The Emperor's Revenge (The Oregon Files)

by Clive Cussler

  “Activating LaWS.”

  The dome over the laser weapon system retracted, exposing the telescope-like laser.

  “Forty seconds to impact!”

  “Target the missile.”

  “Targeting missile.” Red crosshairs lined up on the missile.

  “Fire!”

  Unlike the recoil from the railgun, the laser functioned with little more than a faint whine.

  The nose of the missile glowed red for a fraction of a second. Then, without warning, the missile shattered as its warhead and fuel detonated.

  “Another missile launched, Captain! Now two torpedoes in the water!”

  “So our adversary has a few surprises,” Golov said. “Ready the mini-torpedoes. Target the second missile with the laser.”

  Sirkal liked to quote Sun Tzu’s The Art of War. So did Golov, and one of his favorite lines was “What the ancients called a clever fighter is one who not only wins but excels in winning with ease.”

  “Turn the railgun on the Nogero,” he ordered, and then smiled at his cleverness.

  Golov was going to win this battle with ease.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Juan raced through the secret passageway, leaving Gretchen to close the hidden door behind him. The thick concrete of the old Soviet building made getting a cell phone signal tricky, but he finally had a connection. The Oregon’s line was ringing.

  As soon as Hali picked up, Juan said, “Put me through to Max, Hali.”

  “Aye, Chairman.” There was a pause before Hali came back. “Max wants to know if it can wait.”

  It wasn’t like Max to blow him off. “What’s happening?”

  “We’re in the middle of a fight with the Achilles.”

  It’s just what Juan had feared. “Put Max on right now.”

  “Aye, sir.” Another pause.

  Max came on the line.

  “You picked a doozy of a time to call, my friend.” Even though Max sounded calm, Juan could detect the strain of battle in his voice. “The Achilles has a railgun.”

  “I know,” Juan said. “We found the engineering specs. Any damage to the Oregon?”

  “Not yet. But they did a number on the Narwhal.”

  “You have to get out of there if you can.”

  “Too late for that. I’ve already fired two Exocets, and Golov swatted them out of the sky like they were gnats. We can’t tell how he’s doing it. He didn’t use missiles of his own, and there are no tracers from a Gatling gun.”

  “He has a solid-state laser weapon system.”

  Max whistled. “That explains it.”

  “And don’t bother with torpedoes, either. The Achilles is equipped with mini-torpedoes that can intercept our heavy torpedoes.”

  “Also too late. Sonar shows the two I launched exploding two thousand yards from the target. We’re pretty much screwed, aren’t we?”

  Juan burst into Zakharin’s office.

  “Maybe not,” he said, and grabbed the admiral by the lapel, dragging him to the desk. He threw the folder down and tossed his phone to Eddie. “Show me where the disarming code is.”

  Gretchen closed the entrance to the passageway, and Linc stood by the office door.

  “What? I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Yes, you do. For every weapon you mount on these clients’ ships, you install hidden disarming codes into the software that can be received by a radio signal so these specially outfitted ships won’t be used against the Russian Navy. I know because we found the code you planted on the Oregon. Now, I’m sure you hid one in the Achilles software, too. Tell me where it is in this pile of papers.”

  “I can’t . . .”

  “I don’t have time to mess around with this.” Juan yanked the Colt Defender from Linc’s hand and pushed the barrel against Zakharin’s temple. “After you’re dead, they can come take me away. But either you tell me what the code is in the next ten seconds or I put a bullet in your brain.”

  Zakharin sneered. “You’re bluffing.”

  Juan cocked the hammer. “My ship is about to be sunk. If that happens, you’re a dead man . . . One!”

  Zakharin began to nervously flip through the file.

  “Two!”

  “I can’t remember where—”

  “Three!”

  “Chairman,” Eddie said.

  “Four! What?”

  “Hali says they’re being fired upon.”

  —

  Hard aport!” Max yelled. “Full power astern!”

  The Achilles had fired its railgun two seconds ago. Now that the Oregon was only twelve miles away, it would take the shell just six seconds to hit.

  He counted down in his head as the ship slewed around. Four seconds later, the Oregon was rocked by a sonic boom that blew out the windows on the bridge as the projectile buzzed past them. Like he had with the Narwhal, the captain of the distant yacht had targeted the superstructure to take out all the controls and crew simultaneously.

  Max had bet on the tactic. The main disadvantage of the railgun was that its round was a dumb weapon. It was essentially a cannon shell and couldn’t adjust course in flight, unlike a guided missile. The unique agility and speed of the Oregon was the only thing that kept it from being struck.

  But Max knew Golov wouldn’t make the same mistake twice. He’d aim for the hull next time. The Gatling guns and Metal Storm array were useless against such a high-velocity weapon.

  “Eric, full speed ahead. Random evasive maneuvers.”

  The Oregon’s hull was armor-plated, but it couldn’t repel rounds of that energy. If one of them pierced an ammo magazine, the entire ship would go up in a blast that would break it in two. And if it hit the engine room, they’d be dead in the water.

  “Another shot!” Linda shouted.

  “All back! Hard astarboard!”

  Eric masterfully swung the ship again.

  Max counted.

  This time, they weren’t so lucky. Although the round missed the hull, it sliced right through the amidships crane, one of the two that were operational. The base blew apart and the steel rigging fell onto the deck, leaving a gash in the steel, before tumbling over the side.

  Max looked at Hali, huddling with Murph. They had Juan on the line. Max had heard him demanding the disarming code from the Russian admiral, the same kind of code Murph himself had removed from the Oregon’s software.

  “Tell me Juan’s got some magic trick up his sleeve,” Max said.

  “Working on it” was all Murph would say.

  “Shot’s away!” Linda called out.

  “Full speed ahead!”

  Max braced himself as the Oregon lurched forward.

  Six seconds later, the ship was jolted by an explosion that nearly threw Max out of his chair.

  “Damage report!”

  Linda checked the closed-circuit cameras. “Looks like they got us in the forward hold. It’s above the waterline, so we don’t have flooding, but the missile battery is off-line.”

  “Permanently?”

  “Can’t say yet.”

  “We can’t take much more pounding like this,” Max said. “Murph, give me some good news.”

  “The admiral spilled his guts,” Hali said as Murph furiously tapped at his keyboard. “He’s broadcasting the disarming signal now.”

  Max held his breath to see if it worked. He knew ShadowFoe’s reputation as a programmer, so it was possible she had removed the disarming code.

  They’d know soon enough. Because the next round from the Achilles would be the kill shot.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Golov had to admit it. He was impressed. He thought the intriguing warship disguised as a rusty old cargo vessel would go down with two shots, but her commander was doing a fine job dodging the Achilles’s automated targeting
system. In the end, though, his efforts would be useless. The ships were getting close enough to each other that evasion would soon be impossible. The end was near.

  He smiled as he took control of the firing solution. This was just like hunting ducks as a child, back in Ukraine, when he learned to lead the target. He centered the crosshairs on the center of the ship. No matter which way the Nogero turned, it would suffer catastrophic damage.

  “Fire at will,” he ordered.

  “Firing,” came the reply.

  But nothing happened. The hypersonic railgun remained silent. The weapons operator stabbed futilely at his console several times, then turned to Golov with a puzzled look.

  “The railgun is off-line, Captain!”

  Golov jumped from his seat. “What?”

  The officer frantically worked the controls. “I . . . I don’t know. According to all of the readouts, the weapon status is nominal. It should be firing.”

  “Is there a jam in the gun?”

  “No, sir. The round loaded correctly.”

  “Did the barrel overheat?”

  “Temperature gauge shows normal heat dissipation. The barrel is cool and true.”

  If it wasn’t a mechanical issue, then it had to be a problem with the software. Without Ivana here, diagnosing the error could take hours.

  “How long to reboot the system?” Golov demanded.

  The weapons officer shook his head. “At least thirty minutes. Captain, I thought I saw . . .” He hesitated.

  “You saw what?”

  “For a moment, just as I was about to fire, there seemed to be a signal interrupt as if the system were receiving new commands. Then it went back to normal.”

  “A signal? From where?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Golov blanched. Could it be sabotage? Did he have another traitor on board? It would be the most opportune moment for someone to disable his offensive weapons . . .

  Then he had an even worse thought. If someone had deactivated the railgun, then they could have shut down all of the weapons simultaneously, including the defensive systems.

  “What’s the status of the laser?”

  “Nominal, Captain.”

  “Fire it.”

  “What’s the target?”

  “I think we’re the target. Fire it at the water, starboard side. Make it boil.”

  The officer shrugged. “Aye, sir. Firing.”

  Again, nothing happened.

  Golov’s stomach went cold. Now he was the duck. And he was firmly on his seat.

  “Get us out of here!” he yelled. “Turn one hundred and eighty degrees!”

  “Turning, aye!”

  “Full speed! I want everything we’ve got out of the engines.”

  The Achilles slewed around and raced away in the opposite direction.

  Golov slammed his palms on the wood console in frustration. Despite a worthy adversary, certain victory had been at hand. But instead of savoring the taste of winning a hard-fought battle, he was fleeing with his tail between his legs and readying himself for the announcement of another incoming missile, one that he would have no way to shoot down this time.

  He loathed being on the other side of the crosshairs.

  —

  It worked!” Murph cried out as they watched the Achilles come about. “The weapons must be off-line. She’s making a run for it.”

  “Not so fast,” Max said. “They’re not slinking away that easily. Murph, can you get the missile launcher back up?”

  “No can do. It’ll need some serious attention from welders.”

  “What about our guns?”

  “Ready to go, but we’re way out of range.”

  “Then let’s get closer. Eric, full speed ahead. We’re not letting him get away.”

  “Power at one hundred percent,” Eric replied.

  Max felt himself pushed back in his chair as the Oregon leaped forward. Soon the ship was pushing forty-five knots.

  The stern of the Achilles was solidly in their sights. All they needed was to close the gap.

  After a few minutes, the Achilles didn’t seem any closer. In fact, it looked like it was getting smaller on the screen.

  “My eyesight must finally be going on me,” Max said. “Linda, what’s our distance to target?”

  “I don’t believe it,” she blurted. “Distance is fourteen miles—and increasing. She’s outpacing us by at least ten knots, maybe fifteen.”

  Max couldn’t contain his shock. “That’s impossible!” He took pride in the Oregon’s speed. No other ship her size could even come close to her pace. Yet here was the exception receding into the distance on-screen.

  “Think she’s got magnetohydrodynamic engines like we do?” Murph said.

  “No,” Linda said with a headset pressed to her ear. “I can hear screws on the sonar. But they seem to be muffled somehow.”

  Eric looked at her. “Muffled?”

  “Like they’re covered in Styrofoam.”

  He thought for a moment, then turned to Max. “Remember the Shkval torpedoes we stole from the Iranians? Could the Achilles have that kind of propulsion?”

  Max shook his head. “Those were rocket torpedoes. Incredibly high-speed, but short-range.”

  “Right, but they also pumped out air bubbles for supercavitation to reduce drag in the water. We could be seeing the same thing here, but with screws doing the job instead of rockets.”

  “I’ve heard of it in experimental ships, but nothing of that size. The bubbles would have to encase the entire hull.”

  “Well, they’re getting away from us somehow,” Murph said. “Eric may have pegged it.”

  “I’m reading a pressure loss in our cooling system,” Eric said. “We’ll have to check it, but it’s likely that one of the pipes was punctured when they took out our missile launcher.”

  “How bad?” Max asked.

  “If we keep running at full power, we might do irreparable damage to the engines.”

  Max grimaced. He hated to let the Achilles get away, but following them farther would be futile at this point. And if the Achilles figured out how to get the weapons back online quickly and turned around to attack again, the Oregon obviously couldn’t outrun her.

  He sighed and said, “Let them go. Reduce to half speed and put us on a heading to Naples. I know a guy there who owes me a favor. If we need any additional equipment to make repairs, he’ll get it for us.”

  As the ship came about, the looks of worry on the faces of the rest of the op center crew mirrored Max’s own concern. It was an unfamiliar sensation, contemplating a scenario that had been to this point unthinkable. If they ever again had to battle the Achilles, a ship that was faster and more powerfully armed than the state-of-the-art Oregon, how could they possibly win?

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Once Juan was certain the Oregon was out of danger, he hung up the phone and stared at Admiral Zakharin with a steely gaze.

  “You’re lucky no one on my ship was injured,” he said.

  “What about the Oregon?” Eddie asked.

  “Some damage, but Max thinks we can get everything back in working order within a day or two at a maintenance facility. He’s sending the destination to Tiny so we can meet up with them.” Juan didn’t say that their destination was Naples so that the admiral wouldn’t overhear it.

  “Why did you think ShadowFoe hadn’t disabled the disarming codes like you did?” Gretchen asked.

  “I’m sure when Zakharin’s predecessor found out we’d discovered ours, they began to do a much more thorough job of hiding it. Besides, ShadowFoe thinks like a hacker. She might not have specifically looked for something like a kill code. I, on the other hand, think like a spy.”

  Linc nodded at the admiral. “What do we do with him?”

 
“Well, I was going to have him escort us back to the airport,” Juan said. “But I don’t think that’s necessary now.” He looked pointedly at Gretchen, who was huddled over the accounting ledger with her phone, snapping photos.

  “Just about done here,” she said, then trained her eyes on Zakharin. “This is a lot of incriminating evidence you have here. I’ve just uploaded it to the servers at Interpol. We’ll keep the information to ourselves, unless, of course, there’s reason for us to release it to—I don’t know—the Kremlin?”

  Juan smiled mirthlessly. “I don’t think the current leadership in Moscow would forgive reading in the news about a Russian admiral turning his naval base into a personal piggy bank, especially when he isn’t sharing all the profits.”

  Zakharin glared at them. “What do you want now?”

  “You’ve probably built up substantial savings from your activities here—enough to fund a generous retirement at a very nice beach resort, I imagine. So this is where it ends. No more ships will be refitted here.”

  Zakharin’s eyes bugged from his head. “What? You want me to give up a multimillion-dollar business?”

  “That’s about the size of it.”

  “Or what? You’ll kill me?” Zakharin focused on the vial of clear liquid in Eddie’s hand.

  “No, we’ll share your illicit moneymaking with the public and expose what really goes on here.”

  “And expose yourselves at the same time.” The admiral grinned. He obviously thought he held the ace.

  Juan walked over to Gretchen and picked up two file folders that were under the one she was using.

  “You mean these?” He slammed the files on the desk. Each of them said OREGON on the cover. He had removed them from the vault when he took the Achilles files. “No sense in leaving these lying around here.” Juan had noticed the one piece of up-to-date equipment in the admiral’s office was a high-capacity-level P7 paper shredder, the kind the CIA used to destroy classified documents.

  He dropped each file on the Oregon into the shredder. The machine whined as it tore the paper into particles smaller than a grain of sand.

  “I still know.”