by Tom Clancy
"Who's out there?" he yelled.
There was no answer. The captain did not waste time or energy shouting. He looked around for something to pry the door open. Possibly the letter opener he had never used. Or one of the hooks from the closet. He would try the letter opener first. He went to the desk, but the opener was gone.
In quick succession Kannaday heard the 220 horsepower Caterpillar engine quiet, idle, then stop. The yacht slowed. This was not a scheduled stop. Then he heard the winches above him begin to turn. The dinghies were being lowered. The floor no longer hummed with the low vibration caused by the powerful motor. What the hell was going on?
Kannaday leaned on the desk. He punched on the intercom to the radio room.
"Marcus, are you there?"
Again, no answer. Which, in a way, was an answer in itself.
Just then he heard a commotion in the hallway. He went to the door and pressed his ear to it. Crew members were coming and going. He heard crashing but no shouts. The men were breaking things, but they were not fighting. It sounded as if they were in the lab.
"Sweet Christ almighty," he muttered.
They were in the lab. Destroying the equipment. Destroying evidence? But they were not throwing it over the side. They were smashing equipment on the floor. That could only mean one thing. It would be staying on board. And that could only mean one thing.
They intended that the Hosannah never be found.
Chapter Fifty-Four
Cairns, Australia Sunday, 1:42 A.M.
Warrant Officer George Jelbart was relieved and hopeful when the Humvee returned.
Hanging around in the observation tower with Spider was not Jelbart's idea of a fun time. Spider was one of those hard-talking Sydney street kids who were equally at home rock climbing on Cradle Mountain in Tasmania or picking fights with Southeast Asians who frequented the bars of Perth. Spider was not up here because he loved nature. Or because he wanted to protect and serve the people of Queensland. He was here because he loved the danger of fire. In Spider's eyes it was the ultimate enemy. A force that existed even in the vacuum of space. Jelbart wondered how the edgy, restless young man would react if he knew about the fire his own team was trying to prevent. Fire that could not be extinguished. Fire that was the ultimate deterrent until someone actually used the damn thing. Then it was the breath of hell itself. Jelbart had seen the disaster simulations put together by the American Pentagon. Those were programs that could not properly be called war simulations. After an initial flourish, both sides were effectively crippled. They included death tolls and destructive swaths for nuclear exchanges between India and Pakistan, China and Taiwan, Israel and any of its Middle Eastern neighbors. They included statistics for small, ten-megaton bombs exploded in major metropolises. They also included data for the exploding of small dirty bombs, nuclear material packed with traditional explosives such as plastique and dynamite. The best-case scenario involved the deaths of over 10,000 people.
Spider appeared oblivious to concepts of that magnitude. Nor was there any reason he should be aware of them. But his mano a mano nature seemed naive in the face of what Jelbart and the others were tracking.
Leyland parked the Humvee near the helicopter pad. He set Little Maluka down. The koala returned to the tower. Then Leyland called Eva and asked her to get the pilot from the cabin. The fire warden said nothing about their mission to his two associates.
"I expect you may get some fallout from all this," Jelbart told Leyland. He realized, after saying it, what word he had chosen.
"I can handle it," Leyland said. "He can't prove I knew what you blokes were up to. Besides, what are they going to do? Fire me?" Leyland winked. He had obviously meant to use that word.
"You're a good man," Jelbart said, shaking his hand.
Loh bowed slightly to Leyland. Herbert clasped the captain's hand with both of his. Behind him, the pilot readied the chopper.
"The koala idea was a damn good one, Captain," Herbert said. "I'm the guy that mucked things up. If they do kick you out, come to Washington. There's a job waiting for you."
"Thanks. You're definitely a bloke to go scrub-bashing with," Leyland told him.
Loh had opened the door, and Herbert wheeled over. The three climbed into the helicopter. They were airborne in under a minute. Jelbart glanced at the spotlit observation tower as it receded. It tightened the warrant officer's throat, just a little, to know that there were men like Captain Leyland. Men who did not limit their sense of duty to what was in their job description. That did not diminish Spider. But it certainly elevated Leyland.
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.
Chapter 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, t
he 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.
Chapter 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.
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.
Chapter 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 algae-thick water rolled through the crawl space and lower deck.
