Sea of Greed

by Clive Cussler

  The aircraft was called the Monarch. It was nearly the size of a 747, though shorter from front to back and wider in cross section. It had a squat, flat-bottomed fuselage that fanned out like the hull of a boat, its wings attached at the top, drooping slightly and supported at the tips by torpedo-shaped floats.

  Six turbofan engines were nestled in the top of the wings instead of hanging beneath, a design that prevented them from taking in the spray generated by the body of the plane as it landed and took off from the water. The twin tails soared higher than they might have needed to, but the extra height made it easier to control the aircraft both on the water and in the air.

  The Monarch was a triumph of engineering, the only plane of its kind, the creation of Tessa Franco, a wealthy and brilliant designer who’d been called a modern-day Howard Hughes. The comparison was meant as both compliment and put-down, hinting at creativity, recklessness and possible madness.

  Tessa—who with her dark hair, smoky eyes and continental beauty seemed more likely to be found on the red carpet at Cannes than in an engineering lab—responded to the comparison by pointing out that she was neither male, nor mad, nor generally reclusive, though she was otherwise quite content to be compared to the adventurous and innovative billionaire.

  Sitting in her plush office in the forward part of the aircraft’s upper deck, she divided her attention between the light of dusk that came through the window and the flat-screen monitor in front of her.

  Staring back at her from the screen was the square face of a powerfully built man with a dark mustache. His name was Arat Buran. Buran was a shadowy but important player in the oil business with extensive holdings in Kazakhstan and other areas of Central Asia. He and Tessa had a long and complicated relationship. Business and pleasure might not have been a good mix, but lust, greed and the desire for power were aphrodisiacs both of them enjoyed. Their latest collaboration was the riskiest of all and, as such, the most enticing.

  “My dear Tessa,” Buran said. “You look ravishing as always. I trust you’re feeling well.”

  “I’ll feel better when I’ve been paid,” Tessa said. “I’ve done my part. I promised you and your Consortium rising oil prices and I’ve delivered. Now I expect the Consortium to transfer the funds we’ve agreed upon.”

  “Oil prices have been rising,” Buran admitted, “though at a very slow pace.”

  “That will change by morning,” she replied.

  He tilted his head. “Surely you’re not claiming the disaster in the Gulf as evidence of your success?”

  It wasn’t exactly success, but she had every right to claim it.

  She felt it necessary to explain. “The U.S. government has been keeping oil prices artificially depressed, even as I’ve succeeded in sabotaging production around the world. With this incident playing on TV and soon appearing on the cover of every magazine in the world, they won’t be able to keep prices down much longer. You’ll have your windfall. And I will take what was promised me.”

  Aggression was her nature. Some men responded to it. Others were put off by it. Buran was a man who preferred control, but he also savored a challenge. It had made their romantic relationship fiery, combative and exhilarating.

  On the screen, Buran paused before responding to her demands. He shifted in his chair, gently stroking his mustache, smoothing out the bristly surface. “You and I have known each other a long time now, Tessa. It was I who helped you complete that great aircraft of yours and I who convinced the Consortium that you could do the impossible and change the world’s oil market once and for all. But such a claim must be proven before it can be paid.”

  More equivocating, she thought. More delays. Delays that were driving her toward bankruptcy.

  Buran continued. “The requirement is for a long-term, sustained rise in prices. One that would make the Consortium the most powerful oil cartel in the world. And simultaneously allow your company to become the largest alternative energy firm in the world. Divide and conquer, you said. You get your half of the planet and we get ours. Isn’t that how you sold it to me?”

  “It was,” she said. “And that’s exactly how it will be. But I can’t finish the job without more working capital.”

  Buran sighed. “Tessa, you spend money faster than anyone I know. In hopes that this is your last request for an advance, I’m willing to extend to you an additional installment. But you’ll have to agree to reduce your final payment . . . by a third.”

  The condescension left her seething. But all that really mattered were the numbers. “Trade billions for a few million? I think not.”

  He shrugged. “I told the others you wouldn’t accept it, but I was obliged to make the offer. Unfortunately, that means we have nothing further to talk about, at least until it’s clear that the price of oil will continue to get higher and remain so indefinitely into the future.”

  “You’re weakening your own position by weakening me,” she said.

  “You’re anything but weak,” Buran said with a smile. “I suspect you’ll have the world wrapped around your finger soon enough. Contact me when the conditions are irrefutably changed and I shall trumpet your achievements to the Consortium.”

  The screen went dark. Tessa looked out the window at the smoke marring the dusky horizon. She felt certain that the market conditions were turning in her favor. Soon enough, Buran and his Consortium would be throwing money at her. And not only them—other investors, other companies, even powerful world governments. They’d be climbing all over one another to throw money at her. The hardest part would be deciding just how much to accept and from whom.

  Tessa turned her attention to a second flat screen. It displayed the view outside the plane. A commotion in the water had frightened away a pair of the gulls that gave the island its name. As the birds flapped madly and propelled themselves into flight, a disk-shaped craft surfaced behind the plane.

  “About time,” she said to herself.

  Without delay, Tessa got up and left the office. Striding through the aircraft, she traveled down a hall, passing her master suite and a control room behind the cockpit. A ladder took her to the middle deck, which held space for entertaining, including a marvelous lounge and a workout center where Tessa spent much of her time.

  Another ladder took her to the lowest deck, with its unadorned metal decks and gray-painted walls. She walked aft along this deck, passing multiple vehicles, including a black Mercedes SUV and a silver Ferrari. Behind them were several ATVs, a pair of Jet Skis and two powerboats with large outboard engines.

  Beyond the boats lay the tail end of the plane, which was comprised of a large door that lowered and doubled as a ramp. It was locked in the down position and two men wearing waders were standing halfway down the ramp up to their knees in water as they attached cables to the craft she’d seen on camera.

  As it was pulled on board, the sleek disk revealed itself in detail. It had no conning tower or control fins to speak of, just various vents and panels that opened and closed to direct water across and through its hull, allowing it to pitch, roll and even rotate in any direction. It was powered by water jets instead of propellers, and a pair of bubble canopies on the top that resembled eyes covered the occupants.

  All was not well, however, as Tessa noticed mechanical damage on the aft end of the hull and scrape marks near the nose.

  As the craft was secured, one of the canopies opened and a man with peroxide-blond hair popped out. He was fit and muscular and looked to be in his mid-thirties. His face was angry and drawn.

  “What happened?”

  “There were problems,” he said.

  “I can see that,” she replied. “Did you manage to get rid of the incubators?”

  “The first set of the tankers were destroyed in the initial explosion,” Volke said. “The other tankers were still in place. I used the explosives to destroy them. There’s nothing but scr
ap metal on the bottom now. The tanks, the incubators, the injection systems—all of it has been obliterated.”

  “And what happened to the Discus?” she said, pointing to the damage on the submarine’s hull.

  Volke glanced at the scrapes. “I ran into some resistance down there. Another submersible.”

  “From the oil company?”

  Volke shook his head. “No. It had a NUMA logo plastered on the side.”

  Tessa paused at that. She’d spent much of the last few years studying the design of submersibles, the methods used to build and recover things from the bottom of the sea. NUMA was very well known to her. Their presence concerned her. “What were they doing there?”

  “I couldn’t tell you,” Volke said, “but you needn’t worry. I dropped one of the magnetized charges on their hull. Whoever was operating that sub is now waiting in line at the Pearly Gates.”

  Done explaining himself, Volke jumped down and supervised the loading and storing of the Discus.

  As he worked, another of her crewmen walked up the ramp. He was a burly man with a scruffy red beard. His name was Woodrich. They called him Woods. He differed in appearance from Volke, big, lumbering, earthy, nothing polished about him. But he was a fanatical environmentalist and his devotion to the eradication of fossil fuels had been very useful to her so far.

  “That fire is spewing poison all across the Gulf,” Woods said. “That’s not what we came here to do.”

  “Consider it creative destruction,” she replied. “Sometimes you need to burn down the old world before you build a new one.”

  Woods could be as aggressive as Volke, but he tended to simmer quietly for a long time before blowing. For now, he held his tongue. That was enough for her.

  “Get everything secured down here,” she said, forcing them to work together. “And make it quick. We’re leaving.”

  As Volke and Woods went to work securing the submarine, Tess made her way to the cockpit. The pilots were there, ready and waiting. “Time to go,” she said.

  Ten minutes later, the engines were roaring and the Monarch was accelerating along the smooth water behind Gull Island. As it picked up speed, the aircraft rode higher in the water, until only the very bottom of the keel was skimming the surface. All at once, it pulled free, soaring into the sky and shedding a trail of mist behind it.

  12

  CAPITOL HILL, WASHINGTON, D.C.

  RUDI GUNN was at the Capitol Building, briefing the congressional delegation from Louisiana on the latest developments in the Gulf, when Lance Alcott arrived.

  Rudi acknowledged him silently and continued his explanation. When a short break was called, Alcott leaned over and whispered in Rudi’s ear. “Just came from the White House,” he said with glee. “Sorry to tell you, Rudi, NUMA’s off the project and FEMA is taking over. We’re going to be directing the Coast Guard on this.”

  Rudi was used to this kind of jockeying in Washington. Early on, when disaster was a distinct possibility, there was plenty of hand-wringing about who should take charge. Once the fires had been put out and the disaster avoided, everyone wanted to be seen as a hero of the cleanup. As the saying went, Failure is an orphan, but success has a thousand fathers. And it sounded like Alcott had just become a father. “By project, I assume you mean the Alpha Star disaster.”

  “I mean the whole thing,” Alcott said. “The disaster, the cleanup, the investigation. Let’s be honest, NUMA isn’t really equipped to handle something like this. Your ships can go back to surveying wrecks or studying fish migrations or whatever it is you do most of the time.”

  Rudi stood. He was neither angry nor surprised. In all honesty, he was pleased. “What we do is whatever needs to be done.” He slid a bulging file in front of Alcott. It was so full of papers it couldn’t be closed. “Have fun with the senators. None of them are really happy right now.”

  Leaving Alcott behind, Rudi packed his briefcase and walked toward the door. On his way out, he passed the junior senator from Louisiana, who was coming back in.

  “Where are you going?” the senator asked.

  “Vacation,” Rudi said with a grin.

  And while Rudi hadn’t taken a vacation in years, the idea suddenly appealed to him. At least until his phone buzzed with a call from the White House.

  “Rudi Gunn,” he said, holding the phone to his ear and making his way down the hall.

  “Rudi, this is Sandecker,” a voice said over the phone.

  James Sandecker was the founder of NUMA and its leader for several decades before he’d accepted a position as the Vice President. He and Rudi had worked side by side for years and had a friendship that trumped politics and policy. A rare find in Washington these days.

  “Mr. Vice President,” Rudi said cordially. “What can I do for you today?”

  “For starters, you can stop calling me Mr. Vice President,” Sandecker said. “Admiral will do just fine.”

  Rudi almost laughed. Old habits die hard and Sandecker had been an admiral far longer than he’d been the VP. “Yes, Admiral.”

  “And when you’re done snickering at that, you can make your way over to the White House. The President wants to talk to you about this Alpha Star catastrophe.”

  Rudi stopped in the hall. “Afraid I was just relieved from that post.”

  “I know you were,” Sandecker said. “It was my idea. Need to free you and NUMA up for something else. Something more important.”

  Rudi didn’t like it when Sandecker played things close to the vest. It usually meant things were worse than they seemed. “I’m almost to the door now. I’ll walk down Pennsylvania Ave and see you in a few minutes.”

  “Turn around,” Sandecker said. “Head downstairs to the mailroom. Need you to take the train. We don’t want anyone to see you arrive or leave today.”

  “I’m sneaking into the White House?”

  “Yes, you are,” Sandecker said.

  Rudi put the phone away and backtracked into the heart of the Capitol Building, eventually making his way into the underground mailroom as Sandecker had requested. There, he flashed his ID and was escorted by a member of the Secret Service to another, deeper level, where he hopped on a small train.

  To call it a train was an overstatement. There was only one car, about a third the size of a standard subway or Metro car. It sat on a narrow-gauge set of rails only three feet apart. Once he and the Secret Service agent were seated, the train began to move, accelerating briskly and silently into a lighted tunnel.

  The ride was incredibly smooth and quiet. The tracks were polished and gleaming in the light.

  As the track curved to the left, Rudi noticed a siding and a small platform. Doors leading from the platform were sealed and locked, but Rudi knew Washington’s layout as if he had a map printed in his head. Considering the speed, direction and time, they’d just passed the National Archives Building. Interesting place for a secret subway stop, he thought.

  A minute later, the car slowed, coming to a halt in front of a formidable steel door.

  Reaching out of the tram, the Secret Service agent typed in a code and then placed his hand on a scanner.

  Rudi recognized the device. It not only checked the agent’s fingerprints, it measured his heart rate and skin temperature. The theory was, if he were being coerced into betraying the President, his heart would be beating faster than normal and his skin would be registering a higher temperature. In which case, entry would be denied.

  The same held true if he’d been drugged or, even worse, if his hand had been forcibly removed from his body. No heartbeat, low temperature, anything out of the ordinary, and the steel doors—thick enough to keep Superman out—would remain closed.

  “What happens if you get nervous?” Rudi asked.

  The agent looked at him without smiling. “Reassignment to other duties.”

  Fortunate
ly, the agent wasn’t the nervous type and his heart rate checked out. The doors opened and seconds later they were pulling into the White House subterranean station.

  After passing through two more layers of security, Rudi found himself in an elevator, which let him out in the Emergency Operations Room. This was not the normal Situation Room but a bunker-like facility two levels below the main building.

  The President was there, along with Vice President Sandecker. A third man, with narrow features and gray hair, sat beside them. His ID badge had the Energy Department logo on it.

  Introductions were made and Rudi learned that the man’s name was Leonard Hallsman. He carried the cumbersome title of Undersecretary of National Resources and Energy Security. “I use it to impress and confuse people,” Hallsman insisted. “I’m a scientist, actually. A geologist specializing in oil reserve estimates.”

  Rudi shook Hallsman’s hand and sat down. “We seem to be awash in oil these days. Does that make your job easier or harder?”

  “Both,” Hallsman said. “But it doesn’t raise my pay.”

  A round of soft laughter circled the table and Rudi got to the point. “I assume this has something to do with the Alpha Star incident. Am I being taken out behind the woodshed or given a gold star?”

  The President leaned forward. “Gold star wouldn’t cover it,” he said. “What your people managed to do in such a short period of time was incredible. I’d give them an award, but Jim says they’d never accept it.”

  “The Admiral’s right,” Rudi said. “But send over a case of Don Julio Silver tequila and you’ll have their eternal gratitude.”

  “I’ll see what I can arrange,” the President said. “You know, when I picked Jim to be my VP, I did it mostly for political reasons. I also knew enough about what he’d been able to do with NUMA to know it was top-notch from stem to stern. I’ve only had that idea reinforced during my term as President. Your actions during the Nighthawk incident prevented a worldwide calamity and your operatives’ quick thinking and tenacity in Japan last year not only prevented a second calamity, it saved an alliance that’s crucial to world stability. As I understand it, some of the same people involved in those incidents are the ones out in the Gulf right now.”