Sea of Fire o-10

by Tom Clancy

  Darling walked to the counter. He picked up his water and took a quick swig. He did not really care whether Kannaday won back his respect or not. All that mattered was having someone take charge of this mission. To see the rest of it through without event. To make sure he was not bothered on any future aspects of the operation.

  Darling finished the water and wondered who that lieutenant would be. John Hawke was a confident man, and strength was a great motivator. Peter Kannaday was a frightened man. Fear could move a man as well, often in strange and unexpected ways.

  Which is the greater asset? Darling asked himself.

  The big, successful prehistoric predators had enormous power and guile. Sometimes, though, a startled vegetarian like a stegosaurus would swing its spiked tail and fell a mighty tyrannosaur. There were countless cracked skulls in the fossil record.

  The tactics never changed. Only the combatants and their weapons.

  Darling put the empty water bottle on the counter. He left the kitchen to briefly attend to his other businesses. The safe ones. The ones that had long ago lost their ability to challenge and gratify him. The ones that covered the world and reported on it.

  A world that he would have a hand in reshaping.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Celebes Sea Friday, 9:44 P.M.

  Monica Loh's patrol boat hovered about the second nuclear waste site. This was where the Japanese government was allowed to deposit material. Tokyo was also free to assign space to other nations, provided they adhered to the International Nuclear Regulatory Commission codes.

  The officer did not like coming to the Japanese site. She did not like going to any place controlled by the Japanese. It was a purely psychological reaction but a strong one. People of smaller nations in this region were inevitably caught in the backwash of history created by China and Japan. The Chinese were ambitious, organized, and insensitive. With over a billion people to feed and manage, Loh did not blame them for their totalitarian efficiency. She did not have the same sympathy for the Japanese. They were greedy rather than ambitious. They were domineering, not just organized. And they were cruel rather than insensitive. When the Chinese turned outward it was for land and resources to control. The Japanese looked for people to subjugate.

  Singapore had its own forms of overkill. Laws were strict and punishment stricter. Dissent was permitted as long as sedition and abusive language were avoided. Work was hard, wages were low, and the government did not do enough to ease the burden of laborers. The ship-builders and oil refiners were the backbone of the economy. The government could not afford to alienate them. Since the bulk of the population was of Chinese heritage, they understood the rules. But Singaporeans had, at heart, a gentle nature. Their discomfort about the Japanese came partly from history lessons and partly from a clash of natures. They experienced it on the seas, in the harbors, in the banks, and on the stock exchanges. Whenever FNO Loh was around Japanese sailors, military or otherwise, she felt as though she was on high alert. Even tourists made her uneasy. They seemed to be collecting memories instead of enjoying them.

  Loh watched from the deck as the sailors lowered their gear into the water. They were just a few meters ahead of her, port side. They worked in silence as they had been trained to do. Talk was a distraction in military operations. Still, every one of the officer's senses was stimulated. She smelled the oil and salt of the sea. She heard the slapping of the waves against the hull of the patrol ship. Spotlights fastened to the rail played across the water. The net containing the equipment seemed to lose pieces as it descended into the darkness between the bright, patchy crests of sea. A strong, temperate wind pushed at her from the northwest. Though the woman's world was the sea, she had always felt a kinship with the wind. It moved across the ocean, just like she did. It was silent. And it had changing moods that were only noticed by those who got in the way. The stars were partly hidden by high, wispy clouds. They reminded Loh of a waitress she had once seen in Bangkok. The woman had worn a white gown with sequins that sparkled in the light. Now that Loh thought of it, she knew as little about that waitress as she did about the heavens. The world was full of mysteries.

  Loh was relaxed as the men and women worked. She did not care whether they found the site to be corrupted or intact. Even no information was information. She would deal with whatever they discovered. Though not a practicing Buddhist, Loh believed in the four noble truths it taught: that existence is suffering; that the cause of suffering is desire; that suffering eventually ends in a state of peace known as nirvana; and that the road to nirvana, the so-called eightfold noble path, consists of the qualities of right resolve, right speech, right action, right livelihood, right effort, right mindfulness, and right concentration. All of those skills did not come easily. And they required one thing above all.

  Patience.

  Loh had learned that quality by watching her father work on his cases. In the end, the perpetrator would be caught. It only remained to be seen how, when, and where.

  After a few minutes, the young male specialist in charge of naval underwater systems jogged over to FNO Loh. He saluted.

  "Ambient radiation levels are below normal at the site of the last deposit," he said. "Unless the coordinates are incorrect."

  "There is no reason to believe they are," she said. "Go down and see what you can find."

  "Ma'am," he said, saluting and turning.

  It took just five minutes for the underwater unit to get into the sea. They carried a fluoroscopic scanner. If there were anything hot inside the stencil-dated concrete block, it would show up as a red pattern on the viewfinder.

  Ten minutes later the three-person team reached the site. The block that had been deposited registered as cold. It contained no radioactive materials. FNO Loh unhooked the point-to-point radio from her belt. She contacted Warrant Officer Jelbart on the other vessel.

  "Then the materials were off-loaded somewhere between the source and the drop-off point," Jelbart said.

  "That is apparently the case," Loh agreed.

  "And it's possible they were given to the vessel that was attacked by the sampan," Jelbart said.

  "That is also likely," she said.

  "We'll get the name and registry of the ship that made this drop," Jelbart told her. "Then we'll have a talk with the captain."

  "That is worth doing," Loh said. "But I am betting you will not find the ship or the crew."

  "What do you mean?" Jelbart asked. "The ship has to be registered."

  "That is true," she said. "But that vessel probably has multiple registries. I am guessing they were notified when the sampan attacked their fellow ship. While they were still at sea, the vessel would have been rechristened and the hull repainted. I doubt very much that we will find it."

  "Then we've learned nothing," Jelbart said. "Except for the fact that there is a great deal of nuclear waste somewhere in our corner of the world."

  "That is not nothing," Loh said. "We will find it."

  "I like your attitude. Any suggestions?" Jelbart asked.

  "Just one," she said. "Have patience."

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Cairns, Australia Friday, 9:45 P.M.

  Peter Kannaday returned to the yacht a shaken man.

  During the meeting with Jervis Darling, the captain had experienced something extremely disturbing. For the first time in his forty-seven years, Kannaday's natural, healthy suspicion had blossomed like a nightshade into poisonous paranoia. And it had happened for a shockingly simple reason. Being buffeted by two forces, Jervis Darling and John Hawke, was troublesome enough. What bothered Kannaday more was the thought that those forces might not be working independently. Hawke had been hired by Darling. They could be working together through Marcus Darling. Perhaps the elder Darling wanted Kannaday to turn on Hawke so that Hawke could eliminate him. Then he could seize the yacht. Kannaday's crew would not turn against a security chief who had defended himself. From Jervis Darling's point of view, this was easier and m
ore secure than purchasing a yacht and leaving a paper trail. Or there could be other reasons. Perhaps Darling was doing this out of nothing more than utter contempt for an easygoing man. Or maybe breaking people was how Darling got his jollies.

  These suspicions turned the captain's natural force, his momentum, inside out. It had turned healthy caution into deadly fear. Kannaday had to find a way to get rid of that.

  Kannaday also had to get rid of John Hawke. Even if Hawke and Darling were not working together, the captain had not been given any wiggle room on that account.

  Kannaday hoped that getting the mission back under way would help restore some of his balance.

  The Hosannah left Darling Cove at 9:05 P.M. Repairs to the laboratory had been completed by 10 o'clock. The new equipment had been secured and tested. The yacht was ready to make their delayed rendezvous with a fishing vessel from Malaysia. But no sooner had they set out than Kannaday's radio beeped. It was Marcus Darling reporting some very odd radio traffic in the Celebes Sea. Captain Kannaday went below to see him.

  John Hawke was already in the radio shack. It was the first time Kannaday had seen him since returning from the Darling estate. The security chief had been working in his cabin when Kannaday returned.

  Their eyes barely met. Hawke said nothing to Kannaday, and the captain did not acknowledge the security chief. Kannaday stood behind the radio operator. Hawke was to the left, where the porthole used to be. Marcus had an AltaVista translation file open on his laptop. The program automatically translated incoming messages into English typescript.

  "I picked up a communication from a Japanese trawler," Marcus said. "He was asking if it was safe to pass."

  "Asking who?" Kannaday asked.

  "A Singaporean patrol vessel, judging by the names and ranks," Marcus replied.

  "Why would he ask that?" Kannaday asked.

  "The trawler is at one hundred and thirty degrees longitude, five degrees latitude," the younger Darling told him. "Obviously, the patrol ship is there as well. And the worst news is, it may not be alone."

  Kannaday felt a chill. "Go on."

  "The ship from Singapore is apparently talking to another ship," Marcus continued. "I can't hear what the other ship is saying because the message is blacked out."

  "Then how do you know the Singaporeans are talking to another ship?" Kannaday asked.

  "Because there are short blackouts after every conversation with the trawler," Marcus told him. "They are of roughly the same duration as the initial conversation. It's as if the boat receiving the message is translating and relaying the conversation word for word."

  "Why wouldn't another ship just listen in?" Hawke asked.

  "Because as soon as the other ship turned on their radio, someone like me would know they were there. And, more importantly, I'd know exactly who they were," Marcus said.

  "I see," Kannaday said. "Is that a military tactic?"

  "Military or police, yes," Marcus replied.

  Military and police vessels did not go to that site on routine visits. The area was monitored by civilian vessels of the International Nuclear Regulatory Commission.

  "We need to find out who is there," Hawke said.

  "Why?" Kannaday asked. "The dumping grounds are not on any of our routes."

  "They are on Jaafar's route," Hawke pointed out.

  "Why should that worry us?" Kannaday asked.

  "He is an ally."

  "By now Jaafar has got the name of his ship repainted and is flying a different flag," Kannaday said. "Those changes would have been made at night or under a tarpaulin. It is very unlikely that anyone would have seen him."

  "Then what are one and possibly two military vessels doing at the waste site?" Hawke asked.

  "I have no idea, and I'm not sure it concerns us," Kannaday said.

  "If they discover that Jaafar deposited empty drums of nuclear waste, it could come back to us," Hawke said.

  "They would have to find him first, which is unlikely," Kannaday said. "If Jaafar thinks someone is on to him, he will go into hiding. We can warn him on our secure channel."

  "I want to know who's out there," Hawke repeated.

  "And do what, exactly?" Kannaday asked.

  "Go after those vessels, if necessary," Hawke said. "Do to them what the pirates wanted to do to us."

  A preemptive strike, Kannaday thought. Just what Darling might have suggested. Maybe Hawke was sincerely concerned about the patrol ship. Or maybe he was simply trying to provoke a confrontation with Kannaday. In either case, the captain decided to let him have his head on this one.

  "How do you recommend we conduct reconnaissance?" Kannaday asked.

  "We need a satellite overview," Hawke replied. "We need to see who is there and what they're doing."

  "Marcus, can you do that?" Kannaday asked.

  "We can do that through Colonel Hwan," Marcus said.

  "Who is that?" Kannaday asked.

  "Colonel Kim Hwan is my uncle's man at the North Korean Reconnaissance Bureau," Marcus replied. "The NKRB collects strategic and tactical intelligence for the Ministry of the People's Armed Forces. They also eavesdrop on business rivals when my uncle needs them to."

  "How long will it take to get information from Colonel Hwan?" Kannaday asked.

  "We won't know until we contact him," Marcus said. "He may be able to get the information through normal channels. If not, he might have to go to the Chinese for access to one of their satellites."

  "Do it," Hawke said.

  Hawke did not bother to ask Kannaday. The captain let that go, too. Kannaday wondered if he was afraid to stop him or letting him run until he hit a reef. He realized now how complacent he had grown as a commander. Maybe he should question this more. Just to flex his muscles.

  "You're certain there's no way anyone can eavesdrop on our message or trace the signal?" Kannaday asked.

  "It's extremely unlikely," Marcus replied. "My uncle has a direct line to Colonel Hwan's cell comm. We'll patch into that and send E-mails directly to him. Hwan can respond to them immediately. No one would have any reason to monitor those communications."

  "And if someone does?" Kannaday asked stubbornly.

  "Every message we send is coded and untraceable," Marcus told him. "We'll be safe."

  "All right," Kannaday said. "Go ahead."

  Marcus accessed the main transmitter in Darwin. He turned to his laptop and accessed the codebook on the hard drive. He looked up Hwan's code name. Once he had that, he took the appropriate diskette from a small safe under the radio stand. He plugged that into the drive.

  "Ready," Marcus said.

  Hawke dictated as Marcus typed. The security director had not reacted to Kannaday giving the final okay to contact Hwan. Hawke asked the North Korean colonel to find out who was at the waste site and, if possible, why. While they waited for an acknowledgment, Kannaday watched for any sign of bonding between the two men. A glance. Hawke moving closer to Marcus. Something that might indicate collusion. Both men would benefit by Kannaday making a misstep. Hawke could seize the Hosannah. Marcus could run certain aspects of the mission, show his uncle leadership chops. They did not seem to be connecting in any meaningful way. The captain felt some wind in his sails.

  Many paranoids do have enemies, Kannaday reflected. But he wondered whether, more often than not, it was themselves.

  "What do we do in the meantime?" Marcus asked.

  "We continue to the rendezvous point," Kannaday said. "Is everything set with the Malaysian crew?"

  "I received a radio message while you were with the boss," Marcus said. He accessed the notes on his computer. "They've been crisscrossing the area since we missed our appointment. I told them we had an equipment problem. They are awaiting a new ETA."

  "Tell Captain bin Omar we'll be there at one A.M.," Kannaday said. "And thanks for being vague about what happened."

  "I didn't have much choice," Marcus said. "It would not have instilled confidence to tell them the truth." />
  That was true.

  Kannaday asked Marcus to let him know when he had any information. Then he went to the deck to chat with the crewmen who were posing as passengers. There was a great deal of sea traffic offshore. Kannaday knew many of the local skippers who ran pleasure boats. Ironically, if they saw Kannaday, if they waved to him, it helped him stay anonymous. No one thought, Where is Captain Kannaday and what is he up to?

  Kannaday walked the deck. The sea air was unusually misty. The droplets felt good on the captain's face. He felt slightly better than he did before. Hawke had a different project to focus on. That kept the pressure off Kannaday. It also did something else.

  It gave him time to figure out what to do about the security chief.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Washington, D.C. Friday, 7:17 A.M.

  As mayor of Los Angeles and as head of Op-Center, Paul Hood had taken calls from heads of state. During times of crisis he had spoken calmly over the phone with his counterparts in other nations. Even when lives were at risk or lost, Hood had been able to speak without agitation to operatives in the field. He had talked with the wives and mothers of police officers and firefighters who had lost husbands and sons. He had called and visited the families of the Strikers who had perished in the Kashmir conflict.

  But Hood was somewhat unnerved when he got around to accessing his personal cell phone messages. Daphne Connors had called at six-fifteen that morning. From the sound of her voice she had just woken up. Or perhaps she was just going to sleep. She often went to client parties that continued late into the night. She reported in a low, smoky voice that she had a dream about him. It had something to do with a stagecoach driver and a tavern owner in the old West. Only Hood was running the saloon and Daphne was running the stage.

  Maybe that was true. Or maybe it was a pretext to phone. In either case, the call troubled him. Or rather, it was the tone of Daphne's voice. He had not heard a bedroom voice in years. His former wife, Sharon, had never had one, really. And the one night he spent with Op-Center's former press liaison, Ann Farris, was followed by awkward silence and forced felicity.