Sea Of Fire (2003)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 10

  Kannaday stood at the port-side railing. He watched as the shipping vessel pulled within fifteen meters of the yacht. Neither boat went to anchor. The captains wanted to be mobile. Four Hosannah security men came from belowdecks. Each man was carrying a small barrel. Hawke was behind them. He had been watching the loading of the mini-launch. The Hosannah had two, both suspended from the rear. The vessel would be loaded with the valuable cargo and then lowered. The Hosannah would take nothing in return. Payment on delivery was worked out through other means. Kannaday did not know what they were. Overseas bank transactions most likely.

  Kannaday walked over to his crew. “Mr. Hawke, I’d like you to go with them.”

  “I always do,” he replied.

  “Not with our crew, with the Malaysians,” Kannaday said.

  Hawke turned to face Kannaday. The lantern was behind Hawke. Kannaday could not see his expression.

  “Why would I want to do that?” Hawke asked.

  “To ensure the security of the cargo. To reassure the chief,” Kannaday told him.

  “Did he order me to do that?”

  “I’m asking you to go,” Kannaday replied. The captain made a point of asking rather than ordering. He hoped that would make it go down easier. He also refused to say whether or not the order came from Darling. Hawke would not dare call to find out. That would appear openly mutinous. Hawke had to know that Darling would not be sympathetic to that.

  How and why was not important. What mattered was to get Hawke into the launch. Kannaday would log the order and show Jervis Darling that he was still in command.

  Hawke was silent as the men continued working behind him. He was obviously considering the same options Kannaday had contemplated.

  “What if I decline to go?” Hawke asked. He moved closer to Kannaday. His eyes were steel resolve.

  “Why would you do that?”

  “My post is here, on the yacht,” Hawke replied.

  “Your post is where the captain sends you,” Kannaday said. “Patrols are out there. You know that. They may be looking for us and anyone we meet. Or would you prefer that I radio the chief? Tell him that you do not consider the cargo to be worth protecting?”

  “I’ll send some of my security team,” Hawke replied. “We do not need them here at the moment.”

  “They are not as capable as their leader.”

  “They are capable enough,” Hawke insisted. He turned to go.

  “Would you prefer that I call the chief and tell him that you are afraid to go?” Kannaday asked. The captain was speaking loud enough now that the other crew members could hear.

  Hawke did not even look back. “Do that.”

  “Mr. Hawke, you will go aboard that fishing vessel or you will go below,” Kannaday ordered.

  “I have work to do,” Hawke replied.

  “Your work is finished,” Kannaday told him.

  “Not until we are back at the cove,” Hawke shot back. He was still looking ahead.

  Kannaday felt as if he’d been hit by a swinging spar. Hawke had defied him in front of the crew. The security officer had embarrassed him in front of the Malaysians, who were watching with night-vision glasses from the deck of their vessel. They would carry word to their boss, who would relay it to Darling. Kannaday’s brain, spirit, and flesh were all affected by a disorienting sense of humiliation. Reason left him. His ego winked off, then came back like a nova. His flesh grew hot and prickly. Kannaday felt as though the dignity had been baked from him. He wanted it back. He had considered the possibility that Hawke would refuse the order. But he had not imagined exactly how it would feel.

  Nonetheless, there was only one thing for Kannaday to do.

  Without hesitation, Kannaday reached for the back of the security officer. He placed a strong hand on each of the man’s shoulders. He did not grab just the fabric of Hawke’s sweater. His fingers dug deep, wrapping tightly around the meat of the man’s shoulders. Kannaday took a long step back, pulling Hawke with him. The captain immediately turned and dipped and slammed Hawke onto the deck. The security chief lay on his back. He whipped the wommera from his sash and pointed the blade up. Kannaday wanted to drop on the man’s chest and pound him senseless. But he forced himself to step back. Kannaday did not want to give Hawke the opportunity to kill him in self-defense.

  Hawke rose quickly. “You bloody bastard! No one puts his hands on me! No one!”

  The men were less than ten feet apart. Hawke walked forward slowly, holding the blade waist high. The captain stood firmly on the gently rolling deck. His legs were wide and his fists were low at his sides. His eyes were on Hawke, who was now walking into the light.

  There was no going back.

  “Come at me again, damn you!” Hawke said.

  “Back off, Hawke. You disobeyed an order!”

  “You’re not fit to give them!” Hawke said.

  “Then relieve me of my command, Mr. Hawke.”

  The launch was loaded but did not lower into the water. The crew had stopped working. Everyone was watching the altercation between the captain and the security officer.

  “I’ll make it easy for you,” Kannaday said. He stepped forward, took the wommera blade, and placed it against his heart. “Use it!”

  Hawke glared at the captain. Kannaday did not know what the security officer would do. It was not as if the authorities of any nation or maritime group would care that a smuggler had mutinied.

  Hawke pushed the tip through Kannaday’s shirt. He continued to drive it forward. Kannaday knew he could not back down. Not with everyone watching. Not after he had given Hawke this opportunity.

  Hawke stopped. He did not remove the wommera blade from Kannaday’s chest. The knife hurt, dull and tight like a muscle cramp. But the captain refused to show pain.

  “I do not participate in gestures,” Hawke said. “Our customers can see to the security of their own vessel. I was hired to look after this one.”

  “In that case, your job is done,” Kannaday said. “You may go below.”

  Hawke hesitated. The captain realized there was only one way to end this impasse.

  Kannaday took a step back. The blade slipped from his chest. The captain ignored the laceration and the bleeding beneath his shirt. He turned and addressed the crew at the stern.

  “Mr. Neville, take the cargo to the fishing vessel,” Kannaday said to the launch pilot. Neville was one of Kannaday’s men.

  “Yes, sir,” the seaman replied.

  The men lowered the launch into the water. Kannaday walked to the railing and watched as the small boat settled into the smooth sea. The four men climbed down an aluminum ladder and boarded her. Neville turned on a small spotlight at the front of the boat. A moment later they pulled from the yacht and headed toward the fishing vessel.

  Kannaday turned back to finish up with Hawke. His rage was gone but not his anger. It had been turned into strength of purpose. The captain did not know what he would say or do. Fortunately, he did not have to decide right now. John Hawke was gone.

  So were his men.

  Kannaday began walking toward the mainmast. As he did, he casually pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. He shook it out and slipped it under his shirt. He pressed it against the wound. The cut was bleeding moderately. A bandage should take care of it. He would tend to it when he went below. He wished his problem with John Hawke could be as easily resolved.

  Kannaday was exhausted, but he dared not rest. When the launch returned, they would head back to Cairns. The trip would take nearly four hours. Hawke would surely attempt some form of retribution during that time. The security chief could not let the public rebuke stand. Not if he wanted to retain credibility with his men. And not if he wanted to maintain his own self-respect. Kannaday knew damn well what that was like. He was glad he had been able to turn this around.

  Suddenly, Marcus Darling emerged from belowdecks. The radio operator hurried toward the captain. It was strange to see the younger Darling hurry anywhere. Nothing i
n life had ever seemed important to him.

  “What is it?” Marcus asked breathlessly as he approached.

  “What is what?” Kannaday asked.

  “Mr. Hawke said you wanted to see me,” Marcus said. “He told me it was urgent.”

  Kannaday felt as if he had been stabbed again, this time in the back of the neck. His sense of satisfaction evaporated like sea mist at morning. He looked at the younger man and swore.

  Already aware that it was probably too late, Kannaday ran around Marcus Darling and headed toward the stair-well. Hawke wanted the radio room for a reason. And whatever that reason was, it would not be in Kannaday’s best interests.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The Celebes Sea Saturday, 1:01 A.M.

  Monica Loh had never felt comfortable conversing with outsiders. To her, that meant anyone who was not a member of her immediate family. She had always been able to prove herself with actions. She felt confident in any situation where physical or command skills were required. She was proficient at judo, skilled with handguns, and emphatically prepared to carry out orders. That was what an officer of the Singaporean military did.

  Conversation was a different matter. FNO Loh could never anticipate every question, and she hated saying, “I don’t know.” That was a sign of weakness. She was particularly uncomfortable talking with men. Rarely was the conversation simply what it seemed to be. She usually felt that they were talking down to her or tolerating her. Sometimes they were looking at her body and not even listening. She could always tell. Thoughts relaxed them. When the mind was engaged, only their eyes were alert. But when men were exposed to physical stimuli, their entire body became tense, predatory.

  Fortunately, Jelbart and Coffey had not been with her when she told them about Dorothy Darling. The conversation was only about what she knew, which was not much.

  Loh told them how the thirty-five-year-old woman had gone to Singapore with her young daughter Jessica-Ann. They went to the famed Jurong Birdpark early one morning, two hours before it opened to the public, then went off by SUV into the surrounding hills. Mrs. Darling was a pilot and an avid fan of hang gliding. While her daughter picnicked with Mrs. Darling’s personal secretary, Robin Hammerman, Mrs. Darling and her longtime flight instructor from Cairns drove their car higher into the range. They brought a powered hang glider—a tandem unit that looked like a large motor scooter suspended from a traditional hang glider. The unit was an early, homemade model. It did not have the ballistic parachute system that came with later designs.

  Loh told the men how the engine of the hang glider caught fire shortly after liftoff. While Jessica-Ann watched, the blazing hang glider briefly circled the hills before plunging into a dense wood.

  “That had to have left some serious psychological scars,” Lowell Coffey suggested.

  “The girl described the sight as a red-and-black bird,” Loh said. “She said there were screeches coming from it.”

  “Jesus wept,” Jelbart murmured.

  “Was this information contained in an official investigation report?” Coffey asked.

  “I only read the Australian newspaper reports, which were rather graphic,” Loh told him.

  “Many of the local rags tend to be that way,” Jelbart admitted. “I don’t like reading or repeating that rot.”

  “I did hear that Mr. Darling’s bank accounts were flagged and watched,” Loh said.

  “By which nation?” Coffey asked.

  “Australia,” Loh said. “According to those newspaper accounts, which I’ve read, the man’s wife was allegedly having an affair with the flight instructor. Prosecutors wanted to see who Darling might have paid to sabotage the engine. If they found anything that would have given them an actionable crime, they could have made a case for intent to cause death.

  “The murder investigation was the start of the search, but the end was somewhat surprising,” FNO Loh continued. “There was not enough of the engine left to examine, and investigators did not uncover any sort of payoff from Mr. Darling to whoever may have executed this crime. But they did find evidence of unusual financial activity.”

  “Unusual in what way?” Coffey asked.

  “Mr. Darling was putting more money into Singapore banks at a lower interest rate than he could get in Australia,” Loh said. “And he was keeping it in liquid assets only.”

  “Was that in the newspapers, too?” Coffey asked.

  “No,” she replied.

  “Then how do you know?” he pressed.

  “I briefly dated a banker. He liked to impress me with the names on accounts he was managing,” she said.

  “Hence the ‘briefly dated,’ ” Coffey said.

  Loh did not respond. But the American attorney was correct.

  “This banker bloke told you that the government was watching Darling’s accounts?” Jelbart asked.

  “He did,” Loh replied. “He did not tell me what they may have found out, if anything. I’m not sure he would have known.”

  “So you don’t really know the extent to which the government is investigating Darling or what else they may have found,” Jelbart said.

  “No,” Loh said.

  “If they had evidence connecting Darling to the death of his wife, they would have gone after him,” Coffey said. “Australia and Singapore have an extradition arrangement.”

  “I can’t imagine him being careless enough to leave any kind of trail,” Jelbart remarked.

  “As American presidents and corporate CEOs have demonstrated with regularity, powerful people often feel bulletproof,” Coffey pointed out. “Though I am intrigued, FNO Loh. You seem pretty certain that Jervis Darling had his wife murdered.”

  “By all accounts, he is a possessive man.”

  “And are all possessive men killers?” Coffey asked.

  “I believe most people would be killers if they thought they could get away with it,” she answered.

  “I’m not sure I agree, but that’s not important,” Coffey said. “FNO Loh, do you have access to the government files on Darling?”

  “I don’t know,” Loh admitted. She found herself over-enunciating the words as she forced them from her mouth. “But I’ll find out,” she added.

  “When you do, ask if they have anything on Mahathir bin Dahman, a Malaysian billionaire,” Coffey said. He spelled the name for her. “Have you ever heard of him?”

  “Again, only what I have read in the newspapers,” she said. “He is heavily involved in the development of real estate.”

  “Any scandals?” Coffey asked.

  “None of which I am aware,” the officer reported. That was a somewhat milder form of “I don’t know.” It did not come out any easier. FNO Loh wished she did not feel as though she had to impress these two men. They certainly were not pushing her.

  “All right,” Coffey said. “Anything you can find will be more than we have now.”

  “Have you heard anything more about the sailor from the sampan?” Loh asked.

  “The last report I had from the hospital was about ninety minutes ago,” Jelbart said. “The patient was sedated and not speaking.”

  “Do they have anyone who can speak Malay in case he does say something?” she asked.

  “The intercom is on, and there is a voice-activated tape recorder at his bedside,” Jelbart said. “Anything he says will be recorded and played for someone who can translate. I’ll make certain you hear it as well.”

  “Thank you,” she said. Loh had to admit that for men, these two seemed all right.

  “The question is, what do we do while we wait?” Coffey asked.

  “If I may make a suggestion,” Loh said.

  “Please,” Coffey replied.

  “I will contact Singapore for those files. But we have a saying in the military: ‘Do not wait. Advance.’ ”

  “I’m sure that reads well in a textbook,” Coffey said.

  “It works in practice, Mr. Coffey,” Loh replied. It felt good to say that with certainty. “
I believe that we should try to collect our own intelligence about Mr. Darling.”

  “I’m a coastal police officer, not a spy,” Jelbart said. The warrant officer was not complaining. It sounded to Loh as though he were frustrated. And a little concerned. “I’m also afraid that the more Australians who know about this, the greater the odds of Darling finding out. We’re still talking about theories, and highly speculative ones at that.”

  “Our top spy will land in Australia a few hours from now,” Coffey said. “He’ll know what to do.”

  “I can tell you what we have to do,” Loh replied.

  “Can you?” Coffey asked.

  “Yes.” It felt good to be able to answer this one, too. Because the answer was not only right, it was obvious. “We should not waste time following the 130-5 trail. It is already cold.”

  “What should we do?” Coffey asked.

  “Make sure that Jervis Darling is unable to kill,” she replied. “Again.”

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Washington, D.C. Friday, 12:31 P.M.

  “Boss, would you please authorize the uploading of a benevolent systemic virus?”

  The man in the doorway was portly Matt Stoll. The young computer genius was standing there with his arms at his sides and his expression deadpan. Unless there was a crisis, Paul Hood had learned to take nothing the technical wizard said seriously. Stoll was not just a proudly archetypical nerd, he was a proudly archetypical nerd on steroids. It was not enough for him to be smart. He was aggressively intelligent, still driven by the curiosity and precociousness that must have made him an elementary school terror.

  “A benevolent virus,” Hood said, playing along. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Something that would allow users of National OnLine Operations to enjoy a functioning Internet provider,” Stoll said. “Every time I open an attachment, I get booted. Every time I download a photograph, I get booted. Every time I try to access data, I’m told that the system is busy.”