Kurt wasn’t sure what exactly the term socio-military balance meant, but it sounded like a politician’s made-up parlance, and he guessed Brinks was more a politician than a man of action. That meant they were in for a long speech. Great.
Brinks continued. “After consulting with Mr. Yaeger, and also running our own studies, we’ve concluded that this weapon uses a system of particle acceleration similar to one suggested years back for the Strategic Defense Initiative’s anti-missile shield.”
Kurt considered what Brinks was saying, and he allowed some of his aggravation to dissipate. At least these men seemed to grasp the danger.
“To make matters worse,” Brinks said, “the kidnapped scientists are precisely the kind of people one would need to improve on whatever these terrorists are already in possession of.”
“Do we have any idea who they are?” Kurt asked.
Brinks nodded. “In addition to the individual you identified, we’ve two pieces of credible evidence suggesting their base of operations is in Africa.”
“Africa?” Gamay said.
“Yes, Mrs. Trout,” Brinks replied. “Early this morning a body was recovered two miles south of the spot where Kurt and Joe were rescued.”
Brinks nodded to an aide, who brought photos out that were passed to Kurt and Joe.
“Recognize him?” Brinks asked.
The water had bloated the man’s face, but it wasn’t enough to hide his identity.
“Key master,” Joe whispered.
Kurt nodded. “This guy was with Andras,” he said. “What happened to him?”
“Twenty-two, Old West style,” Brinks said. “Right between the eyes. Any idea why?”
“He was alive when we went down,” Kurt said. He put the photo away. “Who is he?”
“He’s been identified as a citizen of Sierra Leone,” Brinks said. “A former major in their armed forces, perhaps even a bodyguard for the president, Djemma Garand.”
“Sierra Leone,” Kurt said. This was the second time that nation’s name had popped up.
Brinks nodded. “As odd as it sounds, the links are starting to point to a connection with that country. We know the superconducting ore was transferred in Freetown, but until now we thought it was the work of a group of mercenaries manning the docks. Your friend Andras may have been one of them.”
Kurt didn’t like hearing Andras referred to as his friend, however facetiously. Beyond that, something sounded odd about this assessment. “Sierra Leone is one of the poorest countries in the world. They can barely feed and clothe their people. You’re telling me they have the wherewithal to create a particle accelerator using advanced superconductors?”
“We have this man’s body to prove a link,” Brinks said, not looking particularly thrilled to have questions coming at him. “We have other intelligence suggesting there may be a connection, including some odd military mobilizations of late.”
“Okay, so what are we doing about it?” Kurt asked, unable to take any more preamble.
Brinks retrained his gaze on Kurt. “To begin with, greater surveillance of the nation is beginning. Until now we haven’t much reason to keep a close eye upon them. But we’re starting to.”
“What else?”
“Believe it or not,” Brinks said, “we still think your initial guess is correct. These people undoubtedly have to be operating from a submarine. Portuguese divers have been all over that rock tower and they’ve found hidden tunnels designed to funnel the current through turbines, banks of batteries, and powerful electromagnetic coils. All designed to create the appearance of a magnetic anomaly. The construction would have required extensive use of submersibles.”
Kurt felt a small amount of vindication, but he’d still been wrong in a highly costly manner.
“And?” he asked.
“And the three of you are to be assigned to a Navy task force charged with finding this submarine,” Brinks said. “Mrs. Trout will work with the Navy acoustics team in trying to refine the signature left on the sonar tapes from the attack on the Grouper.”
“And what are we going to do?” Kurt asked, growing aggravated at what looked like a giant detour.
“Because of your experience in salvage operations and construction of submersibles, you two will be assigned to ASW teams that will be sent out looking for this sub.”
Kurt wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “Looking for it?” Kurt said. “You mean wandering around the ocean, listening to hydrophones and hoping to pick up something more than whales making out?”
Neither Brinks nor Admiral Farnsworth reacted.
“Are you kidding me?” Kurt continued. “There’s forty million square miles of ocean out there. And that’s if these idiots are still sailing around, waiting to get caught. More likely they’ve parked that thing under a shed somewhere and are on to the next step in their plan.”
“Our ASW teams are the best in the world, Mr. Austin,” the admiral said.
“I know they are, Admiral, but how many are you going to spare?”
“Seven frigates and twenty aircraft,” he said. “We’ll also be using both the SOSUS line and other listening stations in the South Atlantic.”
That was better than Kurt had expected, but paltry in comparison to the need. And unless Kurt had missed something, they didn’t even know what they were looking for yet.
“Did we pick up anything on the SOSUS during any of the incidents?” he asked.
“No,” the admiral admitted. “Nothing but the sounds of the Kinjara Maru breaking up on her way down and the explosions of the torpedoes during the attack on the Grouper.”
“So all we have is the garbled tape from the Matador,” Kurt said.
“Do you have a better idea, Mr. Austin?” Brinks asked pointedly.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m going to track down Andras. And when I find him, that’ll lead us to whoever he’s working for.”
“CIA’s been looking for him for years,” Brinks said dismissively. “He never stays in one place long enough for anyone to get a line on him. What makes you think you’re going to succeed where they failed?”
“Because there are certain rocks they don’t like to turn over,” he said bluntly. “I have no such qualms.”
Brinks pursed his lips, looking disgusted. He turned back to NUMA’s Director. “Mr. Pitt, would you do something, please?”
Dirk leaned back in his chair, looking as casual as could be. “Sure,” he said to Brinks and then turned to Kurt. “Are you serious about this plan?”
“Yes, sir,” Kurt said. “I know someone who Andras used as a contact years ago. I believe he’s still active.”
“Then what are you doing wasting your time with us? Get your butt moving.”
Kurt smiled and stood. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“This is ridiculous,” Brinks said.
“And take Joe with you,” Pitt added, “if he wants to go.”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Joe said.
Brinks ground his teeth and leaned over the table, looking at Dirk Pitt.
“One call and I’ll override this,” he said.
“No you won’t,” Pitt said confidently. “For one, Kurt’s right. Sticking him and Joe on a destroyer is a waste of resources. For another, it puts all our eggs in one basket: your basket. Which I realize, having spent so much time in Washington lately, is half the point. You get the credit if we succeed and you blame them and NUMA if you fail. Simple math. But you forgot a very important variable and that is: I don’t work for you and neither do these men. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you put the country or maritime community at risk for your own personal political agenda.”
Brinks looked about like a man who’d been gored in a bullfight. Even Admiral Farnsworth seemed pleased with the outcome, no doubt wondering what he needed a couple of NUMA civilians on his boats for anyway.
The admiral chuckled and then looked over at Gamay. “We could still use you, Mrs. Trout. Our sonar teams are very friendly.”
Kurt stepped to the door.
“One thing, Kurt,” Dirk said.
Kurt looked back.
“Stay on the narrow road. This is a mission for us,” Pitt reminded him, “not a sortie of revenge.”
Kurt understood Dirk’s concern. He could feel the conflict inside himself, and no doubt it was easy for someone like Dirk Pitt to pick up on.
He nodded to Pitt, glanced at Brinks, and then headed for the door. He opened it and ran right into one of NUMA’s administrative assistants, a young woman he didn’t know.
“Are you okay?” Kurt asked.
The young woman nodded. “I just came to give Mrs. Trout some news.”
Kurt opened the door wider and let her in.
“Paul’s awake,” the woman said. “He’s asking for you.”
40
Freetown, Sierra Leone, June 28
DJEMMA GARAND STOOD TALL in the commander’s position in the turret of an aging Russian-made battle tank. His nation had only forty of them, and as Djemma sprung his nationalization plan on the world he intended to put together a show of force in the most public way possible.
While infantry units supported by helicopters and militiamen took control of the mines out in the country, Djemma and twenty of his precious tanks rolled through downtown.
They traveled in a long column, flanked by missile-carrying transports and jeeps and armored personnel carriers. They flowed through the center of town to the sound of thunderous cheers. Tens of thousands of civilians had come out on their own after hearing Djemma promise them better jobs and higher wages once the nationalization was complete. Thousands more had been prodded to line the parade route by the subtle suggestions of Djemma’s security apparatus.
As the convoy rolled past, the cheers sounded genuine, and Djemma took pride in what he was doing. His force was headed to the port in a ceremonial gesture. It was already in his hands, as was the large refinery a few miles to the north and the airport and the few factories on Sierra Leone’s soil.
Riding beside him, a handpicked reporter and cameraman recorded the event.
“President Garand,” the reporter said, almost yelling to be heard over the roaring tank engine and its rumbling, squeaking tracks, “I understand you’ve informed the IMF that Sierra Leone will no longer be making payments on its outstanding portfolio of loans. Is this correct?”
“Yes,” Djemma said. “We are tired of breaking our backs just to pay interest.”
“And that choice is tied to today’s actions?” the reporter asked right on cue.
“Today is a day of liberty,” Djemma said. “Once upon a time, we became free of colonialism. Today we are freeing ourselves from a different kind of oppression. Economic oppression.”
The reporter nodded. “Are you concerned that there will be reprisals for this action?” the man said. “Surely the world will not stand by while you violate the property rights of dozens of multinational corporations.”
“I am only obeying the principle of an eye for an eye,” Djemma said. “For centuries they have violated the property rights of my people. They have come here and taken from us precious gems and metals and treasures and given us only pain in return. A cook in one of these companies’ executive lunchrooms makes twenty times more than a miner who toils in heat and danger, risking his life every day. Not to mention the executive who does less work than the cook.”
Djemma laughed as he spoke. A little good cheer went a long way.
“But the mines, the refinery, the infrastructure, these things cost billions of dollars in investment money,” the reporter said.
“And my people have already paid for them,” Djemma said. “In blood.”
The tanks rolled on, rumbling toward the dockside cranes. A small cloud of dark smoke rose into the sky to the west of the port. It was definitely a fire, but Djemma doubted there had been any real resistance.
Perhaps someone had done something foolish. Or perhaps the black smoke had nothing to do with the events. A car or truck fire or some other industrial incident.
No matter, it made for a good visual. “Film the smoke,” he said to the cameraman. “Let them know we mean business.”
The cameraman turned and zoomed his lens, getting a closer shot of the rising cloud. His recording, and the video of Djemma aboard the tank, would play in endless loops on CNN, FOX, and the BBC.
In twenty-four hours people around the world would know all about him and a country most had never heard of. By then Djemma would have most of the foreign nationals rounded up and placed on flights back to their respective countries.
Their nations would bluster and bluff, and freeze Sierra Leone’s all-but-nonexistent foreign assets. They’d demand he explain himself, which he would gladly, again and again if necessary. In his mind the actions were legitimate; why should he not speak of them?
And then they’d come to him, demanding all kinds of things. The negotiations would begin. They would try very hard not to offer anything at first, lest they be seen to be giving in. But it would matter little as he would not budge.
They would grow angry and pound the desk and rant and rave and threaten things. And then it would get dicey, for with the nations of the world finally interested in him Djemma would not give in but instead he would demand more.
He knew the risks. But for the first time in two thousand years an African general was in possession of a weapon that could bring down an empire.
41
PAUL TROUT WAS SITTING UP in his hospital bed. His wife stood nearby. She’d been hugging and kissing him and squeezing his hand nonstop for an hour. It felt good despite all the other pains in his body.
His back ached. His head hurt and his thoughts came slowly, like he’d been overmedicated or had too many glasses of red wine. Still, he felt surprisingly good, considering what Gamay was telling him.
“I don’t remember any of that,” he said after hearing her explanation of the escape from the Grouper and the fact that he’d been in a coma for the past four days.
“What do you remember?” she asked.
He reached back, clawing at the darkness in his mind. Since he’d awoken, random thoughts had been popping into his head. Like a computer rebooting itself after an unexpected shutdown, it seemed as if his mind was reorganizing things. The smell of food from the commissary brought an odd thought to the forefront.
“I remember that one Thanksgiving in Santa Fe when you burned the turkey and then admitted that I was right about how to cook it.”
“What?” she said, laughing. “That’s what you remember?”
“Well…” he said. “To actually be right about something and have you admit it all in the same day was a pretty rare experience.”
She pursed her lips. “I’ve heard that people with head trauma sometimes come out of it with new skills they never had before. It hasn’t happened with you, my love. You were never a comedian and you’re still not.”
He laughed this time. His head felt as if it was clearing a bit more each second.
“I remember the sun shining off the sea,” he said. “And that we were getting ready to take the Grouper down. And I was thinking we shouldn’t both go.”
As it turned out they had worked together seamlessly and almost made it back to the surface. He didn’t remember it, but Gamay seemed to indicate that if he hadn’t been there she would have died.
“So what do we do now?” he asked.
She filled him in on the rest of the details, finishing with her next duty. “I’m flying out to an antisubmarine frigate in the Atlantic this time tomorrow. We’ll be working on the sonar tapes.”
Paul stared at her. He understood the call of duty and he wasn’t about to interfere. But he could not shake the great sense of almost having lost her even if he couldn’t recall the details.
He threw the sheet back. “I’m going with you,” he said, swinging a leg over the edge.
She put a h
and on him. “Paul.”
“I’m out of the woods,” he insisted. “The doctor said so. Besides, I’ve worked with sonar a lot more than you have. Specifically, the GEO sounder unit on the Matador.”
He could tell she was against it and worried. After what had happened, who wouldn’t be? But he wasn’t staying behind.
He forced his way out of bed and stood, a little unsteady. He was so tall, the hospital gown looked like a miniskirt on him.
“Don’t these come in long?” he said.
Gamay continued pouting.
“We’ll be on a warship,” he said. “Armor plating, missiles, guns, torpedoes. We couldn’t be safer.”
She shook her head and then exhaled sharply. “Fine,” she said. “I never could talk sense into you anyway.”
He laughed, pressed the buzzer for the nurse, and started looking for a robe or something to cover himself up with.
“One thing,” she said seriously.
He turned.
“I’m not going back in the water,” she said.
He cocked his head. “What?”
“I’m not going back in the water,” she said. “Not in a submersible, not in a dive suit, or any other way. I’m not ready for that.”
As long as he’d known her, Gamay had never been afraid of anything, but the fear was plain in her voice now.
“You don’t remember it,” she said. “In some ways I think you’re lucky on that count. But it was horrible.”
“We’ll stay on deck,” he said. “Or in our air-conditioned quarters. Hopefully, near the mess and the soft-serve ice-cream machine.”
He grinned, hoping to coax a smile from her, but she didn’t offer one, and Paul began to worry about her in a way he never had before.
42
Singapore, Malaysia, June 30
TWENTY-EIGHT HOURS AFTER being freed from the NSA’s clutches, Kurt and Joe landed in Singapore. They’d boarded a flight at Dulles, gladly paid through the nose for first-class tickets, and literally flew to the other side of the world.
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