Sea Of Fire (2003)

by Clancy, Tom - Op Center 10

  “Who may have had his wife murdered,” Hood said.

  “Oh, Jesus Lord!” Perry said angrily. “Don’t tell me you believe that old smear!”

  “Who would smear him?”

  “He spent a great deal of money to find out,” Perry replied. “He discovered that the Singaporeans had spread that rumor to try to keep him from investing in liberal political causes over there. God, Hood. I was with Mr. Darling when he received word of his wife’s death. He was despondent. So was his daughter. The idea that he would have arranged it is frankly insulting.”

  “Mr. Perry, I’m not going to dispute what you’ve told me,” Hood said. “Our information differs from yours.”

  “Then you are misinformed.”

  “You know something, Mr. Perry? I really hope so. I hope we’re wrong about everything from the homicide to the nuclear trafficking. I hope you’re doing this from deep conviction and a sense of honor.”

  “Mr. Hood, in the presence of God himself I would swear to everything I told you.”

  “You didn’t tell me anything other than your beliefs, not fact,” Hood pointed out. “But I thank you for sharing your perspective.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Hood. I’d like to share this as well,” Perry went on. “If Mr. Darling is bothered again without overwhelming evidence, charges will be brought against Mr. Herbert and yourself. Legal charges in Australia, ethics violations here.”

  “Bruce, you should have quit before you trotted out the threats,” Hood said. “They always stink of guilt.”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Perry told him. “You collect intelligence, Mr. Hood. This is intelligence. Use it.”

  Perry hung up. Hood shook his head slowly as he replaced the phone. He jabbed the Delete key on his computer. That removed Perry’s file from his monitor. That was the problem with government dossiers. They gave you plenty of data but not the man.

  Of course, what intelligence services called 2DD—two-dimensional data, facts without body or analysis—was only one of the problems with government service. What bothered Hood more was how officials had to battle the enemies without while fighting the enemies within even harder. The longer he stayed in public service, the more Hood became convinced that leaders were a burden to society. If they all went away, the people would do just fine. A leader could not be ambitious and still serve others. People were fortunate when the ambitions of a leader, like Lincoln, like Franklin Roosevelt, happened to coincide with the general good.

  Hood took a moment to check with Mary Timm. She was already on her second sweep of the region. If someone was on the run, she was willing to bet that they were not using the GPS.

  “Which could mean what?” Hood asked.

  “That the subject is either very near to land and can sail by eye or compass. Or else they have no intention of going near land, in which case a navigational aid would be extraneous,” Mary replied.

  That was not what Hood wanted to hear. He relayed the information to Herbert. The intelligence chief was unfazed.

  “Any intelligence is useful,” Herbert replied. “Even if it eliminates possibilities.”

  And there again was the paradox of government. Within just a few minutes, Hood’s enemy and his ally had both said virtually the same thing.

  And they were both right.

  FIFTY-THREE

  The Coral Sea Sunday, 1:21 A.M.

  Peter Kannaday’s injuries did not prevent him from leaving his cabin. He stayed there hour after hour out of shame.

  The captain alternately stood by the porthole or lay on the bed. He replayed the attack endlessly, considering things he should have done. He thought back to the days leading to that point. He wished that he had willingly formed an alliance with Hawke instead of being minimized. To do so now would be cowardly. To have done so before the attack would have been wise. Unfortunately, wisdom was not always there when you needed it. He began to wonder, after several hours, if maybe that was the way it needed to be. Lying on his back in the dark, he thought of the biblical prophets who went into the wilderness. They made the journey in order to be pounded down by the sun and starvation. The prophets bought wisdom by taking on pain, loneliness, and doubt. But the knowledge and self-awareness they acquired came with something else. Something indispensable. It nested atop the fortified backbone they needed to apply it.

  Perhaps it was not too late to find courage. Realizing that, Kannaday even saw what form it should take. He had to leave the cabin and take a turn on deck. He had to show the crew and Hawke that he was beaten but not broken. He also needed to be more than just a captain. He needed to regain command.

  Kannaday rose from the bed. The now-familiar aches made him wince, but they did not cause him to pause. He could not show hesitation once he left here. He had to be strong.

  As Kannaday headed toward the door, he heard a key being turned in the lock. The door was already unlocked. He bolted for the knob and twisted. It did not turn. He patted his back pocket. His key case had been removed. He went to his desk for the spare. It, too, was gone. Kannaday went back to the door and banged once with the side of his fist.

  “Who’s out there?” he yelled.

  There was no answer. The captain did not waste time or energy shouting. He looked around for something to pry the door open. Possibly the letter opener he had never used. Or one of the hooks from the closet. He would try the letter opener first. He went to the desk, but the opener was gone.

  In quick succession Kannaday heard the 220 horsepower Caterpillar engine quiet, idle, then stop. The yacht slowed. This was not a scheduled stop. Then he heard the winches above him begin to turn. The dinghies were being lowered. The floor no longer hummed with the low vibration caused by the powerful motor. What the hell was going on?

  Kannaday leaned on the desk. He punched on the intercom to the radio room.

  “Marcus, are you there?”

  Again, no answer. Which, in a way, was an answer in itself.

  Just then he heard a commotion in the hallway. He went to the door and pressed his ear to it. Crew members were coming and going. He heard crashing but no shouts. The men were breaking things, but they were not fighting. It sounded as if they were in the lab.

  “Sweet Christ almighty,” he muttered.

  They were in the lab. Destroying the equipment. Destroying evidence? But they were not throwing it over the side. They were smashing equipment on the floor. That could only mean one thing. It would be staying on board. And that could only mean one thing.

  They intended that the Hosannah never be found.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Cairns, Australia Sunday, 1:42 A.M.

  Warrant Officer George Jelbart was relieved and hopeful when the Humvee returned.

  Hanging around in the observation tower with Spider was not Jelbart’s idea of a fun time. Spider was one of those hard-talking Sydney street kids who were equally at home rock climbing on Cradle Mountain in Tasmania or picking fights with Southeast Asians who frequented the bars of Perth. Spider was not up here because he loved nature. Or because he wanted to protect and serve the people of Queensland. He was here because he loved the danger of fire. In Spider’s eyes it was the ultimate enemy. A force that existed even in the vacuum of space. Jelbart wondered how the edgy, restless young man would react if he knew about the fire his own team was trying to prevent. Fire that could not be extinguished. Fire that was the ultimate deterrent until someone actually used the damn thing. Then it was the breath of hell itself. Jelbart had seen the disaster simulations put together by the American Pentagon. Those were programs that could not properly be called war simulations. After an initial flourish, both sides were effectively crippled. They included death tolls and destructive swaths for nuclear exchanges between India and Pakistan, China and Taiwan, Israel and any of its Middle Eastern neighbors. They included statistics for small, ten-megaton bombs exploded in major metropolises. They also included data for the exploding of small dirty bombs, nuclear material packed with traditional e
xplosives such as plastique and dynamite. The best-case scenario involved the deaths of over 10,000 people.

  Spider appeared oblivious to concepts of that magnitude. Nor was there any reason he should be aware of them. But his mano a mano nature seemed naive in the face of what Jelbart and the others were tracking.

  Leyland parked the Humvee near the helicopter pad. He set Little Maluka down. The koala returned to the tower. Then Leyland called Eva and asked her to get the pilot from the cabin. The fire warden said nothing about their mission to his two associates.

  “I expect you may get some fallout from all this,” Jelbart told Leyland. He realized, after saying it, what word he had chosen.

  “I can handle it,” Leyland said. “He can’t prove I knew what you blokes were up to. Besides, what are they going to do? Fire me?” Leyland winked. He had obviously meant to use that word.

  “You’re a good man,” Jelbart said, shaking his hand.

  Loh bowed slightly to Leyland. Herbert clasped the captain’s hand with both of his. Behind him, the pilot readied the chopper.

  “The koala idea was a damn good one, Captain,” Herbert said. “I’m the guy that mucked things up. If they do kick you out, come to Washington. There’s a job waiting for you.”

  “Thanks. You’re definitely a bloke to go scrub-bashing with,” Leyland told him.

  Loh had opened the door, and Herbert wheeled over. The three climbed into the helicopter. They were airborne in under a minute. Jelbart glanced at the spotlit observation tower as it receded. It tightened the warrant officer’s throat, just a little, to know that there were men like Captain Leyland. Men who did not limit their sense of duty to what was in their job description. That did not diminish Spider. But it certainly elevated Leyland.

  Herbert leaned forward as they soared toward the starlit skies. “What the hell is scrub-bashing?” he asked Jelbart.

  “That’s when you make your own road through dense brush,” Jelbart replied. “It’s a he-man’s Sunday drive. If you get invited, it means you rate. You obviously made a good impression.”

  “Oh,” Herbert replied.

  The intelligence chief sat back. He looked confused.

  Jelbart had not known Herbert long. But he knew how a man looked when he was frustrated. Herbert had that look. Leyland had to have noticed that, too. That could be why he said what he did, to give Herbert a little boost.

  Jelbart smiled as they headed toward the coast. That elevated Leyland a little more.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  The Coral Sea Sunday, 1:55 A.M.

  Captain Kannaday was unable to pry open the cabin door. That was ironic. He did not want to get out when he could. Now that the door was locked, he desperately wanted to be on the other side.

  Without access to the radio room, he could not call out. Here in the cabin he had very little at his disposal. A porthole just wide enough for his head. He could not crawl out. There was also the shower. If he plugged up the drain and tore the desk lamp from its cord, he could drop the loose ends into the water. Anyone stepping in the water would get a jolt. But the lamps in the yacht were run off a marine deep cycle battery. The 550 ampere charge would not kill them. He did not even think it would stun them.

  And Kannaday would still be trapped in here.

  He had a cigarette lighter, but the door was fireproof. He would not even be able to burn through it.

  He swore. He could not understand what Darling and Hawke were up to. The captain’s body had adjusted to the pain. He started to pace. He felt as though he were working sore muscles. He paused now and then to kick the door. The cabin had never seemed so small.

  Suddenly, he heard a low growl from down the hall. The floor began to vibrate. It sounded as if someone were using an electric drill or router. They were kept in the event the yacht suffered damage in a collision or storm. But the sound seemed to be coming from below. There was a long, narrow crawl space between the deck and the red cedar outer hull. The area was accessible through a trapdoor in the corridor. Cables, extra gear, and emergency equipment such as the tools and flares were kept there.

  The ship was in fine shape. There was only one reason to enter the crawl space with tools. They were putting a hole in the outer hull. The Hosannah was going to be scuttled.

  “Hawke!” the captain screamed as he pounded on the door again. “Dammit, Hawke!”

  Kannaday cursed himself for not having acted sooner. What was happening out there transcended discipline and retribution. Darling would only sink the ship if it could be used against him. Something must have gone wrong somewhere in the network. Darling needed to get rid of the evidence. Hence the smashing of the equipment. Darling also needed someone to take the fall. A corpse could not deny its guilt.

  Kannaday was not especially close to the crew. Darling would not have had to offer them much to cooperate.

  “You bastards!” he shouted.

  Even if the men were listening, no one could have heard him. The winch and whatever tools they were using made too much noise.

  The winch stopped. The two boats must be in the water. Kannaday could not be sure. His porthole looked out toward the starboard side of the yacht. A moment later, the rumbling sounds from the interior corridor also stopped. The captain heard voices and hurried footsteps. A few seconds later, all the noises on the vessel were coming from above deck. The men were rushing to the stern. They were obviously getting into the dinghies. Kannaday wondered if his own crew knew he was not coming.

  Kannaday screamed in frustration. He ran at the door again. It was reinforced and watertight to prevent flooding. The impact hurt his shoulder, and he backed away.

  Rubbing it, the captain paced anxiously in a tight circle. He looked around, trying desperately to think of a way out. There were aerosol cans in the bathroom. Perhaps he could puncture them, cause them to explode. But how, without hurting himself in the process?

  Suddenly, the yacht became very still and stable. Kannaday heard the two masts creak. The waves were no longer moving it from side to side. That meant it was bottom heavy.

  The yacht was going down.

  FIFTY-SIX

  The Great Barrier Reef Sunday, 2:09 A.M.

  Monica Loh knew that the search for Jervis Darling’s vessel was probably hopeless.

  The Singaporean patrol boat was moving at top speed toward the area. It was listening for the ship in a continuous sweep of all radio frequencies. The chopper was watching for the vessel. But a boat running silent and probably dark would be virtually impossible to find at night. Radar was unreliable due to the sheer number of hits they picked up: not just boats but reefs, sea creatures on the surface, even large waves. Modern equipment was occasionally too sensitive to be useful. She was guessing that by daybreak it would be gone completely. And with the ship hidden, they would lose their best chance to track this action to Darling and find the missing nuclear waste.

  Jelbart was on the radio with his home base. When he was finished, the pilot contacted the RAAF Airfield Defence Squadron satellite base in Cooktown. That was the nearest refueling point in the region.

  FNO Loh did not feel comfortable about the new world in which they were living. She did not yearn for a simpler era. Nor did she doubt her skills or those of her shipmates. They were smart and disciplined. What worried her were the agents who had joined groups like Interpol or the CIA because it seemed glamorous. Many of them did not expect nor ask for the grievous responsibility that had been placed on their backs. Loh hoped their efforts here would be an example to others rather than an exception. The civilized world did not have time to accommodate long apprenticeships.

  “I just spoke with General Hopkins,” the pilot informed the group. “He’ll let us refuel there. That gives us ninety minutes of flying time. How do you want to spend it?”

  “Warrant Officer, that’s your call,” Herbert said.

  “I suggest we follow the reef northeast,” Jelbart said. “HQ said that Darling’s property holdings are mostly in the sout
h and west. That would be out of reach for his boat. And his cove is completely open. My guess is he’ll make a run for the open sea and a foreign port.”

  “Perhaps the same port that swallowed the Malaysian vessel,” FNO Loh suggested.

  “That’s a reasonable guess,” Jelbart admitted. “So we’ll head north, which we’ll have to do to reach Cooktown. Then we’ll swing out toward the sea in a tight Z pattern and hope we spot our prey.”

  “Sirs, General Hopkins has also offered to launch a pair of A3 Mirage fighters if we need them for surveillance,” the pilot added.

  Loh waited to see Jelbart’s response. The need for absolute security, to keep any leaks from Darling, versus the need for information.

  “It’s getting too late in the day for overcaution,” Jelbart said. “Thank the general and say we would welcome the help. I’ll have a look at the map and give him the air routes we’d like covered.”

  “Yes, sir,” the pilot replied.

  “I’ll notify my patrol boat of our plan,” Loh said.

  Jelbart passed the headset back to her while he took a look at the flight book.

  “I wonder if their base might be a tanker of some sort,” Herbert thought aloud. “Something mobile.”

  “And protectable,” Jelbart said. “Something that large could be a floating SCUD bank.”

  “It sure would be a helluva delivery platform for nuclear-tipped missiles,” Herbert agreed. “Hell, there isn’t a port on earth tankers don’t visit.”

  Loh listened to the men as she placed her call. She hoped they were mistaken. It was bad enough contemplating the damage petty despots could do with intermediate-range missiles. Add money and international political clout, and there was no limit to the potential subterfuge.

  Even if Herbert and Jelbart were wrong this time, they might not be wrong the next time. Or the time after that. Things were going to have to change radically in the way the military and intelligence services did business.