew, a toxic mix of hydrogen peroxide and potassium hydroxide was being blended with gaseous chlorine and molecular iodine.

This was really it, thought Chang as he watched the power indicators turn red. There was no turning back once the chemicals had been mixed and the excited oxygen began to transfer its energy to the weapon. They would have forty-five minutes to act and then the power would be spent. The targets marked in the firing solution had been identified, prioritized, and tracked for well over a year in increasingly rigorous drills the crew eventually realized were not just to support war games down on Earth.

The long hours spent in the lab would finally pay off. Chang touched the photo taped to the wall in front of him. His fingers lingered on the image of his beaming wife and their grinning eight-year-old son.

She thought it made her son look like a prop in a Directorate propaganda piece. He moved his hand away from the photo and began his part of the operation, monitoring the targeting sequence. More recently, the Directorate had fed this fear by developing its own antisatellite missiles and then alternating between missile tests and arms-control negotiations that went nowhere, keeping the focus on the weapons based below. The Americans should have looked up.

Chang snuck another look at the photo and caught Huan pausing, his trigger finger lingering above the red firing button. He appeared to be savoring the moment. Then Huan gently pressed the button. A quiet hum pervaded the module. No crash of cannon or screams of death. Only the steady purr of a pump signified that the station was now at war. The first target was WGS-4, a U. Air Force wideband gapfiller satellite. Shaped like a box with two solar wings, the 7,pound satellite had entered space in on top of a Delta 4 rocket launched from Cape Canaveral.

Costing over three hundred million dollars, the satellite offered the U. Through it ran the communications for everything from U. Air Force satellites to U. Navy submarines. It was also a primary node for the U. Space Command. The Pentagon had planned to put up a whole constellation of these satellites to make the network less vulnerable to attack, but contractor cost overruns had kept the number down to just six.

Chang watched as Huan clicked open a red pen and made a line on the wall next to him, much like a World War I ace decorating his biplane to mark a kill. The scripted moment had been ordered from below, a key scene for the documentary that would be made of the operation, a triumph that would be watched by billions. Resetting for target number two. About an eighth the size of the old space shuttle, the tiny plane was used by the American government in much the same way the shuttle had been, to carry out various chores and repair jobs in space.

It could rendezvous with satellites and refuel them, replace failed solar arrays using a robotic arm, and perform many other satellite-upkeep tasks. It repeatedly flew over the same spots at the same altitude, notably the height typically used by military surveillance satellites: Pakistan for several weeks at a time, then Yemen and Kenya, and, more recently, the Siberian border.

With its primary control communications link via the WGS-4 satellite now lost, the tiny American space plane shifted into autonomous mode, its computers searching in vain for other guidance signals.

In effect, the robotic space plane stopped for its own safety, making it an easy target. The taikonauts moved on down the list: the U. Geosynchronous Space Situational Awareness system was next. These were satellites that watched other satellites. After that was the mere five satellites that made up the U.

Then came the U. The joint NASA and Energy Department system had been launched a few years after the Fukushima nuclear plant disaster as a way to detect radiation emissions. A volley of laser fire from Tiangong-3 exploded its fuel source. When Huan finally put the pen back in his suit pocket, there were forty-seven marks on the wall.

The boostersturned-kamikazes advanced on collision courses with nearby American government and commercial communications and imaging satellites. The American ground controllers helplessly watched the chaos overhead, unable to maneuver their precious assets out of the way. No sugar. No cream. It had tasted acrid, awful, not like the vanilla-flavored coffee his mom had loved. Stim tabs and the other pharm provided by the corpsmen worked better, but the Navy clung to its traditions.

The bitter coffee was as much a part of the morning watch as the sunrise. The LCS had just celebrated its tenth birthday, but Jamie still thought the sharp, triple-hulled trimaran design gave it the look of a futuristic starship, like out of a Star Wars movie. His dad loved that old stuff, so much so that he had taken Jamie and his sister, Mackenzie, to one of the reboot movies when they were way too young to understand it.

It was still a good memory, though, Mackenzie coming home with the empty paper popcorn bucket, cherishing it in the way that little kids make souvenirs of the most mundane objects. That was one of the few happy memories from before his father left, before Mackenzie died. Simmons walked over to a spot near one of the port windows to inspect a blemish no bigger than a quarter.

He ran his finger over the epoxy patch. No one had been hurt, fortunately, but it reminded the crew that the LCS had been designed for speed, not for heavy combat. As Simmons watched the morning sun paint the other warships in the crowded harbor orange, he savored the moment, knowing this was one of the last times he would command the bridge. Petty Officer Third Class Randall Jefferson, a young sailor on the bridge, approached, looking almost sheepish when he saw the XO lost in thought.

It just flashes in and out, right up near the ship. The unmanned underwater system, essentially a robotic miniature submarine, had been developed at the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institution in Massachusetts, mainly for civilian applications like port facility inspection, pollution monitoring, and underwater surveying.

It was a mainstay of Discovery and Travel Channel sims. But what worked to capture Shark Week footage also worked for underwater guard duty. Simmons entered the bridge and stood behind Jefferson, who was now operating the mini-sub with a first-generation Sony PlayStation — type controller. The handheld video-game-style controller was supposed to be intuitive for the sailors, but it felt more like a relic to a generation who now gamed in 3-D immersion.

The camera pivoted and showed a gray mass of shadows on the screen. Simmons squinted, as if willing the murky water to reveal its secrets. The camera began to focus. No mistaking it. Against the dark blue background was the faint silhouette of a diver. The diver held what looked like a trashcan lid. Simmons fought down the coffee climbing back up into his throat. Possible terror attack, FP Condition Delta! Tell him we have a diver placing what looks like a limpet mine on the hull.

Force Protection security team to the port side. Cycle rudders and energize sonars. I want him off. Batteries release. Fire at will. He had been standing guard duty by the gangway on the starboard side, and he pushed his way through the scrum to the port side. Horowitz leaned as far over the railing as he could and fired his M4 carbine methodically into the water, making a looping pattern of splashes from bow to stern.

It was a strange thought to have in the middle of a terror attack, Horowitz knew, but this was actually fun. When he switched to thermal view, they looked like a series of yellow needles jabbing into the water that quickly disappeared as their heat dissipated. And yet the dense buildings below seemed like they would never end. The plan seemed to be working, though. The threat-detection icon on the luminous screen at his right did not register anything urgent.

The reason was simple. The U. And east was where Denisov and his twenty-two other fighter-bombers had launched from the Admiral Kuznetsov. The Russian navy aircraft carrier was believed to be on exercises in the North Pacific, out of range of Chinese airstrikes. The MiGs flew in fast and low, and, once they were over Japan, they popped up to mimic the flight paths that commuter jets took from Narita Airport. He hit the button and a digital recording began to play. It sounded like gibberish to him, but the FSB officer back on the Kuznetsov had been clear about the need to play it at just this moment.

As the MiGs passed Miyazaki and turned again toward the Ryukyu Islands, it was clear that the defenses were finally onto them. The ruse had bought Denisov only a few minutes, but it should be enough.

After scanning the sky above him for any incoming fighters, Denisov said a quick prayer for his men and his country. For himself, there was no need. A commander could operate only with certainty, not fear. He expected losses today, but also success. His latest imagery of one of his targets showed just eleven U. Dozens remained out in the open, as usual. The MiGs dove to low altitude and pushed forward to their full sea-level velocity of nearly fifteen hundred kilometers per hour, well over the speed of sound.

The new MiGs were called fourth-generation-plus fighters by the Americans. Each second counted now. The Patriot IV missile batteries that the Japanese had acquired from the Americans were tracking his low-flying fighter.

They had him in their sights and could knock him down at will. This was a crucial component of the plan. He took a deep breath and waited, telling himself that the missiles were threats only if someone pushed the launch button.

Two decades of near-daily airspace incursions by Chinese aircraft would have desensitized the Japanese, plus their communications networks were supposed to have been knocked offline by cyber-attacks. At least, that was the plan. All the more reason not to miss on this first free run, Major Denisov had told his men during their preflight briefing. Make them count. The only sounds on the radio this time were digital recordings of the voices of American F Raptor pilots copied by a surveillance ship that had monitored the RIMPAC war games held each year off Hawaii.

Anything to create uncertainty and delay the Japanese and American response by just a few more seconds. His war started here. It was a volley of Sokols Falcons fired by his second flight.

A sort of miniaturized cruise missile, the electromagnetic weapon used pulses of directed energy to knock out air-defense and communications systems. Following a preprogrammed course, the flight of Falcon missiles separated, each leaving a swath of electronic dead zone behind it. Denisov released four RBK cluster bombs over the scores of unprotected U. His MiG was designed to be a match for the F, and the pilots of both had always wondered how the planes would actually stack up against each other.

It would have to wait for some other time. Tiny parachutes deployed and the cans drifted toward the ground. When proximity fuses detected that they were ten meters from the ground, the cans exploded, one after another. Hundreds of explosions ripped across the air base, blowing open scores of the U. That X was located in the middle of the largest U.

Marine Corps base in Japan. The nine thousand Marines living there were supposed to have been moved to Guam five years earlier. Time had run out. The two planes passed each other at less than a hundred meters. At the imaginary point of their crossing lines, the MiGs dropped four KABS thermobaric bombs, each weighing just over thirteen hundred kilograms.

The bombs opened to release a massive cloud of explosive vapor, which was then ignited by a separate charge. It was the largest explosion Japan had experienced since Nagasaki, and it left a similar mushroom cloud of smoke and dust hanging over the base as the jets flew away.

Denisov finally turned off the spoof audio recording and ordered his flight to report in. The strikes on the air bases, the ground bases, and even the U.

Navy aircraft carrier harbored offshore had been a success. Trying to conceal the relief in his voice, he ordered the remaining fighters to bank toward the Chinese coast. The Russian navy had held up its end; now it had to trust that the Chinese aerial refueling tankers would be there as promised.

It made him pause, then he focused on firing at the threat. The shell casings bounced off the deck and into the water, sizzling as they floated for a brief moment and then sinking beneath the surface. Then he throttled it to full speed. Without looking, Horowitz reached into the pouch attached to his belt for another magazine and tried to slam it into the rifle, but his last mag slipped from his hands into the water.

Thirty rounds that could have made the difference were lost. Horowitz cursed at the water as only a sailor could but stopped when he saw a fast-moving shape coming toward the ship.

Great; not just terrorists but torpedoes now! The diver was in the midst of attaching the mine to the hull when some sixth sense warned him what was coming. He turned his head to look over his shoulder.

And then silence. Arnel wanted to say that neither a newborn baby nor a full-grown man could care less about wall colors. But it was best to humor her with all the love he could scrape up, especially given that he was standing on the deck of a ship in the Panama Canal and she was back home in Manila.

He put his phone back in his pocket and leaned away from the hot deck rail. Everything was squared away aboard the ship, but the radios were alive with traffic. Two ships ahead, the Xianghumen, a Chinese-flagged freighter, had turned on its engines. This was craziness. The canal master was screaming over the radio for the Xianghumen to acknowledge and stop. But there was no reply. Reyes ran topside to see. It was like watching a slow-motion train wreck.

The Xianghumen was moving at a mere four knots, slower than a jog. But with a hundred and twenty thousand tons of force behind it, the ship slowly ground its way into the canal locks, crushing the doors inward. In any case, the highway between the oceans was likely going to be closed for a while.

He reached into his pocket. His ears rang and his head ached worse than any shore-leave hangover. He saw the XO looking down at him from the bridge. He saluted the officer from the water, and the XO smiled and saluted back. A launch pulled Horowitz and the black-clad body out of the water.

The sailors hauled him aboard with smiles, but they handled the body with fear. The launch stopped beside the Coronado and the diver was carried up to the helicopter deck at the stern. Horowitz scrambled up after it and joined the small crowd that had quickly gathered around the body. They all spoke quietly around the dead diver, as if worried their voices might revive him. You know the rules.

Horowitz felt his stomach turn. With his cropped blond hair, he looked almost like a sleeping Viking. He turned it over in his hands, careful not to cut himself on the shards of plastic, and then knelt down to look closer at the body. They also had Chinese markings on a protective cover. The men looked confused as the XO sprinted back to the bridge without a word. Riley turned to see Simmons burst into the room. Simmons seemed to ignore him and looked right at the communications officer.

The communications tech looked from Simmons to Riley. He absent-mindedly ran his tongue across his lips, realizing he was thirsty despite being soaking wet. Falling off the ship and then bitching about being scared seemed like a good way to blow his shot at becoming a SEAL. Horowitz looked around the harbor at the wall of U.

Navy steel assembled there. Then the USS Abraham Lincoln, a nuclear- powered aircraft carrier tied up just across the harbor, seemed to lift a few feet from the water, as if the hundred-thousand-ton ship were being conjured skyward. The shove of the blast wave pushed him back to the bulkhead. As he scrambled to his feet, Horowitz stared, agape, as the Nimitz-class carrier settled back into the water with orange flames and black smoke pouring from its deck.

Pier 29, Port of Honolulu, Hawaii What the hell? The Golden Wave, feet, flagged out of Liberia. It had been pre-cleared on the manifest but it was twenty-four hours early. And now it was mucking up his day. Even standing in the guard shack in the neighboring parking lot, he could feel the impact of the doublewide metal ramp slamming down onto the pier. Sanders had always thought the big rollon, roll-off ship had the aesthetic appeal of a Costco plunked down on top of a boat.

But that was the idea. DMCA and Copyright : The book is not hosted on our servers, to remove the file please contact the source url. If you see a Google Drive link instead of source url, means that the file witch you will get after approval is just a summary of original book or the file has been already removed.

Loved each and every part of this book. I will definitely recommend this book to fiction, war lovers. Your Rating:. Your Comment:.