Marauder (The Oregon Files)

by Clive Cussler

  “You shouldn’t have used the sonic disruptor to do it. You should have used a torpedo from the Portland.”

  “But I’m saving them all for you.”

  “Right,” Cabrillo said. “You didn’t even have to use them to sink the Mantícora and the Avignon.”

  “Why waste a perfectly good torpedo on them when guns and missiles could do the job just as well? That is, when the Oregon sank them. I mean, who would believe there was an identical ship to yours out there?”

  “Langston Overholt knew we didn’t sink those ships.”

  “But Overholt is now dead.”

  That got a rise out of Cabrillo, whose face flushed red at the mention of his old mentor’s demise.

  “You didn’t have to kill him.”

  “Come on, Juan. We did the U.S. government a favor. He embezzled hundreds of millions destined for black projects.”

  “Evidence that Ballard planted.”

  Tate was about to agree, then stopped himself. He understood exactly what Cabrillo was doing and applauded his misguided effort.

  “Please, Juan. You’re humiliating yourself. If you’re trying to get me to admit to crimes against the U.S. government, it’s a fool’s errand. You’re just implicating yourself if you try to show this video to anyone.”

  Juan smiled. “It was worth a shot.”

  “Not really, but whatever . . . In any case, let’s get down to the reason I was going to call you.”

  “To gloat some more?”

  “That’s always fun, but no. It’s time we got together again. Therefore, I’m going to hijack the crew of a ship and hold them hostage. All you have to do is come and get them.”

  Cabrillo slowly rose, his jaw clenching in anger.

  “What ship?”

  “And have you warn them? I don’t think so. You’ll find out the name soon enough. I’ll send you a video of the crew. We’ll keep them well fed and happy until you arrive. I just wanted you to know where to head. Tierra del Fuego, if you didn’t get that before. It might take you a few days if you’re still in the Amazon.”

  “Tate, you don’t have to do this,” Cabrillo said, his face contorting in rage. “There’s no need to involve more innocent people in your games.”

  “I think there is. You’ve always had a soft spot for the innocent. I like that. It makes you predictable. Oh, and if I don’t see you two days after I hijack their ship, I’ll send you videos of you killing them one by one. I’ll also send them to the CIA, just for posterity.”

  Finally, Cabrillo couldn’t take it anymore and began to scream, stabbing his finger at the camera as he lunged toward it. “You’re a dead man, Tate! We’re coming for you! I’m coming for you!”

  “Good,” Tate said calmly. “We’ll be ready.”

  Then he gave a mocking wave good-bye and hung up as Cabrillo continued to rage at the screen.

  53

  CRUISING ALONG THE ARGENTINE COAST

  Tate’s irritating face disappeared from the screen. Tate’s face, not Juan’s superimposed over Tate’s.

  Juan took a breath to settle himself, turned to Max, and coolly said, “How was my acting job?”

  “You’re definitely in the running for a Golden Globe nomination.”

  “Not Oscar-worthy?”

  Max wagged his hand side to side and smiled. “But, then, I know you better than Tate does.”

  “I thought you were quite convincing,” Overholt said as he walked from the side of the room where he couldn’t have been seen on camera. “I’m sure Tate thinks your rant is still going on.”

  “As long as he didn’t realize that the deepfake software was overridden.”

  Eric and Hali, who were sitting at the communications console, high-fived each other.

  “The deactivation was invisible,” Eric said.

  “I agree,” Juan said. “There’s no way he would have continued the conversation if he had known. Let’s bring back our friends on-screen, Hali.”

  “Aye, Chairman,” Hali said. “They should have been able to see everything from both sides.”

  Juan wished he could have revealed that Tate gave himself away and rubbed in his face the fact that his plan to frame Juan had been utterly wrecked, but Juan had resisted the urge, knowing that tipping Tate off would just make him go into hiding. Juan was playing the long game, and clearing their names and finding the Portland was more important than the momentary satisfaction of seeing his old partner enraged about being bamboozled. Tate, on the other hand, would have had no such impulse control.

  All the time they had been talking, there was another video chat going on in the background, and now the participants in it appeared on the view screen. Two people sat at a conference table while a third lounged behind them, leaning casually against the wall.

  The first person was Patricia Kubo, Director of the CIA. The former senator from Hawaii rubbed her forehead like she was massaging away a headache.

  “What a mess,” she said in a strained alto. “If I hadn’t seen you talking to Zachariah Tate and Catherine Ballard in real time, I wouldn’t have believed they were teaming up together. We were so sure he was dead, and now he basically admitted to sinking a U.S. nuclear attack submarine and a covert CIA cargo ship.”

  The other seated person had flaming red hair, a Vandyke beard, and was dressed in a bespoke gray suit. Vice President James Sandecker, the original founder of NUMA, chewed on his unlit cigar and nodded slowly.

  “True, it’s a mess,” he said. “But it’s a mess we created for ourselves. And don’t forget the civilian freighter Avignon. There doesn’t seem to be much that Tate won’t do for revenge.”

  The room’s tall and lean third occupant had a shock of black hair, tanned and rugged features from many hours in the sun and salt of the ocean, and opaline green eyes that glittered with sly intelligence just as Juan remembered from their first encounter. Dirk Pitt, the current Director of NUMA, seemed to be the only one in the conference room who was amused.

  “That was quite a performance, Juan,” Pitt said. “I thought you were going to blow a gasket.”

  “I had to make Tate believe that he won,” Juan said. “He’s a sore loser.”

  “You’ve done a good job keeping him on the losing end recently.”

  “I’ve got a better team than he has.”

  Sandecker shook his head. “I have to say, Mr. Cabrillo, that I was reluctant to indulge your request when Dirk brought it to me. But as you’ve experienced in the past, he can be quite convincing himself.”

  Pitt was on board the Oregon long ago when the Corporation was helping NUMA out with a secret mission in Hong Kong. It was during that operation that the Oregon had the encounter with the Chinese destroyer that cost Juan his leg. If it hadn’t been for Pitt’s quick thinking, Juan probably would have lost the whole ship and everyone on it.

  “I know,” Juan replied. “That’s why I called Dirk to bring you on this call. I figured that the VP and the CIA Director wouldn’t believe fugitives like us without someone to vouch for us.”

  “I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt since you saved my life several years ago,” Sandecker said. He was referring to the time when the Oregon destroyed enemy drones that were trying to down Air Force Two.

  “I believe you now,” Kubo said. “Seeing Tate and Ballard in a replica of your op center was very convincing. Langston, I’m sorry for ever doubting you.”

  “I understand, Patricia,” Overholt said. “Catherine Ballard has been concocting this plan for years. She duped me completely.”

  “I assure you that the CIA will do everything in its power to bring her to justice.”

  “Quietly,” Sandecker said. “I’ve spoken with the President, and he wants to keep the political blowback from this situation to a minimum.”

  “That’s up to Zachariah Tate,
Mr. Vice President,” Juan said.

  Sandecker waved his hand dismissively. “Tate wants you dead and your reputation ruined. He knows the best way to do that is to make you a pariah to the U.S. government, not the public.”

  “Plus he wants to keep the Portland off the radar of the other countries,” Pitt added. “At least until he wants to sell his services to them after he’s sunk the Oregon.”

  “We can’t have that happen, either,” Kubo said. “The President has declared the Portland a threat to national security. That gives us latitude for how to deal with him.”

  “But we can’t undertake any operations that will jeopardize international relations with other countries,” Sandecker said. “Therefore, the U.S. Navy will not be going after him in foreign waters.”

  “Like the seas around Tierra del Fuego,” Pitt said.

  “Exactly. This has to be dealt with covertly.” Sandecker looked directly at Juan. “And from what I hear, you have a way to find the Portland.”

  “We do, thanks to Max back there.” Juan pointed him out, and Max gave a breezy salute.

  Sandecker continued. “Then I authorize you to track down the Portland and take whatever measures you deem necessary to subdue the ship, up to and including sinking her.”

  “And Tate?”

  “Use your best judgment,” Kubo said. “I’ll tell you, though. We sure don’t want him back.”

  “Understood. We’re moving at maximum speed right now to intercept him. Tate thinks we’re still somewhere near the Amazon, so I’m hoping to get to him before he attacks that unnamed ship.”

  “We have a ship in the area called the Deepwater,” Pitt said. “I’ll have the captain keep an eye out for the Portland or any ship that looks like her.”

  “That’s probably a good idea,” Juan said.

  “Sounds like it’ll be a battle for the ages. Two identical state-of-the-art spy ships going at each other.” Pitt smiled. “Wish I could join you, but I’ve got a few fires of my own to put out around here.”

  Juan chuckled at that. “From what I remember about you, Dirk, I’m not surprised by that at all. You always seem to have . . . let’s say ‘interesting’ adventures. I’d love to swap war stories with you someday.”

  Pitt nodded in agreement. “Likewise. Next time you’re in Washington, we’ll get some steak and cabernet at a grill I know. Happy hunting.”

  “Thanks.”

  “I think our feelings about Tate are all the same here, Mr. Cabrillo,” Sandecker said as he and Kubo stood to leave. “He and his people need to be brought to justice for what they’ve done, one way or the other. Go get him.”

  54

  ALACALUFES NATIONAL RESERVE

  As she watched the crew anchoring the seventh sonobuoy from the Deepwater’s bridge, Rashonda Jefferson was proud of her crew’s efficiency. The ship had placed three of the penguin rookery webcams, all of which were getting hits on the NUMA website, and the sonobuoys had been just as successful. Three of the sensitive hydrophones had picked up pods of humpback whales traversing the tight confines between the myriad islands in the expansive nature reserves.

  Their current location, a junction of five waterways where they expected to capture the sound of migrating whales, was surrounded by snowcapped mountains on all sides, and the spaces between the islands were so narrow that the Deepwater had to proceed at a crawl to navigate them.

  Luckily, Amelia Vargas had been as good as advertised, confidently guiding the ship through the most dangerous and unpredictable waters with ease. The navigational pilot had been right about both the water depth—over a thousand feet in places—and the hazards caused by the multitude of glaciers. They’d seen several huge icebergs calve into the sea.

  Vargas had her finger on the route map while frowning at the latest weather report.

  “What’s the matter?” Jefferson asked.

  “I think we’re going to have to change direction. We could get socked in very quickly by fog.”

  Vargas pointed toward clouds sweeping over the islands to the south, clinging to the islands like a blanket. As usual, Jefferson agreed with the pilot’s instincts.

  “You’re right. I don’t want to be stuck in here with zero visibility. We’ll head north as soon as we’re done anchoring this sonobuoy. Even turning around in here will be tricky.”

  The intersection was not much wider than a quarter mile. The Deepwater was maneuverable, but executing a U-turn here would take skill, concentration, and nerves of steel.

  By the time Jefferson got word from her crew that the sonobuoy was installed and secure, she could see the fog creeping toward them from the south, snaking its way ominously through the channels between the islands.

  “Not a moment too soon,” Vargas said.

  “Captain,” the XO said, “we’ve identified a radar contact heading toward us from the north.”

  Jefferson grimaced. That would make backing out even more of a challenge. She raised a pair of binoculars, but the ship had disappeared behind a small island in the middle of the northern channel.

  “Fishing boat?”

  The XO shook his head. “Far too big for that. I estimate her length at nearly two hundred feet.”

  That got a raised eyebrow from Vargas.

  “Any idea what she could be?” Jefferson asked her.

  Vargas shook her head. “No cargo ship would come this way. And we’re far from any ferry lanes.”

  “Hail them,” Jefferson ordered.

  “Aye, Captain.” The XO spoke into the radio. “Unidentified ship to the north, this is the NUMA vessel Deepwater. Please respond.”

  After a moment, a voice came over the loudspeakers in accented English. But the accent sounded Russian, not Spanish. “This is the Chilean Navy ship Abtao. Shut down your engines and prepare to be boarded for inspection.”

  Jefferson gaped at Vargas, astonished by the command. She took the mic from the XO.

  “Abtao, this is Captain Rashonda Jefferson of the Deepwater. We have authorization from the Chilean government to conduct a research mission here. For what purpose do you want to board us?”

  The Abtao emerged from behind the island, and Jefferson could see a 76mm gun on her foredeck. It was aimed directly at them. Men were manning two 20mm Oerlikon cannons that were also pointed in the direction of the Deepwater.

  “Deepwater, we have reports of smugglers operating in this area. As you must be aware, the Chilean Navy has the absolute right to inspect any vessel operating in Chilean waters.”

  The Abtao came to a stop in front of the mid-channel island next to a glacier that ended at the water’s edge. It was at point-blank range, bristling with menace.

  Jefferson turned to Vargas. “What is going on here?”

  “I have no idea. The Coast Guard should be in charge of stopping ships for inspection, not the Navy.”

  Jefferson handed her the microphone. “You were in the Coast Guard. Explain that to them.”

  Vargas spoke in rapid Spanish.

  The response came back in English and ignored whatever Vargas said. “I repeat, prepare to be boarded.”

  Vargas shook her head. “I told them who I was and asked them to check with the Coast Guard about our mission. It’s very strange that they didn’t respond in Spanish.” Her brow furrowed and her eyes widened. “Wait a minute. The Abtao isn’t scheduled to go into service for six weeks. I know because her home port is supposed to be Punta Arenas. Something is wrong.”

  “New contact, Captain,” the XO said. “Another ship to the north behind the Abtao.”

  “A second Navy ship?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s much bigger. I’d say five hundred feet long.”

  She raised the binoculars again and caught a glimpse of a dilapidated steamer before it, too, disappeared behind the island.

  The name on the bo
w read PORTLAND.

  Now she was even more confused. A ship that size in these channels was nearly suicidal. And why was it following the Navy ship?

  “This is absolutely absurd,” Jefferson said, snatching the mic back and speaking into it. “Abtao, I’m calling NUMA, and they will contact your government to confirm who we are. We all need to get out of here before that fog covers us.”

  She turned to the XO. “Get NUMA headquarters on the line.”

  As the XO picked up the satellite phone, Jefferson saw fire spit from one of the Oerlikon cannons.

  She shoved Vargas to the deck and yelled, “Everyone get down!” just as the 20mm shells blasted the Deepwater’s superstructure.

  55

  Because the Portland was still behind the island, with no clear view of the Deepwater, Tate was watching the feed from the Abtao’s camera. The Oerlikon’s gunfire ripped into the satellite dish and antennae mounted on top of the bridge, blowing them to bits. Now there was no way for the ship to call for help.

  “Good shooting, Durchenko,” Tate said into the radio.

  “Thank you, Commander,” Durchenko replied.

  He switched the comm channel to the boat garage.

  “Is the assault team ready?” he asked Catherine Ballard, who was in charge of the boarding party.

  “Li has the RHIB ready to go,” Ballard answered. “Shouldn’t take us long to get over there. I’m not expecting any resistance, but we’re set if they’re foolish enough to try.”

  “Excellent,” Tate said with a grin. The ambush had gone exactly as planned. “As soon as Durchenko has disabled their ship, head on over.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  He switched back to the Abtao. “Durchenko, take out the engine room. We don’t want them trying to escape into that fog. But remember, we want hostages, so don’t use your 76mm gun and sink her by accident.”

  “Aye, Commander.”

  The Portland was now rounding the edge of the island, so Tate had the main view screen in the op center switch to a view of both the Abtao and the Deepwater. The man on the Oerlikon swung its aim over to the Deepwater’s stern and began to pour shells into the hull.