Armen Gharabegian - Protocol 7

“He knows, Max. I think he knows something.”

“Andrew could have guided the ship remotely from here on in. There was no reason-”

“He could, but why? We have one of the best captains working for us, and he’s willing to help. That’s far better than a remote handheld console, calibrated by Andrew.”

The vessel’s engines rumbled like an awakening beast as the Munro pulled gently away from the dock, and Donovan guided her massive bulk through a maze of other vessels almost as if the fog wasn’t there at all.

Closer, Simon told himself. Closer.

He stood silently for a long time deep in thought, until Max put a hand on his shoulder and said, “Come on, we have to go over the gear and exercise one more time.”

They had started doing drills with the extreme weather gear that Nastasia had provided Simon in Santiago, but practice was important for them all-important for survival. He turned to call to the rest of them when Donovan suddenly appeared at the door again.

“Look smart,” he said. “The Chilean Port Authority is coming alongside.”

Simon turned quickly and peered out one of the cabin’s portholes. A sleek Coast Guard vessel with blinding lights was heading toward them at high speed, even as Donovan used the ship speakers to order his crew to the fishing equipment. He barked an order to the bridge as well, and the Munro immediately slowed in the water.

“You all stay here,” Max said to the rest of the team. They were standing together in the center of the room, looking wide-eyed and nervous. “Simon? Captain? Let’s see what this is about.”

As they moved down the corridor, Donovan noticed the pistol hidden behind Max’s back, held in an open holster and inches from his hand. “Hmph,” he said, catching the man’s attention. “Just so’s you know, there are a few more of those hereabouts. I’ll show you where I stash them.”

Max gave him a cold smirk.

The Coast Guard vessel closed the gap between them and pulled alongside. Donovan appeared topside just as the Guard’s spotlight cut through the lifting fog and illuminated a sharp-edged circle on the deck. At the same instant, the thin ribbons of a bright blue scanning laser blossomed from the Guard’s cutter and scanned the Munro’s hull, looking for data on the cargo as well as the identification tag embedded into the ship’s superstructure, along with its registration and shipping license-a mandatory series of serial numbers displayed for satellite and ocean-going recognition.

Simon stood out of sight, at the hatch that led below deck, and held his breath. He knew that the original ‘owners’ of the Munro and the Spector alike had prepared for this eventuality. There were scramblers, not unlike Andrew’s own, already mounted in the hold, set to broadcast false data about the cargo: all they would find were nets, trawling lines, and empty bins-the detritus of a fishing vessel that had just left port.

“Identify yourself,” said an almost mechanical voice from the cutter. It gave the same instruction in English, French, Portuguese, German, Chinese, until Donovan pushed the loudspeaker button on the ships console and said, “Fishing Vessel Kappa Alpha Theta Three One Niner Niner Four Alpha Sigma, designation Munro. Captain Dominic Donovan here.” As soon as he spoke English, the mechanical voice responded in kind. Simon had done his reading; he knew the code was a specific number given to certain ships, allowing them a short window of time to be in the open sea. The scarcity of sea bass and the decline of other species in the ocean had caused very strict regulations to be enforced, with precise limits on fishing times per vessel. And meanwhile, the Guard’s radar was being shown exactly what they expected to see: an empty hold with scattered fishing nets and gear.

“We have an eight-hour pass for commercial fishing,” Donovan said through the megaphone, trying to sound bored and slightly annoyed, just as a commercial fisherman stopped for inspection would sound.

“Noted,” the Guard voice said so quickly that Simon wondered if it was, in fact, an AI. Was the entire cutter being remotely guided? “Munro, your radar and navigational systems are shut down. Are you in need of assistance?”

“Damn it,” Simon muttered under his breath. The systems were down to avoid showing any electronic signature at all, even less than Andrew’s scrambler would show. They hadn’t considered that the absence of the signature during visual contact would make them more noticeable.

But Donovan was a quick thinker. “You notice the lousy catch hereabouts?” he said, letting some anger into his voice. “Soon as I have a decent haul, I’ll have the money to repair and upgrade all that fancy tech, but until then-this is what I got to work with.”

“Regulations strongly suggest electronic augmentation even on retrofitted-”

“I know what ‘regulations strongly suggest,’ thank you. I also know it’s not required, and I promise you I can navigate with a handheld and stick to the eight-hour window without assistance. We will be perfectly safe.” The captain took his finger off the loudspeaker button and Simon held his breath. The Guard could order them back to port for any damn thing they wanted. If the AI had any reservations…

“Window is reduced to six hours due to incoming inclement weather conditions,” the accent-less voice said.

“Fine,” Captain Donovan said, obviously anxious to end the conversation. “Six-hour window acknowledged. Clear to sail?”

Without another word the lights from the Port Authority cutter snapped off, and the boat roared to life and veered away into the disappearing fog at breakneck speed.

The captain watched it go for a moment, and then released a huge sigh of relief to match Simon’s own. Then he spun on his heel and bellowed, “Current heading, full speed ahead! Full throttle!”

The Munro boomed and surged into the open ocean, spray pouring over the bow as it crashed through the rising swell.

Simon backed down the stairs and Donovan joined him. “All right then,” he said, “we’re heading south toward Antarctica now. We’re already running silent, and we’ll be in international waters in four minutes or less. A set of slightly more precise coordinates would be appreciated.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Simon told him. “In the meantime…full speed ahead.”

Donovan snorted. “As if I had a choice.”

* * *

Simon’s team assembled in the hull of the ship-a surprisingly huge space from top to bottom and side to side, filled almost entirely by the bulbous, dead-black mass of the Spector VI, wrapped in a radar-invisible, non-metallic, sound-absorbing neo-fabric that defied scans of any kind. The inside of the ship looked nothing like its aged exterior. The hull itself was scrupulously cleaned and recently repainted; Donovan ran a tight ship, and there wasn’t an oil stain or a misplaced bolt anywhere in sight.

The sheer physical size of the space needed to transport the Spector impressed Simon all over again. The eight-inch-thick cloaking material made it even bigger, but still, the vessel was much larger than the loading hatch above it. At the moment, it crouched on the deck like a dangerous thundercloud being held captive.

The team was close behind him and completely cowed, looking at Spector VI with a mixture of awe and terror. The gigantic vessel looked nothing like what they had seen in the holographic image. In real life it was menacing-harsh, sleek, and mechanical. Donovan shouted from above deck. “Guys, looks like the storm will hit sooner than expected. We have to speed things up.” The roar of the Munro’s engine surged even higher-though Simon hadn’t thought that was possible-and the feeling of speed pulled at them more strongly than ever. The Spector VI, still in its cloak, swayed slightly in response.