Conspiracy of Fire

by Tony Bulmer

  indicate surprise, his black eyes showing no emotion,

  “The machinations of the political class have no interest

  to me Ms. Kane. Senator Johnston however was a man of

  principal, a Humanistian who believed in the possibility

  of a new future for mankind. He will be greatly missed.” “And governor Geryon?”

  “I met him socially of course. I meet many

  political figures in the course of my business. But that is

  not what you want to know is it Ms. Kane?”

  The governor is currently the subject of a

  Federal investigation Mr. Tao, a far-­‐reaching

  investigation that will no doubt uncover the full nature

  of his business dealings.

  Tao smiled now, “A Federal Investigation, you

  say, how wonderful. I am sure that many years from

  now, this far reaching investigation of which you speak will establish a full, fair and equitable finding on the dealings of this dead man and his associates. I wish you luck in your investigations, Ms. Kane.” Deng Tao turned away, then almost as an afterthought he turned back and said, “I am having a party on my yacht tomorrow evening Ms. Kane. You will attend of course, I wish to introduce you to my wife, she is a life-­‐long devotee of murder mystery stories, I am sure she will find your company most stimulating.”

  Karyn sat on the edge of the desk and watched him go. Watched as the flunkies and the monkey-­‐suit goon squad filtered out after him. Congo shot Karyn a final sneer and disappeared too. Last to leave was Calista Johnston. As she passed, she let her bony, manicured fingers trail down Karyn’s arm. “You will like Deena Tao. She is a woman much like yourself.”

  “I doubt that,” replied Karyn. Calista Johnston, said, “We will pick you up from your hotel tomorrow at eight.”

  Karyn nodded and said, “I didn’t tell you where I was staying.”

  Calista Johnston smiled. “Tomorrow at eight.”

  22

  The Pacific Cresting upwards in the early morning swell, the rusting North Korean trawler Wonsungi looked like a ghost ship, so battered by the elements it seemed as though it would, at any moment, sink beneath the waves, heading down forever to a deep-­‐water grave, like so many other unseaworthy wreckers before it.

  “Keep us clear of that piece of junk Mooney, or my wrath will be swift,” snapped Captain Pedro Álvares,

  “I don’t know what the hell is wrong with them Captain,” blurted Mooney they got power, but they got no idea how to use it, it’s almost like they want to crash into us.”

  “There will be no crashing into anything Mooney. If that floating funfair ride so much as scrapes against my paint work, you will be spending the rest of our little pleasure cruise hanging over the starboard beam making good the damage. Am I clear?”

  “Aye, Aye Captain.” Álvares, surveyed the scene, his tanned features furrowing deeper with each passing second. The bad feeling he had been nursing throughout the night hadn’t gotten any better, and as the fragile dawn broke in from the east, his sea senses told him that there was something badly awry with this communist ghost ship. If he had to make a call, he would head south, move forward with the mission and leave this rusting Albatross to

  her fate. Trouble was, they were bound by international maritime law to answer with all haste, an SOS distress call.

  The whole sorry episode stank to hell and back, thought Álvares grimly. The Korean tub hadn’t responded to a single overture they had made thus far. Perhaps their radio was down, or their electrics were shorting out? Perhaps, they had suffered a catastrophic failure of systems power— but that hardly seemed likely on a vessel as old as this. This wrecker was so old, it pre-­‐dated the digital age and that meant old school analogue systems that were virtually bomb proof. “We still got a transmission on the distress frequency Kellerman?”

  “Affirmative Captain. I am cycling through the channels, but I still cannot reach them on the radio.”

  “Maybe they took damage to their rudder?” wondered Mooney.

  “Unlikely,” said Álvares. He scanned the decks of the Wonsungi with his binoculars, and said quietly, “She’s riding awful high in the water for a trawler so far from home, like she’s holding nothing below decks. Wait a second. I see something. It’s not a ghost ship after all—they’ve got men on the bridge—get Engineering Officer Heung up here, and make quick about it would you?”

  Álvares let the binoculars fall to his chest. “Get on the flasher Mooney, see if we can encourage our new friends to pick up their goddamn radio.”

  Mooney shot the captain a worried look, “I don’t parlez the lingo Captain, you want me to lamp him in English, or maybe Spanish?”

  “Didn’t they teach you anything at that

  college Mooney? Numerical content only, channel

  twelve, Morse code—I trust they taught you that?” “Yes, Captain, of course, I…”

  “Where the hell is Heung? ”snapped

  Álvares. “Someone tell him to get up here and now.” On the Wonsungi, the distant figures in the

  bridge had come to the outside now; standing out

  front of the bridge to greet their saviors. The men

  waving high in the air, as though they were trying

  to flag down a ride from a passing taxicab. Mooney, flashed out a message on the Aldis

  lamp. Pausing briefly, then repeating the signal

  over and over again. The men aboard the Wonsungi

  seemed oblivious to the message. Instead of

  responding in kind, they simply leaned out over the

  bridge-­‐rail and waved ever harder. “I got no

  response Captain. You ask me, these men aren’t

  sailors at all, more like a bunch of warf-­‐rats lost at

  sea.”

  “I don’t believe I did ask you Mooney, did

  I?” said Álvares mildly. “Now, you keep up with the

  lamp, and just maybe, when Heung finally drags his

  ugly looking carcass up here, we will be able to

  have a conversation with these warf-­‐rats as you call

  them.”

  As the Nautilus drew alongside the

  Wonsungi, the Korean sailors pressed against the

  rail. And quite a crew they were, a dozen or more,

  all of them thin and bedraggled, in dirty oversized

  coveralls, looking like they hadn’t eaten in weeks. “ My God, they look half-­‐starved muttered

  Álvares.”

  “They could be asylum seekers—escapees

  from the communist regime,” said Heung arriving

  at last at the Captain’s side.

  Álvares raised an eyebrow, “You think so

  sailor?

  “They could be commie pirates,” interrupted

  Buchanan.

  It’s a mighty long time since there was a

  shooting war on the 38th Parallel, so why don’t we

  make nice Buchanan and find out just what
the hell

  is going on before we rush to judgment.”

  “You ask me, we got ourselves a bunch of

  snakes in a monkey boat.”

  “What are you talking about Buchanan?”

  snapped Kellerman.

  “Wonsungi, that is Korean for monkey,” said

  Buchanan. “ In Korean culture they figure that there

  are twelve gods of the earth and the monkey is one

  of them.”

  “Oh, really, Buchanan and since when did

  you become an authority on multicultural issues?”

  snapped Kellerman.

  Buchanan didn’t even look at her. He just

  peered out the bridge window looking at the

  Wonsungi and said, “Since I married myself a

  Korean chick in Gwangju maybe twenty years

  back—don’t get all maudlin on me now Princess—

  that little liaison didn’t last more than eighteen

  months tops, but that little girl taught me a couple

  of things, and cooking was only one of them, if you

  know what I mean.”

  “You are repulsive Buchanan, you expect

  me to believe that hogwash story?”

  “You can believe what you like Princess, all

  I am telling you is that monkey’s are plenty crafty.”

  “We should fire a line over there,” added

  Heung “they look like they might need supplies.” Álvares gave him a hard look. “Get out front

  with the bull horn Heung and find out what the hell

  is going on with these gentlemen would you? The

  sooner we can wrap this up and be on our way the

  better. What are you standing there gaping at me

  for? Get out there man.”

  Heung stood back for a l moment then he

  snatched up the bullhorn and strode outside, an

  unpleasant look twisting across his face.

  “We can assume he’s going to make

  brusque with this one Captain, ” observed

  Buchanan dryly, “I am betting Heung ain’t going to

  win us any awards for international relations, with

  that nasty little mouth of his.”

  “You think you can do better Buchanan?” “Hey, no one’s asking me for my help. Far as

  I’m concerned I am playing the bench until

  otherwise advised.”

  Outside, Heung was shouting into the

  bullhorn, his voice high-­‐pitched and contemptuous,

  like he was barking orders, rather than making

  polite enquires. Drawing level, the Nautilus and the

  Wonsungi, bounced the ocean swell in tandem,

  their fates drawn together, intertwining,

  synchronizing a world away from the reason of the

  civilized world. Here, in the endless swirling ocean,

  there was no reason beyond the timeless,

  fathomless fear of a power so overwhelming that it

  might, at any moment, rise up and consume the

  whole of mankind.

  As the hard wash slapped through the

  narrowing channel between the two ships, the

  radio in the Nautilus’s bridge crackled to life, a

  powerful signal breaking through. The voice when it came, was cold and metallic as though it had been generated by a machine—Permission to come aboard Captain.

  There was no time to respond.

  A rush of electricity filled the air, sending every system in the bridge into overload, white sparks erupted from the junction box, fuses popped like firecrackers and finally, just as suddenly, all was silent once again.

  “What the hell was that?” whispered Kellerman.

  “Sat-­‐nav connections are down,” shouted Mooney. Every goddamn thing is down, what’s going on Captain?”

  Captain Pedro Álvares stood grey and craggy at his post, absorbing the scene with quiet dignity. “We have got problems sailor, big problems, stand by your post and make ready for orders.”

  “Those men at the rail Captain…”

  “They have guns. I know Kellerman.”

  “And rocket launchers…Let’s gas it out of here, they are pirates…” Kellerman turned, followed the Captain’s eyes, saw Heung standing in the doorway, holding a heavy caliber automatic. “You will get on your knees now, all of you. If you follow my orders you will not be harmed. If you attempt any clever tricks you will be executed immediately, do you understand?”

  23

  Naval Station Norfolk, North Virginia The Admiral stood easy by the window, clean pressed and immaculate in full dress uniform. The window looked out on a panoramic scene covering four miles of rain swept waterfront, at the very tip of the Hampton Roads Peninsula, North Virginia. This was Naval Station Norfolk, the largest naval station in the world. A sprawling complex of industrial buildings, store-­‐houses and offices, with enough warf-­‐side frontage to accommodate more than 75 of the United States Navy’s largest ships. Station Norfolk was a truly awe-­‐inspiring city of war and Admiral William Arthur Kane was master of it all.

  Admiral Kane was not the kind of man to lavish affection on anything, least of all friends, or family, not that the Admiral had any family any more. There had been a woman once, a mysterious dark-­‐eyed woman from Puerto Rico, but that had been back in the days when such weaknesses could be explained away as the folly of youth. There was never any chance it would work out. Not a hope in hell; nothing good could come from that kind of distraction. Emotional entanglements of any sort would never do. If a man wanted to advance in life, he had to make sacrifices, prioritize the goals of greater good above his own selfish needs. The Admiral had made the right decisions, he was certain of that. No doubt there had been those who had found the decisions painful, the girl and her mother for example. But that could not be helped.

  Admiral Kane was a man dedicated to a life of duty. His only goal in life, the unswerving protection of the United States of America and all it stood for.

  Now, as he stood by the window drinking in the scene, the Admiral felt ebullient, because there before him, rising thirty stories tall in the massive berth directly in front of him, stood the 5 billion dollar Nimitz class aircraft carrier USS Dwight D. Eisenhower—100,000 tons of pure bred naval muscle hanging ready to go out into the world and do his bidding. Here was a ship so powerful that it could leave Naval Station Norfolk today and not return to another port anywhere for another 25 years. Powered by two Westinghouse A4W nuclear reactors, this monster could sail the world a hundred times over, seeking out and destroying the enemies of the United States wherever they chose to hide.

  There was of course, a reason why the Admiral had chosen to berth the giant aircraft carrier outside his window, over and above his personal attachment to the majestic beauty of this deadly behemoth. This reason was of a deeply personal and sentimental nature. The Admiral’s weather-­‐beaten face strained tighter. He turned, arms folded grimly and looked at the portrait of the m
an who hung on the wall, Dwight D. Eisenhower the 34th President of the United States, an eternal guardian and inspiration, looking out over the Admiral’s office towards the gargantuan aircraft carrier that lay beyond. The Admiral allowed himself a smile. Ike was watching, always watching—a great American hero, offering comfort and inspiration. From his position on the wall, Ike could see everything. The Admiral liked that. He felt

  good knowing that Ike was looking out on his aircraft carrier, forever watchful, a lonely sentinel protecting his domain.

  The Admiral sucked in a deep breath of contentment. Next to his love of good scotch whisky, his love of Eisenhower and the ship named after him, was as close to sentimental as he was ever was going to get.

  A sharp business-­‐like knock rattled the door breaking the zen-­‐like moment. The Admiral’s brow furrowed; he paused momentarily, drinking in another loving gaze of the giant carrier, then bellowed, “Enter, and make quick about it.”

  The door opened, almost without a noise and Jack Senegar came into the room. Senegar paused, saw the Admiral standing in front of the window and said. “Hello Bill. It has been a while.”

  Senegar surveyed the oak-­‐paneled room.

  The place resembled a rather fusty and old-­‐ fashioned gentleman’s club, with dark leather chairs and a presidential sized antique desk that looked as though it had just been washed ashore from the bowels of a pirate galleon. Senegar had visited Naval Station Norfolk, on a number of occasions, and each time he entered the Admiral’s oak-­‐paneled lair it seemed to grow ever more imposing.

  “Jack Senegar, the very fact that you are dragging yourself down here in your finest DC business suit tells me that once again you have got yourself and your unpleasant little Agency in a mess that you cannot handle.” The Admiral turned

  away from the window then let out a throaty laugh. “So how the devil are you Jack?