The Jungle of-8

by Clive Cussler

* * *

  EIGHT HOURS LATER, and half an ocean away, Gomez Adams held the Corporation’s MD 520N over the rearmost of the Oregon’s five cargo hatches. The ship was pitching mildly, but there was a freshening breeze off the port quarter. He massaged the controls, matching pitch, yaw, and speed, and set the big chopper onto the deck. As soon as the skids kissed steel, he cut the turbine and announced, “We’re home. And, believe it or not, there might just be a little vapor left in the gas tanks.”

  A technician immediately rushed forward to secure the chopper.

  The eleven-thousand-ton tramp freighter was at the helicopter’s maximum range off the eastern coast of the Indian subcontinent as she drove through the gentle rollers for her rendezvous in Bangladesh. Far to the west the setting sun painted the undersides of the clouds in hues of orange, red, and purple and cast a wavering gilded beam atop the waves.

  Nowhere on earth was a sunset as beautiful as those found at sea, Cabrillo thought as he ducked under the chopper’s still-spinning blades. The downdraft made his oversized jumpsuit snap and whip like it was attacking him.

  Max grinned at him when the collar slapped Juan across the face.

  “Welcome back, boys,” Linda Ross said as she stepped forward to greet them. She wore a pair of cutoff shorts and a tank top. “You have a knack for finding trouble, don’t you?”

  Hanley pointed a thumb at Juan. “Blame him. The guy attracts nothing but suicide bombers, terrorists, and madmen.”

  “Don’t forget loose women. What’s the latest on the bombings?”

  “Some new group called al-Qaeda of the East has claimed responsibility for the attack. No dead and only five slight injuries. The two blasts on the roof were standard vests packed with Semtex and scrap metal. You know, couture for killers. The explosion in the casino was much smaller. No word yet on what it was, or at least it’s not being reported. Mark and Eric think they can hack into the Singapore police mainframe, but they didn’t sound too certain.”

  “Tell them not to bother,” Cabrillo said. “My guess is the primary bombers’ handler tossed a grenade in a trash can to cause more chaos. I’d hate to think of the death toll had Max and I not been there.”

  “Amen,” Hanley said, and ambled off to give Adams and his mechanics their orders.

  Off along the starboard rail, a crewman had opened the lid of what had started out as a regular fifty-five-gallon steel barrel. It was as dented and neglected as everything else aboard the Oregon. Rather than just some bit of nautical junk left to litter the deck, the barrel was a carefully positioned redoubt for a remotely operated M60 machine gun. The technician from the armory had the lid open, and the gun raised and pivoted to the horizontal position while he cleaned it and checked for any signs of salt-air corrosion. This was one of several identical weapons placed around the main deck’s perimeter that were used primarily to repel boarders.

  “Why there?” Linda wondered aloud as she and the Chairman walked to the towering amidships superstructure. Its white paint was faded to the color of curdled cream and was flaking off the ship like she was some prehistoric reptile shedding her skin.

  Because there were no other vessels within visual range, they hadn’t bothered pumping ersatz smoke though the ship’s single funnel. Unlike any other watercraft plying the oceans today, the Oregon relied on magnetohydrodynamics. The high-tech system used supercooled magnets to strip free electrons from the briny water. This free electricity was then used to force water through two pump jets. Eventually such propulsion would become standard on all shipping since it was environmentally sound, but the staggering cost and still-experimental state of development made the Oregon the only vessel afloat to use it.

  “The casino’s owned by an American company, and, according to the tenets of Islam, gambling, or maisir, is forbidden,” Cabrillo replied. “That place is the church of all things unholy. Anything on the bombers themselves?”

  “Just what was captured on the hotel’s surveillance cameras when they were in the lobby and elevator. They were either Malay or Indonesian. No IDs were found. And it’ll take days to do a DNA search, and most likely these guys aren’t on any databases. Their pictures might match with something, but nada for now.”

  “It’s early,” Juan remarked.

  They stepped over the coaming of a watertight door and into the superstructure. The lighting was fluorescents bolted to the ceiling, and the hallways were painted steel. When there was no prospect of outsiders entering the ship, the air was kept comfortable, but it could be changed at a moment’s notice. In cold climes, if an inspector or customs agent was aboard, they cranked up the big Trane air conditioners, or in the tropics they would pump in additional heat just to make the interlopers want off the ship as fast as possible. Also, the lighting could be set to flickering at microburst frequencies designed to interfere with neural activity. For some it brought a mild headache and a little nausea. It could send an epileptic into a seizure.

  That had happened only once, fortunately, and Doc Huxley was there in moments.

  Since an incident involving Somali pirates a few months back hadn’t gone as planned, Max had installed injectors that could flood the entire superstructure, or individual rooms, with carbon monoxide, again under the watchful eye of Julia Huxley. The odorless and colorless gas induced drowsiness and lethargy at first, but prolonged exposure would bring brain damage and death. Because individuals react differently depending on their size and physical condition, Cabrillo considered this to be a last-ditch option.

  They stepped into a little-used janitor’s closet, and Linda twisted the taps of a slop sink like she was working the dials of a safe. The water that splashed from the faucet was rusty brown and somehow lumpy.

  No detail was too minor.

  A secret door clicked open to reveal the opulent core of the Oregon, the spaces where the men and women who manned her spent most of their time.

  They went one deck lower to where most of the crew’s cabins were located, and Juan paused outside the door of his own suite. Linda made to follow him in and continue the briefing.

  “Sorry,” he said, “but I need a shower and to get out of these clothes. I look like a Star Wars action figure dressed in an old G.I. Joe doll’s outfit.”

  “I wasn’t going to mention your need for a new tailor,” she grinned saucily. “You look like I did wearing one of my dad’s shirts as an art-class smock when I was a little girl.”

  “We hired Tiny for his flying ability, not his uniformity of size.” He turned away, then stopped. “One more thing. Go down to the boat garage and tell them we need to strip one of the RHIBs of every ounce of weight they can think of. That includes pulling one of her outboards and centering the other. Max has Gomez Adams and his team doing the same thing to the whirlybird.”

  An RHIB was one of the two Rigid Hulled Inflatable Boats the Oregon carried, one in a starboard-mounted chamber where it could be launched into the sea and another in storage in a forward hold as a backup.

  Linda didn’t point out the obviousness of Cabrillo’s plan. Once they choppered into Myanmar, the only real way around the interior was by boat. “Aye, Chairman. Enjoy your shower.” Linda sauntered off.

  The Chairman’s cabin was decorated like it had been the stage for the film Casablanca, with all sorts of archways, finely carved wooden screens, and enough potted palms to seed an oasis. The tile floor was laid over a rubber membrane so the ship’s vibration wouldn’t crack it.

  Before he saw to his own needs, and inspired by the gun crew up on deck, he retrieved the Kel-Tec pistol from his overalls’ pocket and set it on the blotter on his desk next to what looked like an old Bakelite phone but was actually part of the Oregon’s sophisticated communications array. Behind his desk was a gun safe. He opened the heavy door, ignoring the assortment of arms and the bundles of currency and gold coins stored within. Instead, he retrieved a gun-cleaning kit. He knew the little automatic’s chamber was clear, but he jacked the slide several times, once he’d pulle
d out the empty magazine. After carefully scouring the barrel and chamber, he wiped all the parts with gun oil. He loaded fresh .380 ammunition into the magazine. He would have chambered a final round, but he wanted the armorers and Kevin Nixon down in the Magic Shop to give his artificial leg a going-over after its dunking, so he just put the pistol into his desk drawer.

  An unchambered bullet wasn’t a danger until someone touched the gun.

  He fought his way out of the XXL-sized jumpsuit, pulled off the prosthetic leg, and hopped easily into his luxurious bathroom. It had a copper tub big enough for elephants to laze away an afternoon in, but it was rarely used. Instead, he got into the shower, adjusting the heat and the multiple heads until his body was being pummeled by tsunamis of water just a few degrees cooler than scalding.

  He dressed casually in lightweight khakis and a rich purple polo shirt, his feet shod in soft leather moccasins without socks. Unlike his combat leg, the prosthesis he had on now was a virtual twin of his flesh-and-bone limb.

  His cabin was the closest to the Op Center, the electronic nerve center of the freighter. It was from this room, as high-tech as the bridge of a science-fiction starship, that all the Oregon’s weapons, defensive systems, damage control, helm, and propulsion were controlled. The semicircular room, dominated by a massive flat-panel display and kept dimly lit, had a helmsman and fire-control officer sitting toward the front, with duty stations for communications, radar and sonar, and a dozen others ringing it. The watchkeeper sat at the middle of the space in a single chair with its own monitor and controls that could supersede all others. Mark and Eric had dubbed it the “Kirk Chair” the first time they had seen it, which secretly pleased Cabrillo since that had been his inspiration when he’d designed the space.

  Eddie Seng had the conn but leapt to his feet when Juan entered the Op Center.

  “As you were, Mr. Seng.” On the split screen were feeds from multiple cameras mounted at strategic locations around the ship. “Anything to report?”

  “We’re all alone out here, so I’ve got her humming along at forty knots.”

  “Any word from young Mr. Lawless?”

  “He’s still in Kabul but will make our pickup in Bangladesh.”

  “Get word to him that he’ll be choppering out to the ship with another passenger, and that discretion is the better part of valor. A loose lip could sink this ship, and all that.”

  “Who’s the other passenger?” Eddie asked.

  “A corporate minder named John Smith,” Juan said. “Ex-Legionnaire. He’s Croissard’s muscle, and Croissard’s insisting that he come with us.”

  “And I take it by your tone you’re none too happy about it.”

  “Truer words have never been spoken, but we don’t have much choice in the matter.” Cabrillo didn’t like variables he couldn’t control, and Smith was definitely one of them.

  MacD Lawless was another. He wasn’t sure if this would be the right first mission for him, not with Smith along and Lawless’s abilities still unevaluated. He’d have to think it over further. By now his research team of Mark Murphy and Eric Stone should have all the details of the man’s military career and the circumstances of his capture in Afghanistan. He’d read through it after dinner and then decide if Lawless would be on the mission with the Corporation rescuing Soleil Croissard.

  The Oregon’s dining room had the hushed sophistication of an English gentlemen’s club from a bygone era. It was all polished brass and dark woods. The furniture was heavy with subtly patterned fabrics, and the carpet was muted and plush. All that was missing were some stuffed animal heads on the wall and a couple old men smoking cigars and regaling each other with tales of safaris and imperial wars.

  Juan caught a break from having to read Lawless’s dossier because Murph and Stony were sitting at one of the tables.

  Eric Stone was a Navy vet but hadn’t been a fighting sailor. Like Mark, who’d been with a Defense contractor before joining the Corporation, Stone was a technology guy. It was only after he’d come aboard that his innate sense of ship handling came to light. After Juan himself, Eric Stone was the best helmsman on the Oregon . Stone, a shy man by nature, retained a little of the deportment he’d learned in the Navy. He still tucked in his shirts, and his hair was always in place.

  Mark, on the other hand, cultivated a nerd-chic vibe, though it seemed pretty heavy on the nerd and light on the chic. His dark hair looked like he dried it in a wind tunnel. He had tried, unsuccessfully, to grow a beard and had since given up, but his shaving schedule was erratic at best. Both men were of average height, though Eric was the slenderer of the two. Because he lived mostly on junk food and energy drinks, Mark had to spend time in the gym to keep from packing on the pounds.

  Tonight he wore a T-shirt with a picture of a dachshund puppy lying asleep on a dinner plate with some potatoes and a serving of traditional German spätzle. Next to the plate was a half-full beer mug and eating utensils. Under the picture were the words “Wienerdog schnitzel.”

  “That’s just wrong,” Juan said as he approached the table.

  “I Photoshopped it myself,” Murph said proudly. “I made another for chimi-chihuahuas.”

  Cabrillo took a chair opposite. “Are you eating canned ravioli?”

  “You can’t beat Chef Boyardee,” Mark replied, taking a spoonful.

  “I sometimes wonder if you’re twenty-eight or just eight.” Cabrillo plucked the crisp linen napkin from the table and draped it over his lap. A moment later a wedge salad with strawberry balsamic dressing was placed in front of him.

  “I was actually thinking about a Caesar,” he said to the server without looking up.

  “You’ll eat the wedge,” said Maurice, the ship’s impeccably dressed but irascible steward. He added as he walked away, “You’ll have the beef bourguignon too.”

  He returned a moment later with a bottle of Dom Romane Conti, a rich French burgundy that would be the perfect accompaniment to the Chairman’s meal. He poured with a flourished twist so as not to spill a drop. “I had to drink two full glasses to be sure it hadn’t turned to vinegar.”

  Juan chuckled. Maurice’s little tasting stunt cost the Corporation around eight hundred dollars. Times might be a little leaner than normal, but the retired Royal Navy valet wouldn’t be denied “a touch of the grape,” as he would put it.

  Cabrillo turned to his dinner companions. “You guys could save me from staring at my computer for the night by giving me the condensed version of what you’ve found out about MacD Lawless.”

  “I see absolutely nothing wrong with staring at a computer all night,” Murph said, setting down a can of Red Bull.

  “So, Lawless?”

  “Linda used a contact left over from her days on the Joint Chiefs’ staff and was able to pull his service record.” Eric’s tone was now serious. “Marion MacDougal Lawless was an excellent soldier. He’s racked up a Good Conduct Medal, a Purple Heart, and a Bronze Star. These last two for the same engagement outside of Tikrit. After Iraq he qualified for the Rangers and aced the school at Fort Benning. He was then shipped to Afghanistan and saw some pretty heavy fighting up near the Pakistan border.

  “He put in eight years and left the Army as an E7. He was immediately approached by Fortran Security Worldwide, offered a slot as a bodyguard back in Kabul, and, as far as we could tell from their records without triggering any computer alarms, he’s been a model employee for the past year.”

  “What about his capture. Anything on that?”

  “Reports are still sketchy, but it appears to be the way he told you. The Pakistani camera crew he was hired to protect had come in from Islamabad, but there’s no record of them ever working in Pakistan. The two Afghan security guys with him were legit. They were former Northern Alliance fighters who’d gotten additional training by our Army and then went freelance. The truck was never found, but an Army patrol reported seeing several large holes dug next to the road where Lawless says he was nabbed.”

  “
Big enough to hide a bunch of ambushers?” Juan asked, and Stone nodded.

  Murph added, “The whole thing sounds like an al-Qaeda setup to get an American on tape being hacked to pieces. They haven’t produced one in a while.”

  “The Tikrit incident,” Eric said, “where he was wounded.”

  “Yes?”

  “I read parts of the after-action report that weren’t redacted. Lawless went alone into a building and took out eleven insurgents who’d pinned his team and were turning them into mincemeat. He had a bullet in his thigh when he killed the last three. You want my opinion, he’s the real deal.”

  “Thanks, guys. Good job as usual. How are you coming along with getting maps of the Burmese jungle?”

  “Hah,” Murph barked. “There are none. Where that girl got herself lost is one of the remotest places on the planet. Other than the major rivers, no one knows what the hell’s in there. For all the good they’ve done, the maps we’ve found should all be labeled ‘Beyond this point, there be dragons.’”

  Those turned out to be prophetic words.

  8

  SORRY ABOUT THE ACCOMMODATIONS,” CABRILLO SAID, swinging open the door to one of the cabins in the Oregon’s superstructure. “But with Smith aboard we have to keep up the appearance that this is all the old girl has to offer.”

  MacD Lawless sniffed, made a face, then shrugged. “Y’all said my bein’ here was probational. I guess this is the price I pay.”

  “When things quiet down, I’ll personally give you a tour of the parts of the ship we can’t let Smith know about. Oh, and he has the cabin next to yours. Keep your ears open. I’m sure he’ll be in touch with Croissard, and these walls are paper-thin.” There were microphones in every room and cabin in this part of the ship, but Juan wanted MacD to feel like he was already doing something to earn his pay.

  Lawless threw his duffel bag onto the cabin’s single cot, where it sagged a good six inches into the near-springless mattress. The porthole was grimy, so the room was cast in shades of shadow and murk. The deck was covered in a mouse-brown carpet with such a thin nap that it could be mopped, and the walls were bare metal painted battleship gray. There was an adjoined private head with stainless steel fixtures like those seen in prisons and a medicine cabinet without a door.