Typhoon Fury

by Clive Cussler

  Ten minutes later, just as Van Der Waal finished snapping his weapon back together, Polten and Davis climbed aboard the boat. Brekker had not met either of them in person before, but he knew the Dugway Proving Ground chemical weapons experts by sight, having carefully studied what info he could find on them before agreeing to the job.

  Davis, whose sweaty, flowered shirt clung to his oversized belly, dropped his carry-on in the middle of the room and said, “Finally, some decent AC. Hey, nice digs!”

  Polten didn’t seem bothered by the heat and humidity. He calmly set his bag down and took off his frameless glasses to clean them with a pocket wipe.

  “You didn’t have any trouble getting here with Lynch?” he asked before putting his glasses back on. With his graying temples and jogger’s form, he looked to Brekker like the kind of college professor the coeds all had a crush on.

  “He’s downstairs,” Brekker said.

  “I’d like to see him while Davis tests the Typhoon pill.”

  He moved toward the stairs, but Brekker put up a hand to stop him. “This operation has gotten much more complicated. Now that we know the type of man we’re up against, I’m afraid I’m going to have to double our fee. Consider it ‘danger pay.’”

  Polten furrowed his brow and said, “I can’t get that kind of money to you now, but I’ll triple your fee when I get the Typhoon formula.”

  Brekker was surprised at how quickly Polten responded. No blustering objection, no negotiating. That was exactly what he wanted to know.

  “And this operation is off the books? I don’t want it to come back to us if something goes wrong.”

  Polten shook his head. “We routed your payment through a dummy corporation, as you requested. No one but me and Davis knows you’re involved.”

  Brekker nodded, satisfied with the answer. He took the tin container from his pocket and dumped one of the pills into Davis’s hand. Davis eagerly examined the pill, then unzipped his bag and removed portable chemical testing equipment.

  “It’s amazing what you can get through customs if you’ve got the right government permits,” he said as he pulled out tubes and small vials of liquid.

  “This way,” Brekker said to Polten. They walked down the stairs and entered the room where Lynch was lashed to the bed with nylon rope.

  The guard, who was watching a movie on his phone, glanced up and said, “He’s been whimpering nonstop. And he reeks like moldy garlic.”

  Lynch looked much worse than he had just that morning. His cheeks were sunken, and his muscles were already withering. Perspiration soaked the bedcover, and the stench of his foul body odor was overpowering.

  “It’s been twelve hours since he missed his dose?” Polten asked.

  “More like twenty-four. He was supposed to take it last night, but we caught him before he could.”

  “Interesting.” Polten walked over and took out a small penlight. He flashed it in Lynch’s eyes as if he’d examined patients in the past. Lynch, who’d seemed dazed, lunged at Polten and snapped at him with his teeth. Polten pulled back just in time to avoid losing a chunk of his hand.

  “Give me my pill now!” Lynch yelled.

  Polten stood back and appraised him with a cold eye. “This is happening even faster than our records indicated it would.”

  “What records?”

  Polten nodded for them to go back to the main cabin. When they got there, he said, “We have some files on the use of this drug. Its beneficial effects are potent, as you’ve seen. Its withdrawal symptoms are even worse. It’s the price you pay for becoming an addict.”

  “And you think there’s more of this Typhoon somewhere?”

  Polten nodded. “The drug was developed in the early forties. We had thought the last remnants of it were wiped out when Hiroshima was nuked. The Japanese had built a large plant to put the manufacture of the pill into large-scale production, enough to supply every man, woman, and child in the country in anticipation of the coming invasion of the home islands. The drug’s effects combined with fanatical loyalty to the Emperor could have cost us millions of soldiers before Japan was conquered. No one knows if Hiroshima became the target for that reason or if the destruction of the factory was merely a side benefit of the atomic explosion, but no Typhoon pills survived there, and the formula was lost.”

  “Then how did the Filipinos find it?”

  “We suspect some of the pills had been shipped to kamikaze pilots here during the Battle of Leyte Gulf. But that’s only speculation. Although a supply of it was supposedly carried out by a destroyer called the USS Pearsall at the end of the war, the ship never made it back to the U.S. and was thought to have been sunk by a Japanese sub.”

  Brekker narrowed his eyes at Polten, whose lip twitched ever so slightly. A liar knew a liar, and Polten certainly wasn’t sharing the whole truth about the shipment of the Typhoon pills.

  “The ship was never found?”

  “Not until recently,” Polten said. “Some recreational divers found the wreck buried in sand, so the U.S. agency named NUMA—the National Underwater and Marine Agency—is sending a vessel to secure any live munitions that might still be on board.”

  “Does NUMA know about the cargo?”

  “I doubt it. It was top secret at the time. We only knew about it from the classified archives at Dugway. That must be why the NUMA ship isn’t scheduled to arrive for another three weeks.” Polten showed Brekker a map of the sunken Pearsall’s position at an uninhabited atoll near Samar Island. “But Locsin may have already found it and removed the cargo. We have to find him if we’re to have any chance of getting that formula.”

  “Why is this formula so important?” Brekker asked, nodding at Davis, who was analyzing the tablet. “You already have the pill sample.”

  “It’s complicated,” Polten said, “but the critical ingredient is a plant that grows only in the Philippines. The problem is, we don’t know which plant it is. It may be something that grows on only one island. With seven thousand islands in the chain, each with its own endemic species, the plant we need would be virtually impossible to find without that formula.”

  “And with that formula, you could make as much Typhoon as you wanted?”

  “Sure,” Davis piped in as he continued his analysis. “As long as you had the formula and a good supply of the plant, anybody with a chemistry degree could make it.”

  Polten’s eyes blazed with anger at Davis’s interjection and he hastily added, “But to reduce the extreme side effects, it might take years of testing and reformulation.”

  “I see,” Brekker said. He glanced at Van Der Waal, who responded with the barest nod.

  “Got confirmation,” Davis said triumphantly. He looked at Polten with a big smile. “This is definitely the original Typhoon formulation.”

  “You’re sure?” Brekker said.

  “No doubt.”

  “Now,” Polten said, “I want to know how you plan to find—”

  A rapid double report from Van Der Waal’s Vektor pistol interrupted Polten, who coughed twice before slumping to the floor. Davis pitched over onto the table, a surprised look in his open eyes. Van Der Waal had hit each of them in the center of the chest. Blood soaked Polten’s shirt and pooled on the marble floor.

  “At least it’ll be easy to clean up,” Van Der Waal said, holstering his pistol. “Moron. He agreed to the increased price too fast.”

  Brekker nodded in agreement. “You could practically see the dollar signs in his eyes. If he was willing to pay that price, imagine how much the formula would be worth to Locsin.”

  “We could always sell it ourselves on the open market.”

  “If it’s still on that destroyer, if the formula still exists, and if we can successfully manufacture it. That’s a lot of ifs. I’d rather get paid now. Let Locsin take the risk of being a drug dealer.”

&nb
sp; The men who’d been asleep had been waiting for the gunshots. They came up and began tying the feet of Polten and Davis to the heavy kettlebells. They’d take the bodies to the middle of Manila Bay later for an unceremonious burial at sea.

  Van Der Waal pointed to the computer screens and said, “Looks like we’ve got some activity.”

  Brekker looked at the feed from the remote cameras stationed outside the Baylon Fire factory and saw two SUVs enter the gate. They were waved through by the guards without even stopping. When they reached the warehouse, a half-dozen men got out, including one that looked like Locsin, though it was impossible to be sure at this distance. Two women got out with them, one a redhead, the other raven-haired. Both were shoved roughly toward the warehouse and taken inside.

  “You think they’re going to have a party?” Van Der Waal asked in amusement.

  “I don’t know,” Brekker said, unzipping one of the equipment bags and taking out his assault rifle. “Let’s go find out.”

  29

  OFF NEGROS ISLAND

  From the catwalk at the top of the chamber housing the moon pool, Juan looked down at the unusual vessel that hovered above the water, making sure it was positioned correctly as it was lowered by the gantry crane. The distinct smell of ocean brine and machine oil filled the cavernous room, the largest on the Oregon. It was in the center of the ship and contained an Olympic-pool-sized opening that was equalized with the sea level outside the ship so that subs and divers could leave unnoticed through huge double doors that swung down from the keel. Eddie, Linc, MacD, and Murph, clad in black night camo, were down below getting ready to load their tactical gear on board.

  The Gator was the newest addition to the ship’s complement of watercraft. The test dives they’d put it through over the last few months had gone off without a hitch, but this was the first time it would be used on an operation. Modeled after the U.S. Navy Sealion and other semi-submersibles employed by countries like Singapore and North Korea, the 40-foot-long Gator was a craft specifically designed for infiltration of targets both at sea and onshore. The Oregon’s Discovery 1000 had been used for similar missions in the past, but its replacement boasted significant advantages.

  Shaped like an angular cigarette boat, the stealthy Gator’s surfaces were shaped to reduce its radar signature to that of a bathtub toy, and the mottled black and charcoal paint made it difficult to see at night when surfaced. Like the Discovery, the Gator could carry up to eight passengers, dive to one hundred feet, and maneuver with electric thrusters, but the newer vessel’s sound-insulated diesel engine allowed it to reach over forty knots on the surface while simultaneously recharging the batteries. The Gator’s most unusual and useful capability was its ability to semi-submerge so that the small viewing cupola for the single pilot was the only part of it above the water, just like an alligator cruising through a swamp with nothing but its eyes visible. Since the Gator ran on its powerful diesel engine in this state, it could sneak up on a moving ship, match its speed, and deliver a boarding party through a portal in the roof while still in motion.

  The Gator complemented the larger Nomad, which hung from a sling above the moon pool. The 65-foot-long deep-water submersible was built to descend to one thousand feet with six passengers and had an air lock for swimmers to exit while submerged. Though the Nomad could remain underwater for long periods before the batteries needed to be recharged, its bulky pressure hull and electric motors meant it moved much more slowly than the sleek Gator.

  As the Gator settled into the water, and the mission team climbed aboard with their equipment, Linda Ross joined Juan on the catwalk and leaned on the railing, her head barely even with Juan’s shoulder. Like him and the rest of the team, she was dressed all in black.

  “I’ll miss the Discovery,” she said, “but, I have to say, her replacement is extremely sexy.”

  “Don’t let Nomad hear you or she’ll get jealous.”

  “Oh, I love all my children equally.” She mouthed Not really, then pointed at the Gator and gave Juan the thumb-and-fingers OK sign.

  “Well, now we get to prove to Max that it was a wise investment.”

  Linda chuckled and said, “I think his hand was shaking when he signed the purchase order,” referring to their notoriously stingy VP.

  Knowing that Linda’s arrival meant the Magellan Sun was nearing its destination, Juan asked, “What’s the good news?” Gomez was observing the 400-foot-long ship with a drone equipped with a night vision camera.

  “Seems like she’s preparing to hold station a mile off Campomanes Bay, just like we thought she would.” They had surveyed the coastline of Negros, and the bay was the least populated spot on the west side of the island. Satellite imaging showed a small dock in the bay that was normally used for scuba diving boats and sightseeing tours. At this time of night, the entire place would be deserted, the ideal spot for illicit activity. The dock was too small for a large cargo ship, so they knew the Magellan Sun wouldn’t be entering the bay. The Oregon was positioned five miles to the north, far enough away so that it wouldn’t seem to be any kind of threat.

  “How is she getting her cargo off-loaded?” Juan asked.

  “There’s an old offshore supply ship, the kind used for oil rigs, heading out from the island, and the crane on the Magellan Sun is getting set to lower cargo from her deck.”

  “Then we should get going,” Juan said and nodded at the Gator. “Ready to take her for a spin?”

  Linda rubbed her hands together with glee. She was going to be driving the Gator during the mission. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  They took the stairs down to the well deck. Juan picked up his own gear bag that he’d packed earlier, and they went aboard. Linda sat in the pilot’s seat and went through her pre-dive check, while Juan secured the top hatch and joined the rest of the team in the passenger area at the rear. Because of the Gator’s low profile, the accommodations were cramped but still comfortable, with cushioned benches along both sides of the cabin and seat belts if the seas got choppy. The interior was solely lit by red illumination so that their eyes would quickly become dark-adapted.

  “What’s the weather report?” Juan asked Murph, whose tablet was connected to the Oregon via satellite linkup.

  “Cloudy and dark right now,” he said, “but the moon could put in an appearance.”

  “Have you got the feed from Gomez’s drone?”

  “As if you were there,” Murph said and turned the tablet toward Juan.

  The Magellan Sun was clearly visible against the flat black sea. Although she was only two-thirds the length of the Oregon, she had a similar outline, with a superstructure rear of amidships, four cranes for loading and off-loading cargo at smaller ports, and a deck stacked with pallets and containers. Judging from the diminishing wake behind her, she seemed to be coming to a stop.

  One part of the two-pronged mission would put Murph, Eddie, and MacD on board the Magellan Sun. Since she was a standard Chinese design, Langston Overholt was able to send them CIA archived blueprints of the ship, which they studied to plan their infiltration.

  “Where’s the equipment room that you three are sticking your noses into?” Juan asked.

  Since Ocampo reported that the ship had been used to deliver supplies for Locsin’s dig, the goal was to download the ship’s computerized navigational logs in the hope of narrowing down which island Locsin was searching for more Typhoon. The computers were located on the bridge, which would be manned at all times. The CIA blueprints indicated that there was a junction box in an equipment room nearby, where Murph thought he could access the network.

  “It’s right about there,” MacD drawled, pointing at a spot directly below the bridge. “That kind of room should be unattended, but Ah’ve got good ole Diana here in case we’re wrong.” He patted his crossbow like it was a faithful dog.

  Eddie tapped the port side away from the cra
ne. “That looks like the best place to climb up. Our guests should be busy with their cargo on the other side, but Gomez will let us know if anyone is getting too close while we’re boarding.”

  Juan nodded. “How long will you need?”

  “Once I’m in there,” Murph said, rubbing his scraggly beard, “no more than five minutes to crack the system and download the data. They shouldn’t even know I was there.”

  While they were on the Magellan Sun, Juan and Linc would be conducting the second part of the mission.

  Juan inserted his encrypted communications earpiece and checked it before calling Gomez, who was in the op center, where Hali was on radar, in Linda’s absence, Stoney was at the helm, and Max was in command of the Oregon.

  “Gomez, show us the supply ship.”

  In an instant, the camera slewed around and focused on the supply ship heading toward the Magellan Sun. The design of the much smaller vessel looked at least forty years old and had a two-story superstructure at the front and a flat cargo area taking up the rear half of the ship.

  “That’s a lot of open deck space, Chairman,” Linc said. “I don’t think we’ll get a friendly welcome if they spot us hanging around their precious cargo.”

  Juan and Linc’s objective was to tag some of the cargo that was being off-loaded from the Magellan Sun so they could track it to where it was being delivered. And if they had the opportunity, they would open it to find out just what was being transported.

  But Linc was right. Trying to do that on the unprotected deck of the supply ship would be a death wish. They might as well put neon bull’s-eyes on their chests.

  “You up for a shore excursion?” Juan said.