Shadow Tyrants--Clive Cussler

by Clive Cussler

  The only other person on the bridge was Eric Stone, the Oregon’s skilled helmsman. A former Navy officer and certified genius who’d served in technology development during his service, he was one of the ship’s youngest crew members. With soft brown eyes and a gentle demeanor, he was a consummate computer nerd: an avid gamer who was notoriously shy with women. Buttoned-down and meticulous in his work, he would normally be dressed in his usual black-framed glasses, a blue oxford shirt, and chinos. But as one of the crew “rescued” by the Triton Star, he was still dressed in torn jeans and a soiled T-shirt.

  Juan smiled at him. “You planning to stick with the hobo look?”

  “Sorry, Chairman,” Eric replied as he adjusted his glasses and looked down at his clothes with a grimace. “I haven’t had time to change.”

  “Don’t wait too long. You might get used to the look.”

  “I seriously doubt that. But I wanted to get a look at their manifest first.”

  Juan joined him at the bridge’s computer terminal. The screen was filled with rows of data. “Anything useful?”

  “Somewhat. The Triton Star is supposed to be carrying one thousand two hundred and forty-seven containers from Nacala in Mozambique to Kochi, a port in southwest India.”

  “Supposed to?”

  “There’s a secret manifest I found hidden in their files,” Eric said, switching the screen. “This one lists one thousand two hundred forty-nine containers.”

  “So we’ve got two extra, as expected. Can you tell which ones?”

  Eric shook his head. “I wish it were that easy. I did a quick comparison of the data files, but they’ve disguised the containers well. I’m afraid we’re going to have to search them manually.”

  “Or convince Captain Tao to tell us which ones they are.”

  “When you’re questioning him, you might want to ask him one other thing.”

  “What’s that?” Juan asked.

  “Why they were planning to make an unscheduled stop before they reached Kochi.”

  “Do you know where?”

  “All it mentions is ‘J Island.’ But it looks like it’s somewhere in the Lakshadweep archipelago west of the Indian mainland. It matches up with the heading the Triton Star was on before they stopped to save us . . . I mean, our gold.”

  The gold bar was part of the collateral the Corporation kept on board the Oregon if the need arose for bartering purposes or under-the-table purchasing of needed equipment. They also had several hundred thousand in cash in various currencies, a handful of untraceable diamonds, and a few dozen Krugerrands, but this was the only gold ingot. Juan had been right in thinking it would be a useful lure if Tao ignored the Law of the Sea and decided to bypass them.

  At that moment, Eddie Seng appeared at the exterior door with a large duffel slung over his shoulder. Like Juan, the Oregon’s Chinese-American director of shore operations had been a CIA operative, spending a number of years embedded as a spy in Mainland China. He had a lean, sinewy build, and his brush cut would have been short enough to satisfy the Marine Corps.

  “Chairman, we’ve accounted for all the crew members on the Triton Star. The ones that are on the Oregon have been disarmed and are under guard in the mess.”

  “Then I think it’s time you and I had a talk with Mr. Tao,” Juan said before turning to Eric. “Good work, Stoney. After you get tied alongside the Oregon and the gangplank lowered, keep looking through the files to see if you can find those containers and figure out their destination.”

  “Aye, Chairman. I’ll have them set up the decontamination station next to the gangplank.”

  “Let’s hope we won’t need it,” Eddie said.

  “Better safe than sorry,” Juan said. “Or in this case, better alive than dead.”

  They left the bridge and made their way back down to the mess hall. They arrived to find Tao and eight of his men sitting with their wrists zip-tied behind their backs. Their dismantled weapons lay on a table in the corner.

  Three armed Oregon crew members watched over them, led by Marion MacDougal “MacD” Lawless. A former Army Ranger from Louisiana, MacD looked like the Hollywood version of a Special Forces soldier, with a chiseled physique, square jaw, and blinding good looks.

  “Any trouble corralling them?” Juan asked him.

  MacD smiled and answered in a syrupy drawl as he nodded at one of the captives. “Their chief engineer was a tad reluctant to give up. He even took a potshot at me—can you believe that? But Ah convinced him to give up after Ah put a well-placed round past either ear and told him the next one would be smack-dab in the middle of the two.”

  The engineer shivered while MacD recounted his story as if he could still hear the bullets whistling past inches from his head.

  “Looks like they won’t be any more trouble,” Juan said. “Keep an eye on them while Eddie and I have a chat with the captain.”

  Eddie hauled Tao to his feet and followed Juan into the adjacent rec room. He put the captain in one of the chairs and the duffel on the floor.

  Juan sat across from Tao and locked eyes. Far from the cocky commander he’d been when he thought he had the upper hand, Tao now looked as nervous as a rabbit in a snare.

  Juan stared at him for a moment, then said, “Where is the nerve agent?”

  Tao blinked back at him but said nothing.

  “I think he’s afraid of someone,” Eddie said.

  “That someone should be me,” Juan replied. He leaned toward Tao. “You don’t know me. You may be scared of what your employer will do to you if you talk, but what you should be thinking about is whether I’m the type of guy who’ll toss you overboard in shark-infested waters if you don’t tell me what I want to hear.” He wasn’t that type, but it would be helpful for Tao to think so.

  Juan sat back and continued. “Let me tell you what I know, and then you can tell me what you know. Does that sound fair?”

  More blinking from Tao. Maybe a little lip quivering.

  “I’m glad you agree,” Juan said. “There’s an American government organization called NUMA, the National Underwater and Marine Agency. Ever heard of them? Doesn’t matter. NUMA was diving on a wreck in international waters near Novaya Zemlya, and you know what they found?”

  “I don’t think he does,” Eddie said.

  “Maybe he doesn’t,” Juan replied. “If he knew how dangerous it was, he probably never would have put his greedy little hands on this job. There’s this stuff called Novichok. A Russian invention. Now, you may have never heard of it, but you probably have heard of VX nerve gas.”

  That got a reaction. Tao furrowed his brow as Juan went on with his explanation.

  “VX was thought to be the deadliest substance known to man. And it was, until we learned that Russia had created their own version, Novichok. It’s said to be ten times as lethal as VX. While VX is a colorless and odorless gas, Novichok is dispersed as a fine airborne powder. If one little speck touches your skin, you’re dead in less than a minute. Not an easy way to go, either. Your muscles seize up so tightly they tear themselves apart, paralyzing you while fluid fills your lungs. You literally drown without ever touching a drop of water.”

  Finally, Tao spoke in a squeaky voice. “What does that have to do with me?”

  “Remember that wreck NUMA found? It was supposedly carrying a load of Novichok when it went down. But the NUMA divers didn’t find it on the ship. They tracked it all the way to an abandoned warehouse in Nacala, Mozambique, which just happens to be your last port of call. A known assassin who goes by the name Rasul killed two Mozambique police officers who went into the warehouse. Before they died, they radioed that they’d found three containers inside. But after Rasul got away, all the police found was a single empty container labeled FARM MACHINERY. We are sure that you made a deal to put the other two on the Triton Star for a hefty payoff because a CIA officer ph
otographed you with Rasul just before you set sail. That makes you a murder accomplice, as well as a trafficker in chemical weapons outlawed by the international community.”

  Eddie shook his head in pity. “That sounds like death penalty kind of stuff right there.”

  “In Mozambique, certainly. But before you go back, you’ll be taken to the rendition camp on Diego Garcia, which isn’t that far from here. I bet the CIA would love to have a chance to interrogate you and do a thorough search of your vessel before returning you to Mozambique for trial.”

  The island of Diego Garcia, now three hundred and fifty miles southeast of their current position, was America’s most remote Air Force and Navy base, serving as a staging area for Marine expeditionary forces and long-range bombers that could reach any nation in the Middle East. Its isolated location also made it the perfect place for sequestering terrorism suspects away from prying eyes. A destroyer carrying a hazmat team and CIA officers was on its way from the naval base to take possession of the Triton Star and her crew.

  “We’re going to do this with or without your help,” Juan continued. “Now I can put in a good word with the CIA—”

  Tao nodded vigorously. “Yes, I’ll take it.”

  “You’ll take what?”

  “The deal. I had no idea about that scary Novichok stuff, and I don’t want to go to prison. Besides, that guy Rasul is creepy. He’s a killer. You can see it in his eyes. What do you want to know?”

  Juan looked at Eddie, who raised his brows in surprise. They both thought this would be harder.

  “We’ve got a deal?” Tao asked with pleading eyes.

  “I can’t promise you’ll get out of this completely free, but it’ll go much better if you cooperate.”

  “Okay. Sounds good. By the way, the weapons were just for our protection. We weren’t going to hurt you and your men. I swear.”

  “Sure you weren’t,” Juan said. “Now, where were you going before Kochi?”

  “Jhootha Island.”

  “Was that where the containers were going to be delivered?”

  “Yes.”

  “To whom?”

  “I don’t know. We go there once a month. We tie up at a pier, unload a container or two, pick up some others, and leave. None of the crew ever leaves the ship, so I don’t know what the people on the island do with them. I’m just a deliveryman.”

  Juan leaned toward him. “But you do know which containers they are.”

  Tao nodded.

  “You’re going to show us.”

  Juan nodded to Eddie, who unzipped the duffel and removed two U.S. Army–issue NBC suits and masks. He handed one to Juan, who pulled it on over his clothes, sealing all the seams with tape.

  When he was dressed, Eddie put on his own suit while Juan kept watch on their captive.

  “Hey, come on,” Tao said, nervously eyeing the two of them. “Don’t I get one?”

  Juan reached into the duffel and grabbed a folded orange hazmat suit. It was bulkier and looser than their own formfitting versions. Instead of gloves, it had awkward mittens.

  “This thing?” Tao complained. “I like yours better.”

  “It’s that or nothing.”

  Tao stepped into it and struggled to get it on. “Will this really protect me?”

  Eddie looked at Juan and shrugged.

  “You better hope it does,” Juan said to Tao. “This is just in case you or someone else has booby-trapped the storage unit to gas us.”

  “I told you I don’t know anything about any Novichok. Do I look crazy enough to let something like that on my ship?”

  “That almost sounded convincing,” Eddie said.

  “He knows it’s over the side to become shark food if he’s not telling the truth,” Juan said.

  Tao finished getting dressed in silence. When he was fully encased in his suit, Juan couldn’t resist a chuckle. He looked like a traffic cone. On the other hand, Eddie was straight out of a horror movie about a global pandemic.

  Both Juan and Eddie trained pistols on Tao.

  “Lead the way,” Juan said. “I think it’s pretty obvious that we’ll shoot you if you try anything stupid.”

  Juan thought Tao nodded, but it was hard to tell in the plastic suit.

  He led them up to the deck, where the blazing sun instantly transformed their suits into saunas. They went aft to a set of refrigerated containers. He pointed to a white one on the bottom of a stack of five.

  “You’re sure this is one of them?” Juan asked.

  Tao nodded. “The other one is aft.”

  Eddie looked at the shipboard crane resting next to the containers and frowned. “Why didn’t you stack this one on top if you were going to be taking it off at Jhootha Island?”

  Tao shook his head like he was just as puzzled. “It was a requirement that Rasul had. I don’t ask questions. I only do what they pay me to do. And they pay me a lot.”

  Juan made a mental note to find out who “they” were once they had the Novichok secured.

  The container door had a heavy padlock on it. Eddie used a collapsible bolt cutter to sever the hasp.

  Juan nodded at the door and stepped to the side with Eddie.

  “You open it,” he said to Tao.

  “Me?”

  “We don’t know what might be in there.”

  “I don’t either,” Tao protested.

  Juan didn’t say anything. He just raised his pistol. Eddie got his flashlight ready.

  Tao unlatched the handle, wrenched the door open, and stumbled backward. He gaped in astonishment when he saw the interior.

  “What is it?” Juan asked.

  “It’s not my fault!” Tao groaned. “Rasul lied to me. He told me this was the reefer unit we were supposed to smuggle to Jhootha Island.”

  Juan and Eddie approached the open door cautiously, crouched with pistols ready to fire. When they were able to see what Tao was gawking at, they stood up and lowered their guns.

  The entire forty-foot-long container was completely empty.

  SIX

  Max Hanley took advantage of the high vantage point on the Oregon’s bridge wing to watch as she edged close to the stationary Triton Star. The captured crew members and their guards observed the operation from the Oregon’s deck below him. There was no breeze, and the sun’s rays were merciless. The filthy bridge, littered with used coffee cups and cigarette butts, was empty as usual. Max was alone, and all his attention was focused on the cargo ship nearing their port side. Normally, attempting to dock two cargo vessels together at sea was extremely hazardous, even on a calm day, but the Oregon wasn’t like most ships. In fact, she wasn’t like any other ship.

  Max should know since he was her chief engineer and president of the Corporation, as well as Juan Cabrillo’s best friend and right-hand man. A Vietnam Swift Boat veteran, he was the oldest crew member, with reddish gray hair circling his bald head, deep smile wrinkles around his eyes, and a rotund gut that Jolly Saint Nick would envy. He’d been the first person Juan had recruited when he created the Corporation because Max had the engineering expertise to draft the plans for a ship as unusual as the Oregon.

  When the two ships were thirty feet apart, Max spoke into his radio.

  “Hold it there, Linda.”

  “Holding,” came the reply. The Oregon stopped moving.

  “Lock in that distance.”

  “Locked in.”

  Now the Oregon and the Triton Star would maintain that precise separation indefinitely. Multiple lidar sensors emitted laser pulses to gauge the exact distance between the ships and automatically made tiny adjustments to the Oregon’s thrusters to keep her steady.

  “We’re ready to lower the gangway,” Max said.

  “Murph was on his way up to you to do that. Isn’t he there yet?”

  M
ax heard footsteps behind him and turned to see Mark Murphy climbing the exterior stairs.

  “Here he comes now,” Max said into the radio.

  “He must have taken a detour.”

  “I did,” Murph replied as he reached the top of the stairs with a can of Red Bull in one hand and a tablet computer in the other. “Needed some sustenance.” He downed the drink and threw the empty can into the bridge, where it joined the rest of the trash on the floor.

  Murph’s shaggy dark hair, skateboarder’s scruffy goatee, and fondness for wearing all black belied his razor-sharp intellect, having received his first Ph.D. by the time he was twenty. A former civilian weapons designer for the military and now serving as the ship’s weapons officer, he was one of the few members of the crew who wasn’t a veteran or former CIA agent. He enjoyed bucking convention, most obviously with the T-shirts he wore, which either bore the name of a heavy metal band no one else had ever heard of or were plastered with some irreverent phrase. Today’s version read Me? Sarcastic? Never.

  “There are other food groups besides caffeine, you know,” Max pointed out to his gangly crewmate, who had to weigh half what he did.

  “Duh! Nachos, pizza, and cheeseburgers are the other three, right?” Then Murph’s lip curled in a grin. “Wait, you probably don’t remember those because Doc Huxley doesn’t let you eat them, does she?”

  Julia Huxley was the Oregon’s chief medical officer and was known for hounding Max about his diet. She’d even gotten Chef to report back to her if Max tried to cheat, much to his chagrin.

  “Doc doesn’t believe me when I point out my good genes,” he said. “The Hanleys have never needed to work out to stay healthy. My grandfather lived to ninety-eight on a diet of burritos and tacos.”

  Murph laughed. “He gets older every time you whip out that story. Soon it’ll be that he reached a hundred and forty by scarfing down sticks of butter and drinking tequila.”

  Max waved off Murph’s good-natured ribbing. “Are you ready to get to work or should I have a large pepperoni brought up to you?”

  “Fueled up like a rocket. Let’s do this.”