by Tom Clancy
Using the plane's secure communications link, Herbert donned his WASTEM screen name. The profile he had created was for a thirty-year-old white female, one who advocated militia uprisings and a suspension of rights for everyone who was not a "pure-blooded American." Herbert had made her a female to attract male sociopaths, men who were looking for someone to share their mental illness with. Through WASTEM, the intelligence officer had been able to break up a supremacist group that arranged tours to Libya. There, for 50,000 dollars, group members could watch prisoners being tortured. For 75,000 dollars they could participate in the torture using whatever means they wished. For 150,000 dollars they could carry out an execution.
Herbert had his wife's picture attached to the profile. Not only was Yvonne a fox, but she would have appreciated having a posthumous hand in destroying cults of hate. A cult like the one that had claimed her life.
As usual, WASTEM had dozens of E-mail messages. Most were from men and women who wanted to go shooting with her or sponsor her at their training camp in this wilderness or that mountain range. Though WASTEM's interests included the acquisition of "red rain," a euphemism for radioactive materials, none of the E-mails offered to sell her any. He spent some time in the Anarkiss chat room, where sickos went for romance. As one of the few "women" in the room, WASTEM was always extremely popular. If anyone seemed to have information he might want, he offered to go private with them. People with something to hide spoke more freely in a chat room for two.
Unfortunately, no one had any leads on nuclear material being trafficked through the Far East or the South Pacific.
Herbert's next stop were charts of the shipping lanes in that region. He got a list of tankers, fishing vessels, ocean liners, and pleasure boats that had been through the area in the past seventy-two hours. When he got the names, he switched to his generic BOB4HIRE screen name. Claiming to be an insurance investigator, he E-mailed the various shipping companies and charterhouses. He asked if any of them had received a report of an explosion in the Celebes Sea. While he waited for the answers, he contacted the National Reconnaissance Office. He asked for an ID listing of all the ships that had accessed global positioning data around the time of the explosion. That information was supposed to be confidential, stored in coded files known only to the vessels and the satellites. However, the NRO had access to the satellite databases, thanks to the Confidential Reconnaissance and Code Satellite. CRACS was one of a new generation of satellites that spied on other satellites. Using sophisticated background radiation detectors, it read incoming and outgoing satellite pulses that momentarily blotted out the cosmic radiation. CRACS ended up with a silhouette of the communication from earth. The satellite was able to translate the pulses into numbers. That, in turn, gave the NRO the code words used by the earth-based planes or ships to contact the satellite.
What Herbert was looking for was an inconsistency. He was hoping to find a vessel that might have been close enough to hear the sampan explosion but did not report it. If he found that, chances were good it was the ship the pirates had tried to waylay.
The data came in slowly over the next several hours. During that time Herbert reveled in the relative comfort and privacy of his little section of the airplane. He was facing the starboard side of the aircraft, and there was a small window to his right. He leaned forward and looked down. The view inspired him. Not because it was a big, beautiful ocean but because it reminded him how people had fought and suffered and perished to explore it. Nothing came without hard work and sacrifice. That fact kept Bob Herbert from slipping into bitterness for what his own public service had cost him.
He received replies from twelve of the twenty-two E-mails he had sent out. No one had reported any explosions in the region. He also learned that there had been at least one vessel in the region at the time of the explosion. It was named the Hosannah and was apparently owned by a gentleman named Arvids March. There was a reference to a court case that Herbert could not access. The vessel sailed under a Tasmanian flag and listed six ports of registry. Herbert searched the Tasmanian phone directory on-line. He could not find an entry for Arvids March. That did not surprise him. Ships from one country were often registered in another for tax reasons. Mr. March could be from anywhere. Or it could be a fake name for a fake enterprise. Herbert did a full Internet search for him and came up empty. He searched under A. March and found over ten thousand references, from "I love a March" to a hip-hop group Ides a March. He sent an E-mail to Op-Center asking them to see what they could find out about the man. A quick check turned up nothing. Obviously not a publicity-seeker or public figure.
Then Herbert took a break. A think break. He had spent hours on this search and had very little to show for it. That was frustrating. Worse, it was dangerous. Herbert knew too well what could happen when people went into a situation with zero intelligence. That was how the embassy in Beirut was hit.
Herbert went back to his computer. The rogue boat was out there.
He wanted to find it.
Chapter Twenty
Cairns, Australia Friday, 7:58 P.M.
It was the largest privately owned collection of prehistoric fossils in the world.
Jervis Darling had developed a love and deep appreciation for prehistoric animals forty years before. When in his early twenties he read an article on the Australian Museum in one of his first magazines, Australian Insider, he had not realized what a successful reign the dinosaurs had on earth. Each new generation evolved into a more refined version of the last. The carnivores became perfect pack hunters as well as individual predators. The herbivores bonded in family units with complex forms of child care. They had survived over 100 million years. That was 100 times longer than humankind and its ancestors had walked the earth. It was probably 100 times longer than humans would continue to walk the earth.
Unless he had his way.
Darling began buying fossils, from the smallest, oldest marine trilobites to a complete land-ranging allosaurus to a soaring pteranodon. He did not settle for plaster casts, as so many museums did. Only the real thing. He had them displayed in two large rooms on his estate, along with murals showing the animals and their world. It was ironic, he thought. The Australian media had nicknamed him Salty after the northwest crocodile. That was an insult, though not for the reasons they thought. Darling did not mind being compared to a carnivore. But he aspired to be one of the all-time great ones, like tyrannosaurus or gorgosaurus. Not a relatively small contemporary offshoot.
The moon shone through the large, arching skylight. Small lights illuminated the mounted skeletons, murals, and exhibit cases. Dressed in jeans and a flannel shirt, the six-foot-four-inch Darling stood in the middle of the cathedral-like structure. The bald-headed media titan did not end each day with a stroll through his collection. He did so today, however. He reminded himself that sometimes creatures perished due to things outside their control. The dinosaurs were a perfect example. Apparently they all died out slowly after an asteroid struck the earth. The collision threw incalculable tons of dust into the atmosphere, blotted out the sunlight for years, and created a worldwide ecological disaster. The equivalent of a prehistoric nuclear winter. According to the geological record, these impacts and global extinctions occurred with some regularity.
Portions of the earth were overdue for a similar cleansing, he reflected. It was a concept Darwin would never have imagined. A mixture of natural selection and mass extinction.
Footsteps echoed along an adjoining corridor. A few seconds later, Andrew stepped through the door connecting the mansion with the wing that housed Darling's collection of Ice Age fossils.
"Mr. Darling, Captain Kannaday is coming up the walk," the executive secretary informed him.
"Bring him to the kitchen," Darling said.
"Yes, sir," Andrew replied.
There was no hesitation in Andrew's voice. If Darling had instructed his aide to escort Kannaday to his private observatory, to the garage, or to a guest-room closet, Andrew
would have done so without question. Descended from people who lived here during the Ice Age, Andrew Juta Graham was one of the few people whom Darling trusted absolutely.
Darling followed his secretary into the hallway of the 30,000-square-foot estate. This was the east wing, which held the public area of Darling's home. The museum, the dining hall, the ballroom, the screening room, the gym, the indoor and outdoor swimming pools. He made his way through the dining area to the kitchen. He asked the cook and her assistant if they would mind waiting in their quarters for a few minutes. They left at once. Darling went to one of the three refrigerators and removed a large bottle of sparkling water. He leaned against a butcher-block counter and faced the picture window. He opened the water and took a swallow as he stared off at rolling grounds. He wondered suddenly if the dinosaurs ever drank from sparkling springs. They probably did. And did they notice a difference?
Of course, he decided. But it would not have meant anything to them. They did not have the brainpower to look past the initial stimulation. In that respect the dinosaurs were like the terrorists Darling was dealing with now. Locked into narrow patterns of information processing. Impulsive instead of reflective. What made them dangerous also made them easy to manipulate.
A door opened behind him. It was the door that led from the rear of the estate through the servants' quarters. Darling set the water on the countertop and turned. His back was to the window as Andrew left and Kannaday made his way through the appliances. Spotlights from an outdoor patio shone outside the window. Crisp white light washed over the skipper. He was dressed in a black pull-over and khakis. Even though Kannaday walked briskly, with his shoulders pulled back, he looked tired. He extended his big right hand. Darling shook the hand and held it.
"Your palm feels warm," Darling said.
"I was on deck, in the sun, Mr. Darling," Kannaday said.
"Palms up?"
"I'm like a solar battery, sir," Kannaday said. "Sunlight hits a spot and shuttles all around me."
"Ah. Would you like a cold beverage?" Darling asked.
"Thank you, no," Kannaday replied.
Darling released Kannaday's hand slowly. "Wine," he said.
"No, thank you."
"I wasn't offering," Darling said, laughing. "I was just wondering if grapes ever fermented in prehistory."
"I would imagine they did," Kannaday said. He seemed stung by having rejected an offer that had not been made.
"Quite right," Darling said. "The liquid may have collected in a pool. A dinosaur might have lapped at it. Perhaps he even became a little inebriated. Quite a thought, wouldn't you say?"
"It is," Kannaday replied.
"I wonder what a prehistoric vintage would demand in the Mahogany Auction Room," Darling said. "An unthinkable sum, I would imagine. Can't you just picture it? Scientists bidding against connoisseurs to buy a mud-crusted and fossilized puddle."
Darling chuckled at the thought. Kannaday smiled uncomfortably. The man has no imagination, Darling thought. Then again, he was at something of a disadvantage here. Because Darling was silhouetted by the patio lights, Kannaday could not see him clearly. He could not tell from Darling's expression whether he was joking or being serious. That was how Darling wanted it. He wanted his guest off balance and open. Vulnerable.
Darling crossed his arms and regarded the captain. "I understand that replacement gear is being sent over to the yacht."
"Yes, sir."
"I want you back at sea as soon as possible."
"Of course," Kannaday said.
"Before you go, though, I'd like an explanation," Darling said.
"First, I promise that nothing like this will happen again," Kannaday said. "We should have foreseen it. Your security chief agrees."
"Hawke agrees?"
"Absolutely," Kannaday said.
"And how will you guard against future attacks?" Darling demanded. His mood soured quickly. "A sampan full of sea rats drew close enough to put a hole in the side of your vessel! How did that happen?"
"Sir, the men in the sampan did not cause the explosion," Kannaday said. "We did."
"How?"
"By accident. We hit the pirates hard, fast, and decisively," Kannaday told him. "The attack triggered explosives that were on board the other vessel."
"Why did you let them get so close?" Darling asked. "You have a good radar system on board."
"The sampan did not create a blip that was distinguishable from porpoises or flotsam," Kannaday said. "We failed to identify it until the security camera picked it up. By then it was nearly upon us. At that point we decided not to strike until we were certain that we were facing an enemy," Kannaday replied.
"Why?" Darling asked.
The question seemed to surprise Captain Kannaday. "Sir, are you suggesting we should have attacked what may have been an innocent vessel?"
"Preemptive strikes reduce risk," Darling told him.
"I would have thought that a stealthy passage was more important," Kannaday replied.
"The best way to assure a low profile is to eliminate potential witnesses," Darling pointed out. "Now, you say Mr. Hawke agrees that adequate security precautions were in place?"
"He does," Kannaday said.
"Or am I hearing a case of 'You watch my back, I'll watch yours'?" Darling said.
"Excuse me?" Kannaday asked.
"I don't know Mr. Hawke very well," Darling said. "I doubt anyone does. A good security chief does not share his thoughts. But I cannot believe Hawke would agree that a disastrous operation was, in fact, a competent one. It is an indefensible position."
"Sir, forgive me for repeating myself, but what happened was unforeseeable," Kannaday insisted.
"And I say that what happened was preventable!" Darling yelled.
Kannaday said nothing.
"As for Mr. Hawke, you would not misrepresent what he said. That would be easy to check. So we have a contradiction."
"Mr. Darling, you've lost me," the captain said helplessly.
"Hawke has apparently agreed to back your explanation, that this was a freak occurrence," Darling said. "Why?"
"Because it was."
"Do you like Mr. Hawke?" Darling asked.
"No, sir. I don't."
"You do not like him, you did not hire him," Darling said. "This was your chance to blame him and get rid of him. Why hasn't that happened?"
Darling watched Kannaday's face. The blanket glow of the spotlight left nothing in shadow. The captain did not break eye contact or move his mouth. It was unnatural.
Kannaday was concealing something.
It took a long moment for the captain to speak. It must have felt far longer than that.
"You're right," Kannaday said at last. "I called him out for this. I demanded that he surrender his post."
"And what was his response?"
Carefully, the captain rolled down the neck of his sweater. There was a white surgical bandage taped to his throat. In the center of the bandage was an ugly red spot. Jervis Darling was not surprised to see it. Kannaday had to have been wearing the high collar for some reason. Had he been injured in battle, he would not have sought to hide the wound.
"Hawke put a blade to my throat."
Darling snickered. "You let him surprise you just as the pirates did."
Kannaday did not reply.
"Hawke let you survive so you could absolve his team of blame," Darling went on. "On the one hand, I should not care about that. I am only concerned about results. The problem, Captain, is that I like people to meet or surpass my expectations. You have failed in that regard."
"Once!" Kannaday said. There was frustration, not anger, in the captain's gravelly voice. "We've had a single slip in more than a dozen very difficult, perfectly executed missions."
"You had two slips, Captain Kannaday," Darling pointed out. "First the pirates, then Hawke."
"All right," Kannaday agreed. "I made two mistakes. I accept that responsibility."
"Wherei
n lies the problem," Darling said. "Errors can be repaired. Restoring trust is another issue."
"Mr. Darling, I feel like a catboat in a bloody hurricane," Kannaday said. "I need to finish this job. Then I have to look ahead to the other jobs. I can live with the way things are between me and John Hawke. My ego can handle that. But how do I fix it with you?"
"You are the captain," Darling said. "Figure it out."
"Sir, I'm trying very hard to do that," Kannaday said. "In the future we will attack or avoid any ship that comes close. We'll push the Hosannah to make up as much lost time as possible. I will work out my problems with John Hawke if you like."
"Captain Kannaday, I don't 'like'!" Darling sneered. "You suffered a mutiny on board your vessel!"
"It was a disagreement, Mr. Darling."
"It ended when Mr. Hawke dictated shipboard terms from the hilt of a blade," Darling pointed out. "That, sir, is a mutiny."
Kannaday was about to respond. Instead, his mouth clapped shut and he looked away.
"And you did nothing about it," Darling went on. "Was his knife at your throat all day?"
"No, sir."
"How did he pay for his crime?" Darling demanded. "What did he say when the wind changed and you put a knife at his throat? You did want to do that, didn't you?"
"I did, sir."
"I wish you had," Darling said. "You cannot work for me and for Mr. Hawke. The way back, Captain, is to fix that."
The silence in the kitchen was such that Darling could hear the water fizzing in the bottle.
Kannaday held Darling's gaze a moment longer. "I understand, sir. Was there anything else?"
"No," Darling said.
Kannaday nodded. Then he turned to leave. As the captain made his way around the counter, Andrew appeared to escort him from the estate. Andrew had been just out of earshot the entire time. Kannaday respected the secretary's devotion, his discretion, and above all his loyalty. If only everyone in Darling's service were like that.