Marauder (The Oregon Files)

by Clive Cussler

  “It makes you go crazy,” Murph summed up. “But only while the signal is hitting your ear. That’s why the effect goes away so quickly when the sound stops.”

  “How can it affect everyone on the ship?” Juan asked.

  “Because the infrasound is so intense that it causes the ship’s hull itself to act as a resonator, possibly even an amplifier, as would be the case with a submarine, whose entire hull could be hit by the disruptor when it’s underwater.”

  “Do you have a countermeasure?”

  Murph did the head tilt again. “Maybe. If we can cause our own hull to vibrate at the same frequencies, it could cancel out the waveforms.”

  “But it would have to be something loud,” Julia said.

  “And the only thing on the ship that can create a sound that loud is our sonar dome,” Murph said. “We’d have to modify it to focus it directly on the hull.”

  “Which means we couldn’t use it as a sonar anymore,” Juan said, getting why Murph had not been as gung ho about the solution.

  Murph shook his head. “It’s a trade-off. But it’s probably better than all of us going crazy. The good news is, we don’t have to go into port. I can make the modifications while we’re under way.”

  “Can we use it as a weapon ourselves?”

  “It might disrupt other sonars in the vicinity,” Murph said.

  “But I don’t think it would cause the kind of effects that we’ve experienced,” Julia added.

  Juan thought about his options. “And if Tate uses his weapon on us while we have this countermeasure in place, what happens to us?”

  “I’m hoping the effects on us are mild. Maybe some unease or agitation, but no full-blown psychotic breaks. That’s the theory. But there’s no way to know until we actually experience it.”

  Juan noted how many ifs, hopes, and maybes there were in the assessments, but he trusted their abilities. Besides, there was no other choice.

  “You have my permission to make the modifications to the sonar.”

  “I’ll get started pronto,” Murph said. He packed up the papers and equipment that he needed and left the infirmary.

  “Do you really think this will work?” Juan asked Julia.

  “I don’t know. If I could inoculate the whole crew against the effects, I would. Since the sound is conducted through the bones in our skulls, earmuffs or -plugs won’t work. Short of making everyone deaf, I don’t know what else I can do. This is our best shot.”

  Juan’s phone buzzed, and he saw a text from Max.

  Come to the op center. I have something to show you.

  “Get some rest,” Juan said. “You look beat.”

  Julia smiled wanly. “First, I’ve got to resupply the medical bay from the cargo stores. Then I’ll take a nap.”

  “I’m sorry we’ve been keeping you so busy.”

  “A beach vacation would make it up for me,” she said with a mischievous grin.

  “Sounds like a great idea for all of us.”

  She was going through her inventory as he left.

  When Juan got to the op center, he found Max at the engineering station.

  “You rang?” Juan asked.

  Max looked up, startled. When he was deep into his work, he often didn’t notice anything around him.

  “When did I text you?” he asked.

  “A few minutes ago.”

  Max raised his eyebrows. “I could have sworn it was a half hour ago.”

  “That must mean you have something interesting.”

  “I do indeed. The Portland.”

  “What about it?” Juan asked.

  “You said it’s identical to the Oregon, right?”

  “From what I saw of it, it looks like an exact copy. Of course, Tate doesn’t have our taste in décor, but functionally I’d guess it’s the same. Same op center, same moon pool, same armory, same weapons. Except for the Metal Storm gun, that is. Remember, we added that later.”

  “Which means the engines are probably identical, too,” Max said.

  Juan shrugged. “I can’t see Tate improving on what you designed. He doesn’t have that kind of engineering know-how or creativity. What are you getting at?”

  “The engines on the Oregon are unique. Or they used to be. Now, there’s one other ship in the world that has the same magnetohydrodynamic engines that we do. Listen to this.”

  Max played a file that sounded like a laser battle from a science fiction movie, with zaps at different pitches pinging back and forth in rapid succession.

  “Is that from the trailer of the latest Star Wars movie?” Juan asked.

  Max shook his head. “What you heard was recorded from sensors orbiting earth inside the Van Allen belt. Lightning bolts generate electromagnetic pulses in the atmosphere that travel from the North Pole to the South Pole and back. The sound is what you get when you convert the light signals to auditory signals. They’re called whistler waves. They’re also found in the electromagnetic containment chambers of nuclear reactors.”

  He played another recording. This one sounded similar to the first one, but the sounds were less rapid and lower in pitch.

  “More whistler waves,” Juan said. “So?”

  “Those came from our own engines. The supercooled electromagnetic coils that are strong enough to propel water through the ship’s venturi tubes are also generating those waves as a by-product, and they interact with the atmosphere.”

  Juan finally understood where Max was going with this.

  “You’re saying that the Portland creates these waves as well? Can we detect them?”

  Max smiled. “Yes. In fact, we’re the only ship in the world that can detect them.”

  “Why?”

  “The waves are far too faint to observe at long distances without very sensitive specialized equipment that requires far more stability than you could get on a ship. But since our engines are the same as the Portland’s, they resonate with each other due to the atmospheric effect of the whistler waves. It’s very faint, but I tuned the engine instrumentation to approximate the distance to the Portland. It won’t show us the direction, but it’ll tell us if we’re getting hotter or colder.”

  “I can work with that,” Juan said with a grin. “Wait, you said you ‘tuned’ the engine, past tense. You mean you’ve done it?”

  “I figured you would be okay with it. Besides, I wanted to see if it would work before I called you in. And guess what. It does.”

  Juan clapped him on the shoulder and laughed.

  “You like surprising me, don’t you?”

  “I do get a certain pleasure out of it. It doesn’t happen very often.”

  “So, where is Tate?” Juan asked.

  Max pulled up a map of the South Atlantic. “I’ve been tracking him for several hours now. From what I can tell, he’s heading west at twenty-five knots.”

  “So he’s not in a big hurry.” Like the Oregon, the Portland could easily double that velocity. Juan traced the path. “That puts him on course for either the Falkland Islands or Cape Horn.” He did the math in his head. “At our current speed, we won’t catch up to him until we get to Tierra del Fuego.”

  “If he doesn’t change course,” Max said. “This tracking method is not very precise, so it might take time for me to see if he turned.”

  “It’s far better than anything we’ve had up until now. We finally have an advantage over Tate.” Juan had a sudden thought. “If we can track him, then he can track us, can’t he?”

  Max shook his head slowly and cocked it at Juan. “That’s very unlikely. Because you’re forgetting one thing, my good man.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m not on the Portland.”

  51

  PUNTA ARENAS, CHILE

  Even though it was summer, Rashonda Jefferson w
ore a ski cap over her tight ebony curls and a peacoat to ward off the brisk wind that swept across the Strait of Magellan, the narrow channel of water between mainland South America and the island of Tierra del Fuego that served as the main shipping route between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. Although she was originally from Atlanta, Jefferson had spent most of her adult life at sea, first with the Navy and now with NUMA. She preferred missions in tropical waters, not at the frigid ends of the earth. Not that she’d ever let her crew know that. As the master of her ship, the Deepwater, she had to be willing to endure any conditions they did without complaint.

  Still, she was eager to get back inside after spending the entire day overseeing the loading of supplies for the upcoming mission. At three hundred twenty feet long, the aqua blue NUMA ship was small enough to maneuver close to shore while big enough to provide amenities to her crew of fifty-three that made life on board comfortable. Jefferson impatiently leaned on the deck railing and drummed her fingers, looking out over the busy port that served the city of over one hundred thousand, and wondered where her navigation pilot was.

  The scientific equipment needed for their mission had arrived a day early, so they were ahead of schedule. But because the waters in the area were so unpredictable and the quarters so tight, Chile required all ships traversing the strait to carry a local pilot knowledgeable about the region.

  This time of year, there was high demand for pilots, so she supposed she was lucky she got one at all. She counted a cruise liner, two icebreakers, and four Antarctic supply vessels among the ships in the harbor. And that didn’t account for the ships in transit through the strait. Of course, freighters and cruise ships could go around Cape Horn without a pilot, but the sea was so treacherous outside the protection of the islands that most of them took the calmer path through the strait.

  A Land Rover drove up and screeched to a stop beside the ship. A young woman hopped out and pulled a duffel bag from the backseat. She hustled up the gangway, a long, dark ponytail swinging behind her. Even from this distance, Jefferson could see that she was fit and pretty, which was sure to be noticed by the mostly male crew.

  Jefferson met her at the top of the gangway and stuck out her hand. “Rashonda Jefferson. Welcome to the Deepwater.”

  The woman took her hand in a strong grip. “Amelia Vargas. Nice to meet you, Captain. Sorry I’m late.” Her Spanish accent was noticeable, but her English seemed fluent.

  “I’m just glad you made it,” Jefferson said. “I’m hoping to get out of port today. We’ll go to the bridge first to brief you on the route I’d like to take, and then I’ll have my executive officer show you to your quarters.”

  “I would be happy to do that.” They began walking to the superstructure perched near the bow of the ship, right behind the helicopter pad that extended over the prow. The arrangement left plenty of room at the stern of the ship for cranes, sensor equipment, and the tender used for shore excursions in the remote locations they’d be accessing.

  “You have a fine ship,” Vargas said.

  The pilot looked even younger close up, like she was barely out of her teens.

  “Thanks,” Jefferson replied. “I didn’t get much information about you when you were assigned to us. How long have you been a pilot?”

  Vargas smiled. “I know, I look very young. But I’ve been a pilot for four years now, and that was after three years with the Coast Guard.”

  “So you know the area well?”

  “Very. I was born and raised in Punta Arenas. My father owned a fishing boat and took me with him all summer long since I was little. I think I’ve seen every inlet from here to Valparaiso. You are in good hands.”

  “I hope so,” Jefferson said, impressed by the woman’s confidence. “We’re going to be traveling into some very tricky waters.”

  “I like a challenge,” Vargas said.

  They entered the bridge, and Jefferson introduced Vargas to the crew. She pulled up the map of the vast archipelago that stretched hundreds of miles to the north and west along the Chilean coast.

  “Do you know anything about this research mission?” Jefferson asked.

  “You’re tracking whale migration patterns in the Alacalufes National Reserve, I believe.”

  “Right. Primarily humpback and blue whales. We’ll be placing passive sonobuoys along many of the channels between the islands to trace their movements. We’re also going to be installing webcams at penguin rookeries at seven locations.” The spots were lit up in red. “Each will have a satellite linkup and will be solar-powered. The camera will be uploading video in real time, and we’ll be recording it to count the penguin population in those areas. We’ll have to anchor at each location and send our boat to shore.”

  “I hope you have a long anchor chain,” Vargas said. “The water can be over three hundred meters deep in places.” She leaned down and ran her finger from point to point, then shook her head.

  “What’s the matter?” Jefferson asked. “Can’t you get us through those straits?”

  “I can. It’s just that the weather over the next week or so is going to be unpredictable there.”

  “Storms?”

  “No, but the conditions will be perfect for low cloud cover and thick fog. The mountainous . . . What’s the word?” Vargas paused as she searched for it. “Ah, yes. Topography. The mountainous topography makes it hard to tell when the fog is rolling in. It could happen very suddenly, and then we would have to move very slowly to avoid obstacles. There are many glaciers in the area, so we could run into calving bergs.”

  “Then the sooner we start, the better,” Jefferson said. “After you stow your belongings, I’d like you back here in fifteen minutes so we can get going.” She ordered her XO to ready the ship for departure.

  As Vargas hefted her duffel and walked toward the bridge door with the crewman who was to show her to her quarters, she turned to Jefferson and said, “There’s one advantage that will make it easier to navigate your route.”

  “What’s that?” Jefferson asked.

  “We’ll be in a very remote and isolated area,” Vargas said. “I doubt we’ll see another ship.”

  52

  CAPE HORN

  Two days after hijacking the missile boat, the Portland passed the tiny Isla Hornos, marking the transition from the Atlantic to the Pacific. The Abtao was following behind, crashing repeatedly through thirty-foot waves, while the Portland’s powerful engines and larger size made for little more than a mild bobbing. Tate could imagine Durchenko clutching the bridge console of his smaller vessel with every breaching crest. The Russian was actually lucky. It could have been far worse. The Drake Passage had a well-earned reputation for wicked gales and rogue waves that made it a ships’ graveyard.

  Their target, the Deepwater, had left Punta Arenas a day earlier than expected, but it didn’t change the schedule by much. They would simply seize her crew farther north in the National Reserve, where the research ship had been planting webcams. Tate had even watched the webcast from a few of them and once caught a glimpse of the Deepwater in the background. In fact, that location would be even better. Less chance of running across a random fisherman or tourist boat. The tracker they’d installed made the future interception a done deal. The crosshairs indicating the Deepwater’s position pulsated on the main view screen.

  Ballard, who looked a little seasick from the rocking motion in the op center, said, “Zach, we’ve got a call coming in on Overholt’s phone. It’s Juan Cabrillo.”

  Tate frowned. Not because he was worried that the phone was being tracked. Its signal was being routed through a series of internet connections through a satellite feed that made it impossible to trace.

  He was frowning because he was planning to call Juan later that day for another round of taunting and to lure him into the planned ambush.

  “Do you want me to ignore it?” Ballard asked when s
he saw Tate’s expression.

  “No,” Tate said after a moment’s hesitation. “Might as well get the call over with now. Make sure to patch it through the deepfake software. I like Juan looking at himself when he’s talking to me.”

  “Done,” she said, and his old friend’s face appeared on-screen.

  “Juan,” Tate said. “How did you know I was thinking about you?”

  “Rough seas, Tate?” Cabrillo speculated. “That must be Catherine Ballard behind you. She looks like she’s sitting on a seesaw. I bet if I could see her face, it would be a pale shade of green.”

  “And I’d bet you’d like to know where we are.”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “You know what? I will. We’re near Tierra del Fuego. Where are you?”

  Cabrillo shrugged. “You don’t expect me to make it that easy for you, do you?” He was throwing Tate’s expression back in his face.

  Tate laughed. “Touché. But it doesn’t matter. You’ll come find me anyway.”

  “And fall into another trap? How dumb do you think I am?”

  “Please, Juan. I would never underestimate you. Why else do you think I didn’t follow you down the river? I knew you had the Oregon waiting to blow my helicopter out of the sky. By the way, did you find what you were looking for? I mean, before I destroyed the Bremen?”

  “The secret behind the sonic disruptor? Of course. We found everything.”

  Tate narrowed his eyes at Cabrillo, then smiled and wagged a finger at him. “Very good, Juan. I can’t tell if you’re bluffing or not. Again, it doesn’t really matter.”

  “We did find Jiménez,” Cabrillo said. “That’s who you were trying to kill when you sank the Kansas City, wasn’t it?”

  Tate sneered at Cabrillo’s smug expression of satisfaction. “Apparently, I didn’t do the job well enough if he survived.”