Max came over from where he was monitoring his beloved engines as soon as Juan got into the center chair. On the main monitor was a satellite picture of the Atlantic. The clouds were beginning to curl into the familiar pattern of a burgeoning hurricane. The image shifted every few seconds to show the past several hours of the growing storm. The eye was just beginning to form.
“Okay, where are we and where’s the Sidra?” Juan asked.
Stone tapped at his computer and two flashing icons appeared on the monitor. The Gulf of Sidra was positioned right at the edge of where the eye was growing, with the Oregon driving in hard from the southeast.
They watched the screen for more than an hour as it was updated by the National Reconnaissance Office, the secretive government agency that oversaw nearly all U.S. spy satellites. The more the storm took on a hurricane’s distinctive shape, the tighter Singer’s tanker turned, keeping just inside the strengthening eye wall.
“I’m getting some more information from Overholt,” Hali said, staring at his computer. “Says here the NRO has some additional data on the target. Checking back through their logs they’ve been able to re-create her course for the two hours before they ID’d her. Eric, I’m sending this over to you.”
When he received the e-mail from across the room Eric typed in the coordinates. “Coming up now,” he said and hit Enter.
The icon for the Sidra bounced back a couple of inches on the screen then tracked forward. It looked as if the eye was forming along her course rather than her running along its edge.
“What the hell?” Juan muttered.
“I was right!” Eric cried.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re a genius,” Mark said, then turned to face Cabrillo. “He and I were back in my cabin brainstorming. Well, we also did a little hacking into Merrick/Singer’s mainframe. Susan Donleavy didn’t keep notes on the computer. She either had a stand alone or just wrote stuff out longhand. Anyway, all we found about her project was her original proposal and even that was pretty thin. Her idea was to create an organic flocculent.”
“A what?”
“It’s a compound that causes soils and other solids suspended in water to form into clumps,” Eric answered. “It’s used in sewage treatment plants, for example, to settle out the waste.”
“She wanted to find a way to bind the organic material found in seawater in order to turn water into a gel.”
“What for?” Max asked bluntly.
“Didn’t say,” Mark replied, “and apparently no one on the peer review committee cared because she got the go-ahead without explaining the need for something like this.”
Stone continued, “We know from your talk with Merrick that the reaction is exothermic and, from what I can guess, it probably isn’t sustainable. The heat will eventually kill off the organics and the gel will dissolve back into ordinary seawater.”
“I’m following you,” Juan said, “but I don’t see a point to all this.”
“If Singer lays down a line of flocculent it will spread for a while and then just fizzle out.” Mark blew a raspberry to emphasize his point. “The hurricane would absorb some of its heat as it passes over it but not really enough to make any major changes to its severity or direction.”
Eric butted in, “My idea is that if he spreads it in a circle just as the hurricane begins to revolve he will be able to dictate where and when the eye will form—and most important, how big it will be.”
“And the tighter the eye, the faster the wind can whip around it,” Max added.
“Andrew’s was eleven miles across when he came ashore in Miami,” Murph said. “Natural processes limit how small it can be, but Singer can push that so the hurricane goes above five on the Saffir-Simpson Scale. He might also be able to control where the storm tracks as it heads across the Atlantic, in essence pointing it like a gun at whatever coastal region he chooses.”
Cabrillo studied at the monitor again. It looked as though the Gulf of Sidra was doing exactly what Eric and Murph predicted. She was in the beginning of a spiraling turn, using the heat generated by Susan Donleavy’s gel, which she was doubtlessly discharging as fast as her pumps could go, to tease the storm tighter and tighter. Singer would make the eye smaller and thus the hurricane more powerful than anything nature was able to create.
“If he finishes that turn there won’t be a damned thing we can do,” Eric concluded. “The eye will be formed and no force on earth will be able to stop it.”
“Any idea where he’s sending it?”
“If it were me I’d take out New Orleans again,” Murph said, “but I don’t know if he’ll have that level of control. Safest bet would be to slam it into Florida where the warm coastal waters won’t weaken it. Miami or Jacksonville are the highest profile cities. Andrew caused something like nine billion in damages and that was Category Four. Hit either city with a Category Six and it’ll topple skyscrapers.”
“Max,” Juan said without looking at him, “what’s our speed?”
“Just a tick under thirty-five knots.”
“Helm, take us to forty.”
“The doc ain’t gonna like that,” Max chided.
“I’m already in Dutch for making her wake Merrick,” Juan said humorlessly.
Eric followed the order, ramping up the magnetohydrodynamics to eke more electricity from the sea to feed into the pump jets. The Oregon began to ride even rougher as she cut across the waves. An external camera showed her bow almost being swamped as she slammed into the swells. Water sheeted across the deck in a three-foot-deep surge when she lifted free.
Cabrillo tapped at his communications console to dial up the hangar. A technician answered and went to get George Adams per Juan’s request. “I don’t like that you’re calling me,” Adams said by way of greeting.
“Can you do it, George?”
“It’ll be a nightmare,” the pilot replied, “but yeah I think I can as long as the rains don’t hit. And I don’t want to hear any grief if I damage the Robinson’s landing struts.”
“I won’t say a word. Place yourself on ten-minute standby and wait to hear from me.”
“You got it.”
Juan killed the connection. “Wepps, what’s the status on our fish?”
On each side of the Oregon’s prow below her waterline was a tube capable of launching a Russian Test-71 torpedo. Each of the two-ton weapons were wire guided, with a range of nearly ten miles, a maximum speed of forty knots, and four hundred and fifty pounds of high explosives loaded into its nose. When he’d designed the Oregon Cabrillo had wanted American-made MK-48 ADCAP torpedoes, but no amount of sweet-talking would budge Langston’s refusal. As it was, the surplus Soviet torpedoes were powerful enough to sink any but the most heavily armored ships.
“You’re not considering torpedoing the Sidra, are you?” Mark asked. “That’ll dump her entire load of gel in one concentrated spot. At this stage that much heat could have nearly the same effect as if the ship had completed her circle.”
“I’m just covering all my options,” Juan reassured him.
“Okay, good.” Mark called up a diagnostic on the torpedoes. “They were pulled from the tubes three days ago for routine inspection. A battery on the fish in Tube One was replaced. Both are showing full charge now.”
“So what’s your play?” Max asked Juan.
“Simplest solution is to chopper a team over there, take control of the tanker, and shut off her discharge pumps.”
“You know, Chairman,” Eric said, “if we sail her far enough away from the eye and start dumping the gel again, the heat should generate excess evaporation and create another powerful low pressure zone. It would disrupt the storm and literally tear it apart.”
“Oh, God!” Hali exclaimed suddenly. He hit a switch on his panel and a strident voice filled the control room.
“I repeat, this is Adonis Cassedine, master of the VLCC Gulf of Sidra. A storm has cracked our hull. We are under ballast so there is no oil spill but we must abandon ship
if she breaks up any more.” He gave his coordinates. “I am declaring an emergency. Please, can anyone hear my signal? Mayday, mayday, mayday.”
“Under ballast, my eye,” Max grumbled. “What do you want to do?”
Cabrillo sat motionless, his hand cupped around his chin. “Let ’em sweat. He’ll keep making reports even if nobody answers him. Eric, what’s our ETA now?”
“Still looking at about three hours.”
“The Sidra won’t last that long in these seas with a cracked hull,” Max said. “Especially if her keel’s affected. Hell, she could break apart in three minutes.”
Juan couldn’t argue the point. They had to do something but his options were limited. Letting the tanker break up on her own was the worst of them and it seemed Eric’s idea of using her to defuse the storm was out. The best he could hope for was to put the ship on the bottom with the least amount of spilled gel. The Test-71 torpedoes could do the job, but it might take hours for the hull to finally disappear under the waves, which meant hours of her continuing to disgorge her cargo.
Inspiration came from his experience on the Or Death with Sloane, when the boat was hit by a missile fired from the yacht guarding the wave-powered generators. She’d sunk in an instant because her bow had been ripped off while she was at speed. Cabrillo didn’t consider the countless pitfalls in his crazy idea, he just set about getting it organized.
“Linc, Eddie, go down to the stores and get me two hundred feet of Hypertherm, the stuff with the electromagnets on the casings.” The plastic explosive–like material was a magnesium-based compound capable of burning at nearly two thousand degrees Celsius and was used in salvage operations to cut steel underwater. “Meet me in the hangar. Eddie, kit up on your way. I can’t guarantee what kind of reception we’re going to get on the Sidra.”
“What about me?” Linc asked.
“Sorry, but we’ve got weight limitations.”
Max touched Juan’s shoulder. “Obviously you’ve come up with something devious and underhanded. Care to enlighten us?” After Cabrillo explained his plan, Hanley nodded. “Like I said, devious and underhanded.”
“Is there any other way?”
31
GEORGE Adams’s face was a mask of concentration, his fingers curled tightly around the Robinson’s controls. Wind and the furiously spinning main rotor blades made the small chopper jittery on the raised helipad, but he wouldn’t take off until the timing was just right.
The Oregon dropped down the back of a large swell and a wall of water suddenly loomed up over the deck, its crest curled and threatened to swamp the helicopter and its three occupants.
“Talk to me, Eric,” he said as the ship started to climb the next wave.
“Hold on, the camera’s almost reached the top. Okay, yeah, there’s a large trough on the other side. You’ve got plenty of time.”
The instant the ship reached the apogee of its ascent Adams gave the Robinson a bit more power, knowing that when they took off the Oregon would drop from under them rather than rise up on a hidden wave and crash into the chopper. As they took to the air the tramp freighter plummeted. George dipped the nose to gain airspeed and then lifted out of the reach of the surging sea and into a maelstrom of wind. He had to turn with the wind to gain more speed and altitude before swinging back into the gale. Hammered by a fifty-knot headwind, the Robinson was making only sixty knots over the ocean, not much faster than the Oregon herself, but Juan had wanted to get to the Gulf of Sidra as quickly as possible.
If the plan held, his ship would be in torpedo range by the time he and Eddie had finished laying the Hypertherm charges.
“I calculate our flight time to be an hour and twenty minutes,” George said after settling in for the difficult flight.
“Juan?” It was Max over the radio.
“Go ahead.”
“Cassedine’s sending another SOS.”
“Okay, go ahead and answer it just like we talked about.”
“You got it.” Max left the channel open so Cabrillo could hear the conversation. “Gulf of Sidra, this is the MV Oregon, Captain Max Hanley. I have heard your distress call and am making all possible speed to your location but we’re still two hours away.”
“Oregon, thank God!”
“Captain Cassedine, please advise on your situation.”
“There’s a split in the hull amidships port side and we’re taking on water. My pumps are going at full capacity and we don’t appear to be sinking, but if the tear gets any worse we will have to abandon ship.”
“Has the hole gotten any bigger since it first occurred?”
“Negative. A rogue wave running across the wind hit us and tore the plating. It has been stable since.”
“If you turn due east we can reach you quicker.” This wasn’t true but if the Gulf of Sidra turned as she spewed her poison it would distort the hurricane’s eye somewhat. Basically it was a test to see who had control on the ship, its master or Daniel Singer.
Static filled the airwaves for almost a minute. When Cassedine came back there was a new current of fear in his voice. “Ah, that isn’t possible, Oregon. My engineer reports damage to our steering gear.”
“Most likely a gun to his head,” Juan said to Max.
They had considered this scenario, so Max went on as if it wasn’t a big deal. “Understood damage to your steering. In that case, Captain, we can’t risk a collision in these conditions. When we are ten miles from you I will request that you man your lifeboats.”
“What, so you can put a line on my ship afterward and claim her for salvage?”
Juan chuckled. “This guy’s facing death and he’s worried we’ll steal his vessel.”
“Captain, the Oregon is a thousand-ton commercial fishing boat,” Max lied smoothly. “We couldn’t tow a tanker on a millpond let alone in the teeth of a hurricane. I am just unwilling to risk a runaway derelict ramming us in the middle of this storm.”
“I, ah, I understand,” Cassedine finally said.
“How many souls aboard?”
“Three officers, twelve crew, and one supernumerary. A total of sixteen.”
The extra man would be Singer, Juan thought, realizing that was a small number even by tanker standards, which were so automated nowadays that they typically carried just a skeleton crew, but he supposed it was enough for what Singer intended.
“Roger that,” Max replied. “Sixteen people. I will call you when we are in range. Oregon out.”
“Affirmative, Captain Hanley. I will radio immediately if our situation changes. Gulf of Sidra out.”
“Don’t get too used to that Captain Hanley stuff,” Juan said when the tanker was off the air.
“I don’t know,” Max said airily. “Has a nice ring to it. So do you think Singer will abandon with them?”
“Tough to say. Though he’s hit a setback he might try to complete his mission without the crew aboard. They will need to slow in order to launch the lifeboat, but if Cassedine shows him how to get her back to speed then he could finish tightening the storm into an eye less than six miles across.”
“Would you?”
“If I were him and I’d come this far, yeah, I think I would see it through to the end.”
“Which means two things. One is that Singer’s crazier than an outhouse rat and two, you and Eddie better keep an eye out for him when you’re laying the cutting charges.”
“We’ll be careful.”
An hour later George radioed back to the Oregon that they had reached their first waypoint on the flight. It was time to clear the Gulf of Sidra of her crew.
“This is the Oregon calling Captain Cassedine.” Max said over the radio.
“This is Cassedine, go ahead Oregon.”
“We are ten miles from your position. Are you prepared to abandon ship?” Max asked.
“I do not want to argue, Captain,” Cassedine replied, “but my radar shows you are nearly thirty miles from us.”
“You’re trusting ra
dar in twenty-foot seas?” Max scoffed. “My radar doesn’t even show you. I’m relying on my GPS and by our estimates you’re ten miles from us.” Hanley rattled off the longitude and latitude numbers of a spot ten miles due east of the Gulf of Sidra. “That is our current location.”
“Ah, yes. I see that you are correct and are within the ten miles.”
“We can come in closer if you’ve made repairs to your rudder.”
“No, we have not, but the supernumerary has volunteered to stay aboard to keep working on it.”
“The rest of you are abandoning him?” Max asked, playing the part of a concerned mariner.
“He is the vessel’s owner and understands the risk,” Cassedine told him.
“Understood,” Max said with mock unease. “After you launch the boat and get clear of the tanker steer a heading of two seventy degrees and transmit a tone on the EPIRB emergency frequency so we can home in on you.”
“A heading of two seventy degrees and a tone on 121.5 megahertz. We will launch in a couple of minutes.”
“Good luck, Captain. May God go with you,” Max said seriously. Even if Cassedine and his crew were knowingly helping Singer, the sailor in him understood the dangers of getting into a lifeboat in this sea state.
A quarter hour later, Hali Kasim put the 121.5 MHz marine distress band on the op center speakers so everyone could hear the high-pitched directional tone.
“Got that, Juan?”
“I hear it. We’re heading in.”
Even flying at five hundred feet they only broke through the clouds when they were less than a mile from the supertanker. At ninety thousand tons heavier than the Oregon she rode the waves much more smoothly with only occasional spray breaking over her blunt bows. They could just make out a tiny yellow speck motoring away from the red-decked behemoth. It was her lifeboat and, like he’d been ordered, Cassedine was heading due west, well away from the Oregon so there would be no chance he could interfere. They could also tell that the tanker was picking up steam again after slowing to send the lifeboat down its rails.
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