“Mark.”
With just the click of a few keys and a subtle twist of a joystick, the eleven-thousand-ton ship did something no other vessel its size was capable of. The athwartship thrusters came to life, forcing the Oregon’s bow laterally through the water, fighting the inertia of her own speed and the increased thrust of her magnetohydrodynamic engines as they ramped up even faster.
One second the yacht and the freighter were running parallel if opposite courses, and the next the Oregon had turned forty-five degrees and rather than racing down her long flank, the yacht was headed directly for her bow at a combined closing speed of sixty knots. Like a whale protecting its young, Juan had put his ship between the yacht and the charter boat. He glanced at the screen showing the Pinguin. The Oregon had turned just past her, cutting through her wake and sending her bobbing on the rollers peeling off his ship.
As if racing to cross train tracks ahead of a locomotive, the yacht’s driver tried to beat the surging bow of the Oregon by turning to port and outrunning what he believed to be a relatively slow ship. Had he seen the boil of water erupting under her fantail he would have cut his own engines and prayed he survived the impact with her hull.
The vectors in place were a matter of simple mathematics. The Oregon continued her turn, cutting across the bow of the yacht even as it desperately tried to turn a tighter circle than the freighter.
At the last moment one of the gunmen on the yacht lunged forward to yank back the throttles but the gesture was too little too late.
The gleaming prow of the yacht slammed into the Oregon’s scaly hull a hundred feet from her bow. Fiberglass and aluminum were no match for the old ship’s tough hide and the luxury boat accordioned like a beer can hit with a sledgehammer. Her twin turbo diesels were ripped from their mounts and tore through her hull, shattering the structural ribs that held the boat together. In a burst of glass and plastic shards the vessel’s upper-works came apart as if she’d exploded. The four men who were confident moments earlier that they would complete their mission died instantly, crushed into oblivion by the tremendous force of the crash.
One of her fuel tanks exploded in a rising ball of dirty orange flame that licked the Oregon’s rail as she continued to turn, as unaffected by the impact as if she were a shark being charged by a goldfish. A spreading pool of burning diesel coated the ocean, giving off clouds of greasy smoke that obscured the remains of the yacht in her final moments before she slipped below the waves.
“All stop,” Cabrillo ordered and felt the instant deceleration as the pump jets were disengaged.
“Like swatting flies,” Max said and patted Juan’s shoulder.
“Let’s just hope all that wasn’t to protect a hornet.” He hit his microphone switch. “Oregon calling Pinguin, do you copy?”
“Oregon, this is the Pinguin.” They could almost hear Sloane’s relieved smile over the comm. link. “I don’t know how you did that, but you’ve got three very grateful people here.”
“It would be my pleasure to have you and your shipmates aboard for a late lunch to talk about what just happened.”
“Ah, wait one minute, please, Oregon.”
Juan needed to know what had just occurred and wasn’t going to give her the time to come up with a cover story. “If you don’t accept my invitation I will have no choice but to file a formal report with the maritime authorities at Walvis Bay.”
He had no such intention but Sloane didn’t know that.
“Um, in that case we would love to accept your offer.”
“Very well. My boarding ladder is extended on the port side. A crewman will escort you to the bridge.” Juan looked at Max. “Well, let’s go see what another fine mess I’ve gotten us in, Ollie.”
10
FIGHTING to stay in the warm embrace of unconsciousness, Geoffrey Merrick moaned aloud as the numbing effects of the Tazer shock wore off. His extremities tingled down to his fingers and toes and the spot on his chest where the electrodes had struck burned as if he’d been splashed with acid.
“He is coming around,” a disembodied voice said as if from a great distance away, but Merrick somehow knew the person was close by and it was his own addled brain that had drifted so far.
He became aware that his body was in an uncomfortable position and tried to move. His efforts proved useless. He was manacled at the wrists, and while he could barely feel the metal digging into his flesh, he couldn’t move his arms more than a couple of inches. He still didn’t have enough control over his legs to determine if his ankles were similarly bound.
He tentatively opened his eyes and immediately shut them. Wherever he was had to be the brightest room he’d ever been in. It was almost as if he were standing on the surface of the sun.
Merrick waited a beat and opened them again, squinting against the harsh light that scoured the room. It took a few seconds for details to come into focus. The room was roughly fifteen feet square with walls made of dressed stone exactly like the walls of his cell, so he knew he hadn’t been taken from the prison. There was a large picture window along one wall. It was securely barred and the glass looked like it had been recently installed. The view outside was the most desolate he’d seen, an endless trackless sea of fine white sand baking in the glare of a remorseless sun.
He turned his attention to the people in the room with him.
There were eight men and women seated at a wooden table; unlike the guards, they weren’t wearing masks. Merrick didn’t recognize any of them, though he believed the big one to be one of the guards and the handsome youth with blue eyes to be another. They were all Caucasians and mostly younger than thirty-five. He had lived in Switzerland long enough to recognize the European cut of their clothes. On the table was a laptop computer turned toward the eldest of the group, a woman in her late forties judging by the silver threads shot through her hair. A web camera jacked into the computer was focused on Merrick at the foot of the table.
“Geoffrey Michael Merrick,” an electronically filtered voice intoned from the computer’s speakers. “You have been tried in absentia by this court and have been found guilty of crimes against the planet.” Several heads nodded grimly. “The product your company patented, your so-called sulfur scrubbers, has pacified governments and individuals into believing the continued burning of fossil fuels is a sustainable option—especially the burning of so-called clean coal. No such thing exists, and while this court admits that power plants so fitted with your devices have made a slight reduction in sulfur emissions, that in no way mitigates the billions of tons of other noxious chemicals and gases poured into the atmosphere.
“Your tactical victory in producing these devices is in reality a strategic defeat for those of us who truly strive to save our world for future generations. The environmental movement cannot allow itself to be swayed by the parlor tricks of individuals like yourself or energy companies who profess to be green while continuing to peddle their poisons. Global warming is the single greatest threat this planet has ever faced and every time people like you develop a slightly cleaner technology the public believes the threat is being diminished when in fact it grows worse every year.
“It is the same with hybrid cars. True, they burn less gasoline, but the pollution expended in their development and production far outpaces what the consumer saves by driving such a vehicle. They are merely a ploy to give a handful of conscientious people a sense that they are doing their share to help the environment, when in fact they are doing the opposite. They believe the misguided notion that technology can somehow save the planet when it was technology that doomed it in the first place.”
Merrick heard the words but couldn’t get his mind around what they meant. He opened his mouth to speak but his vocal cords were still paralyzed so he gave a sort of croak. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Who—who are you people?”
“People who see through your charade.”
“Charade?” He paused, trying to gather his wits, knowing the next few
minutes would determine if he walked out of here on his own or was dragged like poor Susan. “My technology has proven itself time and again. Thanks to me there is less sulfur being produced now than since the beginning of the Industrial Revolution.”
“And thanks to you”—even through the electronic filter the voice from the computer managed to impart sarcasm—“levels of carbon dioxide, carbon monoxide, particulate ash, mercury, and other heavy metals have never been higher. Nor has the sea level. The power companies hold your scrubbers as proof of their environmental concern when sulfur is only one small component of the filth they produce. The world must be shown that the environmental threat comes from all sides.”
“And to show them you kidnap me and beat an innocent woman half to death?” Merrick said without thinking through his predicament. He had debated this issue hundreds of times. Yes, his work had reduced sulfur levels but as a result more power plants were being built and more pollution was pumped into the atmosphere. It was a classic catch-22. But he was familiar with the arguments and felt a surge of confidence that he could talk his way out of this.
“She works for you. She is not innocent.”
“How can you possibly say that? You didn’t even ask her name or what she does.”
“The specifics of her job are unimportant. That she is willing to work for you is proof enough of her complicity and culpability.”
Merrick took a breath. He had to find a way to convince them he wasn’t their enemy if he was going to get out of this alive. “Listen, you can’t hold me responsible for the world’s continued demand for more energy. You want to clean up the environment, convince people to have fewer children. China will soon pass the United States as the world’s biggest polluter because they have a population of one point two billion. India, with its billion citizens, isn’t too far behind. That is the real threat to the planet. And no matter how clean Europe and America become—God, we could go back to horse-drawn carriages and plowshares—we would never be able to counteract the pollution produced in Asia. This is a global problem, I totally agree, and a global solution is what is needed.”
The men and women at the far end of the table sat unmoved by his speech and the computer’s silence stretched ominously. Merrick fought to remain strong, to not give in to the fear sliding like oil through his gut. In the end he couldn’t do it—his voice turned strident and fresh tears came to his eyes.
“Please, you don’t need to do this to me,” he pleaded. “Is it money you want? I can give you all the money your organization will ever need. Please, just let us go.”
“It is too late for that,” the computer said. Then the electronic filter was switched off and the person on the other end of the link spoke in his own voice. “You have been tried, Geoff, and found guilty.”
Merrick knew that voice all too well, though he hadn’t heard it in years. And he also knew it meant he was going to die.
11
CABRILLO didn’t have time for his shower and only barely managed to change out of his workout clothes and get to the Oregon’s bridge before Sloane and her group were escorted in by Frank Lincoln. He glanced around quickly as he heard them mounting the outside stairs. The bridge was in its normal state of disrepair and neglect; no one had left any of their high-tech toys lying around to belie the true nature of the vessel. Eddie Seng was again playing helmsman, wearing a battered one-piece utility suit and a baseball cap as he stood casually behind the old-fashioned wheel. Seng was perhaps the most meticulous planner on the Corporation payroll, someone for which no detail was too minute. Had his temperament not been one that thrived on danger he would have made a great accountant. Juan noted Eddie had set the fake telegraph handles to All Stop and had even changed over the unused carts to show the coast of southwestern Africa.
Juan tapped the faded and stained map. “Nice touch.”
“Thought you’d like that.”
Juan had given no thought to what Sloane Macintyre would look like until the moment she walked through the door. Her hair was coppery red and in a tangled bush from so much wind and sun, giving her a wild and untamed look. Her mouth was a bit too wide and her nose too long, but she had such an open look to her face that these minor flaws were nearly indistinguishable. With her sunglasses dangling at her throat he could see she didn’t have the green eyes of a romance novel redhead but wide-set gray ones that seemed to take in her surroundings with a quick glance. She carried a little extra weight that made her body more curvy than angular, but the flesh under her arms remained taut, which made Juan think she was a swimmer.
With her were two men, a Namibian who Cabrillo assumed owned the Pinguin, and another Caucasian with a prominent Adam’s apple and a sour look on his face. Juan couldn’t imagine many scenarios that would place an attractive woman like Sloane in his company. And by their body language he could tell that while Sloane might be in charge, her partner was extremely angry with her.
Cabrillo stepped forward, extending a hand. “Juan Cabrillo, captain of the Oregon. Welcome aboard.”
“Sloane Macintyre.” Her grip was sure and firm and her gaze was level. Juan saw no trace of the fear she must have felt when they were being fired on. “This is Tony Reardon and Justus Ulenga, master of the Pinguin.”
“How do you do?” Reardon surprised Juan with a crisp British accent.
“By the looks of you no one appears to need medical attention. Am I right?”
“No,” Sloane said. “We’re all fine, but thank you for asking.”
“Good, I’m relieved,” Juan said, and meant it. “I’d take you to my cabin to talk about what just happened out here but it’s a bit of a mess. Let’s go down to the galley. I think I can get the cook to whip up a little something.” Juan asked Linc to find the steward.
The truth was, the master’s cabin he used to greet inspectors and harbor officials who came aboard was a disaster zone, and had been designed to make visitors want to get off the ship as quickly as possible. The walls and carpet had been chemically infused with a stench of cheap cigarettes that was guaranteed to leave even a chain-smoker gasping; and the sorrowful gaze of the velvet clown paintings made most people extremely uncomfortable, as they were supposed to. It simply wasn’t the proper setting for an interview. Although the topside galley and adjoining mess hall couldn’t be held to a much higher standard, at least they were reasonably clean.
Juan led them down a flight of internal stairs with treads of chipped linoleum and cautioned them about a handrail that was kept purposefully loosened. He ushered them into the mess, flicking one of two light switches to snap on the banks of fluorescents. The other switch only turned on a couple of the lights and two of them would constantly flicker and emit an annoying buzzing sound. Most Customs inspectors going over manifests preferred sitting on the bridge floor rather than working in the dining room. There were four mismatched tables in the spacious mess hall, and of the sixteen chairs only two looked even remotely similar. The walls were painted in a color Juan called Soviet Green, a dull mint hue that never failed to depress.
Two decks below this room was the Oregon’s real mess, as elegant a dining area as any five-star restaurant.
He indicated where he’d like them to sit, placing them so they faced a pinhole camera hidden in a picture on one wall. Linda Ross and Max Hanley were in the op center to monitor the interview. If they had any questions they wanted Juan to pose they would be passed to him by Maurice, the steward.
Cabrillo folded his hands on the tabletop, glanced at his guests but let his eyes settle on Sloane Macintyre. She returned his gaze without blinking and he believed he saw a hint of a smile at the corner of her lips. Juan expected fear or anger after what they’d been through, but she almost appeared amused by the whole thing; unlike Reardon, who was clearly rattled, or the Pinguin’s captain, who was pensive, most likely hoping Juan wouldn’t call the authorities.
“So, why don’t you tell me who those people were and why they wanted you all dead?” Sloane leaned f
orward brightly and was about to speak, but Juan added, “And don’t forget I heard what they said on the radio about warning you off last night.”
She sat back again, clearly rethinking her response.
“Just tell him, for God’s sake,” Tony sputtered when Sloane didn’t immediately respond. “It doesn’t matter now anyway.”
She shot him a scathing look, recognizing that if she didn’t talk openly Tony was going to tell Cabrillo everything. She let out a breath. “We are looking for a ship that sank in these waters in the late 1800s.”
“And let me guess, you think there’s treasure aboard?” Juan asked indulgently.
Sloane refused to let his sarcasm pass. “I am so certain I was willing to bet our lives on it. And someone else seems to think its worth killing for.”
“Touché.” Juan looked from Sloane to Reardon. They didn’t look like treasure hunters, but it was a fever that could infect anyone. “How did you two hook up?”
“In an Internet chat room devoted to lost treasures,” Sloane said. “We’ve been planning and saving for this since last year.”
“And tell me what happened last night.”
“I had gone out to dinner by myself and when I was walking back to the hotel, two men started following me. I ran and they chased me. At one point one of them fired a handgun at me. I made it back to the hotel, which was crowded, and they stopped. One of them shouted that the shot was a warning and I was to leave Namibia.”
“You recognized them as two of the guys on that yacht.”
“Yeah, the two with the machine guns.”
“And who knew you were in Namibia?”
“What do you mean, like friends back home and stuff?”
“No, I mean who knew what you were doing here? Did you talk to anyone about your project?”
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