by Tom Clancy
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Darwin, Australia Saturday, 12:08 P.M.
At a few minutes after eleven A.M., the TR-1 touched down at the Australian Defence Force Basic Flying Training School in Tamworth, New South Wales. Within ten minutes, a rested and energized Bob Herbert was wheeling himself up a ramp into the belly of an RAAF Bell 204 helicopter. He had called ahead and specifically requested this vehicle. And not just because it was wheelchair friendly. It fit with the reconnaissance idea he was formulating. The Bells were heavy-lift choppers capable of transporting troops or, more importantly, being reconfigured for spray loads to help put out fires.
Ninety minutes and a smooth but loud ride later, Herbert was on the ground in Darwin. Before leaving Tamworth, Herbert had said he might need the helicopter for a few hours more. The pilot shut the rotor off and waited as Herbert disembarked. Lowell Coffey and a gentleman in uniform were there to meet him. The officer looked a healthy bronze. Lowell looked sallow.
The officer introduced himself as Warrant Officer George Jelbart. It was the first time a man had ever crouched to shake Herbert's hand. He probably did it as a courtesy, to make direct eye contact. But Herbert felt like he did when he was a kid being introduced to some friend of his father's. He half-expected the officer to tousle his hair when he rose. As they began walking toward the terminal, Coffey shot Herbert a furrowed, That was strange look. Herbert was glad Coffey had noticed. He was not sure how much was registering in the attorney's tired mind. It was clear from Coffey's bloodshot eyes and pallor that his little ocean odyssey had not agreed with him.
"I won't ask if you had a pleasant flight because those daylong trips are never enjoyable," Jelbart said. He had to speak loudly to be heard over the wind. "But we appreciate your coming. We have a van waiting out front. Our offices are just a few minutes' drive from here. There are beverages and sandwiches waiting. Is there anything else you'll want?"
"Not a thing, thanks," Herbert said.
"Mr. Herbert, the ADF commander told me that you rang ahead to request that specific aircraft," Jelbart said.
"Yes. The RAAF registry on the TR-1 listed it among your aircraft," Herbert told him.
"And you've asked it to wait for you," Jelbart went on.
"That's right."
"May I ask what you have in mind?" Jelbart pressed. "We have a number of helicopters here, you know."
"I do know that," Herbert replied. "But there was something special about this one."
"Would you mind sharing that information?" Jelbart said.
"We'll talk about it when we get to the office."
"All right," Jelbart said.
"Tell me something," Herbert went on. "Will FNO Loh be part of this operation?"
"She will," Jelbart said. "But I want to emphasize that whatever we do will not be a part of the official ASEAN or ANZUS logs. This is an entirely independent action."
ASEAN was the Association of Southeast Asian Nations. Established by the Bangkok Declaration of 1967, ASEAN was a socioeconomic as well as de facto security arrangement between Indonesia, Malaysia, Singapore, the Philippines, Thailand, and Brunei. Signed in 1951, ANZUS was a similar arrangement between Australia, New Zealand, and the United States.
"Why do you want to hide what we're doing?" Herbert asked. "Lowell, didn't you say that earlier, Ellsworth couldn't wait to have the U.S. officially committed to this investigation?"
"I did," Coffey said.
"That was pre-Darling," Jelbart said. "Any activities undertaken by those groups are part of the public record. If this proves to be a dead end, Mr. Darling must not know that he was being investigated."
"Makes sense," Herbert said. "Darling's got the clout to hammer careers flat and eviscerate budgets. He could probably bring down a sitting government if he set his mind and resources to it."
"Without question," Jelbart agreed. "FNO Loh agrees. Frankly, I'm uneasy even using his name in public."
"Then we won't use it," Herbert told him. "How does Captain Hook strike you?"
Jelbart smiled. "That appeals."
"Good." Herbert looked at Coffey as they reached the terminal. The automatic door swung in. "You've been pretty quiet, Lowell."
"Yes."
"You're also straw yellow," Herbert added.
"That, too," Coffey admitted. "Mr. Jelbart, you said I'd miss the swaying of the boat. I don't. I still feel as if I'm moving."
"That's because you were sitting and lying down on the boat instead of standing," Jelbart said. He seemed relieved to be talking about something other than Jervis Darling.
"Now you tell me."
"I once went to a seminar on homeostasis," Jelbart said. "It was mandatory for personnel who serve on the land, sea, and air. We learned that the body hastens to adapt to new stimuli, like ocean roll or weightlessness for astronauts. It's akin to the survival instinct or antibodies rallying against a disease. But acclimation works best if the individual is doing what he always does in both environments: walking, talking, eating, that sort of thing."
"What you're feeling, Lowell, is not the sway but the body's countersway," Herbert said.
"I don't understand," Coffey said quietly.
"What happens in a new environment is that the fight-or-flight mechanism is triggered, and adrenaline floods the bloodstream," Herbert told him. "When you went to sea, resources were pumped into all of your equilibrium centers. Your heart rate jumped, along with muscle strength and metabolism. It takes a while for that to return to normal. Over time, the on-off switch becomes much easier to control. Experienced seamen like Mr. Jelbart go from one to the other with no lapse at all."
Herbert had no idea whether Coffey had heard. He was looking straight ahead and showing no expression.
"I'm impressed you knew that, Mr. Herbert," Jelbart said.
"We got the same lecture when I joined the company years ago," Herbert told him. "Only they didn't call it a seminar on homeostasis. They used the acronym WYFLH."
"What does 'wiffle' mean?" Jelbart asked.
"Why You Feel Like Hurling," Herbert said.
Jelbart shook his head and smiled. Coffey did not react. He was too busy concentrating on putting one foot in front of the other.
The van had a civilian driver, and no one spoke about the mission during the brief ride. Jelbart informed Herbert that Darwin was the nation's gateway to Asia. The airport had recently been upgraded, and a four-billion-dollar railway had just been completed linking Darwin with Adelaide and other major cities in southern Australia. It certainly looked the part of an up-and-coming city. Downtown Darwin was more metropolitan than Herbert had imagined. Both automobile and pedestrian traffic were thick on the wide, sun-drenched avenues. Newly built towers twenty and twenty-five stories tall rose behind the thickly treed streets. Trendy, upscale stores filled the first-floor shops. It could be Cleveland or Charlotte or any other smallish metropolis in the United States.
Maybe that's one reason someone like Darling might want to shake things up, Herbert thought. Even though he had international corporations, he might not appreciate the globalization of his native land. That kind of resentment was not limited to Third World nations and radical regimes. Even the Canadians had their problems with American influence.
The van stopped in front of the Australian Central Credit Union Building. The group took the elevator to the tenth floor. They went directly to the MIC offices, where they were met by Brian Ellsworth. The solicitor was solicitous, though he lacked the rugged confidence of Warrant Officer Jelbart.
No, that isn't it, Herbert thought. Ellsworth is afraid.
They retired to a warm, sunny conference room and shut the door. Jelbart moved a chair aside, and Herbert rolled up to the circular conference table. He poured himself water and took a half sandwich from the tray in the center of the table. It was tuna salad. He took a bite and looked out the window. He could see the ocean from here. The tuna salad tasted very fresh. Maybe it was caught and made locally. This was really a small
town with big-city aspirations and modern-world problems. No wonder Ellsworth was scared. On paper, there were solutions and options to twenty-first-century crises. In practice, Australians were still fighting the Japanese Eighteenth Army for New Guinea. They were strong, but not subtle. They were courageous but not patient.
Jelbart took coffee, a sandwich, and a seat. Coffey sat without eating. Ellsworth remained standing.
"Mr. Hebert has been fully briefed?" Ellsworth asked Jelbart.
"He has," Jelbart replied.
"Except for one thing," Herbert said. "The whereabouts of FNO Loh."
"She went back to the hospital for another look at the sampan wreckage," Jelbart said. "She will be joining us presently."
"I see," Herbert said. "Do you know if she was looking for something in particular?"
"She did not say," Jelbart replied.
"Forgive me, Mr. Herbert, but we need to move this along," Ellsworth said. "There are several ministers and one prime minister waiting for the outcome of our session. Warrant Officer Jelbart and I have been authorized to plan and execute a strategy for locating the missing radioactive material, as well as to gather evidence that will identify and help prosecute those who were involved in the removal and trade of said material. For obvious reasons, this strategy must be developed as quickly as possible. We are anxious for your input."
Herbert looked at Ellsworth. "I think I followed that," the intelligence chief said. He took a bite of sandwich. "There are two effective ways of doing this. One way is to set up a sting. We pose as men in the market for hot grease."
"Hot grease?" Ellsworth said.
"Fissionable material," Herbert said. "The stuff that makes things pop and burn."
"Jesus lord," Ellsworth said.
"We try to lighten up Armageddon to keep from being chronically depressed," Herbert admitted. "Anyway, the problem with that option is it would take weeks to set up a credible front. We don't have that kind of time. So I'm going to suggest a quicker, less orthodox plan."
"And that is?" Ellsworth asked impatiently.
"We smoke the bastards out," he replied.
Chapter Forty
Darwin, Australia Saturday, 12:31 P.M.
Monica Loh stood in the hospital room, behind the lead shield, looking in. The door was shut behind her. The odor was different than the last time Loh had been there. It was musky, much less antiseptic. That was not surprising, given that the patient had been lying here since his arrival two days before. He was catheterized and taking only liquid nourishment, so there was little for nurses to do other than change his position every six hours.
The sailor was still unconscious. According to the doctor, part of that was the result of the explosion and part of it was due to the painkillers and sedatives being delivered intravenously.
Loh had asked the physician if the patient would be at all communicative without the drugs.
"He would not be talking," the doctor replied. "He would be moaning. Loudly. The burns he received are quite severe."
So there was no information here and no clues from the wreckage. She had just been downstairs. The pieces of sampan had been examined for fragments of another boat. Perhaps the target vessel had been damaged in the explosion. There was nothing. The blast had occurred locally, on the sampan. Forensics had even pulled particles of algae from the wood. They had hoped it might point them to a specific area of the Celebes Sea where the sampan had been sailing in the hours before the blast. Unfortunately, the organisms the scientists had identified all belonged to colonies that existed throughout the region.
A blank ship and, for now, a blank sailor. Word had reached her while they were at sea. There were over 500 Lee Tongs listed at the Singaporean Office of Registry and Taxation. More than half of them were the right age to be this man. COSCOM was checking them out. But the research would take days, possibly weeks. If they could find this one, they might be able to learn who he spent time with ashore. Whether anyone else on the sampan survived. Dr. Lansing had told her he would jolt Tong awake again if she could prove that tens of thousands of lives depended on the answers the pirate would give. But the pirate had not said much before. Lansing and Ellsworth both agreed there was no reason to imagine a second try would produce different results. Loh felt it was certainly worth a try. If she thought that Tong would survive, she would have insisted that he be transferred to a hospital in Singapore. The doctors there might be no less reluctant to wake him than Dr. Lansing, but they would have no choice. Criminals have few rights in Singapore. The government would put public safety before the well-being of a pirate.
Instead of working with what might be scraps of information from the source, they were going to make plans based on ideas from an American spy. This Bob Herbert could be a brilliant intelligence operative. But whatever he came up with would still be exploratory. That was like sailing without charts. It was not something Loh preferred to do.
The FNO continued to look out at the bandaged, frail-looking Singaporean. He seemed so alone in the clean, white bed. She began to think just how alone he really was. She knew that people who were born without opportunity, such as a family business or store or political connections, had three options: they could dwell in poverty, turn to crime, or agree to indentures such as military service or a lengthy contractual apprenticeship. Ironically, if this man survived, he would return to Singapore in a worse position than before. Chances were good the owner of the boat would not come forward to press charges. The pirate would go free. But only the most menial, lowest-paying work would now be available to him because of his past. And because of that past, he would be watched by the police. His activities would have to be reported by landlords and employers. If Tong were involved in a fight, or stole food or clothing, or picked someone's pocket, he would be dealt with very harshly. Caning and imprisonment, most likely.
It would be better for everyone if Dr. Lansing revived him. FNO Loh could ask him a few final questions, and he could die having done something beneficial for society.
That is not for you to say, Loh warned herself. She had gone from making subjective judgments to making moral ones.
She turned from the pirate and walked into the deserted hallway. Darwin police were keeping nonessential personnel away from the pirate's room. They were checking the IDs of everyone who stepped from the elevator. There were already rumors circulating about what had happened on the Celebes. The Australian government did not want anyone to obtain confirmation that nuclear materials were involved.
An MIC officer was waiting to take FNO Loh to the meeting. They made their way to the elevator in silence. Loh was still thinking about the pirate. She was wondering what drove him to his trade. Confidence had to be one of those things. Everyone on a sampan crew works in an extended voyage. And only a crew that knew the sea well would attempt to sail it in a sampan. Especially if they were carrying explosives.
That boldness might spill over into the kind of vessel the pirates would attack, she thought. They were like longboat seamen who would not shy from chasing a whale. No ship would be too large for them tackle. No crew would be too formidable.
That was a small thought, but it could be a useful one. Maybe there were others she had overlooked. Loh actually felt a trace of satisfaction. Perhaps this poor man was not as blank as she had thought.
Lee Tong's misdeeds might help them catch a potential terrorist.
Chapter Forty-One
Washington, D.C. Saturday, 12:23 A.M.
Paul Hood could not sleep.
Dressed in Calvin Kleins and an old L.A. Rams T-shirt that had been given to him by former quarterback Roman Gabriel, Hood lay on his back in the queen-size bed of his two-bedroom apartment. He stared at the ceiling, watching for the occasional cone of light as a car drove past or an airplane flew by. The window was open a crack, and the blinds were raised. He had moved from a nearby hotel four months ago, but he had not gotten around to putting up shades. At least he was remembering to stock the essentials. T
he first night he'd had no toilet paper. He had to use the Washington Post.
The view was to the west, so Hood did not get the rising sun. Not that it mattered. He was usually awake before the sky was light. He had probably witnessed more sunrises than a generation of roosters. And he probably spent less time in the sun than anyone else in Washington.
The new, five-story-tall building was called The New-port. It was located on Tyburn Court in Camp Springs, Maryland, a short drive from Andrews Air Force Base. Hood had a corner apartment on the top floor. That gave him access to a sundeck on the roof, though he had never been to it. Whenever the kids stayed over, Alexander slept on a sofa bed in the living room, and Harleigh had the second bedroom. To ease the blow for Alexander of not having his own room, the living room was where Hood kept the PlayStation 2 video games.
The room was quiet. It was not noise that kept Hood up. Nor was it the situation in Australia. Hood had been through more than a dozen crises over the past ten years. He had learned how to ride them out by focusing on the upside. Civilization would survive. It was simply a matter of the cost. That did not make a crisis pleasant, only manageable. Besides, this problem was in the hands of very capable people. If they needed him, they knew how to reach him.
What troubled Hood, the more that he thought about it, was the extent to which he was needed. Not at Op-Center but in his personal life. Like the splashes of light above him, the patterns of Paul Hood's life changed less and less as the days wore on.
There was dust on the game console. He had noticed it tonight when he walked past the TV. The kids had not stayed with him in over three weeks. It had not seemed that long. Hood was not angry or disappointed. It was not even a question of his being at the house more. Teenagers grew up. They got involved in activities. They dated. Harleigh had two sessions with a psychiatrist each week. The girl was still suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder following her hostage ordeal at the United Nations. She had gotten over the initial phase, when all she wanted to do was stay in her room and see no one. Now she was back at school and beginning to play the violin again. She still went through frequent periods of lethargy and depression. She was also suffering from occasional headaches and psychosomatic stomach ailments. All of that was being taken care of slowly and carefully. Some of it was being addressed through psychiatry, some by Hood and Sharon. Most, however, seemed to be happening because she was hanging out with her friends. Perhaps that was to be expected.
