Shadow Tyrants

by Clive Cussler

  “The Triton Star?”

  “Correct.” Mallik took out his phone. As he texted Rasul to go ahead with the operation, he said to the flight director, “Prepare the Vajra system for activation.”

  Kapoor looked confused. “But sir, the launch failure means we can’t get a global—”

  Mallik cut him off. “Isolated location only. This will be a good opportunity to test the effectiveness of the system on a hardened site.”

  “Yes, sir. The target?”

  “The U.S. military base on Diego Garcia.”

  EIGHT

  DIEGO GARCIA

  The flight from Dyess Air Force Base in Texas had been a long one, with two in-air refueling hookups on the way. Major Jay Petkunas was looking forward to putting his B-1B Lancer bomber on the ground. Camp Thunder Cove, the secluded island’s Air Force and Navy base, was considered one of the best postings in the military because of its tropical climate, but eight hours of rack time sounded better than spending some fun in the sun.

  As he set the bomber’s swing wings to their widest position for landing, he looked out the side window at the U-shaped coral atoll. The thin strip of land around Diego Garcia’s central lagoon covered just twelve square miles. A dozen Navy ships were anchored in the protected harbor, and the rest of the bombers from his squadron were already lined up along one side of the twelve-thousand-foot runway, facing an array of cargo planes and refueling tankers in front of them.

  His copilot, Captain Hank Larsson, who was currently flying the plane, futilely craned his neck to see the view and said, “How do the beaches look?” This was Petkunas’s third trip to the island but Larsson’s first.

  “You’re not tired?”

  “I can sleep on the sand. I have to work on my tan.”

  Petkunas, who was dark-haired with an olive complexion, gave his pale blond copilot a skeptical look. “Good luck with that. You better hope they have a huge supply of aloe for when you fry that translucent Swedish skin of yours.”

  “I have sunblock to keep me from burning.”

  “Is your sunblock rated for nuclear radiation? Because that’s what you need.” The two combat systems officers behind them laughed. Petkunas radioed the control tower. “Thunder Cove tower, this is Bats 12 requesting clearance to land. We have a vampire here who wants to experience what sunlight will do to him.”

  “Bats 12,” a woman’s voice said, “the runway is yours. We’ve got plenty of sun to—”

  Her voice cut out abruptly. At the same time, all of the bomber’s instrument panels went dark. The engines flamed out, enveloping the cockpit in an eerie silence.

  The joking attitude instantly disappeared, and the crew flipped back to the professionals they were.

  Petkunas calmly took hold of the control stick and said, “I have the plane.”

  Larsson let go of his own stick and replied, “You have the plane.”

  “Anything working?”

  “We’ve got a complete power failure.” The men behind Petkunas reported the same.

  Petkunas tried calling the tower, “Thunder Cove, this is Bats 12. We’re declaring an aircraft emergency. I repeat, we’re declaring an aircraft emergency.”

  No response. Not even static.

  “Let’s get the engines restarted,” Petkunas said as the unpowered B-1B glided toward the ocean.

  They raced through the checklist, but it was useless. It seemed like the entire computer control system had short-circuited.

  “Isn’t anything working?” Larsson asked in frustration.

  Petkunas moved the stick to one side, and the bomber sluggishly tilted in response.

  “Hydraulics are intact,” Petkunas said. “Barely.”

  “Without the electronics, we can’t put the gear down.”

  Petkunas knew what he was saying. Even if they could get the huge bomber turned and lined up on the runway, they’d have to make a belly landing.

  It was too risky. If he didn’t handle it just right, they could cartwheel down the runway, killing all four of them.

  Petkunas made a snap decision.

  “Prepare to eject,” he announced. They were close enough to the island to expect a quick rescue.

  “Ready!” the three other crew members called out in succession.

  The ejection system on the B-1B could be operated solely by the pilot or by each individual crew member. When the pilot pulled the ejection handle on the side of the seat, the canopy would blow off, then each seat’s rockets would fire in a prearranged sequence so that they didn’t hit each other when they were shot through the roof.

  Petkunas steeled himself for the extreme force of the ejection and yelled, “Eject! Eject! Eject!” Then he pulled the handle.

  Nothing happened.

  He tried again with the same result.

  “My seat isn’t working,” he told the others. “You’ll have to eject yourselves . . . Eject! Eject! Eject!”

  They did as ordered. Still nothing. Even the canopy stayed in place.

  Larsson stared at him in profound confusion. “What is going on? We got gremlins in here?”

  Petkunas couldn’t explain it until he realized that each seat had a computer-controlled sequencer that precisely determined in what order they should be ejected milliseconds after the handle was pulled. He didn’t know how, but something had gone wrong with every piece of electronics on the plane.

  Another snap decision.

  “We’re landing,” Petkunas said, putting his hand back on the stick. “Let’s hope nobody decides to wander out onto the runway.”

  He didn’t bother calling the tower. If the electrical problem was so complete that the seats wouldn’t eject, then the radio would be disabled as well.

  “Coming around,” Petkunas said as he wrestled to bank the bomber. It fought him every inch of the way, but he was able to put the B-1B into a turn. He kept at it with all his strength until the runway was straight ahead of them. He leveled off and dropped the nose.

  “Altitude is low,” Larsson said.

  “Can’t help that,” Petkunas replied. “We need the speed or we’ll stall before we get to the island. Try lowering the flaps ten degrees.”

  Larsson moved the handle, then shook his head. “No good.”

  “I guess we’ll have to do this the hard way.”

  The artificial horizon and altimeter still worked since they were mechanical, but the fancy electronic displays were black, so Petkunas would have to do this by eyesight and feel along. If this had happened at night or in bad weather, they’d be dead men.

  With the engines out, Petkunas would have only one chance to get this right. The runway was approaching fast as Larsson called out their altitude.

  “Five hundred feet . . . Four hundred . . . Three . . . Two . . . One . . .”

  Petkunas pulled back on the stick to flare out and bleed off speed, but he’d waited too long. He felt a jolt when the tail smacked the runway.

  The impact pitched the plane forward. The bomber’s belly struck the runway with a teeth-rattling blow, and it continued to slide out of control. Petkunas could do nothing else now except go along for the ride.

  The B-1B began to spin, and Petkunas braced himself for the impending somersault that would rip the plane apart. Sparks and smoke flew behind them as the plane scraped across the concrete tarmac, threatening to set fire to the remaining jet fuel if any of the tanks ruptured.

  But the spin turned out to be what saved the plane. The bomber skidded into the grassy area next to the runway and kept going until it crossed a sandy beach that slowed them just before it plowed into the ocean. Seawater sprayed across the windscreen as they came to a halt.

  Petkunas didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until he took in a huge lungful of air to celebrate not dying.

  “Everyone okay?” he asked h
is crew. All three responded that they were fine.

  Normally, they’d exit through the stairway beneath the front landing gear, but that wasn’t possible with a belly landing. And there was still the possibility of a fire.

  Petkunas reached up and manually activated the explosive bolts on the canopy, which blew off with a bang.

  He waited while each man climbed over the edge and jumped out. Then he followed them and landed in the water with a splash. Soaking wet, he waded out of the water and joined his men next to the plane. He could see now that no fuel was leaking, and the plane looked in remarkably good shape except for its underside.

  “Nice work, Major,” Larsson said, clapping him on the shoulder.

  Petkunas shook his head. “That’s something I never want to do again. I see a lot of paperwork in our future.”

  “Cheer up,” Larsson said with a grin. “At least I’m on the beach.”

  Petkunas chuckled. “The fire truck better get here with your sunscreen fast.”

  “Yeah, where are those guys?”

  Now Petkunas realized that he didn’t hear any sirens of approaching emergency units. But he did see people running toward them.

  The first to reach them was one of the ground workers.

  “You guys all right?” he huffed without taking his eyes off the destroyed plane.

  “We’re fine,” Petkunas said. “Don’t they have fire trucks here?”

  “None of them are working right now,” the ground worker said.

  “What?” Larsson said, perplexed.

  “Then it wasn’t just us?” Petkunas asked.

  The Diego Garcia worker shook his head. “All electronic systems went out a few minutes ago while you were in the air. Everything on the island is dead.”

  NINE

  THE INDIAN OCEAN

  “What do you mean, there’s no one there?” Max asked Hali. “That island has over three thousand people stationed on it.”

  Max now sat in the op center’s command chair, with Linda Ross at the radar station. Eric Stone had come over from the Triton Star to help Murph localize the source of the mysterious internet communication, and they were huddled over a terminal examining a stream of data.

  Hali looked completely baffled. “I was talking to Diego Garcia about the USS Gridley’s estimated arrival time, and the satellite connection suddenly went dead.”

  “Maybe something happened to the satellite uplink,” Linda said.

  Hali shook his head in frustration. “I’ve tried radio, telephone, and satellite. Nothing. I also checked with the military and the CIA. It’s not just us. Nobody has been able to get in touch with them. It’s like the island just isn’t there.”

  “Something could have knocked out the island’s electrical plant,” Eric said.

  “A power failure might explain why we couldn’t get in touch with the island,” Hali replied, “but it wouldn’t explain why no one can contact any of the ships based there, including the Gridley, which supposedly was just setting sail. How could they all go out?”

  “Maybe it was a mega-tsunami,” Murph said without looking up from his computer.

  Despite the mocking tone of his voice, Hali answered Murph’s speculation seriously. “No, I already checked. The tsunami warning center hasn’t detected any major earthquakes in the last hour.”

  Eric smirked at Murph. He had recommended the weapons designer for the Oregon post after they worked together on a top secret missile project, and although they were opposites in many ways, they had since become like brothers, with all the banter, competition, and squabbling that entailed.

  “Are you kidding?” Eric scoffed jokingly. “A tsunami is way too mundane. How about a meteor strike?”

  “Or a wormhole?” Murph countered.

  “Alien abduction?”

  “Sharknado?”

  “It doesn’t matter why,” Max said, both amused and exasperated by the two young crew members. “Hali, keep trying. I don’t like coincidences. Especially when strange messages are telling someone to kill everybody. Eric, have you been able to triangulate where the messages are coming from?”

  “Somewhere near the stern of the Triton Star. Can’t be more precise than that.”

  Murph interrupted them. “We’re getting another message.”

  “What’s it say?” Max asked.

  Murph looked up at Max. “Our mystery guest just received another text. It’s giving coordinates and says ‘Launch is a go.’”

  “Launch? What launch?”

  “There’s a satellite launch by Orbital Ocean scheduled right now in the Arabian Sea,” Eric said, “but that’s over six hundred miles away. I don’t see how it could have anything to do with us.” After a pause while he tapped on his computer, Eric added, “And no other satellite launches are scheduled for today anywhere else in the world.”

  “Maybe it’s telling the guy on the Triton Star to launch his operation,” Linda said.

  “Or someone is launching something at us.” Max turned to Murph. “What are the coordinates referring to?”

  “On-screen.”

  A map appeared on the main viewscreen. It zoomed in until the crosshairs were directly over Diego Garcia.

  * * *

  —

  Juan was heading toward the stern of the Triton Star with Eddie and Tao to check out the second container when he heard the news from Max.

  “Any idea what we’re looking for?” Juan asked.

  “The message didn’t have any specifics,” Max replied. “You think they’re talking about the Novichok nerve agent?”

  “Could be something coordinated with an attack on Diego Garcia.” Juan had heard about the communications failure at the U.S. base and didn’t like coincidences any more than Max did.

  “I’ll let you know if Murph and Eric can pinpoint the stowaway’s location.”

  “Thanks. We’ll keep searching. Keep me posted.”

  The two Corporation operatives who’d brought the rest of the Triton Star men over from the Oregon exited the superstructure. Each of them was carrying two FN P90 compact assault rifles, an unusual bullpup design with the ammo magazine on top of the gun and the spent casings ejected through the handle at the bottom to keep them out of the line of sight of the shooter. They walked over and handed the extra weapons to Juan and Eddie.

  The first Oregon crew member was a muscular African-American with a shaved head who was built like a linebacker but was as light on his feet as a gymnast. He was a Detroit native and former Navy SEAL by the name of Franklin Lincoln. Linc had masqueraded as the Goreno’s chief engineer during the hijacking operation. When they’d gotten the call about this mission, he’d been riding around the capital of the Maldives on his custom Harley that he kept aboard the Oregon. As one of the Gundogs—Max’s nickname for the shore operations team—Linc’s biggest claim to fame was being the best sniper on the crew.

  “Chairman,” Linc said, “all of the Triton Star crew are secured in the mess with MacD. You should have seen the looks on their faces when Raven appeared with a P90 in her hands.”

  Linc nodded to the woman next to him. Raven Malloy was the newest member of the crew, and a member of the shore operations team. With straight jet-black hair, caramel skin, and a tall, athletic frame, she was often mistaken for a Latina, Southeast Asian, or Arab, though she was actually Native American of Cherokee and Sioux heritage. Raised as an Army brat by adoptive parents, she had attended West Point, where she studied psychology and learned Arabic and Farsi. Upon graduation, she served as a Military Police officer and gained a reputation as a dogged investigator before becoming frustrated with the bureaucracy and leaving to work in private security. During a joint operation with the Corporation taking on communist rebels in the Philippines, she’d meshed well with the crew and performed admirably under dire circumstances, so Juan had offered h
er a spot on the Oregon.

  “I think they were just surprised to see a woman at all,” Raven said. “Shocked might be a better word.” Then with some satisfaction, “Maybe a little scared, too. Like him.” She focused on Tao, who stared at her with wide eyes.

  Juan wasn’t surprised that she drew that reaction. Raven was a very attractive woman who could fix a man with a glare icy enough to freeze lava.

  “Can’t wait to hear all about it,” he said, “but right now we’ve got a problem.” He told them about the messages referencing an upcoming launch.

  “We’ll take the port side. You two search the starboard side. Look for anything unusual. Since you don’t have time to change into NBC suits, call me and Eddie if you see anything like a gas canister. Then back away.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Raven said.

  “You don’t have to tell us twice,” Linc added.

  They headed toward starboard, while Juan and Eddie pushed Tao farther aft.

  “Who was that?” he asked in wonder.

  “He’s a friend of ours,” Eddie answered.

  “Not the big guy,” Tao said. “The woman. She’s amazing. I’d like to see—”

  “How easy it would be for her to break your kneecaps?” Juan interrupted. “Because I know you weren’t planning to say something cruder than that, were you?”

  Tao opened his mouth, then closed it again.

  “Good,” Juan said. “Now, who is on this ship that we haven’t found? We know he’s not part of the crew.”

  “Fine. It’s Rasul. We took him on as a passenger.”

  Juan yanked Tao to a halt. “Where is he? Tell us or I’ll personally put you on a fishing hook and dangle you over the railing.”

  “We searched all of the cabins,” Eddie said. “He wasn’t there.”

  “Then I have no idea where he is,” Tao answered.

  Juan stared at Tao, then spun him around and pushed him forward. “Show us the second container Rasul supposedly put on the ship. And if this one is empty, too, I might get angry.”