by Clancy, Tom
Viens himself was seated with his back to the window. Before him, on a laboratory table, three laptop computers sat side by side. The surveillance expert looked over as Hood entered.
“Sorry to disappoint you, Paul, but we’re not getting anything useful,” Viens lamented.
“Are you getting anything at all?” Hood asked. He stopped beside Viens. There were very different kinds of maps on each monitor. Hood guessed that they were the sections of sea that Viens was studying. This sector of intelligence gathering was relatively new for Op-Center, which used to rely exclusively on the NRO for satellite surveillance.
“We haven’t seen or heard anything that resembles a boat on the run,” Viens informed him. “And we’ve covered a lot of territory along the Great Barrier Reef, the eastern reaches of the Celebes, the entire Banda Sea, and the western and southwestern Coral Sea.”
“You did all that in ninety minutes?” Hood asked.
“Yes, but we had three processes going at once,” Viens said. “Audio, visual, and thermal. One often eliminates the need for the other.”
“How?”
“For instance, we’ve been monitoring the ARCON,” Viens told him. “That’s the Asian Rim Civilian Observation Network. It consists, basically and informally, of whoever is out there. The maritime police and navies in that region use specific frequencies for civilian communication. If the radar on a freighter or a cruise ship saw another vessel barreling through, the night watch would have reported it on an ARCON frequency. Since no one did, our program calculated how far the radar of reported vessels was sweeping. Odds were that our target ship was not moving through that area, so we didn’t waste satellite time looking for it.” Viens made a face. “I don’t like the fact that we’re using technology to figure out where people aren’t, not where they are. But it’s the best we can do.”
“Michelangelo said that sculpting is taking away the parts of the marble that aren’t the statue,” Hood said.
“It also took the man about four years to paint a ceiling, if I’m remembering my Vatican history correctly,” Viens said.
“You are,” Hood told him. He had spent several nights reading about the Vatican during Op-Center’s church-allied mission in Botswana. The Vatican’s wealth included its vast art collection, and facts about it were in the files.
“Stop kicking yourself in the ass,” Hood said. “You’re searching with no idea of what to look for. At least we can tell Bob where not to look.”
“I’ll E-mail the clear zone parameters to your office,” Viens said.
“Thanks,” Hood said.
“But I’m still not satisfied,” Viens said.
“That’s okay,” Hood said. “Just don’t be down on yourself. There’s a difference.”
Viens grunted in what Hood took for agreement. He began collecting the data for Herbert.
Hood left the office. He had not managed to boost Viens’s morale. Worse than that, there had been backwash. The futility of the operation was starting to gnaw at Hood. Viens literally had access to a world of electronic data. He was usually in the forefront of any we-can-dothis movement. If he was worried, then there was real cause for concern.
Hood glanced down at Mary Timm as he passed her desk. He gave her a brave little smile and a wink. She smiled back. It was a big smile. Not just pretty but confident. It was a smile full of youth and uncorrupted hope. Even Mary’s eyes were radiant.
Hood remembered when he used to feel that way. First as mayor of Los Angeles, and then when he first became the director of Op-Center. Even if he were being naive at the time, Hood always felt that things would work out. And invariably they did. Not always without cost, but they had a saying on Wall Street when he worked in finance. If the goods are worth it, the price was worth it.
These goods were worth it.
Things would work out again, somehow. He had to believe that.
Mary’s smile lingered in Hood’s memory. Sometimes just the simplest gesture was also cheerleading.
FIFTY-NINE
The Coral Sea Sunday, 2:39 A.M.
The Hosannah was listing nearly twenty-five degrees to starboard when the captain came on deck. He was hunched forward as he emerged from the companionway. That helped him to keep his footing on the sloped deck. He was carrying the two items he had brought from below.
Kannaday glanced at the stars to get his bearings. He had sailed this region for years and knew it well. The prow of the yacht was facing northeast. The nearest land was probably Cape Melville. That was about a mile to the southwest. The captain turned and swung around the mainmast, then ducked beneath the spar. The dacron sail flapped in the night wind. The fabric made a hollow, mournful sound. Kannaday moved quickly past it. The launch motors were off. The men would be rowing. In the dark, in unknown waters, they were unlikely to be hurrying. Kannaday hoped they had not gone very far.
When the captain was below, drowning seemed imminent. Now that he was above deck on a sinking vessel, drowning also seemed imminent. Yet Peter Kannaday felt invigorated. He had bought himself another opportunity to confront John Hawke. He had a chance to buy back his dignity. Kannaday would rather have that than a life jacket.
The Hosannah took a sudden dip toward the stern just as Kannaday reached the aftermast. He grabbed the thick pole, hugging it tightly with his arms as loose halyards loudly smacked the mast and capstan. In his hands were the two objects he had taken from the radio room.
He waited. The boat would not go down yet. It could not.
It did not.
The vessel listed to port then settled again. Carefully making sure of his footing, Kannaday let go of the mast. He half-walked, half-slid toward the aft rail. The barrier was only knee high. But years on the yacht had taught the captain how to brace himself in unsteady seas. He braced his right knee against the post that supported the flag marking the ship’s registry. Then the captain looked out across the relatively calm sea. A fine spray misted his skin. The salty water soothed his bruised jaw and stung the open wounds on his arms. The sea, the pain, and the joy. Anticipation and a driving hunger for something, whether it was wealth or survival or revenge. All of Kannaday’s life seemed to be encapsulated in that moment.
The captain raised both arms straight ahead. His left arm was nearly perpendicular. His right arm was parallel to the sea. He fired the flare gun in his left hand. The pinkish fire rose on a puffy magnesium-white plume. The small, dark waves of the Coral Sea became a widening expanse of sharp shadow and light. The light areas dimmed as the flare rose in the sky. But the circle of illumination grew as Kannaday stared ahead. Finally, all but despairing that he had lost Hawke, Kannaday saw what he had been hoping for. About three hundred meters away, he saw the dinghies on the edge of the light. The sailors looked up at the light, then back along the high, smoking arc.
Kannaday swung his right arm in front of him. He stared along the barrel of the second flare pistol and fired. The recoil caused his body to twist slightly on the slick deck. Without waiting to see whether the projectile had struck, Kannaday pulled two spare 38mm cartridges from his pocket. He reloaded each plastic-barrel pistol, raised both, aimed, and fired in succession. The twin streaks flashed through the artificial light on a course toward the dinghies.
The first flare had struck its target, landing inside the farthest dinghy. The heat of the projectile quickly melted the inflated neoprene. The dinghy succumbed with a faint pop and a collapse to the right side. Kannaday’s second shot missed both dinghies, but his third and fourth shots both landed in the companion vessel. The flares must have burned through the bottom. In the dying light of the overhead flare Kannaday saw the dinghy fold inward.
He loaded his last two flares and fired them into the sky. The heavens gleamed with white smoke and light. The glow illuminated a scene of a handful of men in the water, fighting to grab the few oars or the remains of the deflated dinghies. Even as the yacht groaned from somewhere under the water, Kannaday could hear their distant yells.
He reached for it, simultaneously turning toward the bow. Kannaday gasped as he felt a dart in his flesh. He winced as he drew it out. He did not have to look at it to know what it was.
“A good security chief does not leave a job until it is done,” said a voice from amidships.
A shape was barely visible in the dying glow of the flares. It was the form of a man. John Hawke stepped forward on the sloping deck. He was wearing a life jacket and carrying the wommera in his right hand.
“I heard the fuss you were making and decided I had better stick around,” Hawke said. “All that pounding and hammering.”
Hawke’s right arm swooped back, then snapped forward. A second dart flew toward Kannaday. It hit him in the right thigh. It pinched and the leg buckled. He caught the flagpole to keep from hitting the deck. He hung there while he removed the second dart. The bastard could have hit him harder. He was simply playing with the captain.
“I waited for you at the bow,” Hawke said. “I did not think you would make it out.”
“You waited until I was out of flares,” Kannaday said.
“A good security chief also knows when to make his move,” Hawke replied as he began walking forward. “It’s a shame you sent our men into the water, though. Not everyone has a life jacket, and it’s a long way to shore.” The wiry man leaned backward slightly as he approached. He remained surefooted on the sloping deck. “But it won’t bother your conscience for long. Like many of them, you will drown. There can be no other mortal wound. Otherwise, you would already be dead.”
Hawke was holding the wommera like a club. In a sinking ship, any number of objects could hit a sailor on the head and crack his skull. That was obviously the plan. To knock Kannaday out and then drown him.
Kannaday could not believe that he had underestimated Hawke again.
The captain had a problem and only a moment to solve it. His shoulder and leg had taken muscle damage from the darts. Hawke was uninjured. The security chief could probably overpower Kannaday. But if he turned to climb the rail, Hawke would reach Kannaday before he could get over.
Kannaday knew, of course, what he had to do. He had fought hard to regain some of his self-respect. He refused to surrender that. The captain of the Hosannah would not run.
The security officer was now a silhouette against the vivid splash of stars. Kannaday rested his lower back against the railing and raised his hands like a boxer. He kept his fists close to his chest. If Hawke intended to club him with the wommera, the captain wanted to try to block it. Hawke would probably go for the side he had wounded. That was why he had wounded it. Kannaday would be ready to twist and take the blow with his forearm.
Suddenly, from beneath the men, a third player entered the drama.
SIXTY
Osprey Reef Sunday, 2:46 A.M.
The helicopter was moving in a northeasterly direction when Herbert’s phone beeped. All eyes save the pilot’s turned to him. Herbert could not see the eyes clearly in the dark. But he knew what was in them.
Hope. They wanted information, a shred of intelligence, a place to look. Anything. Jelbart lowered the binoculars he had been using. He and Loh looked to Bob Herbert’s expression for a quick indication of whether Op-Center had learned something.
Herbert listened for a moment, then shook his head once. Without comment, Loh and Jelbart went back to looking out the windows. Ahead of them was Osprey Reef, which lay 210 miles from Cairns. It was a popular shark-watching spot for tourists. Herbert wished that were an omen.
The pilot turned to his passengers. “We’re nearly at the point of no return,” he shouted back. “If we don’t start back in the next fifteen minutes or so, we won’t reach the refueling depot.”
Herbert acknowledged with a nod. He looked past the reef. It was odd. He had never felt trapped in his wheelchair. But he felt trapped now in a fast-moving helicopter unhindered by roads and mountains. That was because he lacked information and the means to get it. Ignorance was not bliss. It was a prison.
Herbert blinked his tired eyes. He raised them to the horizon. It had a slightly ruddy hue. He looked at his watch. It was not quite three A.M. It was too early for dawn.
“People, have a look at the eastern horizon,” Herbert said. “What do you make of that?”
“It can’t be sunrise,” Loh said.
Jelbart turned his binoculars in that direction. “No. There are individual lights out there.” He tapped the pilot on the shoulder and pointed. “Let’s have a look before we go back.”
The pilot nodded and swung the Bell toward the faint glow. Jelbart continued to study the lights with his binoculars.
“You know, those lights are the color of distress flares,” Jelbart said.
Herbert thought the same thing. White flares were for a person overboard. Yellow flares were for working a line-throwing apparatus. Orange meant the user was stranded but safe. The colors were different so that the flares could provide light without needlessly summoning surrounding vessels.
Jelbart lowered his binoculars and pressed the headphones to his ears. He and the pilot were obviously receiving a message.
“One of the planes saw the light, too,” Jelbart said excitedly. “Definitely flares, looks like a ketch is going down.”
“Any fires?” Herbert asked.
Jelbart shook his head.
“Lifeboats?” Loh asked.
“Not that they could see,” Jelbart replied.
“A ketch,” Herbert said thoughtfully. “A boat like that wouldn’t seem out of place here, would it?”
“No,” Jelbart replied. He pulled the chart book from the sleeve on the door. He flipped to the page with the coordinates the pilot had given him. “That area of the sea is two hundred feet deep, with no reefs. Nothing a ship would be likely to strike. Not with enough force to sink it.”
“Why would the smugglers sink their own ship, then send out flares?” Loh wondered.
“Especially so many flares,” Jelbart pointed out. “There had to be three or four to light the sky like that.”
“They are not the kind of projectiles that would selflaunch in heat or in a fire,” Loh said. “They have to be triggered intentionally.”
“Right,” Jelbart said. “Though it appears some of these were ignited close to the water. Not in the air.”
“Perhaps the boat shifted when they were firing,” Loh suggested. “This may have been an act of desperation before it went down.”
“You don’t take a boat to deep water and sink it because you want to be found,” Herbert said.
“Then why fire flares?” Jelbart asked.
“Maybe not everyone liked the idea of the boat being deep-sixed,” Herbert speculated.
“A mutiny,” Jelbart suggested.
“Dissent among smugglers,” Herbert replied. “That’s not a big leap of imagination.”
“True. Well, we’ll have our answers soon,” Jelbart said. He turned to the pilot. “How much time until we get there?”
“About ten minutes,” the pilot replied.
“If we don’t go back for refueling, where’s the nearest place on the mainland to set down?” Herbert asked.
Jelbart checked the map. “Moribura, which is about two hundred kilometers to the southwest.”
“That would still only give us another ten minutes of hovering time,” the pilot pointed out.
“My patrol boat is coming over at full speed,” FNO Loh pointed out. “They should be on site in approximately one hour. They will maintain the integrity of the site.”
“That may not be in time to help the people on board,
” Jelbart said.
“I can radio Darwin,” the pilot said. “There’s a Royal Volunteer Coastal Patrol base nearby. In Port Douglas, I think.”
“Thanks, but that wouldn’t help,” Jelbart said. “The RVCP fields a Patrol 5 that does 18.5 knots, and they don’t have air capability. Anyone in the water will be arm weary and damn near freezing before help arrives.”
“I’m crying,” Herbert said.
Jelbart ignored his remark. “Is there anything we can do before FNO Loh’s patrol ship arrives?”
“Not really,” the pilot said. “All I’ve got is an aluminum ladder and not a lot of flying time.”
Herbert watched as the helicopter swept toward the boat. The light from the flares was all but gone now.
“It looks to me as if the prow is underwater,” Jelbart said.
“Where were those flares burning?” Herbert asked.
“Off the stern,” Jelbart told him.
“So that rules out one theory,” Herbert said.
“Yes,” Loh said. “The idea that someone fired across the water’s surface because the vessel shifted. A forward dip would have thrown the projectiles skyward.”
“Exactly,” Herbert said. The intelligence officer was impressed. Monica Loh did not always seem to be listening. But she was. And she was thinking. Herbert had gotten accustomed to the way things were done in Washington. When people were silent, it was always for one of two reasons, both of them bad. Either they thought they had all the answers and were not interested in hearing any others, or they were afraid to speak because then they would have to take responsibility for suggestions that might become policy. Far too many federal employees put personal interest over national interest.
Herbert enjoyed being surprised by a person’s quiet assets rather than by their hidden shortcomings. His wife Yvonne had been like that. When they started working together, the future Mrs. Herbert was always very quiet. Herbert instinctively, chauvinistically, wrongly thought of Yvonne in terms of her pay grade. She was a subordinate. She was backup. But the woman was anything but that. She was usually beside him or several steps ahead. It was odd. When the Beirut embassy was bombed, Yvonne had taken shards of wood and cinderblock in the back. Herbert had no proof of this, none at all. But he went down a moment before she did. He had always imagined that Yvonne became aware of the bomb going off an instant before he did, pushed him to the floor, and dropped on top of him. That was how the couple was found.