Tom Clancy's Op-center Novels 7-12 (9781101644591)

by Clancy, Tom

  Herbert leaned forward as they soared toward the starlit skies. “What the hell is scrub-bashing?” he asked Jelbart.

  “That’s when you make your own road through dense brush,” Jelbart replied. “It’s a he-man’s Sunday drive. If you get invited, it means you rate. You obviously made a good impression.”

  “Oh,” Herbert replied.

  The intelligence chief sat back. He looked confused.

  Jelbart had not known Herbert long. But he knew how a man looked when he was frustrated. Herbert had that look. Leyland had to have noticed that, too. That could be why he said what he did, to give Herbert a little boost.

  Jelbart smiled as they headed toward the coast. That elevated Leyland a little more.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  The Coral Sea Sunday, 1:55 A.M.

  Captain Kannaday was unable to pry open the cabin door. That was ironic. He did not want to get out when he could. Now that the door was locked, he desperately wanted to be on the other side.

  Without access to the radio room, he could not call out. Here in the cabin he had very little at his disposal. A porthole just wide enough for his head. He could not crawl out. There was also the shower. If he plugged up the drain and tore the desk lamp from its cord, he could drop the loose ends into the water. Anyone stepping in the water would get a jolt. But the lamps in the yacht were run off a marine deep cycle battery. The 550 ampere charge would not kill them. He did not even think it would stun them.

  And Kannaday would still be trapped in here.

  He had a cigarette lighter, but the door was fireproof. He would not even be able to burn through it.

  He swore. He could not understand what Darling and Hawke were up to. The captain’s body had adjusted to the pain. He started to pace. He felt as though he were working sore muscles. He paused now and then to kick the door. The cabin had never seemed so small.

  Suddenly, he heard a low growl from down the hall. The floor began to vibrate. It sounded as if someone were using an electric drill or router. They were kept in the event the yacht suffered damage in a collision or storm. But the sound seemed to be coming from below. There was a long, narrow crawl space between the deck and the red cedar outer hull. The area was accessible through a trapdoor in the corridor. Cables, extra gear, and emergency equipment such as the tools and flares were kept there.

  The ship was in fine shape. There was only one reason to enter the crawl space with tools. They were putting a hole in the outer hull. The Hosannah was going to be scuttled.

  “Hawke!” the captain screamed as he pounded on the door again. “Dammit, Hawke!”

  Kannaday cursed himself for not having acted sooner. What was happening out there transcended discipline and retribution. Darling would only sink the ship if it could be used against him. Something must have gone wrong somewhere in the network. Darling needed to get rid of the evidence. Hence the smashing of the equipment. Darling also needed someone to take the fall. A corpse could not deny its guilt.

  Kannaday was not especially close to the crew. Darling would not have had to offer them much to cooperate.

  “You bastards!” he shouted.

  Even if the men were listening, no one could have heard him. The winch and whatever tools they were using made too much noise.

  The winch stopped. The two boats must be in the water. Kannaday could not be sure. His porthole looked out toward the starboard side of the yacht. A moment later, the rumbling sounds from the interior corridor also stopped. The captain heard voices and hurried footsteps. A few seconds later, all the noises on the vessel were coming from above deck. The men were rushing to the stern. They were obviously getting into the dinghies. Kannaday wondered if his own crew knew he was not coming.

  Kannaday screamed in frustration. He ran at the door again. It was reinforced and watertight to prevent flooding. The impact hurt his shoulder, and he backed away.

  Rubbing it, the captain paced anxiously in a tight circle. He looked around, trying desperately to think of a way out. There were aerosol cans in the bathroom. Perhaps he could puncture them, cause them to explode. But how, without hurting himself in the process?

  Suddenly, the yacht became very still and stable. Kannaday heard the two masts creak. The waves were no longer moving it from side to side. That meant it was bottom heavy.

  The yacht was going down.

  FIFTY-SIX

  The Great Barrier Reef Sunday, 2:09 A.M.

  Monica Loh knew that the search for Jervis Darling’s vessel was probably hopeless.

  The Singaporean patrol boat was moving at top speed toward the area. It was listening for the ship in a continuous sweep of all radio frequencies. The chopper was watching for the vessel. But a boat running silent and probably dark would be virtually impossible to find at night. Radar was unreliable due to the sheer number of hits they picked up: not just boats but reefs, sea creatures on the surface, even large waves. Modern equipment was occasionally too sensitive to be useful. She was guessing that by daybreak it would be gone completely. And with the ship hidden, they would lose their best chance to track this action to Darling and find the missing nuclear waste.

  Jelbart was on the radio with his home base. When he was finished, the pilot contacted the RAAF Airfield Defence Squadron satellite base in Cooktown. That was the nearest refueling point in the region.

  FNO Loh did not feel comfortable about the new world in which they were living. She did not yearn for a simpler era. Nor did she doubt her skills or those of her shipmates. They were smart and disciplined. What worried her were the agents who had joined groups like Interpol or the CIA because it seemed glamorous. Many of them did not expect nor ask for the grievous responsibility that had been placed on their backs. Loh hoped their efforts here would be an example to others rather than an exception. The civilized world did not have time to accommodate long apprenticeships.

  “I just spoke with General Hopkins,” the pilot informed the group. “He’ll let us refuel there. That gives us ninety minutes of flying time. How do you want to spend it?”

  “Warrant Officer, that’s your call,” Herbert said.

  “I suggest we follow the reef northeast,” Jelbart said. “HQ said that Darling’s property holdings are mostly in the south and west. That would be out of reach for his boat. And his cove is completely open. My guess is he’ll make a run for the open sea and a foreign port.”

  “Perhaps the same port that swallowed the Malaysian vessel,” FNO Loh suggested.

  “That’s a reasonable guess,” Jelbart admitted. “So we’ll head north, which we’ll have to do to reach Cooktown. Then we’ll swing out toward the sea in a tight Z pattern and hope we spot our prey.”

  “Sirs, General Hopkins has also offered to launch a pair of A3 Mirage fighters if we need them for surveillance,” the pilot added.

  Loh waited to see Jelbart’s response. The need for absolute security, to keep any leaks from Darling, versus the need for information.

  “It’s getting too late in the day for overcaution,” Jelbart said. “Thank the general and say we would welcome the help. I’ll have a look at the map and give him the air routes we’d like covered.”

  “Yes, sir,” the pilot replied.

  “I’ll notify my patrol boat of our plan,” Loh said.

  Jelbart passed the headset back to her while he took a look at the flight book.

  “I wonder if their base might be a tanker of some sort,” Herbert thought aloud. “Something mobile.”

  “And protectable,” Jelbart said. “Something that large could be a floating SCUD bank.”

  “It sure would be a helluva delivery platform for nuclear-tipped missiles,” Herbert agreed. “Hell, there isn’t a port on earth tankers don’t visit.”

  Loh listened to the men as she placed her call. She hoped they were mistaken. It was bad enough contemplating the damage petty despots could do with intermediate-range missiles. Add money and international political clout, and there was no limit to the potential subterfuge.r />
  Even if Herbert and Jelbart were wrong this time, they might not be wrong the next time. Or the time after that. Things were going to have to change radically in the way the military and intelligence services did business.

  Fortunately, Loh had an idea where they might start. With a resource that was already in their lap.

  FIFTY-SEVEN

  The Coral Sea Sunday, 2:09 A.M.

  The yacht began to sink toward the stern. Kannaday stumbled back against the bed as the floor tilted. The incoming water was settling in the aft section. The captain heard the clatter of boxes and loose equipment below as the vessel shifted.

  The crawl space, he thought suddenly.

  Kannaday leaned on the wall. He braced himself with both hands as he stood. The far end of the storage area was directly below the cabin. If he could pry up the floorboards, he might be able to squeeze through.

  The captain bolted toward the desk and pulled out the drawer. He did not have a letter opener or knife, but the drawer was held in by runners. He yanked it free, tossed it aside, and looked at the screws. A nail file would work. He went into the bathroom and got his nail clippers from the medicine chest. He flipped out the nail file and used it to work out the screws. There were two in each runner. The first one came free quickly. That was all he would need.

  The runner was shaped like a squared-off C. Kannaday went back to the bathroom, unscrewed the metal spray head from the shower, and laid the end of the runner on the desk. Holding the showerhead in his fist, he used it to pound the end of the runner flat.

  He had his lever.

  Grabbing the runner, the nail file, and the showerhead, he dropped to his knees near the door. The floorboards were epoxy-coated mahogany. He wedged the nail file between two of the planks and dug a small hole between them. He inserted the flattened edge of the runner. Rising on the sloping floor, he used the showerhead to pound the runner down. He did it firmly enough to push the metal in, but softly enough to keep it from bending. It took just four whacks to put the runner through. Kannaday repeated the process along the entire side of the narrow plank. As he worked, the boat continued to shift. First it leveled, then it dipped to port, then the aft dropped again. Kannaday tried not to think about going under. Hawke would have taken them several miles out to sea. The water was an average of two hundred feet deep here. Once the Hosannah went down, Peter Kannaday would not be coming back up.

  The captain had gone around most of the first plank when he stood and stomped on it. The plank split from the one beside it and dropped into the crawl space. Kannaday got back on his knees and worked on the ends of the plank beside it. When he had punched through those, he put the runner down, put his fingers into the opening left by the first plank, and pulled on the second. With three sides free, it came up easily.

  Kannaday could hear the water rushing in. He did not stop. The batteries were in a watertight compartment, but he did not know how long they would last. If they died, he would be in the dark.

  He managed to get the third plank up. Kannaday needed to remove at least six before he could think of trying to get in. As he watched the water rise, he realized that there would not be time to continue this way. Reaching behind him, he pulled his pillowcase from the bed. He wrapped it around his hands. Crouching, he reached into the hole he had made and pulled up on the next plank. He grasped the edge of the wood. The pillowcase prevented him from slipping on the moist mahogany. The wood refused to budge. He screamed in frustration and looked around. There was nothing.

  Just then he realized that the contents of the crawl space were settling toward the stern. Swearing at his own stupidity, he got a flashlight from his desk, dropped to his belly, and shone the light in the opening he had made.

  He saw the tool kit. It was banging around in the area just beyond the door of his cabin.

  Reaching in, Kannaday stretched his arm in that direction. He could not quite reach it. He took the runner, bent the end into a hook, stuck it into the opening, and fished for the metal chest.

  He snagged it.

  Pulling it inside, Kannaday opened the large box and took out a hammer. Getting on his knees, he slammed it repeatedly into the planks. It took two blows each to crack them, one more to send them tumbling into the crawl space. As the water started to flood his cabin, Kannaday realized that he would have to go in headfirst. The yacht settled again slightly. This might be as level as the vessel got before going down. Taking the flashlight in his left hand, Kannaday lay down, took a long breath, then slid into the crawl space.

  There was only about twenty-five feet to the opening cut by the crew. But it seemed much farther because of the debris that blocked Kannaday’s way. There was no room for vertical or lateral movement. He could not shove the flotsam around, under, or behind him. He had to push the containers, equipment, shards of wood, and other objects ahead as he wriggled forward. It was like moving against a dam that grew thicker by the instant. He was finally forced to let go of the flashlight and use both hands. Fortunately, the crew had left the trapdoor open to facilitate the flow of water. The hall lights filtered through the opening in the deck. Kannaday used both hands to shove on the objects clustered in the crawl space. The captain was literally knee-walking forward as the algaethick water rolled through the crawl space and lower deck.

  The Hosannah continued to tilt and pitch. The geyser of seawater batted the debris back. He did not think he would be able to get much farther ahead. Kannaday’s arms and chest hurt from the beating, and the exertion strained his lungs. Even though his brain knew it would kill him, his lungs insisted that he inhale. The captain had to fight that impulse. He was less than four feet from the trapdoor. It was like being under the ice-covered surface of a pond. Kannaday was close to freedom yet not quite there.

  His temples were pulsing hard, and his vision was beginning to swirl. He did not have much time. The way the debris had piled up in front of him, there was only enough room to extend his right arm. Turning onto his back, he stuck his hand toward the trapdoor, turned his palm up, and grabbed the near side of the opening. He pulled hard. The edges of metal boxes, tools, and the other gear cut into him as he dragged himself up. It would not be enough to get to the opening. It was already underwater. He had to get through it and out of the crawl space.

  He needed to breathe. In a few moments he was going to breathe, even if he took in only seawater. He worked his left arm past the pile of equipment, ripping his sleeve and rending his flesh as he stretched it toward the opening. He grabbed the edge and pulled with both hands now. He moved slowly up the side of the mountain of debris. His forehead was near the opening. It went through. His shoulders followed. Now he was pushing on the edge instead of pulling. He was in the water-filled corridor. He bent at the waist, drew his feet out, flipped over, and scrambled ahead.

  He half-swam, half-jumped to his feet and gasped at the same time. He took in air. It was salvation, the common made uncommon. All other fears and considerations dwarfed in comparison. He splashed back down and felt for a wall. He found one on the starboard side. It was at a slight angle, tilting away from him. He leaned against it and got his feet under him. He rose, his shoulders rounded, water running from them.

  Blood from his fresh wounds mixed with the seawater. The salt in the water stung, but it was not like the pain of the beating. He had earned these wounds by deed. He felt reborn.

  Kannaday was just forward of the radio room. The water came up to his waist. At this rate, the boat would be underwater in about a half hour.

  Suddenly, there was a snap like a dry twig breaking. The water must have reached the batteries. The lights went out.

  The captain turned back toward the trapdoor. He looked down into the crawl space. His flashlight was still on, twisting in the rushing water. He waded back to get it. Now that Kannaday was no longer pushing the debris, it had begun to slide back into the aft depths of the crawl space. It knocked the flashlight around, but he managed to grab it before it drifted away. He turned
and balanced himself against the sloping wall as he slogged through the water. There was something he needed. Something he was sure that murderers in the night would not take.

  Kannaday entered the radio room. Most of the wrecked equipment was underwater. Smaller pieces, mostly wires and microchips, were floating on the shifting waters. But the box he wanted was still bracketed shoulder-high to the inner wall. The captain knew that Hawke and Marcus would not have bothered with it.

  The box was bright red and the size of a lunch pail. Kannaday reached up, flipped the lid, and removed the contents. As the yacht moaned and lurched, he made his way quickly toward the stairs and freedom.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  Washington, D.C. Saturday, 12:38 P.M.

  Like a federal Darwin exploring survival of the fittest in a bureaucracy, Paul Hood had identified countless functions for the director of Op-Center. Sometimes the job required a quarterback. Sometimes it called for a cheerleader. Sometimes there were other responsibilities. This happened to be one of those rah-rah times.

  Paul Hood entered the small, bright room that was Stephen Viens’s work area.

  Officially, this area was Op-Center’s internal security department. Viens and his one-person team watched for moles and people who might be tempted to pass secrets on to other nations. That was how it had been described when Op-Center’s accountant Carolina Burdo drew up the annual budget. Unofficially, it was also where Viens used his years as satellite imaging supervisor with the NRO to get priority satellite time for Op-Center.

  Viens’s office was the only one in the underground sector that had a window. The window looked out into the corridor, but that did not matter. After years of working for the National Reconnaissance Office, Viens wanted a real-time view, even if it was of more work space. That included Mary Timm’s small cubicle, which was located just outside his door. The young woman was reviewing data being fed to her by various surveillance satellites. She was collating that information and sending it to Viens.