Текст книги "Piranha"

Автор книги: Clive Cussler

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Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 25 страниц)

Juan felt a stab of regret at seeing the ship aflame. The familiar outline made the sight even more poignant, but she had served her purpose and now they had to leave her behind.

“Be sure to keep the islets between us and the frigate until we’re out of radar range, Mr. Stone,” Juan said.

“Aye, Chairman,” Eric replied. “Shouldn’t be too hard. The Mariscal Sucre doesn’t appear to be moving.”

“I don’t think she’s going anywhere,” Max said. “Ruiz is like an arsonist watching her handiwork burn.”

“Then let’s show her the grand finale. Mr. Murphy, ready the fireworks.”

Murph rubbed his hands together in glee. “With pleasure, Chairman.”

Just as they had planned, Ruiz thought she was looking at the Oregon burning and adrift when it was really dashing northeast across the Caribbean at more than forty-five knots. The video feed on the front view screen proved their success in fooling Ruiz. The image being sent from a tiny drone circling the warship at a safe distance confirmed that it was stationary. If she hadn’t been deceived, it would have shown the frigate in hot pursuit.

Although the mission commissioned by the CIA was to sabotage the tanker diesel fuel bound for North Korea and to recover evidence of the Venezuelan arms smuggling operation, Juan saw it as a good opportunity to add a third objective: regain their anonymity.

For the last few years, they’d gotten into scrapes around the world with various Third World countries and battled the occasional naval vessel, sinking a few of them along the way. No incident in isolation was enough to reveal the Oregon’s hidden purpose and identity, but the rumors had started to make the rounds that there was some kind of spy ship cruising the seas of the world, although the stories conflicted radically on what the ship was called and what she looked like. But Juan and his officers agreed that it was only a matter of time before someone would make the connection and blow their cover. Which meant they needed to take action that would not only convince everyone this mythical spy ship was crewed by nothing more potent than a ragtag bunch of mercenaries but also that it was no longer a threat because it was at the bottom of the ocean.

Juan had gotten the brainstorm for how to do it when he learned that the Oregon’s only surviving sister ship was scheduled to be scrapped. Before being rebuilt as a technological marvel, the Oregon had been a sturdy lumber hauler, carrying loads between the Pacific Northwest and Asia. Four other ships of the same design were constructed, but service lives had ended for all but the Washington, which continued to ply the waters around her namesake state, ferrying supplies to Alaska.

When the Washington was headed for the scrapyard, the Corporation bought her for a pittance, setting Juan’s plan in motion. His crew had spent the past week altering her appearance so that the Washington and the Oregon would appear identical. They also filled her hold with the ammonium nitrate fertilizer that was supposed to be inside the Oregon. Then they’d moved the Washington to her anchorage nestled among the isolated Islas Caracas and left Eric Stone and Mark Murphy behind so that they could make the final preparations.

The part of the mission to regain anonymity had all been meticulously planned to lure one of the Venezuelan frigates into battle. Eddie Seng’s trickery had ensured that harbormaster Manuel Lozada would report the Oregon’s arrival to his superiors in the Navy, and Eddie stayed glued to Lozada so that he could apprise Max of the Venezuelans’ activities. Langston Overholt, their CIA connection, kept them informed about the location of Venezuelan warships via satellite observation. The Mariscal Sucre was the closest frigate on patrol, so they knew their target would be coming from the west.

After getting the intel about the smuggling operation, it was just a matter of baiting the frigate to the desolate islands where the Washington was hidden.

Like the squibs Kevin Nixon had designed for Eddie’s staged shooting, Murph had created his own giant squibs for the Oregon. At the moment the Metal Storm battery had neutralized the incoming missile, close enough to the ship to make Ruiz think it had hit, Murph simultaneously activated explosives on the deck of the Oregon as well as preset gas jets that simulated the look of a raging fire while posing no actual danger to the ship. He assured Juan that the paint wouldn’t even be charred.

The Washington, however, wouldn’t be as fortunate. With Eric’s help, Murph had covered her deck with canisters that would spew jellied gasoline when they were detonated, mimicking the fake fire on the Oregon. Additional explosives were rigged throughout the ship including the bridge superstructure.

Juan had idled the Oregon’s engines until the frigate was close enough to use her gun, floating at a spot that would quickly put them in the lee of Isla Caraca del Oeste after she got under way again. Once the island shielded them, Juan ramped her up to full throttle, knowing that the Mariscal Sucre would target Oregon’s presumed position based on the slower speed they’d been sustaining. The shells fell harmlessly in their wake. When the last one plunged into the water, Murph activated the explosives on the deck of the Washington.

Juan thought the odds were even between the Mariscal Sucre following them into the channel or intercepting them on the other side and he had to be sure which way to go, backward or forward, to be out of visual and radar range by the time the frigate spotted the Washington in flames. George “Gomez” Adams was the ace up his sleeve that made the decision easy.

Gomez, who got the nickname because he’d once been the paramour of a woman who was a dead ringer for the original Morticia from The Addams Family TV show, was the Oregon’s resident helicopter pilot. The ship carried an MD 520N chopper secreted within the aft hold that could be raised into launch position within ten minutes, but this night Gomez was seated comfortably in the op center.

In addition to his duties as a rotary-aircraft pilot, Gomez was also their most skilled drone operator. The Oregon was equipped with an array of UAVs for aerial reconnaissance and Juan had ordered one launched as the frigate approached. The off-the-shelf design with a four-foot wingspan had been modified by Max to carry a gimbaled high-definition video camera whose signal was linked back to the Oregon. Gomez, sporting a mustache that would have made Wyatt Earp proud, and blessed with looks so striking that Murph had once suggested that they have a shipwide “handsome-off” between him and MacD, stared at his monitor as he expertly guided the drone just above the wave tops to keep it below the Mariscal Sucre’s radar.

Thanks to their eye in the sky, they’d watched the frigate race to the northern side of the island, so Juan ordered full reverse and the Oregon made it out of the channel and behind the next island well before the Mariscal Sucre came into view.

“Gomez,” Juan said, “bring it around so we have a good shot of the Washington.”

“No problem.” The drone turned smartly. The running lights on the Mariscal Sucre were visible behind the blazing cargo freighter. “How’s that for an artistic shot?”

“You’d make Spielberg proud. What’s your distance?”

“Three miles.”

“That should be far enough. I can’t say the same for the Mariscal Sucre, but that’s their problem. They know what the cargo is. Are you set, Mr. Murphy?”

“Say the word,” Murph replied, his finger at the ready.

“Do it.”

Murph punched the button.

Explosives carefully placed beside the ammonium nitrate inside the hold of the Washington detonated, setting off a chain reaction within the fertilizer. A cataclysmic ball of fire bloomed silently on-screen. The ship was ripped apart by the blast and cleaved in two. Pieces of her hull pelted the neighboring islands. Only her broken keel would be left to settle on the seafloor, leaving little to examine even if the Venezuelans sent a dive team down to investigate. As far as they knew, the ship that had blown up was the Dolos, and no proof would be left to indicate otherwise.

To Juan, it was like watching the Oregon herself sink, and the pang of regret returned. At least it was a nobler end for the Washington than to be cut apart and sold for scrap.

A minor tsunami washed up on the islet shores and rushed toward the Mariscal Sucre, which was rocking back and forth from the explosive concussion. Seconds later, the drone bobbed drunkenly.

Gomez struggled to maintain control. “Man, that was bigger than I expected.” He pulled the drone up and leveled out. No doubt the frigate wouldn’t be paying much attention to its radar signature, if their radar array had even survived the blast.

Gomez kept the camera trained on the frigate. There was no movement.

“Well, I bet that woke them up,” Max said.

“And blew out their eardrums,” Juan said. “I’d be surprised if any of their bridge windows are still intact.”

“If they go anywhere, it’ll be back to port for repairs.”

“I agree. But Gomez, keep an eye on them until we’re thirty miles out. Then ditch the UAV.”

“You got it.”

The hull clanged as the shock wave from the blast now fifteen miles away reached them.

“Max, change us back to the Oregon. The Dolos has served us well, but we’ll consign her name to the sea.”

“Gladly.”

The name on the fantail could be changed at a moment’s notice using its magnetized panel, which could be programmed with any name and font they chose. At the press of a button, Max deactivated the magnets and the iron filings clinging to the fantail fell away. He remagnetized the filings and nozzles sprayed them into place, spelling out Oregon. Once they were in the open ocean and away from the shipping lanes, the crew would repaint the hull in a new decayed pattern and color, deck equipment would be rearranged, phony cargo pallets would be added, and the second funnel would be removed, completely altering the silhouette of the ship. The Oregon would steam into the next port looking nothing like the Dolos.

“Good work, everyone,” Juan said. “I’d say we just bought ourselves a few more years of anonymity. Drinks are on me next shore leave.”

“I hear that,” Max said. “For this bunch, it’s gonna cost you.”

“Happy to do it. Mr. Stone, once we’re out of radar range, set a course to pick up the Discovery.”

“Wait’ll they see the video,” Murph said. “MacD and Trono will be sorry they missed it.”

Juan walked over to Murph and handed him Lieutenant Dominguez’s phone memory card.

“Before you show off your pyrotechnic skills, the first priority for you and Eric is to decrypt this.”

Murph turned it over in his hands. “It feels damp.”

“I had it in my pocket when I went into the drink. Linc has a laptop for you as well, but that should be nice and dry.”

“Too bad,” Murph said. “I like a challenge.”

“I have a hunch our new friend Admiral Ruiz doesn’t want us to find out what’s on this memory card. I want to know what else she’s up to.”

Panama City, Florida

It was the first time Major Norm Miller had seen every single pilot station occupied inside Tyndall Air Force Base’s Gulf Range Drone Control System facility. Most of the time, only one target drone was being flown, but this morning was the final test flight before the actual mission the next week. Everything had to go perfectly or the demonstration could be scrubbed. Miller had no intention of letting the slightest detail be overlooked, not with his promotion to lieutenant colonel on the line.

“Give me system status,” he said, and each station responded that all systems were operating in the green and ready for takeoff.

“Excellent. Then let’s begin. Quail One, radio the tower for clearance to taxi.”

Miller, a former fighter jockey with sunbaked skin and thinning hair, drank a Diet Coke while he watched the drone’s camera feed as it eased toward the runway. He didn’t have a chair in the room, preferring instead to spend his time moving between the stations to keep tabs on the operators. Each of the six simulated cockpits was occupied by a two-pilot team to handle the increased mental workload imposed from the lack of tangible feedback that an onboard pilot would experience. Normally, the computer, preset with the mission parameters, flew the plane, with manual backup ready to take over in case the computer malfunctioned. The ultimate fail-safe was the detached warhead of a Sidewinder missile installed on the drone. In the event contact was lost, the unmanned aerial vehicle would self-destruct.

The lead drone taxiing on the tarmac turned so that the camera on the following drone got a good side view. It was a modified F-16 Fighting Falcon, now called a QF-16 to distinguish the sleek fighter as a target drone destined to be destroyed someday by another plane or ship. Its tail and wingtips were painted a bright orange, and an external fuel pod was slung under its belly.

Miller never could get used to seeing a plane that had been designed for a human pilot take off with an empty cockpit, but that’s exactly what Quail 1 did now, its afterburner spewing a glowing red tail behind it. Quail 2 continued the procession. Circling above were two manned F-15 Eagle chase planes armed with air-to-air missiles. They would act as escorts during the mission for observation purposes and as a final backup in case something went wrong with one of the drones.

This mission was not the typical flight out over the Gulf of Mexico test range. The eight planes—six drones and two escorts—were part of a live-fire drill for the UNITAS joint combat exercise carried out annually by nations in the Western Hemisphere and select NATO countries. Surface ships from the U.S., Great Britain, Brazil, Colombia, Mexico, and a dozen other navies would be converging in the Caribbean southeast of the Bahamas in a few days to simulate war games and undergo training on how to cooperate as a multinational task force. The highlight of the exercise was a live gunnery and missile drill against surface and aerial drones.

The QF-16s were to make a precision flyby to demonstrate their pinpoint navigation and handling prowess. Then one drone would peel away and serve as an elusive target for the Aegis guided missile destroyers in the fleet. The goal of Miller’s team was to keep the drone flying for as long as possible before it was brought down. He aimed to make it a long day for the swabbies.

Today, they were simulating the long duration of the mission by flying the same course, but over the Gulf of Mexico. Everything went smoothly until an hour in.

“Major,” Quail 4’s lead pilot said, “I’ve got something odd here.”

Miller answered. “What is it?”

The pilot hesitated and looked at his copilot before responding. “It seems we lost the link to the plane for a few moments.”

“It seems you did? Did you lose telemetry?”

“No, the telemetry was nominal. But I could have sworn I saw the plane waggle its wings.”

“‘Waggle its wings’? Weren’t you on autopilot?”

“Yes, sir. That’s why I don’t understand it.”

“You’re sure?”

“I was moving my eyes to the camera feed when I saw it.”

Miller frowned and turned to the copilot. “Did you see the plane execute any unplanned maneuvers?”

“No, sir. I was checking the GPS data at the time.”

Quail 4 was the rearmost plane in the formation, so none of the other drone pilots would have been able to see it. Only the leftmost chase plane would have a view of it.

Miller radioed the pilot. “Chase One, we have a report of an unintended maneuver on Quail Four. Did you see anything unusual?”

“‘Unusual,’ Tyndall Base? Like what?”

“Like a . . . waggle. It’s wings waggling.”

Miller heard a chuckle on the other end. “No, I didn’t see a waggle.”

“Roger that, Chase One. Out.”

Quail 4’s pilot had heard the exchange and tried to laugh it off. “Maybe my eyes are playing tricks on me.”

Miller patted him on the shoulder. He knew how tedious it was to man a station like this. “Just keep an eye on it,” he said, “both of you. If you see anything like that again, you let me know.”

“Yes, sir,” they both replied, but Miller didn’t think he’d be hearing from them again during the flight, and he didn’t expect to see anything strange in the postflight telemetry data, either.

Miami

Brian Washburn winked at the barista who took his coffee order. The pretty, twenty-something blonde turned red and grinned at the special attention, a response he was used to. It was the “Washburn charm” the newspapers had attributed to his winning election twice as Florida’s governor.

Now that he was back in the private sector, he took care to cultivate the persona of a regular Joe, despite the wealth that the Washburn Industries conglomerate had given him. Nothing could better help him connect with voters than showing that he was willing to do his own daily errands and rub elbows with the ordinary people at the local coffee shop. It was his best chance of ever sitting at the desk inside the Oval Office.

Every time he had to stand inside this grubby little place, he stewed about the man who had defeated him in the primary and then chosen James Sandecker as his running mate just because he needed Sandecker’s reputation in the Navy and at NUMA to distract from his own lack of military experience. Washburn was forced to influence the political sphere with his money instead of standing front and center at the podium where he deserved to be.

He didn’t betray any of that discontent when his name was called by the barista. He gave her a warm smile and took his coffee outside and around the side of the building, where he climbed into the backseat of a black Cadillac Escalade. Two blocks away, the driver let him out at the oceanfront high-rise where his company was headquartered. His cell phone rang as soon as he reached the privacy of his palatial penthouse office. The screen showed the contact listing for his attorney.

“What is it, Bill?” Washburn answered as he tossed the unfinished coffee in the trash and picked up the china cup of rare St. Helena coffee that his assistant had brewed for him. “I don’t have much time before my first meeting with the board.”

“This isn’t William Derkins,” an unfamiliar voice said. “But I do have some information that you will be interested in.”

Washburn was startled and looked at the phone’s display again. It was definitely showing the number for Bill’s personal cell, and only a handful of close friends and advisers had Washburn’s number.

He went to the floor-to-ceiling window that looked out on the Atlantic and took a sip of his coffee. “How did you get Bill’s phone?”

“I didn’t. It’s a technique called spoofing. I won’t bore you with the details. You wouldn’t understand them anyway. This was the only way I knew you’d take my call. Sit down.”

“What?”

“You’re going to want to sit down to hear what I have to tell you.”

Washburn laughed. “How do you know I’m not sitting already?”

“Because you’re standing next to your window.”

Washburn froze with the cup halfway to his lips. He scanned the water for any sign of surveillance, but the array of boats dotting the water below him were too far away to make out details. He moved away from the window until he couldn’t be seen from the water.

“Okay,” he said, playing along, “I’m sitting now.”

“No, you’re not. You’re standing by your extremely expensive pot of coffee, flown at a cost of a hundred dollars a pound from the island where Napoleon was exiled. I hear it’s quite rich, no pun intended.”

Now Washburn was truly alarmed. He was in the tallest building on Miami’s coast, so there was no way anyone had a view from the outside this far into his office. He looked around the office wildly, searching for the hidden spy gear.

“How did you plant a camera in my office?”

“I didn’t. I see everything.”

“Who are you?”

“You can call me Doctor for now. If everything goes well, we may meet in person in a few days. Now, take a seat at your computer. I have something to show you.”

“What if I call the police?”

“Then I will have to tell them what you did to poor Gary Clement.”

At the mention of Clement’s name, Washburn’s knees weakened. To his credit, he recovered and said, “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

“I know that you do and I’ll prove it. Check your email.”

Washburn straightened up, walked slowly to his desk, and opened his laptop. He put the phone on SPEAKER and set it on the desk.

The most recent email was from Washburn’s own address. The subject line read “From the Doctor.”

Washburn was aghast at the breach in his security. “You broke into my email?”

“I thought the attached video was better coming from yourself than from my email address. You’ll know why when you see it.”

Washburn took a deep breath and clicked on the attachment. When he saw the first image, he was glad he was sitting down because he nearly fainted.

The video showed him and Gary Clement, a squat, balding man, sitting on the deck of Washburn’s yacht. Other than the bright lights of the boat, it was pitch-black. Washburn would never forget the evening three months ago. They were forty miles off the coast, a location specifically chosen for its privacy. No other boat had been within ten miles. It was just the two of them on the boat.

Yet it looked like the camera filming the scene had been on board the yacht with them, cutting back and forth between close-ups of each of them. Even the audio was flawless.

“I can prove you falsified those reports,” Clement said in his nasal whine. “I made copies when we were auditing your books. You may have destroyed them since then, but the discrepancies are clear. You shipped that body armor to Afghanistan even though you knew the manufacturing process had rendered it brittle and inadequate against the firepower they were facing. Hundreds of soldiers were killed and wounded because of you.”

Washburn had to admit Clement had the leverage. Not only would the explosive allegations end his political ambitions but the subsequent investigation would send him to prison for a long time if the real data surfaced. He would lose his company, his reputation—everything.

“What do you want?” Washburn replied coolly.

“You’re not even going to try to deny it?”

“Why should I? You showed me what you have, which is why we’re out here. I thought you wanted to negotiate.”

Clement smiled. “Then I want ten million dollars.”

Washburn nodded, as if he’d expected such a figure. “And next year?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, whatever number we settle on, you will always be out there lurking with the Sword of Damocles.”

“If you give me ten million dollars, I guarantee I will never talk about this again.”

“I think I’m the one who can make that guarantee,” Washburn said. He pulled a Smith & Wesson revolver from between the seat cushions and shot Clement in the chest.

As Clement gasped for air, Washburn said, “I found your files before we came out here. Not much of a backup plan.”

Clement sighed a death rattle and slumped in the chair. Washburn tossed the revolver overboard and disappeared from the picture for a minute. He came back holding four diving weight belts. He tied one to each of Clement’s wrists and ankles and heaved the body over the side. After scrubbing away any traces of blood with the bleach he’d brought with him, he tossed that over as well. No one knew there was a connection between the two men, let alone that Clement had been on his boat that night. At the time, Washburn thought it had been the perfect crime.

Now as he stopped the video, he knew this Doctor could ask for anything and he would have no choice but to give it.

“I would delete that immediately, if I were you,” the voice on the phone said.

Washburn did as instructed, his hand shaking as he worked the trackpad.

“How did you get that video?”

“I don’t divulge my secrets. But my talents could be very useful to a man like you.”

“What talents?”

“I told you: I see everything.”

“How much do you want?”

“You think this is about money?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Money I have, Governor Washburn. What I don’t have is your charisma, reputation, and commanding presence. I couldn’t buy those no matter how much money I had.”

Washburn shook his head in confusion. “Then what do you want?”

“The same thing as you,” the self-proclaimed Doctor said. “I want to make you president of the United States.”