Clive cusslers dark vect.., p.3
Clive Cussler's Dark Vector, page 3
Rubbing his shoulder and stretching, Lucas moved closer to Callum. “That was foolish,” he said, glaring at the man who’d almost fallen. “Get sloppy again and I’ll let you die.”
The words were harsh, but the men knew better. Lucas was the leader of a band of brothers, pirates who looked after their own. Unlike the famous pirate code of old, Lucas had never left a man behind.
Callum dropped his head and looked away, ashamed. As he stepped back, Lucas turned to the man who’d let them in. “You were late.”
“Couldn’t be helped,” the crewman said. “The captain stayed on watch thirty minutes later than usual. He’s gone to bed now.”
Lucas nodded. “Anything else we should know?”
The crewman shook his head. “The security systems are disabled. You should have no problem getting into the engine room or the communications suite.”
“Good,” Lucas said. He sent three men to the engine room and two others to the communications center, where the satellite receivers, multiband radios and controls for the various automatic beacons lay.
Turning to the Swift’s crewman, he made a change. “Take one of my men and go to the captain’s quarters. Wake the old man up and bring him to me.”
“I thought you’d want me to lead you to the bridge,” the crewman replied.
“That, we can find on our own.”
The various groups left the compartment, heading in opposite directions. Lucas took Callum with him. They went forward toward the nearest stairwell.
Moving calmly, Lucas raised the Velcro flap covering his belly. Without breaking stride, he removed a QCW-05 submachine gun that was strapped diagonally across his chest. He slung it into place and screwed a cylindrical compressor into the barrel.
The Chinese QCW fired a subsonic 5.8mm round made of hardened steel instead of soft lead. It was compact and well suited for close quarters combat. The shell could punch through a quarter-inch steel plate.
Lucas had trained his men to use them to lethal effect, but if things went as planned, they wouldn’t have to fire a single shot.
Reaching the bridge, they found the Swift’s first officer and a pair of crewmen at the helm. Avoiding the theatrics of bursting into the compartment shouting threats, Lucas stepped quietly over the threshold, clearing his throat to get everyone’s attention.
The men on the bridge reacted with glacial speed. Their collective surprise at the appearance of armed men in commando gear was so complete that they froze in confusion.
“Get down on the deck,” Lucas said calmly, “if you’d rather not be shot to pieces.”
The two crewmen did as ordered. The first officer seemed stuck in his chair. Finally he spoke. “We have cash in the safe,” he said, raising his hands, easing out of the seat and dropping to one knee. “It’s unlocked.”
“Of course it is,” Lucas said.
The lack of resistance and an unlocked safe were marks of the modern state of piracy. An unspoken agreement had arisen between the world’s various pirates and shipping lines whose vessels plowed the seas.
Pirates came aboard vessels where they could. Usually in tight coastal waters near poor, unstable countries. Instead of fighting them off and risking death and destruction, officers and crew often hid in safe rooms, or castles, that the pirates could not access, but allowing them time to search the ship for cash or valuables. Safes were left open and supplied with a modicum of currency. Just enough to give the pirates an easy score and incentive to get off the ship as fast as possible. At times, cell phones and laptop computers were used to augment the bribe, left out for the taking like cookies for Santa Claus.
The deal was simple. Pirates didn’t injure or kill the crews, they didn’t steal cargoes worth millions or damage the ships and, in return, the shipping lines didn’t fortify their vessels with armed guards, ex–special forces members or former Mossad agents.
The system was more akin to bribery or a protection racket, but it worked for the most part. Except when it didn’t.
As he stared down the barrel of the gun, the first officer realized this would be one of those times. He studied Lucas and his comrades, studying their clothing and weapons and considering the stealth with which they’d come aboard. “You’re not here for cash,” he said, “are you?”
Lucas ignored the question. “Call your other officers to the bridge,” he instructed. “Make no attempt to alert them to our presence. We know your code words for security threats.”
The first officer stood slowly and stepped to the console. Setting the PA system for shipwide, he made the call. “This is First Officer Crawford speaking. All officers report to the bridge for general briefing. We have new orders to review.”
As the sound of his voice was relayed over the ship’s speakers, Crawford looked at Lucas pleadingly. “I had to give them a reason,” he said, justifying his extra words.
Lucas nodded. “At least you didn’t lie.”
CHAPTER 2
BRISBANE, AUSTRALIA
Jonathan Freeman sat at the communications desk of Canberra Shipping & Logistics in the early hours of the Australian morning. He was covering the overnight shift for the third week in a row and the hours had begun to wear on him. Yawning and checking a clipboard, a rather quaint backup for all the computer screens in front of him, he confirmed for the third time in an hour that he’d cleared all the assigned check-ins and had nothing left to do but sit there until six a.m. when his relief would arrive.
He hoped they’d bring breakfast. Steak and mushroom pie with a basket of hot cross buns would be delightful.
“There you go again,” he said to himself. “Now you’re hungry.”
Looking for something to take his mind off breakfast, he glanced down at the monitor that tracked the firm’s ships via their AIS, Automatic Identification System, beacons. On different screens he could see them plowing the various oceans of the world, doing just what they should be doing. All of them, he realized, except one.
Tapping the screen, he zoomed in on the western Pacific, where what had been a green line was now flashing amber.
“What have we here?”
Tapping the screen again, he brought up the ship’s identifying information.
“Canberra Swift,” he said. “Not moving so swift anymore, are you?”
The information on-screen showed the ship slowing from its previous speed of thirty-five knots to less than ten and still dropping. Freeman watched as it dipped down to 9.2 and held steady.
Using both feet to propel his rolling chair, he slid to the right, stopping in front of the satcom station. Essentially a second computer, he tapped this screen to life and dialed up the correct prefix to contact the Swift.
“Canberra Swift, Canberra Swift,” he said. “This is Operations, how do you read?”
He spoke into a slim white plastic microphone.
“This is First Officer Crawford,” a voice called back over the speakers. “Go ahead, Operations.”
“We show you slowing. Plot has you at a speed of 9.2. Is anything wrong?”
“Plot is correct,” the voice replied. “We’ve had an issue with the fuel pressurization system for the gas turbine. We’re running on the diesel backup. Engineering is looking into the issue. They inform me the main engine should be back up and running in about an hour.”
Freeman was always amazed by the calmness of the various captains and crews. The previous month he’d helped shepherd a vessel through a Force 5 gale, complete with waves that were crashing over the deck and a balky rudder. Judging from the captain’s tone, it had sounded more like a minor inconvenience.
“Will note that,” Freeman said, writing down the information. “Do you need me to alert San Francisco and amend the expected time of arrival?”
“Negative on that, Operations. We’ll make the distance up once we get the problem fixed.”
Freeman noted the directive on his clipboard and jotted down the time. “Confirmed,” he said. “Give us a shout if things change.”
The first officer signed off politely and Freeman rolled his chair back to the main computer console, where he typed in the details of the conversation.
He was still at his desk an hour later when the signal from the Canberra Swift vanished from the screen.
* * *
—
At the same moment, eight thousand miles away, the captain of the South Korean freighter Yeongju was taking a break on the port wing of his ship’s bridge. A world traveler who preferred Indonesian cigarettes for their deep flavor, he smoked slowly and methodically, getting every speck of pleasure out of his chosen addiction and passing as much time as possible.
He took one last drag and flicked the butt over the rail, sending it out into the night. The tip glowed orange for an instant with the rush of wind but then vanished like a burned-out flare.
He was about to exhale when a double flash of light lit up the horizon to the north. It was soundless and brilliant. It had an odd bluish white hue.
It neither flickered nor faded. It was simply there one instant and then gone.
The captain stared after it for a long time, aware that the flash had been bright enough to spot his vision green. Feeling a wave of pressure in his chest, he realized he’d been holding his breath. He exhaled a cloud of smoke and then stepped back inside.
“Any weather to speak of?” he asked the helmsman.
“No, sir,” the crewman replied instantly. “Nothing until tomorrow afternoon.”
Curious, he thought. Perhaps it was heat lightning. At times, the atmosphere played strange tricks. “Make a note in the log,” he said. “Large-scale double flash to the north of our position. Range unknown. Origin unknown.”
CHAPTER 3
M.V. CANBERRA SWIFT
On the bridge of the darkened ship, Lucas Teng counted the minutes—it was easier than counting the hours. Two hundred and thirty-one minutes had gone by since they took the ship. One hundred and seventy since they’d gone dark and changed course. One hundred more and he’d be in position for the rendezvous and the largest payday of his life.
Twenty million dollars, split between himself and his men. After expenses, bribes and payoffs to employees of the shipping company who’d given him inside information, it was still more than enough to get him out of the criminal life.
What would he do then? he wondered. Live a little. And spend the money quickly. He knew himself well enough to know it was the thrill of the hunt that grabbed him, even more than the money. But both temptations would lure him back. It might take a year or two, the money would go, life would get boring. But one way or another, he’d find himself back planning another job.
Another glance at his watch showed the counter had lost a full digit. Ninety-nine minutes to go. Time to walk the ship.
“Keep us steady on,” he said to Callum. “Change the watch every twenty minutes. I don’t want the boys getting tired.”
One of the men stood at the wheel; two others stood on the ship’s bridge wings, watching the horizon with night vision binoculars. The seas were calm and the winds almost nonexistent, but cruising at top speed meant the resulting gust was howling across the ship. Having shut down every system that emitted light or radio waves—even the weather radar and collision warning system—posting a pair of old-fashioned lookouts had become necessary. The last thing Lucas wanted was to run across another ship.
Lucas grabbed a radio and held it up for Callum to see. “I’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Alert me if anything happens.”
Leaving the bridge, Lucas made his way through the empty ship and down toward the cargo hold. He had the captain’s key card, a list of codes and a loading manifest. Reaching the main cargo deck, he stepped out into a vast open space that looked more like a warehouse or an airplane hangar.
Walking among the oversize cargo, he came to a temporary wall that had been placed in the center of the hold. The thin steel wall was designed to protect the ship’s most precious cargo if the weather got rough or if anything broke loose.
Checking the manifest and the code number he’d been given, Lucas waved the captain’s card in front of the reader. The device glowed pink. Using the keypad, he punched in the code. The pink light turned green and the electronic lock disengaged.
* * *
—
Lucas opened the hatch and stepped across the raised sill. A swath of lights came on above him, illuminating the space in sterile fluorescence.
The hold didn’t look like anything on a normal cargo vessel. The walls were white plastic, scuffed in places but still glossy and reflecting the lights above.
Large racks inside held a group of long octagonal cylinders. Stepping closer to the first one, Lucas found an inscription.
HYDRO-COM CORP.
VECTOR 1-001-04
Warning: Container is pressurized with nitrogen to five atmospheres.
Depressurize before opening.
“So, this is what Emmerson wants,” he whispered to himself. “I would have expected weapons or uranium yellowcake. This is so much more palatable.”
“And profitable,” a voice said from behind him.
Lucas wheeled around. He saw a figure in the doorway. The crewman who’d let them into the ship. He was holding a weapon.
“What are you doing here?” Lucas demanded. “You’re supposed to be with the rest of the crew, pretending to be captive.”
The man trained the gun on Lucas. “I got tired of pretending,” he said. “So I released myself from captivity and then I shot them all dead.”
Expecting the same treatment, Lucas dove to the side, attempting to use the server housing as cover.
The man fired rapidly, squeezing off several shots. Two went long, one hit the server, but the fourth caught Lucas in the calf, tearing through the muscle and shattering his shinbone.
He howled in pain as he hit the deck but scrambled forward in a desperate attempt to save himself.
“You should have brought your weapon,” the man said, walking slowly. “But then, I guess you thought you didn’t need it.”
Lucas was crawling now, dragging his injured leg and leaving a smear of red blood along the white plastic floor.
Pulling the radio from his belt, he called for help. “Cal,” he called out, “I need help. We’ve been double-crossed.”
Releasing the talk switch, he listened for a reply, but all he heard was the sound of dead air and soft footsteps shuffling along behind the server units. He pressed the transmit button again. “Callum?”
“It would have done you some good to familiarize yourself with the ship before you came aboard,” the stalking man said. “You see, this hold is a temporary oasis for these machines, designed to protect them from any form of electromagnetic radiation. No radio waves can get in or out, meaning your call for help is trapped in here, just as you are.”
Lucas continued to crawl, ducking behind another one of the servers, as the man appeared at the far end and capped off another shot. This bullet hit Lucas below the knee, causing further pain in his damaged leg.
Pushing himself back against the wall, Lucas reached down and tore a strip from his pants, starting at the leg where the first bullet hit. It showed him the extent of the damage to his shin. Exposed muscle and protruding bone. Even if he survived, he would probably face amputation.
He tied a tourniquet mid-thigh, cinching it as tight as he could. “You’re not a part of the crew,” he called out. “Who do you work for?”
“I’m afraid that’s something you’ll never know.”
Another shot rang out. This one punched a hole in the wall.
“You’re a dead man,” Lucas shouted, squeezing in between two of the servers and inching his way along. “Even if my men don’t kill you, Emmerson will hunt you down.”
“Emmerson will never find me,” the man said, sounding farther away. “Even if he does, I will certainly outlive you.”
The voice sounded distant now. A moment later, the hatch slamming shut told Lucas why. He forced himself to look. It was closed and locked. He’d been sealed up inside the hold.
Seconds later a low rumble shook the hull. It came in bursts, traveling forward from the stern.
Lucas recognized it as blasting charges set off in rapid succession, similar to the method a demolition expert would use to bring down a large building.
As he tried to figure out the logic behind this latest surprise, alarms rang out. The ship was taking on water.
The hull had been blown open all along the waterline. The man who’d shot him was sinking the ship. Lucas couldn’t fathom why, but as the ship began to list and the floor increasingly sloped, he was certain the vessel would be going down.
Escaping from his hiding place, he dragged himself to the hatch. It would not budge, not even as he pulled on it with all his might.
He tried the radio once again. “Callum,” he called out. “Callum.”
Water began leaking through tiny gaps on the sides of the hatch and dribbling in through the bullet hole in the wall.
The water had to be rising fast if it was already two feet up on the outside of the compartment.
Forcing himself to stand on his one good leg, Lucas threw himself against the door to no avail. He grabbed the handle as he fell back, pulling with all his strength and hoping the water on the outside would help push the door in. The lock held, so he pulled once more.
The door creaked and the frame bent inward. Both gave way all at once.
Lucas threw himself to the side, trying to get clear, but the rush of water caught him as it blasted through the gap. He was swept off his feet and dragged along like a piece of driftwood caught by a crashing wave.
