Текст книги "Golden Buddha"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

Соавторы: Clive Cussler
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Текущая страница: 16 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

31

ON board the Oregon, preparations for departure were moving at lightning speed.

Juan Cabrillo reached for the telephone and placed a call to the acting harbormaster.

“Don’t worry,” he said, after lying that his parent company had ordered him to leave immediately, “we have another ship lined up in Manila to take the load of fireworks to the United States. She’ll be here day after tomorrow.”

The harbormaster seemed to accept this as fact. Because it was late and little was happening, he was talkative.

“Singapore,” Cabrillo said in answer to his question, “but they haven’t told me the cargo, only that we need to be there seventy-two hours from now.”

Singapore was fifteen hundred miles as a crow flies, and from what the harbormaster had heard, the Oregonwould be hard-pressed to make twenty knots an hour. The man had no way to know that if the ship made it into open water by sunrise, it could be in Singapore by lunch the next day. Nor did he know the Oregonwas not going to Singapore at all.

“Yes,” Cabrillo said, “it’s pushing for sure, but orders are orders. Is the pilot on his way here?”

The harbormaster answered in the affirmative, and Cabrillo hurried to get off the telephone.

“We’ll keep an eye out for him,” Cabrillo finished, “and thank you.”

Hanging up the telephone, Cabrillo turned to Hanley. The time was 4:41 A.M.

“Sounds like he bought it,” Cabrillo said. “Order the lookout to watch for the approaching pilot boat.”

Hanley nodded. “The helicopter with Adams and Reyes is back, and I’ve ordered all the hatches battened down. Which means we need to retrieve the Zodiacs in open water.”

“What do you hear from them?” Cabrillo asked.

“Seng and Huxley report they are still waiting outside,” Hanley said, staring at his watch. “Murphy was ordered to blow up an inner cavern any time about now to seal off the flow of paint and at least allow the four rescuers to escape. As of the last communication a few minutes ago, Hornsby, Jones and Meadows had not shown up with the Golden Buddha.”

“I don’t like it,” Cabrillo said.

“I had to make a decision when you were dealing with the art dealer,” Hanley said quietly. “If the helicopter salting the water didn’t throw off the Chinese, not only would we lose the men in the tunnel, but the rescue crew as well.”

“I know, Max,” Cabrillo said. “You’re just following the book.”

The two men stared at one another for a moment. Then Eric Stone spoke.

“Sirs,” Stone said, pointing at a screen, “we just detected a shock wave from an explosion.”

MURPHY had the throttle on the Zodiac as far forward as she would go. The trio of boats was rocketing down the tunnel leading out to the bay. They were only ten feet ahead of the approaching wave from the explosion, but now that they were at full speed, the margin was remaining constant.

“Try to reach Seng on the radio,” Murphy shouted over the noise, “and tell him what’s happening.”

Kasim nodded and reached for the microphone.

“Eddie,” he shouted into the microphone, “we have the target with us. Clear away from the opening—we’re coming out hot.”

“Got it,” Seng shouted from just outside the pipe.

A few minutes before, Seng and Huxley had heard the rumble from the explosion and had climbed aboard the second Zodiac. They were just backing away from shore when Kasim radioed. Seng turned the Zodiac and then accelerated away into the bay. Once they reached the edge of the fog and rain band, he turned toward land and pointed a spotlight at the outflow pipe.

“Call the Oregon,” he said to Huxley, “and report team two is on their way out.”

THE pilot boat pulled alongside the Oregon. A single tugboat hovered nearby, awaiting instructions from the pilot. The pilot climbed off his boat at a boarding ladder, made his way on deck, and then stared around. The upper deck was a tangled mess of rusting equipment and cables. He stared above, where the smokestack was polluting the air around the slip with smoky, oily fumes. This was a ship begging to be put out of her misery at a scrapyard.

“What a pile of junk,” the pilot muttered to himself.

A man stepped from behind a pillar. “I’m Captain Smith,” he said. “Welcome aboard.”

The captain was dressed in a tattered yellow rain slicker spotted with grease and dirt. His face had a full beard, stained around the mouth by nicotine, and when Smith cracked a smile, he showed a forest of yellow stubs.

“I’m ready to guide you out,” the pilot said, staying a safe distance away from the man’s odor.

“This way,” the captain said, turning.

The pilot followed the captain as he wove his way around the tangled mess on the decks to the rusted metal stair leading to the pilothouse. Halfway up the stair, the pilot gripped for a handrail and it came off in his hand.

“Captain,” he said.

Smith turned, then walked a few steps to where the pilot was stopped. Then he took the length of rusted pipe in his hand and tossed it over his shoulder onto the cluttered deck.

“I’ll make a note of that,” he said, swiveling around again and climbing the last few steps to the pilothouse.

The pilot shook his head. The sooner he was off the ship, the happier he’d be.

Six minutes later, the Oregonwas turned and partway out of the port. The pilot ordered the line from the tug removed and the Oregonheaded away from land under her own power.

To the rear of the Oregon, now growing dimmer in the distance, the mountain peak on Macau began to recede in the rain and fog. Only a few lights from the airport remained in sight.

“How long until you can be picked up?” Cabrillo asked the pilot.

The pilot pointed to a channel marker thirty yards ahead. The high-powered light was penetrating the gloom. A few more minutes and he could be off this beast of a ship.

“LIGHT at the end of the tunnel,” Murphy shouted.

The Zodiac was racing toward the bay just ahead of the shock wave that would fill the pipe to the top. Hornsby was holding tight to his raft and the top of the Golden Buddha, while Meadows gripped the side of the Zodiac and glanced down at Jones, who was clutching his side in the bottom of the raft.

“A few more seconds, Jonesy,” he shouted, “and we’ll be in the clear.”

Jones nodded but did not speak.

The exit from the pipe was like riding over a waterfall on a class IV rapid. The water was spewing out of the pipe with tremendous force. The plume cascaded through the air twenty feet, then dropped seven feet down to the water of the bay. Murphy held to the wheel as the Zodiac was propelled through the air. As soon as he felt the boat leave the water, he pulled back on the throttle so he wouldn’t over-rev the engine, then braced himself for the splashdown.

“Let go,” he screamed to Hornsby and Meadows.

The lines on the two towed rafts were released and they separated a few feet from the Zodiac at the same instant the wall of water filled the pipe, then burst through the air with tremendous force.

“Wow,” Seng shouted at the sight of the rafts squirting through the air.

“Hold on,” Meadows shouted to Jones as the raft flew through the air, then slapped on the surface of the water before slowing almost to a stop.

“Are you okay?” Meadows said a few seconds later. “Do you need anything?”

Jones wiped the water from his face, then shifted his body to ease the pain of his cracked ribs as the raft stopped in the water and bobbed.

“I’ve been better,” Jones said. “I think it would help if you would hum a few bars of ‘Suwannee River.’”

PO was inside the conference room with Rhee, Ho and Marcus Friday. A police sergeant entered and whispered in his ear.

“What the hell do you mean?” he asked.

“A few of our people heard what sounded like a helicopter,” the sergeant said. “Now all the waters around Macau are a bright pink color.”

“Those bastards,” Po said. “They’re covering their tracks.”

“Who?” the sergeant asked.

“I don’t know who,” Po said, “but I intend to find out.”

Po waved the sergeant away, then walked over to Rhee and motioned for him to move a few feet away so they could talk in private. Once he explained what the sergeant had told him, Rhee had only one thing to say.

“Seal the port,” Rhee said. “No one in or out.”

AS soon as Kasim helped Meadows and Jones aboard the Zodiac, Murphy slit the rubber raft with a knife. The raft drifted away and began to sink. At the same time, Seng and Huxley helped Hornsby aboard and the three of them wrestled the Golden Buddha aboard their Zodiac. Murphy idled his boat close just as they had finished stowing the golden icon amidships.

“I just spoke to Hanley,” he said to Seng. “The Oregonis almost to the outer buoy. We are supposed to rendezvous with them in open water.”

Kasim raised his hand for quiet as the radio barked. He listened intently over his earpiece.

“Got it,” he said.

“That was the Oregonagain,” he said. “They just intercepted a transmission from the police to the port authorities. They have ordered the port sealed—no one in or out. The police and port authority boats have been given orders to fire on any craft that refuses to comply.”

“Shh…,” Seng said.

The sound of a ship under power came across the water.

“They’re coming,” Seng said.

CAPTAIN Smith walked the pilot to the ladder leading down and bid him farewell. The pilot climbed down the ladder, then stepped across to the pilot boat, which quickly backed away from the Oregon. Smith watched the pilot boat accelerate away into the rain.

The pilot boat was still visible when it began to slow and turn.

Cabrillo reached for a tiny radio at his belt and flicked it on. “Max,” he said quickly, “what’s happening?”

“The authorities have ordered the port sealed,” Hanley said. “The pilot’s been ordered to bring us back to port.”

Cabrillo sprinted across the deck as he spoke. “Full steam ahead,” he shouted. “I’ll be in the control room in a few minutes.”

RHEE was in his office. The port’s night manager was on the other end of the phone line.

“They won’t stop?” he asked.

“The pilot boat can’t reach them,” the port manager noted. “The pilot that guided them out mentioned that the vessel was in terrible shape—maybe their radios are faulty.”

“Have the pilot boat outrun them and deliver the message in person.”

“I already ordered that,” the manager said in exasperation. “But the ship keeps gaining speed—the pilot boat can’t seem to catch up with her.”

“I thought you said the ship was a rust bucket,” Rhee said.

“She’s a fast rust bucket,” the manager noted. “Our pilot boats can do over thirty knots.”

“Damn,” Rhee said. “How long until the ship reaches international waters?”

“Not long,” the manager admitted.

“Get me the navy,” Rhee shouted to Po, who reached for another telephone.

“What do you want us to do?” the port manager asked.

“Nothing,” Rhee said. “You’ve already done enough.”

He slammed down the telephone and took the one in Po’s hand. The second in command of the Chinese navy detachment in Macau was on the line.

“This is the chief of the Macau police. We need you to stop a ship heading out into the South China Sea,” he said quickly.

“We have a hydrofoil that can run at sixty-five knots,” the Chinese navy officer told him, “but it isn’t very heavily armed.”

“This is an old cargo ship,” Rhee said loudly. “I doubt she’ll put up much of a fight.”

Rhee had no way of knowing it, but he’d just made the biggest error of his life.

CABRILLO burst into the control room, shedding his grimy rain suit while at the same time removing the dental appliance that made his teeth appear as stubs. He tossed both to the side and tugged at his fake beard as he spoke. “Okay, what’s the situation?”

“We just intercepted a communiqué from the Chinese navy to their high-speed hydrofoil. They’ve been ordered to intercept us—a naval frigate and a fast-attack corvette are following.”

“Any other ships?”

“No,” Hanley said. “That’s the only Chinese navy fire-power currently in Macau.”

“Where’s our team with the Golden Buddha?” Cabrillo asked as he tossed the beard aside, then spit out a sliver of latex left over from the false teeth mold.

“They are driving at full speed out of port,” Stone said, pointing to a screen. “But it looks like they have picked up a tail.”

“Get me Adams,” Cabrillo said. “While he’s making his way here, have the deckhands drop the walls on the helicopter pad and start raising the Robinson from the lower hangar.”

“Got it,” Stone said.

“Max,” Cabrillo said, “get me Langston Overholt on a secure line.”

Hanley started to assemble the satellite link.

Cabrillo stared at the screen showing the progress of the Zodiacs and the ship pursuing them. Then he glanced over at another screen that showed the Oregon’s location and the path of the Chinese navy vessels giving chase. The screens were filled with blinking lights and estimated paths.

“Adams will be here in a second,” Stone said.

“Sound battle stations,” Cabrillo said quietly.

Stone pushed a button and a loud whooping noise filled the Oregon.

Belowdecks in the sick bay, Gunther Reinholt heard the sound and sat up in bed. Swiveling to one side, he slid his feet into a pair of carpet slippers. Rising to his full height, he reached around and tightened his hospital gown around his body. Then with one hand on his IV drip, which was hanging from a stainless-steel rack with a wheeled base, he began to shuffle from the sick bay to the engine room.

Reinholt knew that if the Oregonwent to war, they would need every hand on station.

32

THE captain of the Chinese navy hydrofoil GaleForce,Deng Ching, stared through the square floor-to-ceiling windows of the control room with a pair of high-powered binoculars. His craft had risen up to her full height of twelve feet above the water a few moments before. The hydrofoil was now reaching speeds of nearly fifty knots. Ching turned and glanced at the radar screen. The cargo ship was still a distance away, but the gap was closing.

“Are the sailors on the forward guns locked and loaded?” he asked his second in command.

“Yes, sir,” the officer replied.

“Once we draw closer, I’ll want to send a volley over their heads,” Ching said.

“That should be enough,” the second in command agreed.

LANGSTON Overholt sat in his office in Langley, Virginia. On his left ear was the secure telephone connected to Cabrillo on the Oregon. His right ear was occupied by a telephone connected to the admiral in command of the Pacific theater.

“Presidential directive four twenty-one,” he said to the admiral. “Now, what do you have nearby?”

“We’re checking now,” the admiral said. “I’ll know in a few minutes.”

“Can you bring some force to bear on the Chinese without it being tied to the U.S.?”

“Understood, Mr. Overholt,” the admiral said. “Force from afar.”

“That’s it exactly, Admiral.”

“Leave it to the navy,” the admiral said. “We’ll come up with something.”

The telephone went dead. Overholt replaced the receiver and spoke to Cabrillo.

“Hold tight, Juan,” he said quietly. “Help’s a coming.”

“Fair enough,” Cabrillo said before disconnecting.

IN the movies, when a submarine goes to battle stations, it does so with much whooping from sirens and gongs. Men scurry down narrow passageways as they race to their stations and the tension that comes over the big screen is palpable and thick.

Reality is somewhat different.

Noise inside or outside a submarine is the enemy—it can lead to detection and death. On board the United States Navy Los Angeles–class attack submarine Santa Fe, the motions for battle were more like a roadie setting up a rock concert than the chaos of someone yelling “fire” in a crowded theater. A red light signaling action pulsed from numerous fixtures mounted in all the rooms and passageways. The crew moved with purpose, but not haste. The action they would take had been rehearsed a thousand times. They were as natural to the crew as shaving and showering. The commander of the Santa Fe, Captain Steven Farragut, stood on the command deck and received the condition reports from his crew with practiced ease.

“Electric check completed on packages one and two,” an officer reported.

“Acknowledged,” Farragut said.

“Boat rising to optimal firing depth,” the driver reported.

“Excellent,” Farragut said easily.

“Countermeasures and detection at one hundred percent,” another officer reported.

“Perfect,” Farragut said.

“Sensors report clear, sir,” the chief of boat said. “We appear to be alone out here. We can commence operation inside of eight, repeat eight, minutes.”

“Acknowledged,” Farragut said.

The great beast was rising from the depths and preparing to bite if necessary.

ADAMS burst into the control room of the Oregon. He was dressed in a tan flight suit that he was zipping up as he approached.

“Mr. Chairman,” he said, smiling a blindingly white smile, “what can I do for you?”

Cabrillo pointed to one of the computer screens. “George, we have a situation. We have the two Zodiacs along with seven of our people trying to get out of Macau waters. We can’t turn to pick them up because we’re being pursued ourselves.” Cabrillo pointed to another screen. “You can see they also have a tail. You need to provide support.”

“I’ll mount the experimental weapons pods Mr. Hanley designed for the Robinson. That gives me mini-rockets and a small chain gun, so I can cover their exit.”

“What about the extraction system?” Cabrillo asked.

“I can’t pull seven people aboard,” Adams said, “I don’t have the payload.”

“That’s not what I was thinking,” Cabrillo said. “Let me explain.”

CAPTAIN Ching stared at the radar screen. He had been told the ship he was supposed to intercept was an aging cargo ship named the Oregon. From the description given by the pilot, the vessel was little more than a bucket of rust. Somehow, Ching was beginning to doubt that– Gale Forcewas steaming at fifty knots, and if the radar on the computer screen was correct, the cargo ship was doing forty-five. At the current speeds, the Oregonwould be safely in international waters in less than five minutes. Then there would be the risk of a major incident if the sailors on Gale Forceattempted a boarding.

“Give me full speed,” Ching ordered the engine room.

“THE hydrofoil is accelerating,” Hanley noted. “At the increased speed, they will intercept us a minute or two before we reach the demarcation line.”

Cabrillo glanced at the screen showing the water in front of the Oregon. The clouds were finally clearing and soon they would be free of the fog bank.

“Let’s raise them on the radio,” Cabrillo said, “and explain the situation.”

Stone started tuning the radio while Cabrillo reached for a different microphone.

“Engine room,” he said.

“Sir,” a voice said, “this is Reinholt.”

Cabrillo didn’t bother to ask why the ailing engineer was not in sick bay as he had been ordered. The man had obviously felt well enough to help.

“Reinholt,” Cabrillo said quickly, “is there any way to coax out a few more knots?”

“We’re on it, sir,” Reinholt answered.

DOWN belowdecks, the weapons pods had already been attached to both sides of the R-44. While the elevator lifted the helicopter up to launch height, Adams slid a pair of Nomex flight gloves over his hands, then slid a pair of yellow-tinted sunglasses over his eyes. He stepped from foot to foot in anticipation, and as soon as the elevator stopped and locked in place, he raced over, did a quick preflight and checked the underneath harness, then stepped to the pilot’s door of the Robinson and cracked it open. He was sliding into the seat as a deckhand raced over.

“Do you want me to pull the pins?” the deckhand asked.

“Arm me,” Adams said quickly, “then clear the deck. I’m out of here as soon as I have operating temps.”

The man bent down, removed the pins from the missiles and checked the power to the mini-gun. Once he was finished, he popped his head inside the door again.

“Check your weapons console.”

Adams stared at the small screen attached to the side of the dashboard. “I’m green.”

The deckhand shut the door and raced away. Adams waited until he was clear, then engaged the starter. Four minutes and twenty-eight seconds later, using the surface wind from the accelerating Oregonas a crutch, Adams lifted from the deck, then pivoted the R-44 in midair, turned and headed back toward Macau.

THE Zodiacs were skimming across the water at thirty knots. According to their crude radars, they were keeping ahead of the pursuing boats, but just barely. Seng’s boat, with the added weight of the Golden Buddha, was straining to maintain speed. He had the throttle all the way to the stops, but there was no more speed to be coaxed from his engine. The fog and rain were still thick and they shielded the inflatable boats from the pursuers, but Seng could sense they were just out of visual and auditory range. If one thing went wrong—an engine miss or overheating, a leak in the inflatable pontoons that slowed them down—they would be toast.

At the same instant Seng was having his dark thoughts, Huxley heard the Oregoncalling over the radio. She cupped her hand over her ear so she could hear. Because of the potential for interception, the message was brief and to the point.

“Help is on the way,” Stone said.

“Understand,” Huxley answered.

She turned to Seng and Hornsby. “The Oregon’s sending the cavalry,” she said.

“Not a moment too soon,” Seng said as he stared at the temperature gauge for his engine, now beginning to creep into the red.

Not too far distant, the Zodiac carrying Kasim, Murphy Meadows, and Jones heard the message as well. Kasim was steering, Meadows standing alongside, with Jones lying prone on the deck to the stern. Once Meadows heard the news, he turned, crouched down, then yelled the news over the sound of the wind and waves to Jones.

“I wish I’d have known,” Jones quipped. “I would have asked them to bring some aspirin.”

“You want another bottle of water?” Meadows asked.

“Not unless there’s a bathroom on board,” Jones said, grimacing.

“Hang in there, buddy,” Meadows said. “We’ll be home soon.”

LIKE the distant view of a shoplifter across a crowded store, the outline of the Oregonstarted to form through Ching’s binoculars as the fog began to clear. Concentrating on the hull, Ching could see the large white-capped wake being created by the racing cargo ship. The wake and the cargo ship’s track were like nothing he had ever witnessed before. Most cargo ships, and Ching had tracked and intercepted more than a few, moved through the water like lumbering manatees—this Iranian-flagged vessel he was chasing moved like a thoroughbred in heat.

The water out the stern was not churning, as with most ships; instead, it seemed to be forming into concentric whirlpools that flattened the sea to the rear, as if a large container of glycerin had been poured overboard. Ching stared at the decks, but no crew was visible. There was only rusty metal and junk piled high.

Though the decks were deserted, the Oregondid not give the appearance of a ghost ship. No, Ching thought, beneath her metal skin, much was happening. At just that instant, a medium-sized helicopter flew over the Gale Forceabout a hundred yards to the port side, just above wave-top level.

“Where did that come from?” Ching asked his electronics officer.

“What, sir?” the officer said, staring up from a screen.

“A helicopter,” Ching said, “heading from sea toward land.”

“It didn’t show up on the sensors,” the officer said. “Are you sure you saw it through the fog?”

“Yes,” Ching said loudly, “I saw it.”

He walked over to the screen and stared at the radar returns.

“What’s happening?” he asked a few seconds later.

The electronics officer was short and slim. He looked like a jockey in a fancy uniform. His hair was jet black and straight and his eyes brown-edged with bloodshot red from staring at the radar.

“Sir,” he said finally, “I’m not sure. What you see has been happening intermittently since we began the chase. One second we seem to get a clear return, then it jumps to the other side of the screen like it’s a video game playing hide-and-seek.”

“The image is not even the correct size,” Captain Ching noted.

“It grows, then diminishes to a pinprick,” the officer said. “Then jumps across the screen.”

Ching stared out the window again; they were drawing closer to the Oregon. “They’re jamming us.”

“I can detect that,” the officer said.

“Then what is it?” Ching asked.

The officer thought for a minute. “I read in a translated science journal about an experimental system an American engineer was building. Instead of making objects disappear, as with stealth, or using extra signals, as on most jamming equipment, this system has a computer that takes in all the signals from our hull and reforms them into different shapes and strengths.”

“So this system can make them appear or disappear as they decide?” Ching said incredulously.

“That’s about it, sir,” the officer said.

“Well,” Ching said finally, “there’s no way an old rust bucket has anything like that on board.”

“Well, let’s hope not, sir,” the electronics officer said.

“Why’s that?” Ching asked.

“Because the article also stated that by changing the object dimensions, they can increase the targeting potential.”

“Which means?”

“That if the frigate to the rear or the fast-attack corvette coming up quick on our stern fires anything other than bullets, and they have a system like this, they could redirect the fire to us.”

“Chinese missiles used to sink Chinese ships?”

“Exactly.”

“RAMMING and jamming,” Eric Stone shouted. Lincoln was on the far side of the control room at the primary fire control station. He was running a quick diagnostic check on the missile battery. He stared intently at the bar graphs as they filled the computer screen.

“Mr. Chairman, I’m good to go,” he shouted toward Cabrillo a few seconds later.

Cabrillo turned to Hanley. “Here’s the deal as I see it. The entire thrust of this operation was the retrieval of the Golden Buddha. We have it, but it’s still inside the circle of Chinese influence. Our first priority must be to get our teams and the Golden Buddha safely back on the Oregon, while at the same time making our escape.”

“I hate to say it, Juan,” Hanley said, “but I wish the weather wasn’t clearing.”

“A wasted wish, but I agree,” Cabrillo said.

“We don’t know what the navy is sending,” Hanley noted, “but we can safely assume there won’t be surface ships involved—our sensors don’t detect any other vessels for a hundred miles.”

“They launched cruise missiles from the Persian Gulf into downtown Baghdad,” Cabrillo said, “so we can assume either missile or aircraft support.”

“The enemy has rockets on the fast-attack corvette, and some long guns that can fire high-explosive rounds, plus the frigate should have some Chinese-made cruise-type missiles.”

“They any good?” Cabrillo asked.

“Not as accurate as ours,” Hanley admitted, “but they can sink a ship.”

“The hydrofoil?”

“Deck-mounted machine guns only,” Hanley said.

“And the Zodiacs are being pursued by harbor patrol boats?”

“Correct,” Hanley said. “A pair of forty-six-foot aluminum cruisers with diesel power. They each have a single bow-mounted machine gun.”

“Radios?”

“Nothing special,” Hanley said.

“So even if we took out the harbor boats,” Cabrillo said, “the Zodiacs would still need to pass the trio of vessels on our tail.”

“I’m afraid so,” Hanley agreed.

Cabrillo started sketching on a yellow pad with a black Magic Marker. When he finished, he handed the pad to Hanley. “Make sense to you?”

“Yep,” Hanley said.

“Okay then,” Cabrillo said forcefully, “hard a’ starboard. We’re going back toward land.”