Typhoon Fury

by Clive Cussler

  But even though it made her cringe to leave it there, the coffee mug gave her the inkling of an idea, and she didn’t object. She couldn’t get away, but maybe there was a way to tell someone where she was.

  “I need a pencil, a piece of paper, and access to the Internet to do my work,” she said.

  Dolap looked up, annoyed that he had to tear his eyes away from his phone. “No Internet.”

  “You mean you don’t have Internet access here?”

  “No Internet for you.”

  So they did have Internet service.

  “Then how am I supposed to do my appraisal?”

  He sighed heavily, raised the phone to his mouth, and clicked a button. It must have doubled as a radio because Tagaan answered, “You can’t be done already.”

  Dolap relayed her request.

  “I’ll have someone bring a pen and notepad over,” Tagaan said.

  Beth interrupted. “Not a pen, a pencil. Pens might damage the art.”

  Dolap relayed her request.

  “Fine,” Tagaan said. “A pencil. She can’t have Internet, but if there are any books she wants to download, we can give her a tablet computer.”

  Dolap looked at Beth questioningly. She nodded and said, “That will be fine.” She recited the titles of several books, though she didn’t really need them. The appraisals would be complete guesswork anyway. She just had to make it look legitimate.

  When Tagaan signed off, Dolap said, “How long will this take?”

  “An hour, maybe.”

  Dolap rolled his eyes. “What about for the other ten paintings?”

  Beth looked at him, slack-jawed. “You mean there are more?”

  He nodded, exasperated by her apparently stupid question.

  “I’ll have to see them” was all she could say.

  “Fine,” Dolap replied. “I’ll bring them out when you’re done with this.” He took a sip of his coffee and went back to playing with his phone.

  While she waited for the items she’d requested, she mapped out a plan in her mind, surreptitiously checking out her position in relation to Dolap’s.

  Beth decided that she’d have only one chance to make it work. Despite the risk, she had to try it if she wanted to get out of this place alive.

  49

  MANILA BAY

  With the Corporation’s senior staff gathered in the boardroom, along with Raven, Juan nodded to Murph, who put Langston Overholt’s craggy face on the main view screen. Because of the thirteen-hour time difference between Washington and Manila, they could see the rainy late afternoon outside the CIA windows even though it was almost dawn where the Oregon was. Maurice finished serving mugs of coffee and breakfast pastries before closing the door behind him.

  “I see a lot of bleary eyes there,” Overholt said in his gravelly baritone.

  “We’ve had a busy few days,” Juan said, stifling a yawn. “Rack time has been hard to come by.”

  “I don’t think what I’m about to tell you will help you sleep any better.” Overholt trained his eyes on Raven before saying, “By the way, Ms. Malloy, this conversation is strictly confidential, and you are bound by the security clearance you obtained while you were a military police officer.”

  “Understood,” she said. She was the only one who wasn’t eagerly downing coffee, preferring orange juice to wash down her Danish.

  “Have you been able to confirm that Typhoon was developed by the Army?” Juan asked.

  “I’m afraid so,” Overholt said. “I pulled a few strings and obtained classified records from Dugway Proving Ground. They’ve been buried in a dusty storeroom for over seventy years. That is, until a chemist in an experimental lab out there found the file. Name’s Greg Polten. He and a colleague named Davis are now missing.”

  “Do you think they sold the info to Salvador Locsin?”

  “I doubt it. Apparently, using off-the-books wire transfers that we were able to track, Polten hired Gerhard Brekker to help him find more. Given what Ms. Malloy told us about his encounter with Locsin, it doesn’t sound like they were working together.”

  Julia Huxley sat forward. “Mr. Overholt, what can you tell us about the drug?”

  “The files are not complete, for reasons I’ll get to in a minute. The military considered U.S. involvement in the war inevitable in 1941, so we were conducting all sorts of experiments to see what kind of edge we could give our soldiers in battle. The use of methamphetamine for some of our bomber pilots was one unfortunate result of that project. But Typhoon was on a whole different level. Some in the community considered it a superdrug until its full effects were understood. Its original code name was TYPE-400N, but the scientists started calling it Typhoon.”

  “Why was it developed out here?” Juan asked.

  “Because that’s where the plant that formulated its key ingredient was located. It was a rare variety of orchid, but its scientific name and description were not in the file. Its identity was so secret that only a few scientists on the project knew what it was.”

  “It’s odd they wouldn’t include such an important piece of information in the file,” Julia said. “What happened to the scientists?”

  “This is where we come to the reason for the incomplete info,” Overholt said. “No one saw the Japanese invasion of the Philippines coming, of course. Corregidor was the location of the top secret laboratory where the drug was being developed and produced. When it was clear in early 1942 that the invasion would overrun U.S. forces, MacArthur himself ordered the scientists, the drug supply, and all their equipment to be evacuated by destroyer. It was called the USS Pearsall, and, according to Japanese war records, it was sunk with all hands somewhere in the Philippines by Sub I-38, which was itself sunk by the U.S. Navy before it could return to Japan and record the exact location of the Pearsall.”

  Julia looked puzzled. “Then how did the Japanese subsequently get the Typhoon formula?”

  “We can’t know for sure, but, from the documents you found, it looks like they rescued one of the scientists from the Pearsall and dropped him off at Corregidor after it fell. The Japanese might have tortured him to get him to cooperate, then killed him to hide the secret. What we do know is that they developed their own version of the drug and shipped most of it back to the homeland in 1945 when we retook the Philippines. Despite the terrible side effects, they were scaling up to mass-produce it in a large factory in Hiroshima. It could have turned the planned home island invasion into the bloodiest battle in history. I’m not saying that’s why we nuked Hiroshima, but the A-bomb did obliterate any trace of it.”

  Overholt paused to let that sink in.

  “I’m just glad we never ended up using Typhoon ourselves,” Julia said.

  “The Army agreed, which was why they buried all mention of the drug when it didn’t make it back to U.S. shores. After we saw the horrors that the Nazis and the Imperial Japanese Army’s Unit 731 committed in the name of science, we didn’t want to continue down that path.”

  “So if the destroyer sank,” Linda Ross said, “then all traces of Typhoon must have been destroyed.”

  “Locsin may have found the formula in the Japanese files Juan saw them take,” Overholt said, “but it’s unlikely. They would probably have never left such critical information behind. Which is probably why he will be looking for the Pearsall right now, and why Brekker might already be there.”

  “But whatever supply Locsin found should be running out soon, and we know he didn’t find any more on Corregidor,” Eric Stone said. “If the Pearsall is on the bottom of the ocean, then the pills would have turned to mush long ago even if they hadn’t been destroyed in the sinking. Even if the tablets were sealed in metal containers, they would have rusted apart in five to ten years, letting the salt water in.”

  Overholt shook his head slowly. “Earl Silas Tupper.”

  �
�Who’s that?” Max said.

  Mark Murphy rattled off the answer. “As in Tupperware. He was the inventor. Created it when he was working at DuPont. He started selling the products to the general public after the war, but he actually made non-breakable containers for the military during the war.”

  Max shook his head in amusement. “Why aren’t you on Jeopardy!?”

  “My application has been accepted twice,” Murph said matter-of-factly, “but it wouldn’t be good publicity for the Corporation for me to go on national TV.”

  “Mr. Murphy is exactly right,” Overholt said. “The Typhoon was being shipped back to the U.S. in plastic, watertight barrels designed by Tupper himself.”

  “How much?” Juan asked.

  “We don’t have the exact figures, but the scientists produced two million pills before they halted production after seeing its long-term effects.”

  Max whistled at the astounding figure.

  “Enough to supply an entire Army division for years,” Juan said.

  “Or a communist insurgency for decades,” Overholt replied. “You need to keep both Brekker and Locsin from getting that supply.”

  “Do we know where the Pearsall is?”

  “NUMA does. Divers reported finding the wreck in a small archipelago northeast of Negros Island.” Eric noted the GPS coordinates that Overholt recited.

  “NUMA hasn’t excavated the wreckage yet?” Juan said.

  “They have a ship on the way,” Overholt said, “but it’s not expected to be on-site for another week. It wasn’t considered a high-priority mission.”

  “Because they didn’t have access to the classified records about its cargo.”

  “Correct.”

  “And if we find the cargo intact?”

  “I’m sure there are elements of the U.S. Army biochemical warfare division that would like to get their hands on it again, despite Typhoon’s grievous reputation,” Overholt said. He paused for a moment, then added, “But if the drug and its formula somehow got destroyed once and for all, they wouldn’t know what they missed, would they?”

  Juan smiled. “I suppose not.”

  “Then I will sign off here. Godspeed.” The screen winked to black.

  “You heard the man, Stoney,” Juan said. “Anchors aweigh, and set course for Negros Island.”

  “Aye, Chairman.”

  “And Murph?” Juan said.

  “Yup?”

  “Be ready to counter more of those Kuyog drones in case Locsin left behind those papers on purpose.”

  Murph raised an eyebrow. “This smells like a trap to you?”

  Juan nodded and patted him on the back. “It positively reeks.”

  50

  NEGROS ISLAND

  Light from the cavern’s roof opening was now streaming through the shutters over the window, and Beth’s stomach was already grumbling for breakfast. She was almost finished appraising the paintings and still couldn’t believe the incredible bounty of stolen artwork that Locsin and his group had amassed. It was like the best Christmas morning ever, despite her predicament. She could open one of the best museums in the world with what was inside this single room.

  In addition to every one of the stolen Gardner paintings, she had seen works by Van Gogh, Raphael, Gauguin, and Cézanne that had been missing for years, as well as items by Renoir and Monet from an auction house theft. There were only three more to appraise out of the sixteen. The piece she was inspecting now was a small oil painting from Picasso’s cubist period. It was the least valuable artwork she’d seen because it was so small, but it would still likely fetch a million dollars if it went back to auction.

  She had been making notes on a pad with a pencil. She added up her estimates, and the total of all of the paintings ran close to half a billion dollars on the open market. However, because they couldn’t see the light of day without being confiscated, they would be worth only a tenth that in the underground trade. Fifty million dollars was still a huge sum, but she’d bet there would be plenty of Russian oligarchs or Saudi sheiks willing to part with a bit of their oil money to get their hands on these masterpieces.

  Dolap was still intently playing with an app on his phone, which she’d seen was a puzzle game when she’d gotten up to use the bathroom. His half-full coffee mug was on the table. She was ready to put her plan into motion, but she cringed thinking about what she had to do.

  Beth had positioned the tube that had held the Picasso in exactly the place she wanted.

  She nodded at it and said, “Can you hand that to me?” She watched him out of the corner of her eye as she continued to jot on the notepad.

  Dolap reluctantly looked away from his game and leaned forward to pick up the tube. He handed it to her, and when she took it from him, she pushed it into the coffee mug, tipping it over. Coffee spilled across the table, splashing onto the Picasso.

  Beth screamed at the same time Dolap leapt to his feet. She swung the tube around as if in a panic and slapped the phone out of his hand. He barely noticed because he was so concerned with the painting.

  She dropped the tube and jumped out of her chair.

  “What have you done?” she shouted.

  “It’s not my fault!”

  “It was your coffee, wasn’t it?”

  He looked at her in terror when he realized what Tagaan would do to him if he found out that Dolap was responsible for ruining one of the valuable paintings.

  He pleaded with Beth, “What can we do?”

  “I think we can still save it, but I need some cloth towels right now.”

  Dolap charged toward the bathroom, but Beth stopped him. “Not the paper towels in there. Bath towels. Clean.”

  He would either have to take her with him and draw unwanted attention or leave her alone in the trailer to get them. He was paralyzed with fear and indecision.

  Beth clapped her hands and pointed at the door. “We don’t have much time before the coffee seeps into the canvas! Hurry! I want to save it as much as you do. I’m not going anywhere.”

  He nodded and dashed through the door, locking it behind him.

  Beth picked up the Picasso and let most of the coffee drain off as she set it aside. She wasn’t too worried about the damage, not only because she was willing to sacrifice the artwork if it saved her neck but also because she suspected the coffee would probably just run off the oil.

  She got down on her knees and frantically searched for Dolap’s phone. She spotted it in the corner and snatched it up. It was still unlocked, paused on the game.

  The icons at the top of the phone showed no bars for a cell signal. She didn’t know if that meant the cave didn’t have cell service at all or just not in this part of the cavern, but, either way, she wasn’t going to be able to call for help. There was, however, an icon for Wi-Fi service.

  She checked the contact list for the phone’s own number, then quickly opened the email app and typed in a message to Raven’s address. Beth had no idea how much time she had before Dolap came back, so she kept it short.

  Raven, this is Beth. In a huge cavern but don’t know where. Track this cell number to find me.

  She added Dolap’s phone number to the end and hit SEND.

  As soon as the message was gone, she went to the SENT folder and deleted the message. Then she opened the game up again and put it back in the corner just as she heard footsteps pounding toward the door.

  Dolap yanked the door open and thrust a pile of towels in her arms before locking the door behind him.

  While she patted the painting dry, he found his phone, looked at it briefly, and put it in his pocket. He watched her with concern.

  “Well? Can you save it?”

  “I think you were quick enough to salvage it.”

  He looked at her with a deadly serious expression. “If you tell Tagaan about this, I wil
l kill you.”

  Beth shook her head. “Why would I want to tell him? He’d probably kill both of us.”

  That seemed to put him at ease. He picked up some of the tubes that she’d already looked through and went to the back of the building.

  When she was satisfied that the Picasso was dry, Beth rolled it back up and sealed it in the tube, then wiped down the table so she could get back to work.

  Dolap returned and took his chair again. Beth pressed her hands down on the table so that he couldn’t see her shaking from the adrenaline rush of getting away with her plan.

  Now all she could do was try to stay alive long enough for the cavalry to arrive.

  THE BANTAYAN ISLAND ARCHIPELAGO

  The process of digging through the hole in the side of the Pearsall had gone faster than Gerhard Brekker had anticipated and by midmorning they were able to explore the interior of the sunken U.S. warship.

  During the night, Brekker had downloaded the schematics for the Fletcher class destroyer from a website dedicated to cataloging World War II ships. That let them narrow their search to the rooms on the ship where cargo would most likely have been stowed.

  The crew areas were divided roughly in half fore and aft, with the fire rooms and engine rooms in the center of the ship. They’d never reach the stern without significant work, but they could search the bow section fairly quickly.

  Most of the organic material had disintegrated in the warm salt water, so Brekker saw no clothes or bodies, not even skeletons. Fish and crabs had found a way into the ship, but there was no sunlight for coral to grow in the interior.

  They found a mess hall, with metal dishes and silverware rusted but still intact. They also happened upon the ammunition magazine for one of the forward guns. The steel casings of the shells were corroded, and some of the rounds had come loose from their bins, piling onto the floor. Brekker warned his men not to touch them in case the explosives inside were still active.

  By the time their air was exhausted, they had made it through two storerooms, with no luck, marking doors with a large X if the room inside had already been visited.