Marauder (The Oregon Files)

by Clive Cussler

  She was almost out from underneath when she saw one of the terrorists round the corner of the shed behind Eric. He was so surprised at finding someone there that he didn’t shoot, which was the only thing that saved Eric’s life.

  Eric turned when he heard the footsteps and raised his MP5 to fire, but the terrorist knocked it from his hands with the butt of his AK-47. Eric didn’t let him bring the assault rifle to bear. He launched himself at the terrorist and tackled him to the ground, and they began to wrestle for control of the weapon.

  Linda wasn’t out from under the pipes yet and couldn’t reach her submachine gun. Instead, she drew the dart gun from her holster, but Eric and the terrorist rolled back and forth, keeping her from getting a clean shot.

  At that moment, the second terrorist came around the shed from the other direction. He must have heard the commotion and simply came to see what it was, leaving his own AK-47 behind.

  Still lying down, Linda snapped off a shot with the dart gun, but the angle was odd, and her dart hit the terrorist right in the leather belt he was wearing.

  The man heard the sound but didn’t realize he’d been hit. Then he saw Linda scrabbling out from beneath the pipes and sprinted toward her. She leaped to her feet just as he arrived and pinned her against the pipes.

  He chopped the dart gun from her hand and pressed his forearm against her throat, cutting off her air. His hot breath on her face reeked of tobacco and curry. Linda tried to push his arm away, but the wiry man was too strong for her. It was only a matter of time before she lost consciousness.

  She let go of his arm and ran her hand down his torso until she reached the belt. She grabbed the dart still jutting from the leather and yanked it out. With her vision tunneling, she jabbed the dart into the terrorist’s neck.

  His eyes went wide with shock, and he pulled out the dart, but it was too late. The injection directly into the artery made the effect of the drug nearly instantaneous. He sank to his knees and keeled over.

  Linda took a huge breath and looked over to see that the terrorist Eric had been fighting somehow had rolled away from him and next to the MP5. He picked up the submachine gun and was about to fire when Linda snatched the dart gun from the deck and shot him in the back.

  The terrorist whirled around and tried to grab at whatever had stung him. He stared at Linda in surprise, and then his eyes rolled white as he went down in a heap.

  Linda went over to Eric and held out her hand to help him up. Eric was rubbing the back of his head.

  “Are you okay?” she asked.

  “He got me good with the butt of the AK, but I’ll be all right.” Eric looked around and saw the two terrorists lying on the deck. “Looks like you got them both. Nice shots.”

  She grinned at him. “Didn’t you know Annie Oakley was my great-grandmother?”

  “I almost believe that.”

  “Come on. Let’s take a look at that bomb.”

  They went into the shed and found the bomb situated directly under the main valve unit that the mass of pipes fed into. Linda shined her flashlight while Eric inspected it. There was an indicator with two bars blinking.

  Linda clicked on her mic. “Chairman, our hostiles are down, and the bomb is right in front of us.”

  “Good work. What’s the word on the bombs? Can we move them?”

  Eric, who could hear Juan as well, nodded. “That’s affirmative, Chairman. I don’t see any circuits or accelerometers that would be motion activated.”

  “Did you hear that, Hali?” Juan said.

  “Copy that,” Hali replied. “I’ll come up with it now. Are we dumping them overboard?”

  “I don’t advise that,” Eric said, picking up the bomb and putting it back in the sack that the terrorist had carried.

  “Why not?” Juan asked.

  “It may short-circuit as soon as it hits the water, which could put a nice big hole in the ship. The Dahar might not sink, but she could spill thousands of gallons of oil before it was brought under control.”

  “Might not sink?” Linda asked.

  Eric shrugged.

  “Is Eric shrugging?” Juan asked.

  “Yes, he is.”

  “Then we need to find that third bomb and get all three of them as far away from us as possible before they explode.”

  SIX

  Max Hanley, the driver of the Oregon’s submersible, grunted as he climbed out of the rear hatch. His youth serving on a Swift Boat in Vietnam’s Mekong Delta was long behind him, and exercise wasn’t really his thing, as evidenced by the generous paunch that Doc Huxley was always trying in vain to get him to reduce. Still, Max thought he was reasonably fit for a man his age, and his role as the Corporation’s President and the Oregon’s chief engineer kept him busy.

  The humidity caused sweat to bead on his brow now that he was no longer in the air-conditioned comfort of the Gator. The submersible was one of two on the Oregon. While the larger sub, Nomad, was built for deep dives, with an airlock and room for eight divers in full gear, the Gator was designed for speed and stealth. It was powered by a potent diesel engine for cruising fast on top of the water and by battery packs for operating below the surface to sneak up on ships, as they had done with the terrorists.

  Max had been listening in on the comm link and heard that the third bomb had still not been found.

  “Sounds like you’re getting nothing out of the others, Juan,” Max said over his molar mic as he tied the Gator to the terrorists’ boat. “Maybe our friend Tanjung here can give us some more info.”

  “Tell me you’re armed, Max.”

  “You worried about the old man?” Max joked. He and Juan were best friends, and together they had created the Corporation, not to mention designing and constructing both the old and the new Oregon.

  “I do hear a lot of grunting. You sound like a grandfather hoisting himself out of his favorite easy chair.”

  Max made sure not to make any more noise as he heaved himself over the boat’s gunwale.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got a dart gun with me in case it seems like he’s starting to come out of it. And if I’d wanted cracks about the sounds I make, I’d give one of my ex-wives a call. Now, are you going to help me translate or what?”

  Max went over to Tanjung, who was dozing, and nudged him with a foot until he stirred. Max had a handheld radio that was tied into the comm system and held it up to Tanjung’s face.

  “Go ahead, Juan.”

  Juan spoke in Arabic, and for a moment it seemed like the young terrorist wouldn’t respond. Finally, he spoke as if he’d chugged a fifth of whiskey.

  “What did he say?” Max asked.

  “He’s convinced that what he originally told me is correct,” Juan said.

  “He seems like a newbie hired to drive the boat. Maybe he’s out of the loop.”

  “Could be.”

  Before they could try another question, a different voice cut in. It was Gomez Adams, the Oregon’s expert helicopter and drone pilot and a veteran of the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment, the U.S. Army unit known as the “Nightstalkers,” responsible for carrying Special Forces operators into combat. He was back on the Oregon providing them an eye in the sky.

  “Oh, man, where did they come from?” His voice sounded both puzzled and angry, which was a bit concerning coming from someone as experienced as he was.

  “What is it, Gomez?” Juan asked.

  “I’ve got two guys on the deck walking toward the ladder down to the boat. They’ll be able to see over the side in less than ten seconds. Max, get under cover now.”

  Max may have been fit for his age, but getting back inside the Gator that quickly wasn’t going to happen. His only choice was to duck into the boat’s tiny wheelhouse.

  He retreated under its roof and heard voices above him. The terrorists obviously thought they st
ill had the ship to themselves because they didn’t care how loud they were.

  Then they fell silent.

  “They’re looking over the side of the ship,” Gomez said. “They see the Gator and the man down.”

  “Where are you, Juan?” Max whispered.

  “On my way up to you from the pump room,” Juan answered. Max could hear him breathing hard as he ran up the stairs.

  “Now they’ve got their weapons out, and one is climbing down the ladder,” Gomez narrated.

  “Great,” Max muttered, pulling the dart gun from his waistband. What he hadn’t told Juan was that the weapon had just one dart in it.

  “Tanjung,” the man coming down called out softly. “Tanjung.”

  The last thing Max wanted was for the terrorist to spray the boat with assault rifle fire. The second-to-last thing he wanted was for the man to take a pot shot at the Gator and put holes in it.

  “Gomez,” Max said. “I could use a distraction.”

  “One distraction, coming down,” Gomez said.

  7

  Juan was disgusted at the pride Ferreira took in his technology. The Brazilian gently patted the Slipstream drone as if it were a beloved dog instead of a device that would benefit the most vicious drug cartels on earth.

  “The entire skin is composed of carbon fiber,” Ferreira said, “with microchannels built in to deflect sonar waves and reduce its sound signature when cruising through the water. The battery can power it for up to twenty-four hours after it’s cut loose from the ship or sub that’s carrying it.”

  “And if the batteries are drained?” Juan asked, putting on the guise of a wary buyer. “We could lose hundreds of millions if this thing sinks to the bottom of the ocean.”

  “Slipstream will go into dormant mode,” Luis Machado said, “with enough power remaining to surface, once the authorities have given up searching your vessel in vain, and for you to activate the recovery signal.”

  “Very clever,” Eddie said, playing the more eager of the two of them. “How many do you have for purchase?”

  Ferreira smiled. “This is the prototype, which is undergoing testing, but my factory is currently in production and we will have a dozen within a month. Of course, we’ve had an extreme amount of interest from other parties, but with the right price, we can certainly move you to the front of the line.”

  “I need to see it in operation,” Juan said. “How do I know Slipstream isn’t an elephant-sized boondoggle? I want to know it works before I spend my money on it.”

  When Juan said “elephant-sized boondoggle,” Machado looked at him with wide eyes. That was his CIA code phrase indicating his cover had been blown.

  “Do you mean, are we trying to pass off something that doesn’t work?” Machado asked.

  “I mean exactly what I say,” Juan said, looking directly at Machado so he would know the phrasing was deliberate. “Is this an elephant-sized boondoggle?”

  “Gentlemen,” Ferreira said, “I assure you Slipstream will work as promised. I wouldn’t be where I am now if I sold shoddy products. We can arrange a demonstration if you’d like.”

  Machado abruptly turned to Ferreira. “Boss, I’d like to show Mr. González our aerial drones.”

  “Absolutely. We can deliver your product in a variety of ways. Our drones can even provide offensive and defensive capabilities by carrying remotely activated explosives.”

  Juan glanced at Eddie to indicate that he wanted a few moments alone with Machado to explain the situation.

  Eddie nodded slightly and said, “We have aerial drones. I want to talk pricing for the Slipstream with Mr. Ferreira.”

  Ferreira’s grin got even bigger, dollar signs dancing in front of his eyes.

  “You go ahead, Roberto,” he said. “We’ll join you in a few minutes.”

  Machado led the way out of the room and up one level. When they were alone in the corridor, he whirled on Juan with a furious look on his face.

  “Who are you?”

  “Juan Cabrillo,” he said in his normal American accent. “We were sent by Langston Overholt to get you out.”

  “Why?”

  “Your cover has been compromised. It’s only a matter of time before Ferreira knows who you really are.”

  “I can’t leave now!” He looked around to make sure nobody heard his outburst and lowered his voice. “I’ve spent two long years infiltrating Ferreira’s organization. By the end of the day, I’ll have the account information for every major drug cartel in the Americas. We’ll be able to freeze billions of dollars in assets.”

  “If you don’t leave, before they kill you you’ll be tortured for information about the CIA’s efforts to infiltrate the cartels, and that’ll make a bloody mess for the U.S. government. Our progress will be set back years, and we still won’t have the info you’re trying to get.”

  Machado paced the hall in frustration. And Juan sympathized with the guy. He’d had his own fair share of missions blown up by bureaucratic idiots back at headquarters.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Believe me, if there was another way, I’d help you get the job done.”

  Machado stopped pacing and leaned against the wall in defeat.

  “You realize Ferreira won’t just let me walk away,” Machado said. “It’ll be too suspicious if I leave the Dragão now.”

  “We have an exit strategy. We’ve arranged a distraction. In the confusion, you, me, and Eddie—that’s the man pretending to be Chen—will go into the water.”

  “And swim to shore?”

  “We have a submersible to pick us up. We’ll get in and dive before they even know it’s there.”

  “This is nuts.”

  “Yes, it is,” Juan agreed. “But we need to go. Now.”

  Machado sighed. “Fine. Tell me what to do.”

  “You need to come up on deck with us. When we get there, I’ll have my team initiate the distraction.”

  “Okay, I’ll be back in a minute. Meet me at the Slipstream.”

  “Where are you going?” Juan asked.

  “I have to get something from my cabin,” Machado said as he backed down the corridor. “You can’t be seen there.” Then he disappeared around the corner.

  As Juan walked back to the room where the drone was on display, he said, “Omega, this is Alpha. Be ready to go in two minutes.” Once he and Eddie were up on deck with Machado, he’d work “dead quiet” into the conversation to signal Gomez to set off the quadcopters carrying the mini-bombs and smoke.

  He waited. No answer. That wasn’t like Linda.

  “Omega, this is Alpha. Acknowledge.”

  Still nothing.

  He tried twice more, but all he heard was silence. Possibly a technical malfunction with the comm equipment. They had a backup signal for just such an event. When they were outside, Juan would stretch his arms, and that would be the signal for Gomez to begin the quadcopter attack.

  When he reached the drone room, Ferreira wheeled around.

  “So what do you think of our other toys?”

  “Very impressive,” Juan said. He glanced at Eddie, who gave him a barely perceptible shrug. He hadn’t heard from Linda, either.

  Ferreira smiled. “Then why don’t we talk deal? Mr. Chen and I have come to an agreement very favorable to both of us. I will be happy to offer you the same terms.”

  Before he could answer, he heard Linda’s voice inside his head. She sounded terrified.

  “Juan!” she screamed, using his real name in violation of protocol. “Chairman! They’re coming for us!”

  Juan couldn’t answer her, not with Ferreira and his seven men listening. He tapped three times with his tongue to tell her not to do anything.

  Her voice sounded desperate. “We need to go now!” It was completely out of Linda’s nature to panic.

  “W
e can’t,” Juan said to Ferreira, but he meant the message for her.

  She was sobbing now. “There’s no time!”

  Then, through the hull, Juan was shocked to hear the sound of one of the mini-bombs detonating.

  8

  Linda felt like her brain was shrieking at her. She ripped off her headset, but it didn’t help. Something deep inside her told her that extreme danger was coming. The image of tentacles, slimy and covered with hungry suckers, filled her mind. She had to escape no matter the cost. Although she knew the Chairman was counting on her, the urge to flee was even stronger.

  Gomez babbled behind her, flailing at his controls, trying to attack some unseen enemy.

  “I’ll get them!” he yelled. “I’ll get them all!”

  Quadcopters around the yacht erupted in flames and smoke in haphazard fashion. She didn’t know who Gomez was targeting, but it wasn’t the right enemy. A giant squid was coming for them. The drones couldn’t do anything to stop it.

  Murph clawed at the hatch, trying to open it, as he blubbered about the gremlins coming out of the sub’s batteries.

  “We have to get out of here!” he cried as he yanked at the hatch’s wheel.

  Gomez tackled him, shouting, “Don’t be a fool! You’ll let them in!”

  Linda had to do something or the squid would catch the Gator and crush it. Then it would pry the sub’s skin apart like an aluminum can and eat them all.

  She knew she shouldn’t, but she had to surface the boat. Only the power of the Gator’s diesels gave them a chance to outrun it.

  “Surfacing the boat!”

  She pulled back on the yoke, and the sub breached the surface. Linda blew the ballast, and the Gator rose up on its hull.

  Then, through the cupola windows, she saw her best chance of escaping those ravenous tentacles. It was a small boat cruising south of the Dragão. If she could get past it, the boat would become the squid’s meal instead of the Gator.

  She fired up the diesels and gunned the throttle.