Langford rubbed his eyes. The U.S. State Department had already begun condemning Russia for the destruction of the Bowditch. Now they would have to downplay their previous remarks and redirect their accusations at China. Yet they could not risk the trade relationship with China. If it collapsed, all hell would break loose, and there would be no winner on either side. The best the Administration could manage would be to corral the issue and turn it into a more subtle and very strategic counterattack. Langford knew the U.S. politicians were not going to rest until they had their pound of flesh, no matter what the long term ramifications were. The unfortunate truth was that politicians started wars but relied on men like Langford to fight them.
Langford blinked and found himself staring at the phone. The room remained silent. He straightened in his chair. “For the time being, I want you three to find out what you can about Otero. Alves had his connections and I’m sure this thug does too. And the last thing we need is the Brazilian government finding out and getting involved.”
“Yes, sir,” all three answered almost simultaneously.
Langford promptly ended the call with Caesare. He then watched Clay and Borger open the door, stepping out of the room.
The situation was unraveling quickly.
Langford let out a quick sigh. Soon he would have to tell the men what had happened to the Chinese warship immediately after it escaped Guyana with its precious cargo. Something that made absolutely no sense at all.
2
Clay followed Wil Borger into his darkened office, which was a generous word to describe the space where Wil worked. Located on one of the subfloors of the Pentagon building, the room was in dire need of some windows and sunlight. And a maid. The room was filled with racks of computer and signaling equipment which few people would recognize. A few pieces looked to be as old as Borger himself, who would soon be pushing fifty.
Wil Borger approached his desk, with a screen that was three monitors wide. Clay closed the door behind them.
With a loud squeak from his chair, Borger sat down and reached out to pull another forward for Clay. “Have a seat.”
“I could use the stretch.”
Borger nodded and spun back around to the monitors. “I need to show you something. Something I haven’t told anyone yet.”
Clay watched him open a new window on the screen and begin typing. A moment later a map filled the center screen. He raised his hand and briefly tapped a large hard drive resting below the same monitor.
“This is the hard drive I had on the Bowditch. Fortunately, I had it in my backpack when we were ordered to abandon ship.”
Clay peered at Borger. “The one with the video footage?”
“Correct.” He motioned to the map and reached for his mouse. It was a map of South America, with Guyana centered on the screen. Borger then double-clicked several times, zooming in on the area around Georgetown. “When we got back, I wanted to see what really happened to the Bowditch. So I downloaded the video from the ARGUS satellite before and after the impact.”
Clay was leaning over his shoulder when Borger stopped zooming and let the image crystalize. A moment later, they could both clearly see the U.S.S. Bowditch from an aerial view.
“There she is,” he said, under his breath.
The image was frozen, but the white wake behind the stern was clearly visible and showed the ship traveling full speed toward Georgetown’s small harbor. It was heading directly at the Chinese warship, which was trying to leave.
Borger then zoomed back out slightly, doubling the viewing area. Both ships were now smaller, but a barely identifiable wake could be seen several hundred yards behind the Bowditch.
A torpedo.
Borger hit a button on his keyboard and the overhead images began to play as a video. He moved out of the way, giving Clay a clear view. It was only moments later when the bow of the ship could be seen beginning to move. Clay knew it was the moment Captain Krogstad had given the order to do the unthinkable. To bring the ship around.
“Geez,” Clay muttered.
“It’s hard to watch.”
“It is.”
Over the next few minutes, they watched in silence at the agonizingly slow turn of the ship, finally coming about just moments before the torpedo’s impact.
The Bowditch was a science vessel, which meant it had no real weapons to speak of –– certainly nothing with which to fight off a torpedo attack. The only offensive capability lay in the Oceanhawk helicopter housed on the main deck. In the video, they watched the rotors of the chopper gaining speed, desperately trying to lift off in time. But the torpedo struck first. Even in the video, the explosion against the port side of the bow was breathtaking. Most of the forward deck was destroyed instantly. On what deck remained, the Oceanhawk’s desperate attempt to escape came to an end. Clay and Borger watched in eerie silence as the blast caused the helicopter to roll and slice its spinning rotors into the deck’s twisted metal. The fragments burst into dozens of giant pieces of shrapnel just seconds before the Oceanhawk fell over the side, engulfed in an orange ball of flame.
The rest of the video played out exactly as the two men remembered it. They could see everyone, including themselves, huddled on the stern of the ship where Krogstad had ordered them. If he couldn’t outrun the torpedo, his only other option would be to save as many as he could. On the stern, survivors had the best chance of deploying the lifeboats. The rest of the ship was sacrificed to take as much of the blow as possible.
When it was over, Borger stopped the video and leaned back. “That’s only the second time I’ve seen it.”
Clay nodded, his eyes still on the screen. “I can see why.”
With a deep breath, Borger turned back to him. “There’s something else I wanted to show you.”
Clay raised his eyebrows and waited.
Borger clasped his hands in front of his protruding stomach. “So, I’ve been picking through the rest of the satellite video. I’m not sure if you know this, but the attack was big enough that most commercial aircraft in the area were immediately grounded, even as far away as Venezuela.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Yep. Everything. Down. Kaput.” Borger then began to grin. It was a look John Clay had come to know well.
“You found something.”
“All aircraft were grounded,” he repeated. “All commercial aircraft.”
Clay raised an eyebrow. “But not…”
“But not military aircraft.”
“Meaning what?”
“Meaning…,” Borger replied, “military flights were not grounded. Or should I say…the only military flight.” He began typing again in a new window, which brought up a second map. The second map was fixed on Georgetown. Borger pointed to one frame, then to the other. “This one is the international airport in Guyana. Note the timestamp on both screens.”
“They’re both the same.”
“Exactly. Same time, in two places. The first picture is the Bowditch after it was struck. The second, the Georgetown airport.”
Borger zoomed closer in on the airport and sped up the video. Both feeds accelerated, still in sync. After almost a minute, he froze them both. “That’s it. Right there.”
Clay studied the image. An airplane could be seen taxiing onto one of the airport’s runways.
“What is that?”
Borger zoomed in closer and waited a moment for the image to sharpen again at the new resolution. The turboprop engines were clear, jutting out beneath the craft’s high wing. Borger zoomed in still further.
“It’s a Y-12,” Clay said, under his breath.
Borger nodded. “Correct. Chinese made, utility design, and able to carry upwards of twenty passengers.”
“Was it there the whole time?”
“No. It flew in three days before the attack. At night.”
Clay frowned. Of course it was at night. Nightfall seemed to be the preferred time for everything the Chinese were up to in Guyana.
<
br /> Borger rolled the video again and they both watched as the plane paused briefly then accelerated down the runway and lifted into the air. As it climbed, the aircraft banked and headed due west.
Clay straightened behind Borger and folded his arms.
“Care to guess where it’s headed?”
There was only one country to the west that was within the plane’s range. And it was another country with whom the U.S. had a strained relationship. “Venezuela.”
“Correct again.” Borger continued typing on his keyboard and skipped to another location. “But not just any airport in Venezuela. It flew directly to El Libertador Air Force Base in Maracay and landed three hours and thirty-seven minutes later. Upon landing, a single person exited the plane and boarded another.” He scrolled the map and stopped on another aircraft. One that was much bigger.
This time, Clay recognized the plane without having to enlarge the picture again. Both its design and enormous size were unmistakable. It was a Xian Y-20. One of the largest aircraft in the Chinese Air Force.
“I’m guessing that’s a transport.”
“It sure is,” nodded Clay. “But it’s still in development. That one is a prototype they revealed a couple years ago.”
“A prototype?”
“Yes.”
Clay’s frown was deepening. The El Libertador base in Venezuela was infamous for the coup attempt in 1992 when General Visconti seized control of the base and launched an aerial attack on the capitol city. But it wasn’t the reputation that concerned Clay. It was the fact that the Chinese planes had landed at a military base and not a commercial airport. It meant the Venezuelan government was partially involved, or at the very least, aware of the activities of the Chinese. Having the Xian Y-20 there most likely meant the Venezuelan government already knew more than they would ever admit.
“Did it fly straight back?” Clay asked.
“It did. It refueled once in Hawaii before continuing on to Beijing.” Borger peered at Clay. “But why would they send a prototype all the way to South America? That’s risky.”
“The Y-20 has the longest range of any of their transport planes. Sending an armed aircraft would have attracted far more attention. But they still needed something secure that could fly back almost nonstop.”
“For one person? That’s one hell of an expensive trip.”
“Which means it was either a very important person,” he looked at Borger, still seated in front of him, “or the person was carrying something important.”
“Or both.”
Clay nodded. “Or both.”
Together, the two continued staring at the frozen screen where a tiny figure could be seen crossing the tarmac to the larger plane.
Clay’s phone suddenly rang, snapping them out of it. He looked at it and answered, putting the call on speakerphone. “Where are you, Steve?”
“Outside, near Santos. Where are you?”
“We’re in Borger’s office.”
“Good. I hope you’re helping him clean it.”
Clay grinned while Borger pretended to look offended.
“You two alone?”
“Yes.”
On the other end, Caesare looked out at the ocean from a shaded spot beneath a large Brazilian rosewood tree. The beach was less than two blocks away and he stood scanning the area as he spoke, looking for anyone paying too much attention to him.
By the time Langford had ended their call, Caesare had already reached the first floor of the hotel and was off the property entirely inside of three minutes. It wouldn’t be long before someone discovered the bodies of Blanco and Sosa, and Caesare had no intention of being nearby.
“So what did I miss?”
Clay glanced again at the monitors on Borger’s desk. “It looks like Wil may have found something.”
“Your voice doesn’t exactly sound exuberant.”
“I’ll try harder next time.”
“I bet. I’m going to guess there’s bad news coming.”
“Maybe. It seems someone got clearance and flew out of Georgetown just after the Bowditch was hit. On a Chinese turbo-prop to Venezuela, and from there a transport straight back to Beijing.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish we were.” Clay leaned in, peering closer at the screen. “Just one person. Carrying some kind of a case.”
Caesare sighed. “That’s not good.”
“Now who’s not exuberant?”
“I say we blame Borger.”
Wil Borger’s eyes opened wide with surprise, and then narrowed.
“We were actually getting ready to blame you.”
In spite of the jokes, they all knew how serious it was. If Borger was right, then it looked like something had been taken off that ship before it departed. Something important enough to fly directly to Beijing, the political epicenter of China. Clay already had a guess as to what the man was carrying.
“Any idea who the person was, Wil?”
“Not yet. But I’ll find out.”
From under the tree, Caesare nodded, absently watching an attractive woman cross the street. “Well, I’m afraid my news isn’t much better. There’s something I didn’t mention on the phone with Langford.”
Without moving his head, Clay exchanged a curious look with Borger. “What’s that?”
“I got a little more out of Blanco before he took his long ride into the sunset. He told me about Otero, and that he knows about the monkey. But it seems he knows more than that. Blanco managed to spit out what Otero was asking him about. He said Acarai. The name of the mountain.”
Clay sighed. “Crap.”
“Yeah. How much he knows, I’m not sure. But it’s a lot more than just the monkey.”
“If that’s true,” Borger said, “then he’s gonna be going back up there.”
“Exactly. And if he pokes around long enough, he may just stumble across something he’s not supposed to find.”
Without a word, Clay stepped forward and sat down in the chair next to Borger. “That means we need to get there before he does.” He stopped to think. “And we’re going to need help.”
“I was thinking the same thing.”
“How would you like to make a stopover during your flight back?”
From under the giant rosewood, Caesare couldn’t help but smile. “Are you kidding? I love Puerto Rico.”
Next to Clay, Borger raised an eyebrow and spoke loud enough for Caesare to hear. “You do understand we actually need DeeAnn on our side.”
“Piece of cake.”
Clay wasn’t so sure it would be that easy. “All right then. Borger and I will see what else we can find out on this end. When are you leaving?”
“I’m not sure,” Caesare replied. He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. With the phone still to his ear, he turned back to face the glimmering skyscrapers of São Paulo in the distance. “I need something first. I need to know where Miguel Blanco’s family is.”
From his chair, Borger stared at Clay’s phone with a puzzled look. “You want to know where Blanco’s family lives?”
“No,” he replied dryly. “I need to know where they are right now.”
3
The bright Puerto Rican sun shimmered over the top of the salt water tank, creating a curtain of glistening sunlight waving gently through the water.
On the other side of the thick glass stood Alison Shaw, watching as the two dolphins, Dirk and Sally, occupied the far end of the tank. A group of children stood packed together there. Both dolphins floated close, playfully bumping their noses against the glass at the spots where the children were pressing their hands. They screamed with excitement when Dirk impulsively turned sideways, placing one of his flippers against the glass.
Alison was happy. Really happy. She looked down and gently rubbed the bandage wrapped around her wrist. They had returned from their harrowing trip through the Caribbean, all in one piece, with only scrapes and bruises. Chris Ramirez and Lee Kenwood had taken t
he worst of it, but they were home and healing quickly.
Dirk and Sally had returned with them, even though they were free to come and go as they pleased. Dirk was especially eager to return to the lab in Puerto Rico, which surprised Alison. She was sure it had something to do with how much he was fed. Without having to spend any effort hunting for fish, she suspected her lab was becoming something akin to a vacation for Dirk.
Best of all, Alison was in love. She had found the man of her dreams. John Clay was the most amazing man she’d ever met, even if the men she previously dated had set that bar fairly low. But John was nothing short of a phenomenon. Handsome, strong, smart, and a man who could really communicate. He was every woman’s dream.
“It’s almost feeding time,” came Chris’s voice from behind her. “Which means it’s time for us to start arguing about lunch.”
Alison turned and eyed the mug in his hand. “Isn’t it getting a little late for coffee?”
Chris smiled. Most of the bruising along the left side of his face was gone. “It’s never too late for coffee.” His obsession had now become an ongoing joke between them. It stuck from the early days of their working together, sometimes spending all night at work. Like her, Chris’s specialty was marine biology and he’d joined her team early in its formation.
Chris emptied the rest of the cup and set it down on his cluttered desk. “I’ll see if the IT boys want to go. Are you in?”
“No, you guys go ahead.”
Alison watched him cross the room and climb the wide stairs up to the second floor. When he disappeared around the corner, she turned back to the tank. The children were waving now, saying their goodbyes and being pulled gently away from the glass by their teachers. Another class visit was scheduled for that afternoon.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There was only one thing that kept her from full contentment. And Alison was trying to remain in denial about it for as long as she could.
She glanced at the far end of the room where their massive, and now infamous, IMIS computer system covered the entire wall. Short for “Inter Mammal Interpretive System,” the original version was what allowed for the incredible breakthrough back in their Miami research center. Since relocating to Puerto Rico, and closer to Dirk and Sally’s natural habitat, the IMIS system had been radically improved. What that improvement led to next was a leap forward that not even they were prepared for. It not only expanded IMIS’s translation capabilities beyond dolphins to primates, but it had done so in a way that surprised even their computer experts, Lee and Juan. And on top of it all, during a near crisis, IMIS had successfully translated pieces of language in a way that none of them had ever anticipated, or even programmed for.
Catalyst (Breakthrough Book 3) Page 2
