by Clancy, Tom
Kannaday went to his small cabin in the aftermost section of the yacht. The hardwood floorboard creaked slightly. He shut the door and stared out the tiny rear porthole. He did not see the sea or the sky or the glare of the sun on the bulletproof glass. He was only aware of one thing: How would Darling react when they were face-to-face?
Kannaday knew too much about this operation for the magnate simply to dismiss him without the rest of his pay. Besides, Darling would have to get himself another boat. If he tried to take this one, the new captain of the Hosannah would have to explain what happened to the old captain. There would be an inquiry. Anyway, Kannaday did not believe that Darling would kill him. There were rumors about past activities of that sort, but Kannaday’s crew was not stupid. If something happened to Kannaday, they would not wait around. They would take the yacht to sea and lose themselves at the first crowded port. Kannaday also did not think Darling would risk the setup he had.
Of course, there might be larger issues for Darling to consider. Issues that might override these other concerns. Darling might feel as if he needed to teach an object lesson to the men on this or other operations. That accidents could not be tolerated.
That possibility worried Kannaday. There was only one way he could be sure it did not happen.
That was to strike first.
And Kannaday had an idea just how to do it.
NINE
The Celebes Sea Thursday, 12:33 P.M.
The cutter had proceeded northwest at seventeen knots. It reached the designated area quickly. Fortunately, the delay had not impacted Jaafar’s scheduled drop-off. International Spent Fuel Transport, a division of Dahman Waste Management, had clearance at the site for noon until three-thirty every two weeks. There were 112 visits to this site each year. The next ship would not visit here until the following morning. The International Nuclear Regulatory Commission assigned the slots so that each ship would have a comfortable window for getting in and out of the area. The time slots were created to minimize the chance of collisions. And if an accident occurred on one ship, it would not threaten the crew of another.
Jaafar watched from the bridge as his crew worked the winch on the forward section of the cutter. The eight crewmen all wore radiation suits. They worked slowly and carefully as the fifty-foot crane removed a concrete block from the forward hold.
The block weighed three tons and was roughly the size of a compact automobile. It was designed to contain just three ten-gallon drums of waste. Each radioactive rod was sealed inside a mixture of absorbent lithium chloride, potassium chloride, and alkali metal chloride salts. These were packaged inside cesium metal containers within reinforced ceramic and steel drums. Once the concrete block was in the water, it would be lowered slowly to a ledge feet below. A fiber-optic camera on the line would guide the winch operator. He would take care not to nick or damage any other block while placing his. Each week, the INRC sailed through this region to make certain none of the blocks were leaking.
This area of the Celebes Sea was one of twelve oceanic regions where the INRC permitted radioactive waste to be deposited. The seabed here was geologically stable, and fishermen did not regularly sail these waters. Any leaks would not have a high impact on any peoples or economy. Of course, security was a relative state of mind. The waste would be highly radioactive for ten thousand years. But it had to be disposed of and, for now, this was one of the best places for that. Especially since scientists were discovering that even the strongest containers buried on land were subject to erosion from microbacteria. Many of these organisms had been buried in volcanic flows millions of years ago and remained dormant inside the rocks. Just a whisper of radiation from materials such as cobalt 60 caused them to be revived and eat through rock and metal.
The olive-skinned, black-bearded Jaafar watched with pride as his men went about their task. The thirty-seven-year-old had worked closely with the physicists hired by Mahathir bin Dahman. They had designed a safe and efficient process for off-loading waste. The walls of the bridge were decorated with documents from the INRC commending the Dahman operation.
Jaafar remained at his post until the operation was completed. He radioed the home office in Kuala Lumpur to tell them that everything had been successful. Then he went below to thank the crew and have lunch.
And to enjoy, as always, one delicious snack.
The irony of those INRC citations.
TEN
Darwin, Australia Thursday, 12:05 P.M.
Royal Darwin Hospital is one of the finest, most modern facilities in Australia. A ten-story white structure, it has a unique mission. Because the population it serves lives across a vast region, with varied racial backgrounds and difficult climatic conditions, the hospital must be ready to deal with almost any kind of illness or injury.
Medically, they were ready for Lee Tong. Psychologically, no one was ready for him. Or what he brought to Australia.
The staff car rolled up to the front entrance of the hospital. As it did, an officer stepped from the lobby. He was a big man with hair the color of straw. Coffey was not up on his Royal Australian Navy chevrons, but this man had the carriage of a high-ranking officer. The driver ran around and opened Coffey’s door. The petty officer saluted as the other man approached the car.
“Mr. Coffey, I’m George Jelbart,” the man said in a very thick Australian accent.
“Good afternoon, sir,” Coffey said.
“Thank you for coming,” Jelbart went on. “I hope the ride was not too uncomfortable.”
“It was fine, except for the curiosity burning a hole in my head,” Coffey replied.
“Please forgive the secrecy,” Jelbart said. “You’ll understand why that was necessary.”
“I’m sure,” Coffey said. “Thing is, I hate calling my boss and telling him that I don’t know why I’m going someplace. It looks bad, us being an intelligence agency and all.”
“I understand. Again, you’ll see why it was necessary.”
The men entered the hospital lobby. They walked past the casualty area toward the elevators, and went up to the fifth floor. There, toward the end of an L-shaped corridor, two leading seamen stood at ease on either side of a door. They each wore a sextant patch on their sleeve. When Coffey asked, Jelbart told him that the badge was from the navy’s hydrographic survey branch. Both men wore handguns and no-nonsense expressions.
Hydrographic survey and maritime intelligence, Coffey thought. Science and counterespionage were working together on this. That reinforced what he had been thinking all along. He only hoped that the situation was not as bad as he imagined.
The men saluted as Warrant Officer Jelbart arrived. He returned the salute as he opened the door. Directly inside was a lead screen made up of three vertical panels. It was similar to the ones Coffey had seen in X-ray laboratories. The screen did not surprise him, but it did sadden him. A human being was lying on the other side of the screen.
There was a small window in the center. Jelbart gestured for Coffey to look through. The attorney stepped up and studied the patient in the bed. He was a dark-skinned, muscular-looking man with an intravenous needle in his arm and an oxygen mask on the lower half of his face. There were bandages over his bare chest, shoulders, arms, and portions of his face and scalp. Several monitors were hooked to his arms and temples.
“We think he’s from Singapore,” Jelbart said.
“Why?” Coffey asked.
“It’s his general physiognomy,” Jelbart told him. “Also, he’s wearing clothes usually worn by dockworkers at Keppel Harbor. His shark and anchor tattoos look like the designs they do there as well. At least, the portions that weren’t burned away.”
“I see,” Coffey said. “How did he get here?”
“He was picked up by an RAN patrol boat,” Jelbart said. “They found him clinging to a few planks from what may have been a sampan. That’s what the wood and curve of the wood suggested. He had third-degree burns over twenty percent of his body and a bullet hole in
each leg. Ironically, the burns cauterized the wounds. Otherwise, he would probably have bled to death. He was out there for eight or nine hours before they found him.”
“He’s lucky they found him at all,” Coffey said.
“Lucky is a relative term,” Jelbart said.
“How so?”
“Our patrol boats are equipped with radiation detectors,” Jelbart went on. “They watch for anyone who might be trying to smuggle nuclear weapons through the region. They got a reading from our friend.”
“From him or from the wreckage?” Coffey asked.
“Both,” Jelbart replied. “The doctors don’t think he received a lethal dosage. There are tests, of course, though I understand the best sign will be if he actually wakes up. I’m told you know Brian Ellsworth.”
“Yes.”
“He is downstairs in the morgue with some local security officials and the wreckage,” Jelbart told him. “We bathed the victim, but we don’t want to clean up the planks until they’ve been analyzed.”
“So you’re keeping it isolated,” Coffey said.
Jelbart nodded.
“Has anyone contacted the authorities in Singapore?” Coffey asked.
“Yes,” Jelbart replied. “We’re hoping they can help to identify this individual.”
“But he will be too sick to transport back to Singapore,” Coffey said knowingly.
“That happens to be true,” Jelbart told him. He faced Coffey. His voice was barely above a whisper now. “But you’re right, Mr. Coffey. We don’t want him leaving here just yet. If this man was involved in the transport of nuclear materials, we don’t know who else in Singapore might be involved. It could be members of the government, the military, or private industry. We don’t want anything to happen to him until we can question him.”
“You know that you can’t hold this man if he asks to be released,” Coffey said. “He was found in international waters and committed no crimes that you’re aware of. For all you know, he was a victim.”
“I understand that,” Jelbart said. “Now let’s talk about reality. This region is the world’s best-traveled route for nuclear traffic. Your government has been at war with potential nuclear terrorists here and in Africa and the Middle East. But it’s been on our shoulders to try to stop the goods in transit. That’s not easy. Without trace radiation or known perpetrators, we have no right to board ships in the open sea. The coastline is another problem. Watching that eats up a lot of time and resources. I don’t know what we’re going to find out about this man. Air and sea patrols are searching the region where he was found. They’re looking for more of the wreckage. So far, nothing has turned up. A few extra hours in the water may have diluted the radiation and the wreckage sufficiently to make detection difficult.”
“What about other vessels that may have been in the region?” Coffey asked.
“We’re checking charters, radio transmissions, even cellular phone calls that were made before dawn,” Jelbart said. “According to the doctor, the victim was injured about four or five A.M. Perhaps another vessel saw or heard something. But then, we assume they would have reported it.”
Coffey nodded. “Of course, if there was something illegal going on, this man’s shipmates would have steered away from other vessels,” he said.
“Most likely,” Jelbart agreed. “There’s one other scenario we have to consider. The accident occurred near the Ryder Ridge, a region for nuclear waste disposal. It’s remotely possible this man and his shipmates were trying to salvage some of that material.”
“In a sampan?” Coffey asked.
“I said ‘remotely possible,’ not ‘likely,’ ” Jelbart pointed out. “Which brings me back to what I believe is the case. That they were transporting nuclear material in some form and were attacked. Maybe it was a deal gone wrong. Maybe they pushed their engine and it overheated. But we need to find out more, which means holding this man until such time as he can speak to us.”
Coffey looked at the unconscious victim. “What are you asking me to do? Ignore his rights?”
“Involving you was Mr. Ellsworth’s idea,” Jelbart said. “I don’t know what he wants you to do. But I’m telling you, Mr. Coffey, this has me scared. We have in the past intercepted troublesome cargo. Components for nuclear weapons. Fake passports for the transit of rogue nuclear scientists. Plans of nuclear power plants here and abroad, including the routes they use for the transportation of spent fuel. But this is the first time we have encountered clear evidence of radioactive materials close to our shores.”
“The point is, you did find it,” Coffey said.
“By luck.”
“Nonetheless, you know where to look now,” Coffey said. “By examining the wreckage, you may even know what to look for. What kind of ship, where it came from. This man may not know anything. You can’t treat him as if he’s a terror mastermind.”
“Sir, we can’t afford to treat him as if he isn’t,” Jelbart replied. “Do you want to know what I’m asking you to do, Mr. Coffey? I am asking you to consider the rights of the twenty million people living in Australia and the countless millions living around the globe. I’m asking you to consider their right to live lives free of nuclear terrorism.”
“People should live free from any form of terrorism,” Coffey said. He nodded toward the man in the bed. “That includes state-sanctioned terrorism, physical or psychological.”
“No one is going to hurt him,” Jelbart said. “Which is something else you should consider. Whatever treatment this man receives while he is our guest will be preferable to what they would do to him in Singapore. If the government wants information, they will beat or drug him to get it. If someone wants to silence him, they will do that, too.” Jelbart looked at his watch. “I told Mr. Ellsworth I would bring you to him. I suggest we go downstairs now. The representative from Singapore is also due any moment.”
The men returned to the elevator.
Coffey was torn. In theory, he could disagree with nothing the warrant officer had said. In practice, he could not shake a quote by Calvin Coolidge that he had memorized. It was commemorated in a plaque in one of the lecture halls at the UCLA School of Law where Coffey had been a student. It said, “Men speak of natural rights, but I challenge anyone to show where in nature any rights existed or were recognized until there was established for their declaration and protection a duly promulgated body of corresponding laws.”
Jelbart was wrong. Bend the law, and the rights of all people suffered.
But then, Coffey was a good lawyer. As such, he could not help but wonder if there was a loophole in this instance. Nuclear terrorism, even the threat of it, removed part of what made him want to protect this man.
It took the word human from human rights.
ELEVEN
Darwin, Australia Thursday, 12:17 P.M.
The RAN Iroquois helicopter carrying Female Naval Defence Technical Officer Monica Loh of COSCOM, the Coastal Command of the Republic of Singapore Navy, landed on the helipad at the Royal Darwin Hospital. The pad was typically used by the Rescue Birds—helicopters that brought patients from the regions surrounding Darwin. Formerly an officer with the Explosive Ordnance Disposal Group, the five-foot-seven-inch Loh walked several paces ahead of the two shorter male Naval Defence technicians who had accompanied her. The vessel to which Loh was attached, a 360-ton mine countermeasure vessel, was still at sea. Warrant Officer George Jelbart had dispatched the helicopter to get Major Loh to the Darwin hospital as quickly as possible.
Brian Ellsworth had sent a scanned photograph and fingerprints of an injured seaman to the Police Coast Guard at the Tanjong Pagar Complex in Singapore. Ellsworth had wanted any information the PCG might have on this individual. He was Lee Tong, a registered former seaman on the Lord of the Ocean container ship. The PCG wanted to know why Ellsworth needed this information. He told them, at the same time inviting someone from COSCOM to join the investigation. Since FNO Loh had experience in that area of the sea, as well
as with explosive devices, she was sent to Darwin. The last time she had been involved with Australian officials was three years before. That was when the two nations had joined with Malaysian authorities to raid a warehouse on the Malaysian coast. They broke up a DVD pirating ring that the Australian Film and Video Security Office said was costing Hollywood producers over twenty-five million dollars a year in lost revenue.
Everyone wants to be in show business, she thought bitterly at the time. To carry out the raid, Loh’s superiors had pulled her off a coinvestigation with the Home Affairs Ministry involving Lebanon’s Hezbollah guerrilla group recruiting Singaporean Muslims. These individuals were being used to spy on the American and Israeli embassies in Singapore. Fortunately, the Singaporean Muslims decided the risk was not worth the rewards. They quit the Lebanese terror unit before carrying out their mission.
Loh and her two aides were met by a pair of RAN leading seamen and escorted to the back of the hospital. They were informed that a service elevator would take them to where the “items” were being stored.
It felt strange to be on land. Loh was used to the rocking of the MCMV, where she spent much of her time. Even the helicopter had felt more comfortable than solid, unmoving asphalt. It was also unusual for Loh to be in the sunshine. While the bulk of the twenty-eight-person crew searched for mines, she conducted signal intelligence operations in a segregated area of the ship. She listened for communiqués that might suggest smuggling operations. If she detected anything unusual, the appropriate police or military unit was sent to investigate.
The fact that just the opposite was happening here did not surprise her. The thirty-four-year-old Loh did not share the viewpoint of many of her fellow female naval officers. They regarded the RSN nomenclature as dismissive, since male naval officers were simply referred to as naval officers. Loh did not agree. She sincerely believed that men had created the distinction for a reason. So that they would have somewhere to turn when things got difficult. Like now. Loh’s father, Vendesan, was an officer with Singapore’s Criminal Investigation Department. His specialty was gathering intelligence on the powerful secret societies that ran the nation’s gambling, prostitution, and drug rings. Her father was very smart. But whenever Vendesan was baffled, he discussed the situation with his wife. Monica would often lie in bed, listening to their conversations. Her mother, Nurdiyana, was a schoolteacher. More often than not, the woman would have sensible solutions to her husband’s problems. It was the same with the FNOs. When roaring and mane shaking failed, the RSN lions sent in the smarter, cagier lionesses.