Typhoon Fury

by Clive Cussler

  2

  THE PHILIPPINES

  The squall arrived earlier than Luis Navarro expected. The forecast had said it wouldn’t hit until after sundown. Wind buffeted the front window of their 90-foot-long vessel, lashing it with sheets of rain. Visibility was limited. He looked behind him toward Negros Island, but he could no longer see the city of Dumaguete. The GPS unit said their destination of Dapitan City on Mindanao was still thirty miles away.

  Captain Garcia ordered the first mate to cut back on the throttle. The smaller escort boats on either side slowed to match their speed. The officers manning the deck machine guns on both boats looked miserable in the downpour.

  “What are you doing?” Navarro demanded. “Don’t slow down.”

  The first mate looked to Garcia, an old salt who obviously wasn’t used to his orders being countermanded. “Inspector, if we stay at full speed in these conditions, we could be swamped.”

  Despite being younger and more compact than the captain, Navarro wasn’t intimidated. “The chief of the Philippine National Police has put me in charge of this mission and I order you back to full speed.”

  “You may be in command of the mission, but this is my boat. Do you want to make it to Mindanao or not? If the chief of the PNP were here, I think he’d want to live.”

  “You know who we’re carrying,” Navarro said.

  Garcia nodded. “And I want him off my boat more than you do. So let me do my job.”

  Navarro grumbled but didn’t push it further. His country’s reputation for sunken vessels was well known. With a population of over one hundred million scattered across the seven thousand islands comprising the Philippines, a vast amount of commerce and transportation was done by water. Dozens of boats and ships went down every year, many of them in storms just like this one.

  He couldn’t afford to alter the plan for this operation. Their prisoner, Salvador Locsin, was the most wanted man in the country, the leader of a splinter cell of the New People’s Army, a communist insurgent group dedicated to overthrowing the democratic government of the Philippines. Talks between the government and the rebels had dragged on for years, and Locsin had grown tired of the stalemate. His terror campaign had targeted important officials and government facilities, causing dozens of deaths and destroying several buildings. How he was funding his efforts was still a mystery, but Navarro intended to find out as soon as they got him to a secure interrogation room.

  Thanks to an anonymous tip, he’d been captured in a raid in Kabankalan City. However, with thousands of rebels on Negros Island loyal to him, getting him off the island had proven perilous. The first attempt to transport Locsin back to the capital of Manila was by air, but the rebels mounted a failed attack at the airport, damaging the plane and killing three officers in the process.

  The decision, then, had been to fake another attempt at flying him out from a different airport on the island. At the same time, Locsin was taken by road to Dumaguete, where three boats were waiting. There were fewer rebels on Mindanao, so flying him off that island was thought to be much less hazardous.

  The walkie-talkie on his belt squawked. The voice was panicked. “Senior Inspector Navarro, you need to come down here right now!”

  “What is it?” Navarro replied.

  “Officer Torres is dead.”

  When he heard the news, Captain Garcia, who had seemed wary but calm about the storm, looked at Navarro with fear. He stepped next to the first mate and inched the throttle forward.

  “I’m on my way,” Navarro said.

  Navarro took the stairs two at a time down to the hold. The fishing vessel had been modified by the police force as a prisoner transport. In place of the freezer where mackerel or tuna might have been stored, tiny barred cells had been installed with only enough room for a prisoner to sit on the steel bench.

  When he reached the hold, he saw Torres sprawled on the floor in front of one of the cells. His head was cocked at an unnatural angle, his eyes wide and staring. Two other officers stood behind him.

  Navarro stalked forward, enraged at losing another man. “What happened?”

  The older officer glanced nervously at the cell, then looked at Navarro. “Torres was going to use the head. I guess we weren’t paying attention because, the next thing we knew, he was on the floor with a broken neck.”

  Navarro looked at the sole prisoner on board. Salvador Locsin sat on the bench with his eyes closed, smiling beatifically. Ropey biceps strained at the sleeves of his shirt, the veins in his forearms looking as if they were about to explode from under the skin. His black hair draped across his forehead, where it mingled with the beads of sweat trickling down his face.

  Navarro, furious, stared at his men and jabbed a finger in Locsin’s direction. “Didn’t I warn you not to get too close to his cell?”

  “But he looked like he was asleep when Torres got up,” the younger officer protested. “How could he break someone’s neck through the bars?”

  Navarro walked over to the cell, stepping between Torres’s legs. Both of the officers brought their weapons up to cover him.

  “You’re going to answer for that, Locsin,” Navarro said.

  Locsin replied in an unfamiliar dialect of one of the over one hundred and seventy languages native to the Philippines. Navarro knew only the country’s two official languages, English and Tagalog.

  “Come on, Locsin,” Navarro continued in English. “I know you understand me.”

  Locsin opened his eyes. His irises were so dark that they seemed to merge with the black of his pupils. Navarro nearly stumbled backward from the force of his gaze, an evil that seemed to stab at his very soul.

  “I said, I am dead already, aren’t I?”

  Navarro composed himself enough to respond without faltering. “I don’t know what your punishment will be, but you’ll have to pay for your crimes.”

  “I have, Inspector Navarro, and with a price more costly than you’ll ever understand.” Locsin closed his eyes again.

  Navarro stepped back, and the two officers moved in as if they were going to pick up Torres.

  “Leave him there,” Navarro said. “We’ll take care of him after we get the prisoner off the boat.”

  The two officers looked at him in shock but didn’t challenge his command.

  “What should we do about him?” the older one said, motioning with his rifle at the prisoner.

  “Keep watch on him at all times. I want him alive for questioning. Wound him, if you have to, but don’t kill him.”

  “Yes, sir,” they both said.

  The engine suddenly wound down to idle, and the boat slowed to a crawl.

  “Now what?” Navarro muttered as he charged back up to the bridge.

  When he got there, Captain Garcia was on the radio, peering out the window, while the first mate spun the wheel away from their destination.

  “It looks like the ferry is on fire,” Garcia said into the handset. “We’ve got survivors in the water, and more still on the boat. How long until you arrive?”

  Navarro followed Garcia’s gaze to the foundering vessel, more than a mile off the port bow. The stubby car ferry’s stern was already awash, and smoke poured from the superstructure. Navarro counted more than two dozen people in the water, some wearing life jackets, others flailing as they tried to stay afloat in the waves.

  “The nearest patrol vessel is at least an hour away,” said a voice on the radio that had to be with the Coast Guard. “We’ll notify any vessels in the vicinity to provide assistance.”

  “Thanks. We’ll pick up as many as we can.” Garcia put the handset down and ordered the first mate to bring them alongside the survivors.

  Aghast, Navarro said, “What do you think you’re doing?”

  Garcia looked at him in astonishment. “I’m rendering aid to a stricken vessel and its passengers and crew, as
we are bound to do under maritime law.”

  The smaller, more maneuverable escort vessels had already arrived at the scene of the accident and were pulling survivors aboard.

  “You’re not stopping,” Navarro commanded. “You will continue on and complete this mission as ordered.”

  “Are you insane? We can’t leave these people to die!”

  “I already have a dead officer down there. Locsin is as cunning as he is vicious. What do you think will happen if we start crowding civilians onto this boat with him?”

  “We’ll keep them up on deck.”

  “No. They’ll interfere with the assignments of my officers. I won’t allow it.”

  “And I will not violate my duty as master of this vessel. I won’t leave people to drown!” Garcia turned back to the first mate and waved for him to move toward the wreck.

  Navarro’s hand went to his sidearm pistol. He didn’t want to use force, but the captain was leaving him no choice. He didn’t understand the threat that Locsin posed.

  But Navarro didn’t have time to draw his weapon before a shrill voice shrieked over the radio.

  “Transport One, this is Escort One! It’s a trap! They’re not ferry passengers! They’ve overpowered my men, but I sabotaged—” The officer was interrupted by the sound of a gunshot, and then the radio went dead.

  Navarro looked back at the ferry and now saw that Escort 1 had turned and was heading back toward the prison transport. It was only two hundred yards away, and Navarro could see a man in civilian clothes on deck. He was swinging the mounted machine gun in their direction.

  “Get down!” Navarro yelled as he threw himself at Garcia and tackled him to the deck. Thirty-caliber bullets riddled the bridge, shattering the glass and killing the first mate, who crumpled into the captain’s chair.

  “Get us out of here!” Navarro shouted.

  He peered out and saw Escort 1 start to weave back and forth, then it exploded. That must have been the sabotage the officer on Escort 1 had mentioned before he died.

  Garcia scrambled to his feet and slammed the throttle to its stops.

  “The navigation computer was damaged by the gunfire. I’ll have to guide us by compass.”

  Navarro snatched up a pair of binoculars and saw that Escort 2 was now headed in their direction, its machine gun manned and ready to use when they were in range. “How long until we reach Dapitan City?”

  “At least an hour, in these seas. We might be able to make better headway than that smaller boat. Depends on how long the squall lasts.”

  Navarro recalled the captain’s conversation with the Coast Guard. “We should find out which direction the cutter is coming from and go toward it. Give me the radio.”

  Garcia picked up the radio handset, chuckled ruefully, and tossed it to him. It had a bullet hole through it.

  Navarro smacked his hand against the bulkhead in frustration at getting ambushed like a rookie cadet.

  He got on his walkie-talkie and addressed his officers on the prison transport.

  “This is Inspector Navarro. To every one of my men who is still alive, shoot to kill.”

  3

  VIETNAM

  The massive diesel locomotive approached from the north, slowing as it neared the railroad crossing on the outskirts of Hue. Juan Cabrillo counted nine passenger cars plus the engine. The Ghost Dragons’ instruction was for Juan and Eric Stone to jump on as it passed since stopping the train would draw unwanted attention.

  While Eric scanned the houses around them for spectators, Juan looked at the burner phone again, a prepaid model he’d bought in Hue. No message from Eddie. That either meant his cell phone was taken from him or he was in a situation that didn’t allow him to make contact.

  “We still haven’t heard from our friendly neighborhood mole,” Juan said. “Has he gone underground?”

  Like Juan and every other operative in the Corporation, Eddie Seng had a subdermal tracking chip implanted in his thigh. Using the body’s own energy for power, it sent out a pulse beacon each minute that wasn’t detectable by standard bug-scanning devices. With GPS technology, his location could be pinpointed to within a few dozen yards.

  Eric checked his tablet computer. “I’ve got him, Chairman. The most recent broadcast from his chip was near the railroad tracks ten miles south of us.”

  “That must be where the Chinese are planning to intercept us. We’ll need to make the exchange by then.”

  Juan had to assume the Chinese Ministry of State Security agents were monitoring their communications. He texted Eddie the train information.

  Engine #9736. Leaving Huong Thuy in 2 minutes.

  He dropped the phone on the asphalt and ground it to pieces with his foot. Eric watched him but said nothing. He understood that Juan didn’t want the MSS agents to know Eddie’s supposed contact wasn’t already on the train with the rest of the Ghost Dragons.

  Like all missions that the Corporation undertook, this was one their client couldn’t handle themselves. After leaving his field agent position at the CIA, Juan had created the mercenary organization to carry out operations that his old employer wasn’t able to, because either it didn’t have the capabilities required for the job or have plausible deniability in case of failure. The Corporation also took on other clients as long as the operation was never in conflict with the interests of the United States.

  Today’s mission came straight from the top.

  When the Ghost Dragons had approached the American government through Taiwanese back channels with their sales proposal, the CIA was dubious that the memory stick they were offering actually contained the names of the undercover MSS agents operating in the U.S. The problem was finding out what was on the flash drive while they were in the field. The National Security Agency had long known about the self-erasing technology China used for its sensitive information transfers, but the only way to crack the code was with gigantic supercomputers the NSA had designed specifically for the task. Since Juan couldn’t check out the flash drive contents on a laptop without inadvertently deleting it, he wouldn’t be able tell if he was handing over fifty million taxpayer dollars for sensitive Chinese state secrets or the Premier’s grocery list.

  Eddie had needed to make contact with the MSS himself to confirm what was on the memory stick. Based on the information Eddie had fed to them, the Chinese security agency was undertaking a risky plan to intercept the exchange and retrieve the flash drive. That’s when Juan knew the Ghost Dragons were selling the real thing.

  The rules for the handoff itself were relatively simple. When the train slowed at the railroad crossing, Juan and Eric would jump onto the platform of the train’s rear car as it passed. They would then make their way to the center dining car, likely being monitored by the triad on hidden cameras as they walked through each car. They could bring no weapons with them. Once it was confirmed they were alone and unarmed, the exchange would take place. They would take possession of the flash drive while fifty million dollars of U.S. government money was wired to an account of the triad’s choosing. Then the train would slow again to let them off at another road crossing.

  “Chairman,” Eric said, looking at his phone, “I just got acknowledgment from Linc and Murph. They’re ready.”

  “Then let’s get this party started.”

  Their appearance was designed to put the triad at ease. Eric was one of the youngest members of the Corporation, a Navy vet who had been in technology development during his short stint in the service. He looked like the shy computer geek he was, down to his neatly combed hair, black glasses, blue button-down shirt, and creased khaki chinos. Eric was there to confirm that it really was an MSS secure flash drive, and he didn’t look like much of a threat.

  On the other hand, Juan, with blond hair, blue eyes, a tan dating from his days surfing in his native California, and a swimmer’s lean physique, looked l
ike a man able to take care of himself. The Ghost Dragons would anticipate a trained operative making the buy, but instead of wearing the expected suit, Juan went casual, wearing a short-sleeved shirt, jeans, and boots.

  As the locomotive chugged slowly past, the Vietnamese engineer scowled at them. Juan was impressed by the luxurious appointments in the passenger cars as he scanned for signs of the triad members. Not only did the triad have some pull to get this train at all, they apparently wanted to make the exchange in style. Nobody was visible in the first two cars, but the third window’s curtains were drawn. The fifth car, where the exchange was to take place, was a dining car.

  The remaining cars were similarly empty. When the last car reached them, Eric hopped on, followed by Juan.

  “Time to meet our hosts,” Juan said.

  He and Eric walked forward as the train began to accelerate back to its cruising speed. Juan spotted the cameras tucked into the lighting fixtures but gave no indication that he knew they were there. They’d be feeding a wireless signal to the Ghost Dragons, who had to be wary of a double cross. Eric didn’t pay attention to them, either, busily tapping on his tablet as they walked.

  When they reached the seventh car, they were met by two armed triad soldiers who were young, sinewy, and dressed in tailored black suits. Both carried Brügger & Thomet MP9 machine pistols that weren’t much bigger than regular semiautomatics but could be fired on full auto. Not very accurate, but in the confines of a train car they could be deadly. Juan and Eric raised their hands.

  “I’m Thomas Cates,” Juan said, giving them the name he’d used to set up the meet. “Let’s get this over with.”

  While one of the men covered them with his machine pistol, the other carefully came toward them and patted down Eric, inspecting the tablet in his hand and the satchel slung over his shoulder that carried his laptop. Satisfied that Eric was unarmed, he frisked Juan.