Shadow Tyrants--Clive Cussler

by Clive Cussler

  With his boot still on Rasul’s good hand, Juan reached down and pulled out the phone. He pushed the HOME button, and the screen asked for the passcode. Juan’s gloves were designed to work with touchpads.

  “What’s your passcode?”

  “I’ll never tell,” Rasul said with a gurgle. The smile had disappeared. His lips were turning blue.

  It was the Novichok. The nerve agent had gotten into the suit where Juan had shot him.

  “You only have a few seconds left to live,” Juan said. “Tell me the passcode or I’ll just use your thumbprint when you’re dead.”

  His back arched, and he screamed in agony as the Novichok took control of his body. Then he went silent and rigid, but Juan could see that the eyes were still seeing. They began to water from the misery he was going through.

  Juan yanked off Rasul’s gloves and tried to unlock the phone with the fingerprints on both of the assassin’s thumbs.

  Nothing. Even if there was an abort signal to be sent from the phone, they’d never be able to crack it and gain access in the next five minutes.

  That left one chance. Juan ran toward the Oregon. If he couldn’t stop that missile from detonating over Diego Garcia, every person at the military base would suffer Rasul’s gruesome fate.

  ELEVEN

  As he raced across the weather deck, Juan activated his earpiece mic.

  “Eddie, get back to the Oregon right now. I’m covered in Novichok dust, so you go over first.”

  “On my way,” Eddie replied.

  “Max,” Juan said, “I’m heading to the op center. Have you gotten in touch with Lang yet?”

  Langston Overholt IV had been Juan’s boss in the CIA and was still allowed to serve even into his eighties since he knew where all the bodies, both figurative and literal, were buried. Overholt encouraged Juan to form the Corporation and build the Oregon, and all of their CIA assignments, including this operation, came through him.

  “He’s a little groggy and not particularly happy that we woke him up,” Max replied. “Said something about recovering from a 10K yesterday. But he’s on the line now.”

  “And Barbara Goodman?”

  “Overholt’s pulling all his strings to get her on the line.”

  “Good, because we struck out with the BrahMos abort system.” He quickly told Max about what had happened to Rasul as he watched Eddie run across the gangway.

  When Eddie was safely inside the Oregon, Juan entered the tent holding the portable decontamination system. He activated it, and his suit was bathed with a concentrated hypochlorite solution formulated to react with any Novichok particles on his suit and render them harmless. Ninety seconds later, a green light flashed, indicating that he was clean. He threw off the mask and shucked the suit before running toward the op center.

  When he got there, Max got up from the command chair and went to his engineering station.

  “Stoney, raise the gangway and move us away from the Triton Star,” Juan said to Eric as he sat down. He didn’t want the Oregon to get contaminated by any stray Novichok floating over.

  The huge viewscreen at the front of the room showed Langston Overholt’s craggy face staring at him. He was wearing a silk bathrobe over a pajama top buttoned at the collar.

  “I know this must be important, Juan,” Overholt said with a gravelly baritone, “because I haven’t heard you mention the Theseus operation in years.”

  “It is,” Juan said, dispensing with their usual back-and-forth. “There’s a cruise missile headed to Diego Garcia carrying a nerve agent warhead, and we can’t warn them to shoot it down. We estimate impact in a little more than three minutes.”

  Overholt nodded. “Max said it was a BrahMos. You sure this will work?”

  “No, but we’re out of time and options.”

  “Chairman,” Hali interrupted, “I’ve got Barbara Goodman on video.”

  “Put her on-screen,” Juan said.

  A moment later, a fit woman in her thirties with short brown hair and high cheekbones appeared on the main viewscreen next to Overholt. She looked wide awake and wore pressed Air Force blues. The silver oak leaves of a colonel were pinned to her shoulder epaulets.

  “Hello, Barbara,” Juan said. “Thanks for taking our call. Are you at Schriever?” Schriever Air Force Base in Colorado Springs was home to Space Command’s 50th Space Wing, which was in control of the Global Positioning System. It looked like she was in some kind of control room, so he hoped that was the case.

  “It’s good to see you again, Juan,” she said with the flash of a quick smile. “Yes, I’m at Schriever. But you caught me at a bad time. For the last fifteen minutes, we’ve been trying to figure out why we’ve lost communications with one of our bases.”

  “That would be Camp Thunder Cove on Diego Garcia, right?”

  Goodman’s jaw dropped. “How do you know that?”

  “Because we’re about three hundred and fifty miles northwest of the island. There’s a cruise missile headed straight for it carrying a nasty chemical weapon. We’ve been trying to warn them, but no one is answering.”

  “I can’t help you. We’re just as much at a loss as you are. There’s nothing I can do.”

  “Yes, there is. Theseus.”

  She frowned and leaned toward the camera. “That is strictly on a need-to-know basis.”

  “Believe me, everyone here has a security clearance and needs to know.”

  Theseus was the code name for a special feature of GPS that few outside of Space Command knew about. Since GPS was used by nations around the world, including militaries, it was possible for their weapons to be targeted at the U.S. using America’s own satellite system for navigational guidance.

  During armed conflicts, the military wanted to be able to broadcast incorrect GPS coordinates to spoof other countries’ guidance systems, so Theseus was developed as a hidden control that could be activated without anyone else knowing. Not only that, but for a short time it could also confuse guidance systems using GLONASS, the Russian analog of GPS, and NAVIC, India’s version. The software design for Theseus and knowledge of its existence had been stolen when Juan was still in the CIA, and he had teamed up with Barbara Goodman to get it back before it could fall into the hands of the Chinese.

  “You need to activate Theseus in that region now,” Juan said. Because Diego Garcia’s location in the southern Indian Ocean was so isolated, the narrow focus of the GPS change was unlikely to significantly affect air or sea traffic. “Redirect the missile at least forty miles to the east.” According to weather reports, that would put the missile downwind of the island.

  “What?” Goodman said, aghast. “Theseus has never been used operationally before. It’s only meant to be activated during a time of war.”

  Juan got out of his chair and walked toward the screen. “Barbara, if you don’t activate it in the next ninety seconds, over three thousand on Diego Garcia will be killed.”

  When she hesitated, Juan added, “I understand this is a tough decision, but you know me, Barbara. I wouldn’t be asking if I wasn’t sure. This is literally do or die right now.”

  Goodman grimaced, then she looked to her left and said to someone off-screen, “Activate Theseus over Diego Garcia . . . You heard me . . . I know . . . On my authorization . . . Do it!”

  She then read off coordinates that would cause the missile to reinterpret its guidance programming and convince the BrahMos that it was off course. If Theseus worked as designed, the cruise missile should alter its trajectory toward the new target designation.

  She turned back to the screen. “That might be the end of my career right there. And the bad thing is, with the communications down, we won’t be able to tell if it worked.”

  “We’ll eventually find out if it didn’t work,” Juan replied. The cruise missile was currently far beyond their radar range.


  Hali raised his hand. “I might be able to tell you if it works.”

  “What do you mean?” Juan asked.

  “I’ve just picked up a Morse code signal coming over shortwave frequencies. It’s faint, but the sender says he’s an Air Force sergeant on Diego Garcia using an ancient radio there left over from World War Two that he’s been tinkering with over the past few months. Sergeant Joseph Brandt.”

  Goodman gaped again. “That’s one of the communications operators we’ve been trying to contact.”

  “Hali,” Juan said, “tell him to get everyone there to shelter in case the BrahMos detonates over the island.”

  “Will that protect them from the nerve agent?” Goodman asked.

  “I don’t know,” Juan said, “but it can’t hurt.” He nodded at Hali.

  “Aye, Chairman,” Hali replied.

  “And when you’re done with that message, ask him to tell us if he can see any missiles heading his way.”

  * * *

  —

  Since he could do nothing else about his crashed B-1B bomber, Major Jay Petkunas and the rest of his crew were walking toward Diego Garcia’s Air Force headquarters building for a debriefing, though he didn’t think what happened to them would be anyone’s priority until the island was operational again. The place was strangely silent. No sounds of machinery or vehicles buzzed in the background to distract from the pounding surf and squawking seagulls.

  They were still a half mile from the headquarters when he suddenly heard something man-made coming their way. An engine. It sounded like a diesel V-8.

  Petkunas looked around and saw an old eighties-era pickup truck heading toward them at breakneck speed. When it jerked to a stop next to him, he saw that the bed was packed with airmen.

  “Sir, you need to get to shelter now,” the driver said without saluting.

  “What?” Petkunas said. Just when he thought the day couldn’t have gotten any stranger. “Wait a minute, how come your truck is the only one that’s working?”

  “Something about the electronics. This truck doesn’t have any microchips in it.”

  Petkunas shot a look at his copilot, Larsson, who nodded at him. That explained why nothing on his airplane had worked, including the ejection seats.

  “What do you mean, we need to get to shelter?” Larsson asked.

  “We’re under attack. Sorry, sir, comms are down, and I have to get the message to the Navy commander.”

  Before Petkunas could ask for a ride, the truck had taken off again.

  “What was he talking about?” Larsson said as he watched the pickup with a confused look. “Who’s attacking us?”

  “Your guess,” Petkunas said, “but he did sound serious. And taking out power and communications could be a prelude to an attack. Let’s hoof it.”

  All four of them picked up the pace to a run. They’d made it only a few hundred yards when Petkunas saw something flash just a few dozen feet overhead at lightning speed.

  “Get down!” Petkunas yelled, and all four of them dropped to the tarmac.

  A split second later, a sonic boom crashed into them, shaking the ground.

  But there was no explosion. The sound of the small jet engine faded into the breeze as it rocketed away to the east.

  Petkunas stood and dusted off his flight suit. As the others got to their feet, Larsson said, “What just happened?”

  Petkunas shook his head in amazement. “I have no idea.”

  * * *

  —

  “Chairman,” Hali said, “Sergeant Brandt just told me that the cruise missile continued east as it flew over Diego Garcia. It seems to be gone.”

  Everyone in the Oregon’s op center relaxed. The danger was over.

  “Did you hear that, Barbara?” Juan said to Colonel Goodman. “You just saved an entire island.”

  “Thanks to you,” she said with a relieved smile. “If you weren’t so convincing, I might not have activated Theseus until it was too late.”

  “I’d keep it active until we’re sure the cruise missile has run out of fuel. According to our calculations, two more minutes should do it. That’s a remote region, so any dispersal of the Novichok will happen over open ocean. We’ve checked, and there aren’t any known ships in the area.” The Novichok might contaminate the water for a short time until it dissipated, but that was better than the alternative.

  “That makes sense,” Goodman said. “I’d like to keep your radioman on the line so he can relay communications between us and Diego Garcia. Then I’ll have to explain to the head of Space Command why I activated a top secret weapons system without his authorization. I’ll either be demoted or get a medal.”

  “I’ll make sure it’s the latter,” said Langston Overholt, who was still on-screen.

  “Thank you, sir,” Goodman said.

  “Hali,” Juan said, “you can transfer Barbara’s call to your station. Good work getting everyone conferenced in.”

  When he saw everyone looking at him, Hali flashed them a humble grin. “Thanks, Chairman. Happy to help.”

  Goodman’s image disappeared from the main viewscreen, leaving Overholt on it alone.

  “This went far beyond what I was expecting when I gave you this mission,” Overholt said. “But now there’s obviously much more to the situation than some missing nerve agent. While the military investigates how the island’s electronics were disabled out of the blue, I want you to find out why Diego Garcia was targeted in the first place.”

  Juan nodded. “I think we’ll start by trying to find out why Rasul was hired to kill Tao and the Triton Star crew and then frame them for mass murder.”

  TWELVE

  SYDNEY

  Jason Wakefield stalked out of the Vedor Telecom tower in downtown Sydney while he spoke on his encrypted cell phone, the only one he used to call other members of the Nine Unknown. As the beneficiary of the Scroll of Knowledge for communication that had been passed down through generations from Ashoka, he had built Vedor Communications into Vedor Telecom, a global phone and networking empire. On the other end of the line was Lionel Gupta, a Canadian descendant of the original Unknown who had been bestowed with the alchemy scroll. He now headed OreDyne Systems, one of the largest engineering companies in the world.

  “You’re telling me,” Gupta said in the snarky tone he was famous for, “that even though you own phone networks around the world, including Italy, you haven’t been able to find out any info about who might have sabotaged the Colossus 5 in Naples? Not even where the phones used to detonate the explosives came from?”

  Wakefield caught his reflection in the mirrored window of his Maybach limousine as it pulled up to the entrance of the massive skyscraper. His Indian great-grandfather had immigrated to Australia, anglicized his name, and married the daughter of a New South Wales newspaper owner, so he was more Caucasian than Bengali. The image of Wakefield’s slick black hair, deep tan, and Savile Row suit would be familiar to anyone who read the society pages about his six divorces, the last of which was still in its final stages. While his bodyguard held the door for him, he adjusted a stray hair and plucked a piece of lint from his lapel before getting into the Mercedes. The bodyguard sat in the front passenger seat, and they pulled away.

  As usual, the backseat TV was tuned to the local Unlimited News International network. The news hour was just beginning, the screen ablaze with slick graphics and the slogan You and I and UNI. Wakefield muted the sound and closed the soundproof partition before responding to Gupta.

  “It’s been only forty-eight hours since the attack on the ship,” Wakefield said, exasperated at Gupta’s impatience. “All we can confirm is that a bomb brought down the crane that destroyed the satellite dish. Besides, Xavier Carlton has his own worldwide news and media company, and he hasn’t been able to find out anything, either.”

  “That’s bec
ause UNI is wasting time on stupid things like the power outage on that island in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I know. I’m watching it now. It’s news when one of America’s most secretive military bases goes dark. And I don’t like the incident’s timing. Not when we’re so close to completing Colossus.” As Wakefield spoke, stock footage and satellite images of Diego Garcia played across the screen during the lead story about the mysterious blackout.

  “Are you suggesting they’re related?” Gupta asked.

  “That’s what we need to find out, especially with the near-simultaneous explosion of Mallik’s rocket in the Arabian Sea. Something’s going on.”

  Gupta paused. “So you suspect a traitor among the Nine?”

  “Who else knew how to sabotage the Colossus 5 in that way? Don’t you have your own suspicions?”

  “I do. That’s why we’re having the meeting again in two days. We need to find out who is behind all this.”

  “How are we going to do that?” Wakefield asked.

  “I can’t talk about it right now.”

  “If you think this encrypted line isn’t secure, we shouldn’t be talking by phone at all.” Then Wakefield understood what he meant and sat forward. “Wait, you think I’m the traitor?”

  “You have expressed reservations about our plans.”

  “Each of us has played devil’s advocate at one time or another, even you,” Wakefield said. “And still, we’ve all agreed that it’s in the best interests of both ourselves and mankind to move forward. Besides, how do I know you’re not the traitor?”

  “You don’t. But there may be a way to find out who it is.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I can’t reveal that until the meeting,” Gupta said. “Then we can all decide how to handle it together.”

  “We’re so close to achieving our goals, Lionel,” Wakefield said, “we can’t let someone get cold feet now.”

  “I know. We won’t. This is what we’ve worked for all our lives and the lives of our ancestors.”