by Clancy, Tom
“Bob, is there anything the National Reconnaissance Office can do to help look for the mystery ship?” Hood asked.
The National Reconnaissance Office was the highly secretive government agency that controlled and processed satellite imagery as well as other electronic surveillance capabilities.
“We’re talking about a very large area with a great deal of shipping,” Herbert said. “We don’t know which way the other ship may have gone or exactly where the sampan was. I’d like to try to narrow the search area before we ask the NRO to tie up resources.”
“Isn’t this what those resources are for?” Coffey asked.
“Actually, no,” Herbert replied. “Those satellites are for watching Chinese naval maneuvers, missile tests, and picking out terrorist activity in the hills and jungles of Indonesia. All of that affects American military and foreign policy on a daily basis.”
“I see,” Coffey said.
“You don’t sound happy, Lowell,” Hood suggested.
“Well, I was hoping to give the Australians something,” Coffey said.
“Does it have to be practical or can it be political?” Herbert asked.
“I suppose both is out of the question?” Coffey said.
“Only since the days of Julius Caesar,” Herbert said. “Will Mr. Ellsworth accept a gesture of solidarity?”
“Most likely,” Coffey said. “What did you have in mind?”
“Going over there myself,” Herbert said. “It would be awkward sending Mike into a situation that is already bristling with soldiers.”
“And I’m not sure the Pentagon would approve,” Rodgers added.
Hood had to agree with that. Though Rodgers was second-in-command at Op-Center, he was still a soldier. The Australian press might assume that the unscheduled arrival of a military adviser was a prelude to a regional military buildup. Extreme ideas tended to grow in the fertile ground of unprecedented situations. They could not afford that kind of attention, not just from foreign governments but from the White House. Op-Center’s needs might conflict with the administrations short- and longterm plans in the region.
“Mike, what about some of your special ops people?” Hood asked.
“If I sent Maria off on another mission now, Darrell would start a war of his own,” Rodgers said.
Darrell McCaskey was Op-Center’s liaison with the FBI and various international law enforcement groups. He had recently married former Spanish Interpol agent Maria Corneja. Shortly thereafter, Rodgers offered her a spot on his new intelligence-gathering unit named Op-Center Reconnaissance, Intelligence On-Site. ORION had been assembled to put spies on the ground, where the crises were happening, instead of relying on electronic surveillance. Maria accepted the assignment and was immediately sent to Africa along with her new teammates David Battat and Aideen Marley. McCaskey had not been happy about that.
“The other operatives are out of town, tying up personal and professional matters before moving down here,” Rodgers said, “and I haven’t had any face time with my Asian intelligence man, Yuen Chow.”
“Where is he now?” Hood asked.
“At home in Hong Kong,” Rodgers said. “He’ll be here next week. We’re still running security on him. He spent seven years working in the movie business in Shanghai. It’s tough finding out which of these boys may have had ties with the Guoanbu in Beijing or the Triads in Hong Kong.”
“Or both,” Herbert said. “Frankly, I’d want some of that take-no-prisoners muscle in my corner.”
“So would I,” Rodgers said. “But I would hate having to hire a shadow to make sure my spies weren’t doubledealing.”
The Guoanbu was short for the Guojia Anquan Bu, the Chinese Ministry of State Security. They were a ruthless intelligence service with irrevocable ties to Chinese nationals around the world. The Guoanbu thought nothing about imprisoning people at home to gain the cooperation of family members abroad. The Triads were the equally amoral gangsters who had organized in Hong Kong over a century before. They took their name from a three-sided good luck symbol that stood for heaven, earth, and man.
“So that leaves us with me,” Herbert said. “I can go to Darwin and lend a hand collecting and crunching intel.”
“Lowell?” Hood asked.
“It sounds like a good idea to me,” Coffey said.
“Run it past Ellsworth,” Hood suggested. “In the meantime, Bob, why don’t you get ready—”
“I’ve been making the reservations on-line as we speak,” Herbert told him. “Air New Zealand to Darwin. I’ll be there Saturday morning.”
“By way of how many cities?” Rodgers asked.
“Five,” Herbert replied. “D.C. to New York to Los Angeles to Sydney to Darwin.”
“Screw that. I’ll call over to the travel office at the Pentagon,” Rodgers told him. “I’m sure we can hitch you a ride and get you there with less hassle.”
“What, on one of those butt-cold, avalanche-loud, flying metal rib cages that you guys call airplanes?” Herbert asked.
“Actually, I was going to requisition Air Force One,” Rodgers said. “But I don’t want you going soft.”
“Gentlemen, I’m going home,” Hood told them.
“And I’ve got to go hitch a ride with Jelbart as soon as he’s finished with Ellsworth and Officer Loh,” Coffey said.
“What are they talking about?” Hood asked.
“Whether we’re going to have two investigations or a coordinated operation when we get out to sea,” Coffey replied.
“Jeez,” Herbert sighed. “This is how the world will be lost. There will be a skirmish that bloodies someone’s nose followed by a world war that has nothing to do with that. We’ll kill each other debating how to find some son of a bitch instead of just laying waste to him and his kind.”
“You said it before,” Hood reminded him. “It’s either practical or political.”
“Well, let’s see if we can make it both,” Herbert said.
“How?” Hood asked.
“By understanding,” Herbert replied.
“That’s it?” Hood asked, amused.
“Yes,” Herbert said. “Understanding that the only way to get rid of me is by doing this thing right.”
SEVENTEEN
Cairns, Australia Friday, 7:00 P.M.
The tranquillity of the cove was just what Peter Kannaday needed. Like any long-time sailor, his emotional state was strongly affected by the sea.
The sun was going down as the Hosannah entered the mouth of the cove. The effect was like a candle on the sea. There was a long, rippling, waxy-yellow streak on the water. It ended in a burning yellow wick on the horizon. Kannaday watched it from the stern as they entered the cove. Directly above him the blue-green skies were already spotted with early stars.
To all other sides of him was Darling Cove. The inlet was located in the northern reaches of the Great Barrier Reef. Over 2,000 kilometers in length and up to 125 meters thick, the reef is separated from the mainland by a shallow lagoon. The massive structure was born at the end of the Ice Age when oceanic polyps began to thrive in the region. The polyps created protective multicolored shells that survived when the animals themselves perished. Coral built upon coral for over 10,000 years, providing a home for each new generation of tentacled creature. It also became a haven for countless species of fish, giant turtles, humpback whales, manta rays, dolphins, and dugongs—marine cousins to the elephant.
The helmsman steered the yacht into the calm, widemouthed inlet. Kannaday looked down at the stained-glass blue water. Then he walked forward as sweet, warm air washed over the deck. It carried the hint of grapes from the Darling vineyard located to the southwest. Immediately to the northwest was a limestone formation scooped from a hundred-meter-high cliff by ancient storms. The rock glowed rust orange in the twilight.
The high reef concealed the cove from the open sea. To access the inlet a sailor had to know to come around the reef well to the north. The mouth itself was less than a h
alf kilometer across. It was just about 200 meters to the far shore. There was a long stone wharf ahead and deep stretches of tawny white sand on all sides. Two motorboats, a motor yacht, and a pair of sailboats were at anchor. Security cameras were concealed in the 200-foottall karri trees that ringed the cove. Kannaday knew that microphones were hidden in the trees as well. They rarely heard more than the wind, the soft breakers, or the cry of a lost dolphin. For boaters who happened by, there were signs at the entrance to the cove. The oak boards, floating on moored buoys and mounted to posts, announced that this was the private property of Darling Enterprises. There were no posted warnings, no threats. Anyone who knew of Mr. Darling knew to keep out. Those who did not were arrested within two minutes of entering the cove. Guards lived in a small cabin just beyond the beach. Most of the time they surfed the Internet or played tiddledywinks. Darling held twice-yearly competitions among the staff with a sizable purse.
It did not escape Kannaday that the object of that game was to gather all the different chips in one cup. A cup that was controlled by Jervis Darling.
Kannaday took another moment to watch the sun set. This was the ninth or tenth time he had sailed into this cove. The quiet, majestic beauty of this place thrilled Kannaday for a moment. It always did. But this time it also made him angry. He felt as though he should own the seas he had just traveled. Kannaday had a yacht, and he was on the way to having enough wealth to keep him comfortable for the rest of his life. Instead, all he could think about was the displeasure of Jervis Darling. A man whose name alone on a placard was enough to frighten would-be trespassers. Kannaday resented the man’s power and feared his disapproval. The captain also hated his own resentment and fear.
The yacht would be anchoring in a few moments. Kannaday would take a motorized dinghy. He would be met there by a Humvee. There was no need to radio ahead. The guards would have seen him. As the yacht slowed, Kannaday wondered if Jervis Darling feared anything. The billionaire probably feared failure. Also death, most likely. And almost certainly in that order. A man like Darling would only accept defeat at the hands of God himself.
If only I could have God as an ally, Kannaday thought bitterly. Instead, he had John Hawke.
The security officer was belowdecks with his men. They were probably watching action movies on DVD. That was all they ever did. There was no curiosity about the world, no desire for self-improvement. Perhaps that was why Kannaday had assumed Hawke would take his offer and go. It was easy.
Men like Hawke liked things easy.
Kannaday walked to the port-side winch that held the dinghy. He waited as one of the crewmen lowered it to clear water. The hum of the motor echoed through the cove. Kannaday’s stomach began to burn.
Even though John Hawke had physically threatened the captain, Kannaday did not fear him. Fear did not come from known threats. It did not come from fear for one’s physical well-being. For a man of the sea, the adrenaline kick that came with danger carried the captain through moments like those. Even when he had the knife at his throat he was not fearful. He had been focused on surviving, which was not the same thing.
Fear came from one thing above all. It came from the unknown. It grew from the anticipation of something debilitating. A loss of freedom. The inability to realize one’s vision.
Darling represented that kind of power. Kannaday was not looking forward to this meeting. He considered calling Hawke’s bluff. Would that little man have the courage to seize the yacht? And would Darling accept Hawke as commander if he did?
Sun-bronzed first mate Craig McEldowney ambled over. The big, thirty-nine-year-old New Zealander stopped beside Kannaday. The two had been together for two years. They had met in a bar in Surabaya, Java, where McEldowney was washing glasses. The former dockworker had just served five years’ hard labor for stealing shipments of tobacco and selling it at a discount to the locals.
“It’s going to be all right,” McEldowney said. “The chief isn’t going to blame you for what happened.”
“Who will he blame?” Kannaday asked.
“Nobody,” McEldowney replied. “Captain, these things happen. Just like they did to me.”
Kannaday grinned. McEldowney was a decent but dullwitted man. That was why he had been caught.
Kannaday left his first mate in charge and swung down the aluminum ladder into the blue-gray dinghy. The rungs were damp with sea spray. He had to hold on tight to keep from slipping. He reached the sturdy little boat and sat on the aft bench. He released the winch cable, switched the engine on, and sped toward the wharf. The guards were already driving down the sloping, wooded path. The crunch of wood chips and the growl of the Humvee engine added to the noise.
This is how chaos is built, Kannaday thought. One noise at a time.
The question before Kannaday was simple. What was the best way to prevent his own situation from becoming more chaotic? Unfortunately, only one man had the answer.
And that answer was unknown.
EIGHTEEN
The Celebes Sea Friday, 7:33 P.M.
When Lowell Coffey was eight years old, something wonderful happened. His father took him to see the circus in Sherman Oaks. What was most memorable, however, was not the show itself. What Coffey remembered best was sticking around to see the circus being broken down. The deconstruction had been a mesmerizing sight, awesome in its scope and complexity.
The departure of the Singaporean and Australian ships from Darwin reminded Coffey of that. Banners flying and large vessels setting out. Instead of roustabouts, sailors were putting the big machine in motion. Instead of elephants, there were helicopters and motorboats being moved into position. Instead of the smell of horses and sawdust, there were diesel fuel and ocean air. The scope and logistics of both were memorable. There were, however, two major differences. After the circus was packed and moving, the young Lowell Coffey had gone home with his father. The boy had felt sad and disconnected. This morning, the adult Lowell Coffey had gone with the seagoing convoy. He felt plugged into a great and powerful enterprise. It was invigorating.
For about three minutes.
Unfortunately, the adult Lowell Coffey was also desperately nauseated. He was sick from his high, hammering forehead down through his vacant gaze to his sloshing stomach. Even the joints of his knees felt as if they were rolling in their sockets. And the attorney was sitting down.
Coffey was on the small, claustrophobic bridge of the MIC corvette. George Jelbart was in command and seated in a swivel chair to his right. The medic had given Coffey two dimenhydrinate tablets, a generic form of Dramamine. It did not make Coffey feel better, but at least he got no worse. There was only one exception. Whenever Warrant Officer Jelbart swiveled in his seat, Coffey tasted his own breakfast for a moment. There was something very disorienting about the officer’s side-to-side movement.
The swift, modern warship had departed Darwin minutes after Loh’s patrol boat had set out. Ellsworth did not join them. He had gone back to his office after intensive dockside discussions about how to manage this joint investigation. Since this was Loh’s plan, it was agreed that she and her crew would conduct the initial phase. Jelbart would lend whatever support was necessary in terms of equipment, manpower, or technical capabilities. Coffey had told them that Op-Center’s intelligence chief, Bob Herbert, was coming to Darwin. Herbert would be prepared to assist with analysis of whatever they did or did not find at sea. Ellsworth had been happy to hear about the NCMC’s involvement. He was grateful for the intelligence resources, of course. But Ellsworth was more interested in America’s support. This could turn out to be an isolated incident, in which case everyone would be relieved. If it were something else, though, the more weight Ellsworth had behind him, the happier he would be.
Jelbart removed the small, compact headset he was wearing. He hung it around his neck. “How are you doing there, Mr. Coffey?” he asked.
“The situation has stabilized somewhat,” he said with a weak smile. He looked down. Unlike the horizo
n, the floor of the bridge was not moving. Attorneys were meant to be in quiet wood-paneled offices where the only movement was the pendulum of a grandfather clock.
“You’ll get used to it,” Jelbart promised. “By the time we get back to Darwin, it will feel unnatural to be on ground that doesn’t move.”
Coffey had to take that on faith. Right now it did not seem plausible.
The radio operator leaned in. He was located in a cubicle just off the main control center.
“Sir?” he said. “Incoming from FNO Loh.”
Jelbart slipped the headset back on. He adjusted the mouthpiece. “Jelbart here,” he said.
“We have reached the target area,” she said.
Jelbart glanced at the control panel. There was a small black monitor to his right. It had an electronic grid overlay in light blue. Ships were red dots. Jelbart had previously explained to Coffey that this was an adjustable global positioning display. They could pull back as far as five hundred square kilometers or move in as tight as ten square kilometers. The area currently being displayed was twenty square kilometers.
Jelbart turned to his right. “Helm?”
“Yes, sir,” said one of the two men seated there.
“Coordinates ten-five-nine west, three-four-two north,” Jelbart said, reading from the grid. “Backwater standby, on command.”
The helmsman repeated the coordinates, acknowledged the command, and set the course accordingly.
Coffey looked up. He was confused. “I can see them out the window,” he said. “Why don’t you just follow them?”
“We have been,” Jelbart told him. “But if something happens to officer Loh’s vessel and we lose visual contact, we want our computer to know exactly where they are.”
“I see,” Coffey replied. It was an unpleasant thought but a practical one.
The Singaporean patrol boat came to a complete stop. Jelbart ordered the corvette to half speed. He came alongside the other vessel, keeping 300 meters to port. After a moment, the corvette stopped. With one axis of motion removed, Coffey immediately felt a little better. Able to look out now without feeling sick, the attorney watched the prow of the Singaporean vessel. Using fishing nets, sailors had lowered several black boxes into the water. They looked like laptop computers.