Marauder (The Oregon Files)

by Clive Cussler

“But where are they?” Overholt asked. “It doesn’t seem the Navy has found it yet. If Tate led them to the wrong location with that SEPIRB, the search could be going on hundreds of miles away from the KC’s actual wreckage site.”

  Juan snapped his fingers. “Tate revealed something else to me as well. He said the sub was somewhere off the coast of Algodoal.”

  Juan tapped on his tablet and put a map of Brazil on his HD wall screen. He pointed to a small town near the mouth of the Amazon River.

  “There. The Kansas City has to be somewhere off the coast of that region.”

  “That’s a lot of ocean to cover,” Overholt said.

  “Three thousand square miles, depending on how far out the KC was when she sank. The search could still take weeks. And if she bottomed out deeper than two thousand feet, the hull would definitely be crushed.”

  “No,” Overholt said, “Tate mentioned that the depth he told you was accurate. The Oregon was just looking two thousand miles from the right place.”

  “So the KC really is lying in two hundred fifty feet of water?”

  Overholt nodded. “Is that significant?”

  Juan didn’t answer. Instead, he put up the Atlantic Ocean depth chart on the screen and then zoomed in on the Brazilian coast. He stood and went over to the monitor.

  “Here’s the edge of the continental shelf,” he said, tracing a line vaguely mirroring the coastline. “The seafloor averages about a hundred feet in depth until it gets to this ledge. Then it drops rapidly to the abyssal plain. The edge of the shelf is the only place where the ocean is two hundred fifty feet deep.”

  “Do you think the Kansas City came to rest on a ledge?” Overholt asked.

  “That’s what Tate is implying. All the Navy would have to do is follow this line and they’d find the KC in a day.”

  “We have to call the U.S. Navy and tell them they need to alter their search grid.”

  “Do you think they’d believe you?”

  “I doubt it,” Overholt said. “I’ve used up most of my governmental favors.”

  “To rescue me?” Juan asked ruefully.

  “It was worth it, my boy.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I’ll see what I can do with the Navy.”

  Juan looked at the map and did some calculations in his head. “In case they don’t believe you, we have the capability to dive on the sub at that depth.” He picked up the phone and dialed the op center. “Hali, have Eric set course for Algodoal, Brazil, maximum speed.”

  “Algodoal, Brazil,” Hali replied. “Aye, Chairman.”

  Juan hung up and looked at Overholt. “We’ll be there in a little more than two days.”

  Not only did they have to hope that someone among the Kansas City’s crew was still alive, they also needed an answer for why Zachariah Tate wanted so badly to sink it.

  36

  MONTEVIDEO

  The soundproof chamber inside the Portland was one of the few features that she didn’t share with the Oregon. The room was designed to test the effects of the sonic disruptor without harming the rest of the crew. Now thirty-six hours after the unsuccessful attack on the Oregon, it was activated again, with two men in it this time. Today, it was being used for punishment. Each man was in a straitjacket.

  From the observation room, Tate watched the men, who were tied to chairs, struggle to get loose from the bindings. The cameras provided a panoramic view of the room and a close-up of Abdel Farouk’s and Li Quon’s faces. Both of them were terrified by the gruesome visions that the disruptor was creating in their minds.

  Tate turned to the operator and said, “How long until they succumb to a psychotic break?”

  “Hard to say,” the man replied. “Could be in as little as ten more minutes. They’ve been in there for twenty already.”

  The inability to combat visions had to be excruciating. A man could take only so much before breaking.

  “Shut it down,” Tate said.

  The operator pushed the ABORT button, and the disruptor was turned off. Farouk and Li, who were sweating profusely, immediately slumped in the seats, exhausted by the ordeal.

  Tate activated the intercom. “I hope we’ve learned a lesson here. Failure is not tolerated on this crew. You were responsible for the Oregon and you allowed her to get away. I assume you won’t botch an operation again in the future.”

  Both men vigorously shook their heads.

  “Good to hear. You two are valuable to the team, but penalties are an unfortunate necessity when you let the team down.” He looked at the operator. “Go in and untie them.”

  The operator left the room and went into the chamber to unstrap the men. Tate cut the camera feed.

  He could have killed them both—wanted to, in fact—but they had skills that couldn’t easily be found again. And whittling down the number of his crew was inefficient. They got the message, and so did the rest of the men. The camera feed of the punishment had been broadcast throughout the ship to reinforce for everyone that they should be diligent.

  As he left the observation room, he was met by Catherine Ballard, who had a worried look on her face as they walked back to their shared cabin.

  “You didn’t like the show?”

  Ballard shook her head. “No, I did, it was very effective.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “We just received a notification from our contact in the Argentinian military. Juan Cabrillo got away.”

  Tate abruptly stopped. “What?”

  “The convoy they were transporting him in was attacked.”

  “And we’re just finding out about this now?”

  “It made the news, but was reported as a terrorist event. Three vehicles were destroyed, including the one that initiated the assault. At first, they thought Cabrillo was killed when the attacking vehicle exploded, but they realized later that it was empty. The investigators found no bodies.”

  “I told Sánchez to be set for something like that,” Tate fumed as he continued walking. “I could kill him.”

  “Too late,” Ballard said. “He was found in the wreckage of his SUV impaled by a windshield wiper.”

  “He was punished for his failure. If Juan wasn’t in the vehicle, how did he get away?”

  “Some of the witnesses reported a helicopter taking off. They assumed it was a medical rescue flight.”

  Tate burst into the cabin and sank into the sofa to think. Ballard followed him in and closed the door behind her.

  “What do we do now?” she asked. “We still haven’t had any success tracking down the Oregon’s current position.”

  “If we had known they were rescuing Juan, we could have intercepted them two days ago,” Tate said, pounding his fist into a cushion. “Maybe I should have left Farouk and Li in that chamber until their brains turned to jelly.”

  Ballard looked at him like she wanted to say something but hesitated.

  “What?” Tate demanded.

  “You mentioned Algodoal to Cabrillo. He’ll know the general area to search for the Kansas City.”

  Tate sat up when he realized what that meant. “Do you think he’s going after the sub?”

  “Possibly. If he finds Jiménez still alive . . .” she said, her voice trailing off as she contemplated the implications.

  “They can’t be alive down there in that tin can.”

  “Do we want to take that risk?”

  “If he’s really going there, the Oregon has a nearly two-day head start on us. We’d never catch up in time.”

  “Maybe we don’t have to. What if we reveal the location of the sub before they get there?”

  “Then the U.S. Navy will rescue the sailors if they’re still alive.”

  “But Cabrillo won’t have any access to them. They might as well be on Mars, as far as he is concerned.”

&n
bsp; Tate nodded and smiled. “You see? That’s why I fell in love with you. Always thinking ahead.”

  “Should we call the Navy?”

  “No, I have a better plan. You and I will fly up there and take a helicopter out to drop the activated SEPIRB in the water right where the KC is. That’ll bring every warship in the area running. The Oregon won’t be able to get close.”

  “We’re going personally?” Ballard asked.

  “I’d send Farouk and Li alone, but no doubt they’d need some supervision. Besides, we have another task to complete in that region. The real key is keeping Juan from finding the Bremen. Since Jiménez knew where it was, someone else might locate it, too. You and I are going to find it first and wipe it out once and for all.”

  They had some clues about the German U-boat’s location, but Tate had thought killing the Brazilian cousins who originally stumbled upon it would take care of the problem. Now he realized he needed to erase its existence.

  Ballard grinned back at him. “Going back to wipe out the source of the sonic disruptor? I like it.”

  “Once that’s done, we can spend all of our time locating Juan and destroying his ship.”

  The germ of a plan for ambushing the Oregon was forming in Tate’s mind. But this time, he wanted the odds overwhelmingly in his favor. During the flight to northern Brazil, he’d call his friend in the Chinese Navy. The contact badly wanted to get his hands on the plans for the sonic disruptor after seeing what Tate had done to the Kansas City. Instead of money, Tate would ask for help in sinking the Oregon.

  37

  OFF THE COAST OF THE STATE OF PARÁ, BRAZIL

  As Juan had feared, the U.S. Navy ignored Overholt’s plea to change their search grid, so the Oregon had rounded the eastern tip of Brazil and raced up the edge of the continental shelf. The trip took just fifty-four hours, from the time they left the coast of Argentina until they stopped just short of the Amazon River Delta. They started the sonar search for the Kansas City at a spot southeast of the small coastal town of Algodoal.

  The Oregon’s sensors swept the shelf’s underwater cliff, focusing on a depth of two hundred fifty feet. For the first four hours, they found nothing, and Juan, who was seated in his command chair in the op center, was beginning to wonder whether this had all been an elaborate ruse planted by Tate.

  When they were at nearly the same latitude as Algodoal, Linda called out from her spot at the radar station. Her Google glasses didn’t seem to be hindering her too much, especially because everyone in the op center was wearing a lavalier microphone to help Linda distinguish who was speaking.

  “Chairman, I’m picking up a stationary vessel twenty miles dead ahead.”

  Stationary? Juan frowned. Could it be the Portland lying in ambush?

  “Tate couldn’t possibly have gotten here ahead of us, could he?” Max asked from his engineering post, echoing Juan’s concern.

  “Slow to five knots,” Juan said.

  “Five knots, aye,” Eric replied from the helm.

  “What type of vessel is it?” Juan looked at Linda.

  “It’s not broadcasting an AIS signal. Too small for a cargo vessel. Bigger than a fishing trawler. Might be a warship.”

  Commercial vessels over three hundred tons were required to send out an Automatic Identification System signal to help prevent collisions. Although naval vessels also carried them, they tended to use them intermittently or only in poor conditions to prevent enemy ships from tracking them.

  “Hail them,” Juan said to Hali.

  “Unknown vessel to the north,” Hali said into his headset mic, “this is the cargo vessel Anacapa. Please respond.”

  “Put it on speaker so I can talk to them,” Juan said.

  After a moment, an accented voice replied, “Anacapa, this is the Brazilian Navy corvette Barosso. We need no assistance.”

  “We picked up an odd signal from this area,” Juan said, even though they hadn’t. “It seemed to be centered on your current location. That’s why we were worried when we saw you stopped.”

  “We need no assistance,” the voice repeated. “Do not approach us. Stay at least two miles away.”

  “Understood, Barosso. Over and out.”

  “Communication ended,” Hali said.

  “Yeah,” Max said. “They found the Kansas City.”

  “Murph,” Juan said, “do you think they have any rescue capability on the Barosso?”

  Murph, who was an expert on foreign navies’ weaponry, shook his head. “Not unless they brought the equipment specifically for that purpose. The Inhaúma-class corvettes are designed for anti-submarine warfare.”

  “How long until the U.S. Navy can arrive with a DSRV?”

  A Deep-Submergence Rescue Vehicle was a mini-sub built to connect to a nuclear submarine stranded underwater and transfer its crew to safety.

  “If the Navy already shipped it down here and attached it to another sub, maybe twelve to eighteen hours, depending on where they are right now. Twice as long if the DSRV is still in the U.S.”

  With a disabled sub, every minute counted. If any of the crew was still alive, that could easily change if they had to wait another twelve hours.

  “What if we go down and check on it ourselves?” Juan asked Max. “Nomad’s air lock can double as a decompression chamber. If there are survivors, we could get some of them out.”

  Max shrugged. “It’s worth a shot. But I don’t think that corvette would take too kindly to us just hanging around in the vicinity when they’re protecting a sunken U.S. sub.”

  “We’ll pass by slowly enough to launch the Nomad when we’re two miles out. You take the Oregon out past their radar range and turn around with a new name on the stern. Pick us up on your way back.”

  “Oh, no,” Max said. “I’m going with you this time. Eric can handle the Oregon.”

  Even though Eric was the best ship driver on the Oregon other than Juan, his first inclination was to have Max in command in case things got dicey.

  When Juan began to object, Max added, “Don’t make me mutiny.”

  Juan laughed. He obviously had no choice. “Fine. You can pilot Nomad. But we’ll go light in case we need room for passengers. Just you, me, and MacD.”

  “Because of the heliox?”

  Juan nodded. At a depth of two hundred fifty feet, they’d need drysuits and a combination of helium and oxygen in the tanks instead of just oxygen. But breathing that mixture could be tricky without proper training, and MacD was the only other crew member rated for heliox diving besides Juan.

  Since they had readied the Nomad for launch in case they found the Kansas City, it would only take twenty minutes to go through the checklist and put it in the water. The Oregon could get to the Barosso’s two-mile limit in that time from twenty miles out, but seeing a cargo freighter move at such a high velocity would be highly suspicious to the captain of the Brazilian warship.

  “Stoney,” Juan said, “adjust your speed to put us within two miles of the Barosso in forty-five minutes. You have the conn.”

  “Aye, Chairman,” Eric replied.

  “Hali, call MacD and tell him to meet us at the moon pool.”

  “Aye, Chairman.”

  As Juan and Max left the op center, Juan said, “Remember, this is an anti-submarine corvette. If they detect an unknown submersible around the Kansas City, they’ll probably be very upset.”

  “No problem,” Max said. “I’ll take us in below the thermocline and put Nomad’s motors into quiet mode. The corvette will never hear us coming.”

  38

  Once the Nomad was released from the underside of the Oregon, it took the submersible a half hour to reach the location where the Barosso was station-keeping. Max brought them up from a depth of eight hundred feet, following the contours of the steep slope of the continental shelf.

  As they
rose, the Nomad’s lights illuminating the way, Juan, Max, and MacD crowded into the polycarbonate nose cockpit, straining for a glimpse of their target. While Max was in shirtsleeves, Juan and MacD were already in drysuits. All they’d need to don before getting in the air lock would be the masks.

  The depth gauge read three hundred feet when MacD said, “There she is. Man, she’s a big sucker.”

  The Kansas City’s bow was protruding over the lip of a ledge. Juan could make out the port torpedo tube doors.

  “At least she went down upright,” Max said. “I don’t see any damage yet.”

  “Let’s check her out from stem to stern,” Juan said.

  Max put the Nomad in front of the bow and kept rising until they were at the same depth as the KC’s sail—what submariners in old days called the conning tower. He pushed the Nomad forward, and it didn’t take long to see what sank the Kansas City.

  A gash thirty feet long had been carved into the starboard side near the bow. From the scrapes on the hull, it looked like the sub had collided with the cliff’s edge.

  “Ah’m no expert,” MacD said, “but that is not a good sign that we’ll find survivors.”

  “We made it this far,” Juan said, despite his shared pessimism, “we might as well do our due diligence. There doesn’t seem to have been an explosion on this end. Let’s keep going.”

  Max piloted the Nomad toward the stern. As they maneuvered around the sail, they could see that it was intact. When they got past it, a large cylinder the size of the Nomad was visible resting on the deck just aft of the sail.

  “What in the name of Fat Tuesday is that thing?” MacD asked.

  “That’s right,” Juan said. “I keep forgetting you aren’t a Navy man. That’s called a dry deck shelter.” Even though MacD had spent the last few years on the Oregon becoming an expert diver, his military experience was as an Army Ranger.

  “The tube holds three compartments,” Max said. “A decompression chamber on the bow end, an air lock in the middle that’s connected to the forward escape trunk, and a hangar for a SEAL Delivery Vehicle in the aft end.”