Conspiracy of Fire

by Tony Bulmer

  “Where do you want me to pick this up?” asked Karyn.

  “Oahu, Hawaii. Senator Johnston has been receiving substantial campaign contributions from a Chinese based organization known as the Tao Corporation, a technology conglomerate involved in just about everything you can think of, from aerospace development to power generation. They are about to open a revolutionary new power station on the Big Island, they also have a Pacific office in Honolulu.”

  “You think the Chinese are involved in this?”

  Jack Senegar’s frown lines deepened. “The head honcho of the Tao Corporation is a hotshot entrepreneur name of Deng Tao, some say he is the richest man in the world. I have evidence that suggests he is a conduit for subversion.”

  “What kind of subversion?”

  “That is what I want you to find out. I want you to work the known associates route. Start by looking into Johnston’s business affairs—use your Department of Justice credentials, so you can get on the inside.”

  Karyn looked down the street. She couldn’t see the shooters, but she knew they were there, staring hard at her through laser scope rifles. She removed her sunglasses and looked at Jack Senegar, her amber eyes burning with dangerous intent. “Are you looking for revenge, Jack, or Justice?”

  “I am looking to secure the future of the United States of America. Are you onboard Agent Kane?”

  “If my country is asking I am ready Jack. If it is you who is asking, you are really going to have to watch your manners, because I don’t appreciate being boxed in by your personal honor guard. That kind of approach could be misconstrued as unpleasantness—and you know how you hate unpleasantness, especially when it is coming your way.”

  Senegar gave her a hard look, “Given your record in public relations Agent Kane, I would recommend only the lightest of touches, particularly whilst dealing with local law enforcement—keep blue collar casualties to an absolute minimum, are we clear?”

  “I promise I will do my job Jack, what more

  could you want?”

  “I want you to take care of yourself for a

  change. Do you think that is possible?”

  “I think that if you spend any more time

  talking sweet, your posse of helpers will think we

  are going to elope. Incidentally, tell the chick with

  the Army issue Malinois, to switch the pooch out

  for a poodle—it is a dead give away. Now, if you

  don’t mind, I have work to do.”

  04

  The Pacific Ocean,

  1300 nautical miles off the coast of Southern California. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric

  Administration ship Nautilus was heading on a westerly course at a steady 12 knots. Seas were light, an idle swell rising gently across the bow, as the vessel cut through the glistening waters of the Pacific. In the bridge, Captain Pedro Álvares monitored signals from a vast array of hi-­‐tech sensors, as they fed an endless stream of data into the control room. It had been an uneventful day, characterized as usual by the gently undulating shift of the world’s largest and most powerful ocean. Álvares liked it quiet, but these days, voyages were almost too quiet, not like the Navy days when there was always some kind of crisis that needed resolving. As the commander of a fleet supply ship, he had sailed the world a dozen times or more, seen action in the Persian Gulf, the northern Mediterranean and Indian Ocean— shipping supplies to every warzone and

  humanitarian disaster the Navy had gotten wrapped up in and that was just about all of them.

  Now times were different. Working for NOAA it seemed that the chaos and crisis of the old days had shipped out of life for good. The only test he got these days was from that dock rat First Officer out of Long Beach—Frank Buchanan was old school, a broken-­‐faced old boozehound, more cranky than a diesel turbine and just about as

  noisy. On a good day Frank was the best sailor Álvares had ever known, and on a bad day—well, you never wanted to catch Frank on a bad day. The thought caused a wry smile to edge into the corner of his mouth. Álvares caught himself, corrected then glanced coolly to around the bridge to ascertain if this moment of unscheduled levity had been detected. But none of the crew had noticed. Safe in the knowledge that his private moment had gone undetected Álvares raised his chin and surveyed the distant horizon.

  Although they were so far from land, more than half way between Hawaii and the continental United States, they were by no means alone in their mission. The seas were alive, ever changing, moving to the rise and fall of an eternal seascape. Far to the horizon, in the mist shrouded shipping lanes, monster commercial ships the size of several city blocks cruised menacingly across the skyline, carrying their wares—oil, commodities and consumer-­‐durables of every description—trade moving in an endless cycle, to keep the great continents of the world alive.

  On the port bow, a pod of dolphins broke the surface, racing after a fast moving school of deep-­‐water fish. As they came breaking through the surf to avoid capture, the fish glittered silver in the sun. Nature was a beautiful thing, noted Álvares— Such things put a man in touch not just with nature—but with the essence of his very soul.

  But the mission of the Nautilus was entirely unrelated to the poetry of the living ocean. The Nautilus was a science ship, collecting and relaying climatic and seismic data to the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration data centre in

  Silver Spring Maryland. Acting as a beacon and relay for weather data, nothing could escape the attentions of the Nautilus and its advanced sensors. If there was any kind of weather system moving in from the turbulent oceans be it a depression or tropical cyclone, it would be duly recorded. If even the slightest tremor or movement of the ocean floor occurred, the event would be broadcast in real time, into the national computer warning system for earthquake and tsunami awareness.

  It was certainly a worthwhile feeling, knowing that a quiet day at sea could serve the needs of so many. Reassuring to think that lives could be saved by the prompt and speedy relay of the Nautilus’s carefully gathered data. Knowing that so many relied on both him and the work of his crew, gave purpose to the life of Captain Pedro Álvares. He took a breath, rose up on his toes, a glow of pride running through him.

  Today, the focus of the mission had been the collection of deep-­‐water seismic information, searching for signs of underwater earthquakes caused by the never-­‐ending shift of the vast continental masses surrounding and running beneath the Pacific. These continental plates floated like ocean flotsam above a bottomless pit of fire that stretched deeper than Hades.

  The molten pressure of these giant continents, grinding so slowly against each other created massive stress—a pressure building over decades or centuries, until a sudden juddering movement created an earthquake. Such events also created Tsunami waves, moving out from the source of the disturbance like ripples on a pond, except the ripples in the ocean could rise higher

&
nbsp; than a house, and move faster than and express train, swamping everything before them, in a deadly torrent of sea water.

  Such seismic events were more common than many suspected, but rarely were they of a magnitude to cause significant comment—let alone damage. Still, these things had to be monitored, and for that purpose a vast network of buoys dedicated to Deep Ocean Assessment and Reporting of Tsunamis had been deployed across the Pacific. These DART buoys kept a lonely vigil across the vast ocean, visited only for occasional maintenance, by the Nautilus. At least that was the idea, but those damn buoys were like distant relatives, thought Álvares; you didn’t see them for years, but when you finally caught up with them there was always trouble.

  The buoys were always breaking down, giving false positives, and sometimes even cutting free of their moorings altogether—then off they went, floating away on and endless journey, across forty million miles of ocean. It was a constant problem; an endless game of chase, over a field of play so vast, it denied comprehension.

  A hard-­‐bitten veteran of the US Navy and Merchant marine Álvares liked the ocean just fine—in fact, he preferred it to the land—life was much simpler out here, least it had been until those damn DART buoys came on the scene. Each one of them packed with enough technology to launch a spaceship—they scanned the ocean floor for signs of seismic activity then reported their findings to outer space where the multibillion-­‐dollar NOAA sat floated, like a lonely sentinel, moored in

  geostationary orbit.

  The only gear on board that creaked as much as those damn buoys was Frank Buchanan, it was with that thought in mind, that a whiskey and cigars voice called out from the door way. “Are you going to keep the princess out of my way Cap’n? because I’ve had about as much as I can stomach of her bellyaching advice. I got me a buoy winch motor to fix before daybreak, and all I can hear is her yappity-­‐yap—you got to do something about her Cap or I swear That POS buoy we are chasing down isn’t going to be the only piece of useless flotsam floating on a southbound current.”

  “Stow the complaints Buchanan, Science Officer Kellerman comes highly recommended and an Ivy league education to boot. I say you take her advice onboard, if you make nice with her you might even learn something.”

  Buchanan snorked phlegm noisily and wiped his big sweaty hands down the front of his oil stained A-­‐shirt. “I will be damned if I will. The day I take tips from some snooty little college girl on how to bolt this ugly looking boat together is the day the girl scouts make whoopee in Hades.’

  Álvares gave Buchanan a tight look. “Petulance looks ugly when written down in black and white, Buchanan, you would do well to remember that.”

  Buchanan narrowed his eyes, “If you are in a report writing mood Cap’n, you might want to mention how dangerous that oil slicked tailgate up stern can get. There ain’t no telling what could happen back there at night, especially when a swell gets up.”

  Álvares nodded sagely. “Point taken and duly noted Buchanan. Should we for any reason

  lose Science Officer Kellerman to the ocean night, I will be certain to throw you in after her. Now, get back to work, that damn winch motor won’t fix itself.”

  Buchanan leaned in against the doorframe, muscles flexing with agitation. The air hung heavy with the heavy smell of diesel and engine grease. Sensing the standoff might turn ugly the other crew members threw nervous glances at each other, then delved back into their work, with renewed vigor.

  “I ain’t happy, not by a long way,” growled Buchanan at last.

  “You still here?” said Álvares, looking to the

  horizon now.

  Buchanan wiped his oil-­‐streaked forehead

  with the back of a heavily tattooed arm and

  muttered a dark, unintelligible curse, before finally

  lumbering away, his boots echoing heavy and

  metallic in the stairwell.

  For a long moment Álvares remained silent,

  staring out at the mist shrouded horizon, with

  nothing but the steady thrum of the Nautilus’s

  diesel electric engines to accompany his thought.

  Then at length he said quietly, “Mooney, be so kind

  as to request Science officer Kellerman’s

  attendance on the bridge would you.” ENS Mooney

  looked around, his eyes bugging wide. He took a

  swallow, “Sure thing sir, I mean—Yes Captain.” As

  the broken voiced announcement issued over the

  public address system, the words heavy with

  distortion, Captain Pedro Álvares raised his

  binoculars and surveyed the dusk, as it melted

  slowly over the horizon. Soon it would be night, the

  dark coiling world hidden from view—darkness

  never brought peace at sea, only a listless sense of

  uncertainty, rising and falling with the steady throb of waves against the hull. But tonight there was something else, thought Álvares, a sinister kind of energy—a sense of threat hanging over the whole ocean. Perhaps the fates were out of alignment— perhaps Buchanan was right, perhaps— The Captain shook his head, dismissing the feelings out of hand. There was only one thing for sure—he was getting too old for this game, way too old.

  05

  Washington DC The Vice President’s residence in the grounds of the United States Naval Observatory in

  northwestern Washington DC was quite some pile, with its Victorian turret and broad, columned porch, the place could almost have been a country club or a tree shrouded health spa retreat. But the place had a spooky quality, black funereal shutters and deep bulletproof windows that stared out at the pleasant flower filled grounds, with silent menace. Jack Senegar sat out back, by the white painted porch overlooking the pool and drank in the scene. Fifteen minutes he had been waiting and still no sign of the VP. Senegar hated tardiness in all its forms, especially when it came in the overfed political form of the Vice President of the United States.

  When Vice President Dick Hanssen finally arrived, he was full of himself as usual; blowing in, wearing a too tight blue polo shirt tucked into the top of his double pleated pants to accentuate his sagging physique. Not only that, he was wearing shiny brown tassel loafers, that gave him the preppy vibe of an insurance salesman, or an area manager for some god-­‐awful office supplies firm.

  Senegar waited until the VP got close, then rose up out of his seat, until he towered above him.

  The Vice President was ebullient. “Jack, so good to see you again, thank you for coming, I hope my people have been taking care of you?”

  Senegar eyed the bone-­‐china cups and the silver coffee decanter and gave the Vice President a thin look. “We should get down to business,” he said.

  The VP beamed, a look of wide-­‐eyed enthusiasm suddenly taking over, “But of course Jack, of course we should.”

  Senegar sank back slowly into his chair. He snapped down a wayward crease
in his immaculate pinstripe suit jacket with an idle flick of the wrist, then stared at the Vice President for some moments.

  The VP’s smile got wider. His greedy politician’s eyes surveying Senegar, analyzing him, to see how deep his loyalty ran.

  Senegar sat poker faced, watching the prick run his NLP moves, like he had read them off the back of a cornflakes packet or something. Who would have thought a schmo like this could be playing political bagman to the man who actually ran the country, Politicians, thought Senegar with disgust, worthless self-­‐serving weasels to a man; paying lip service to patriotism and the higher ethics of government, yet all the time thinking only of themselves and how they could turn political advantage into cold hard cash.

  “So Jack, what can you tell me?”

  “Our friends in the Bureau are involved.” “Involved? To what extent?”

  “Level Nine.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “HUMINT & COMINT confirmation.” “I see.” The Vice President gave Jack a grave