Marauder (The Oregon Files)

by Clive Cussler

  Once they were safely away from the Brazilian coast, Juan went to Mark Murphy’s door and knocked. Normally, he’d expect to hear heavy metal blasting from the cabin combined with explosions and gunfire from a first-person shooter video game. Instead, it sounded like dialogue from a movie he vaguely recognized.

  Murph yelled, “Door’s open!”

  Juan went in and saw Murph, Eric, and Hali watching a film on the room’s wide-screen TV. Trays piled with dishes of half-eaten food and empty cans of Red Bull were scattered around the black leather sofa, and Murph and Eric were sitting on the floor with backs leaning against the couch. Each had a laptop on his knees and another on the carpet next to him. Hali was sitting on the couch, munching a club sandwich.

  “Am I interrupting movie night?” Juan asked as he watched the screen. Then he realized that the movie playing was The Princess Bride. But in this case, all of the major male characters’ faces had been replaced with the face of Shrek. Although it was strange to hear the green ogre say, “Hello, my name is Inigo Montoya,” the effect was seamless.

  “Hey, Chairman,” Murph said. “Hali stopped by to help us with the deepfake technology that Tate has been using to mask his identity on voice chat.”

  “At least you’re not using my face this time,” Juan said.

  “We wanted to see if we could substitute anything we wanted,” Hali said.

  “What’s the purpose?”

  Eric sat up and brushed crumbs from his button-down shirt and khakis. “I read a story in the news that malware can be used to trick radiologists into thinking someone has cancer. They use the deepfake-type software to infect computer-scanned MRI or CT images and make it look like there is a tumor on the screen.”

  “Or to remove one entirely so that the radiologist thinks the patient doesn’t have cancer,” Hali added.

  Juan shook his head. “Scary, but where does that get us?”

  “Murph and I think we can insert malware into the video chat data stream,” Eric said. “The intent is to disable his deepfake technology. Hali is here to help us figure out how to use the chat’s feedback loop to launch the software without Tate knowing.”

  “Would he realize that the deepfake had been disabled?”

  Hali shrugged. “I guess we could make it so that it still looks like it’s working on his end even though disabled on ours.”

  “Good work, gentlemen,” Juan said, his mind churning through the possibilities that the malware raised. “I have an idea how we might use that. Let me know when you’ve got it up and running. Now, to the work you were supposed to be doing?”

  Murph held up his hands in a gesture that said My bad. “The translation of Horváth’s notebooks wasn’t as straightforward as I thought it would be. The Hungarian is a bit difficult for the scanner to decipher because of his handwriting, but the real issue is that he used some sort of code. I wrote an algorithm to decrypt it, and it’s running now. Should be done in a half hour. I can’t promise how complete it will be. Some of the pages were severely mildewed.”

  “And the captain’s log?”

  Eric handed him a stack of paper. “Here it is. I also emailed it to you. Some interesting stuff in there.”

  “Murph, when you’re done decrypting the scientist’s notes, get together with Doc Huxley and see if you two can come up with a way to neutralize the effects of the sonic disruptor. We can’t go up against Tate again without some kind of protection.”

  “Do you want us to keep working on the malware?” Hali asked, pointing first to himself and then to Eric.

  “Yes. Tell me as soon as you know it works. Then we’ll give Tate a call.”

  Juan left and went back to his cabin, where he spent an hour reading the captain’s log. It was slow progress as he kept cross-referencing items on the internet.

  He was almost finished when there was a knock on the door. “Come in.” Overholt entered with two mugs of coffee. Juan offered him a seat, and Overholt put one of the mugs in front of Juan.

  “Maurice said you’d want this,” Overholt said.

  “It’s very welcomed,” Juan said, taking a drink of the rich Brazilian brew. “I think he has a sixth sense for anticipating the crew’s needs.”

  “He’s an interesting fellow. We spent the last two hours trading tales, me from the CIA, him from the Royal Navy.” Overholt winked. “Heavily redacted, of course.”

  “I’m just sorry I wasn’t there to hear them. Been too busy with this.”

  He passed the pages to Overholt, who thumbed through them. He stopped when he was about halfway.

  “I recognize this name,” Overholt said. “The Carroll A. Deering. Why is that familiar?”

  “It’s a maritime mystery that’s never been solved. Until now, that is.”

  Overholt slowly nodded. “Didn’t she show up on the East Coast without her crew?”

  “On the shoals of Cape Hatteras in North Carolina. There were lots of theories for why the crew abandoned ship. Battered by a storm? Hijacked? Mutiny? None of them were very convincing. Now we know the answer.”

  “Which is?”

  Juan sat back and looked at the view of the ocean on his 4K video screen. “According to this log, in the early 1920s the Bremen was running up and down the Eastern Seaboard hijacking valuable ship cargo and she never had to fire a shot. All they did was unleash the sonic disruptor on an unwary vessel, and the crew jumped overboard or killed themselves. Because the Bremen was a blockade-runner, she had more than enough space to transfer cargo.”

  “It sounds like the Deering wasn’t the only victim.”

  “Not even close,” Juan replied. “There were seven other unexplained ship sinkings or disappearances during that time that correspond to hijackings in the Bremen’s log. And that was only along the American coast. The Bremen ranged throughout the Caribbean and South America, changing their hunting grounds often to avoid raising suspicion. They even ventured to the West African coast once, before the raids stopped in 1922.”

  “What happened?” Overholt asked.

  “Disease. They were using the Amazon as a base, sailing upriver after nightfall, and off-loading cargo onto standard freighters to be shipped to ports around the world. But in the summer of ’22, one of the ships they were trading with brought a disease that sounds like Ebola or some other hemorrhagic fever. The whole crew was wiped out within days. The Hungarian scientist who created the sonic disruptor fled into the jungle with as much food as he could carry.”

  “And the Amazon tributary changed course after everyone died, miring the sub in the jungle,” Overholt said, marveling at the sequence of events.

  “Once Murph completes his translation of the Hungarian’s notebook, we’ll have proof that the sonic disruptor exists. That should be enough for you to take back to the CIA and clear your name.” As with Bradley, Juan didn’t like putting his old friend in danger aboard the Oregon any longer than he had to. The Portland was out there somewhere, and Tate was eager to hunt Juan down and sink his ship.

  Overholt shook his head. “You don’t get to my lofty position at the Agency without making some enemies. The story Ballard planted was good, and she’s been nurturing it for years. Tate embezzled billions from black accounts and pinned the crime on me. There are plenty of people back in Langley who are willing to believe that I’m a traitor if it helps them get ahead. And the people who do believe me won’t want to put the Agency through another public scandal, especially if they have to put their reputations on the line to weather the storm.”

  “Then what can we do?”

  “We need to stop Tate. Or get solid evidence that he was responsible for sinking the Kansas City.”

  “The sonic disruptor plans—”

  “—are not enough. Sure, the surviving crew will tell the investigators about the symptoms, and Michael Bradley will tell them that you saved him and the other
s, but they’ll believe it was all a setup. We need something more concrete.”

  Juan sat back and thought about the deepfake malware Eric and Hali were perfecting.

  “I might have a solution to our problem,” he said. “I’ll have to make a backchannel connection with NUMA. It’s time to call in a favor from Dirk Pitt.”

  49

  THE SOUTH ATLANTIC

  Tate hoped that he had destroyed the Bremen before Juan could get anything useful from it. But he couldn’t be sure. Now, he couldn’t count on the sonic disruptor to disable the Oregon again. Juan’s presence did, however, confirm that Jiménez had provided information about how to find the U-boat. Tate was sick of making mistakes, like not searching for the Bremen earlier to blow it up. He wasn’t going to underestimate his opponent again.

  Unlikely as it was that Juan and his crew could quickly develop a countermeasure for the weapon, even a small chance was still a chance. It was also possible that Juan could build his own version, but that would take weeks or months. Not that it mattered. The Portland was shielded from sonic effects.

  Since he couldn’t depend on his superweapon anymore, he had a backup plan for sinking the Oregon. He’d flown straight back to Montevideo with the others and ordered the Portland to set sail immediately. They had a rendezvous to keep.

  “They’re right on time,” Tate said as he watched the one-hundred-ninety-foot missile boat on the main view screen of the Portland’s op center.

  “A fine craft,” Pavel Durchenko said. The gruff Russian executive officer nodded appreciatively at the screen. “It has been too long since I had a ship of my own.”

  “Just like I promised you,” Tate said, before turning to Farouk. “Prepare to engage the sonic disruptor.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Farouk said. “Ready in all respects.”

  The Israeli-made Reshef-class warship was on a transatlantic crossing to its new owner, the Chilean Navy. The boat, renamed the Abtao after a famous sea battle, had originally been made for the South Africans and served in their Navy for over forty years. Chile had bought the heavily modified vessel to join the three others like it in its fleet.

  For such a small ship, the Abtao carried an imposing array of armaments. She could fire up to four Harpoon anti-ship missiles, which were supplemented by two 76mm guns and twin 20mm Oerlikon cannons. For the delivery, though, she was unarmed. The ammunition was to be loaded once she arrived in Valparaiso.

  Normally, the ship required a crew of forty-five, but the South Africans had installed automated controls that would let her be run by just twelve people for short periods of time.

  Perfect for Tate’s purposes.

  When she passed within a mile of the Portland, Tate said, “Fire the disruptor. Full power.”

  “Firing,” Farouk responded.

  For a number of seconds, nothing seemed to happen. Then the Abtao’s engines abruptly shut down, and her bow plowed into the water. A minute later, the first of the crew emerged on deck. They ran around, confused and shrieking. One by one, twelve men tossed themselves into the ocean until no one was left on board.

  “Is that all of them?” Tate asked.

  Durchenko nodded. “Twelve were on the manifest.”

  “Good. Nice to see that they even stopped the ship for us. Take your crew over and bring her alongside the Portland.”

  “Aye, Commander,” Durchenko said and left the op center.

  While he waited for Durchenko to get over there, Tate walked over to Ballard and put his arm around her. “What did Admiral Yu say? Good news, I hope.”

  She smiled weakly at him before reading from her tablet. “He expects to be in Tierra del Fuego in four days.”

  “A day after the next step in our operation. Not bad.”

  Ballard lowered her voice. “You don’t seem concerned about our setbacks.”

  “This was never going to go exactly the way I wanted,” Tate said. “Although you worked closely with Langston Overholt, Juan’s mentor, you never had much contact with Juan himself. He’s a formidable guy.”

  “I never thought he’d be able to find the Kansas City, let alone the Bremen. Does he have a sixth sense?”

  “He’s not a superhero. He’s a man, just like me. But he does have a major weakness, as you’ve seen. He can’t stand to see a friend or an innocent person suffer. That’s why we’re undertaking this operation. I had a feeling I’d need a fallback, and I was right yet again. Don’t worry. This will all work out.”

  Ballard’s smile brightened. “I told Admiral Yu to surface for a radio message when he reaches the islands around Tierra del Fuego. He sounded eager to see the ship that killed his brother.”

  “If I decide to be a nice guy, I may let him make the kill shot.” When she looked at him dubiously, he added, “Just kidding. I want that pleasure all to myself. Admiral Yu will be there to herd him into my waiting arms.”

  Several minutes later, Durchenko called from the Abtao.

  “Commander, except for some minor cosmetic damage from the crew before they left, the ship is in complete working condition.”

  “See?” he said to Ballard with a grin. “Just like we planned.”

  He ordered Durchenko to bring the Abtao next to the Portland so they could begin the resupply operation. Although she didn’t have any weaponry on board, that was about to change. The containers that they were supposed to transfer to the Mantícora before Tate sank her held all the munitions they needed to bring the missile boat to operational status. They even had a full load of fuel to transfer.

  Despite the setbacks Ballard brought up, Tate was pleased with his growing fleet. He now had a mighty armada at his command. The three ships together—the Portland, the Wuzong, and the Abtao—had more than enough firepower to sink the Oregon, with or without the advantage of the sonic disruptor.

  Once they had the Abtao fueled and armed, they would head to the southern tip of South America and the vast archipelago that snaked up the Chilean coastline. He’d never be able to ambush the Oregon in the open ocean, Juan was too smart for that. Tate needed a place to hem the Oregon in, and the maze of channels and islands near Tierra del Fuego suited his plan nicely.

  Now he just had to get the right bait. Tate had considered a cruise ship, but corralling a thousand or more passengers and crew was too unwieldy. Instead, he’d found something smaller, a vessel with just enough crew aboard to be useful as hostages. And it was an American ship, the likeliest to bring Juan running to the rescue.

  “Is the Deepwater still in port?” he asked Ballard.

  She tapped on her keyboard, checking the tracker they’d secretly planted on the Deepwater more than a week before just in case, and nodded. “According to the port’s computer system, she’ll be docked in Punta Arenas for the next two days. Then she leaves for the Alacalufes National Reserve, and is scheduled to return in twelve days.”

  Tate looked at his map and put a finger on Punta Arenas, the most populous city in southern Chile. It was a two-day sail from their current position. By the time they caught up with the Deepwater, she would be a hundred miles from the nearest Coast Guard station.

  And they would catch her. It wasn’t as if the research vessel could outrun them.

  NUMA hadn’t built the Deepwater for speed.

  50

  CRUISING DOWN THE BRAZILIAN COAST

  The last place Juan saw Tate and the Portland was in Buenos Aires Harbor, so he had ordered the Oregon to head back in that direction at top speed in hopes of intercepting the Portland. He knew full well that she could be thousands of miles away from there by now, but with no other information to go on, it was better than idling in the middle of the ocean waiting for another taunting message from Tate.

  He entered the infirmary to find Murph and Julia Huxley with sheets of paper strewn across one of the examination tables. Neither of them looked like they’d sle
pt more than a couple of hours.

  “I hope you didn’t stay up all night for nothing,” Juan said. “Tell me you found some useful information in that Hungarian’s notebooks.”

  “We wouldn’t have made you come all the way down here if we didn’t,” Julia said.

  Murph tilted his head back and forth, like he didn’t exactly agree with her. “More like so-so news.” To Julia he said, “Don’t get his hopes up.”

  “You’re not going to let Eric and Hali outdo you, are you?” Juan asked.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Murph said sheepishly. “I heard they had a breakthrough on the deepfake malware.”

  “They said it’s all ready to go for Tate’s next video chat.”

  “How is that going to help us?” Julia asked.

  It was Juan’s turn not to get their hopes up, so he kept it vague. “I’ve set something up that might clear our names if Tate cooperates with us.”

  “That sounds cryptic and noncommittal,” Julia said.

  “I can’t wait for that surprise,” Murph said. “But we do have something that might help us with the sonic disruptor.”

  “A way to neutralize it?” Juan asked.

  “Partially. Horváth’s notes were even harder to decipher than I thought they’d be. Plus the mildew obliterated some of the writing, so it’s not complete. I couldn’t reconstruct a duplicate of Tate’s weapon with what I have, but the notes sketch out the principle behind how it works. I’ll let the doc explain it.”

  Julia picked up one of the sheets that had a series of formulas and waveforms on it. To Juan, it looked like a random series of numbers and letters with some squiggly lines thrown in.

  “This shows the combination of resonant infrasound frequencies that are generated by the sonic disruptor. Although the sound is emitted at a powerful amplitude, it’s much too low in frequency to be audible. When the sound waves hit the inner ear, they cause vibrations that have a profound psychological effect. Neurotransmitters are released that put the brain into a fight-or-flight mode. Essentially, the response is an extreme panic psychosis.”