Клайв Касслер - Typhoon Fury

It didn’t take long for Locsin and his revolutionary comrades to see the profound benefits of Typhoon, so they started taking the drug themselves. They’d enjoyed the effects for the past six months, and his victories over the Filipino government had grown exponentially. Now he had the most fearsome soldiers in the world.

The problem was that their supply was swiftly dwindling. Within two months, it would be exhausted.

“I’m going to the lab tomorrow,” he said to Tagaan. “I want Ocampo to explain to my face why he can’t figure out the type of plant we need to find.” He had a project under way to get more Typhoon, but Ocampo and the lab were his backup.

“Yes, comrade. I’ll prepare your helicopter.” Tagaan nodded at the aluminum briefcase holding the eagle finial from the Gardner Museum. “The Manet we lost in Thailand has not surfaced yet. What should we do about the other artwork?”

Locsin felt his fury building anew at the setback, but he tamped it down. He’d been counting on Udom to be his conduit to Southeast Asia for Typhoon, but Tagaan had wiped out his men after the deal went sour. Not only would he have to build a new network in Thailand, he’d have to delay using the paintings as collateral. For now, they would have to go back to transporting money the old-fashioned way, in five-hundred-euro notes and hundred-dollar bills.

“We’ll keep the rest of the paintings for the future,” Locsin said. “Once production ramps up, we’ll be dealing in huge sums of money, and we’ll need them for our transactions. Any word about Beth Anders?” She was the only loose thread tying his men to the paintings.

Tagaan shook his head. “She disappeared, along with her companion. Our informant at Interpol says they haven’t contacted the authorities.” The spy within Interpol was another beneficiary of Typhoon.

“Did you find out who the other woman is?” Locsin asked.

“Our contact is working on that, but he hasn’t been able to identify her.”

“If you find them, try to get the painting back, although that’s not our highest priority.”

Tagaan nodded, but the white knuckles on his fist showed that he was on the brink of crushing his mug at the thought of his failure, another effect of the Typhoon. Like testosterone, it amplified aggressiveness in users.

“I will kill them both,” Tagaan said. Locsin didn’t share his desire to avenge being embarrassed for letting the two women escape. Their deaths were simply necessities.

Finally sated, Locsin left the empty plates and exited his quarters with Tagaan. They emerged into the center of a soaring cavern fifty stories high. It was one of the largest caves in the world but remained unknown to the outside world. Like the massive caverns discovered in Vietnam only a few years ago, this cave system was hidden in the jungle, and only a select group of his comrades knew the location. All others brought to it were blindfolded before making the journey.

Men carrying out their duties shuttled across the main square centrally located among the buildings that had been constructed to house the soldiers and their equipment. Power was provided by large diesel generators lowered through a massive sinkhole that allowed sunlight to illuminate the interior. It also made it possible for the insurgency’s helicopters to descend directly into the cavern. The only other access point was a truck-sized opening in the hillside where the original discovery of the cave had been made by a loyal communist. Now it was well concealed.

As he and Tagaan made their way toward the armory, Locsin stopped in the middle of the square where a huge stalagmite had formed. Steel rings had been drilled into the limestone, and a limp man was shackled to them.

The man looked up at Locsin with false hope. It was Stanley Alonzo. The bureaucrat had grown a conscience and betrayed Locsin to the police.

Just a week ago, Alonzo had looked like a bodybuilder, the epitome of health. Now he was little more than skin and bones.

Alonzo had made the mistake of thinking that when his supply of Typhoon ran out, he would simply revert to his previous tubby form. But as with many other drugs, Typhoon’s addictive properties meant that the lows were even worse than the highs. A week after taking the first pill, the user was addicted for life. Locsin had found that out when one of his men was arrested and couldn’t get his supply of Typhoon in jail. Racked by the agony and severe muscle deterioration caused by withdrawal, he died within a week. The perplexed medical examiner, noting that the man’s body literally consumed itself, chalked his death up to a non-contagious autoimmune disease. Locsin himself had avoided a similar fate when his men made the bold rescue from the prison ship.

He leaned down to Alonzo. “I told you that traitors would be dealt with severely. I lost six men in my prison escape because of you.”

Alonzo grabbed his pant leg. “Please,” he rasped, tears streaming down his cheeks. “I’m begging you. I need Typhoon. Just one pill. I’ll do anything you want.”

Locsin yanked his leg away. “You’re already doing it.”

As he and Tagaan walked away from Alonzo’s pitiful cries, Locsin vowed that he would not go out that way if they couldn’t regenerate their supply of Typhoon. He’d rather eat a bullet.

15

GUAM

With the NSA supercomputer removed from the Oregon and loaded back onto the C-5 for its return trip to Fort Meade, Juan finally had time to meet with Beth Anders and Raven Malloy. He chose one of his favorite bars on the island, a dim little pub called Abandon Ship. Most of the evening’s patrons were American sailors and airmen from the military bases that dominated the U.S. territory’s economy. A live band pounded out covers of classic rock songs by Lynyrd Skynyrd and The Eagles, so their conversation would stay private.

As they waited for the two women to arrive, Max Hanley dug into a plate of nachos while Juan nursed a tumbler of scotch.

“Do not tell Doc Huxley that I am eating this,” Max said as he crammed a chip laden with guacamole and cheese into his mouth. He chased it with a bottle of Budweiser. “You wouldn’t believe how few calories I’m allowed to have on the diet she put me on. She’s even got Chef in on it. This is the only chance I’ve had for some real food in two weeks.”

“I don’t think Julia will believe the bar sells wheatgrass smoothies and low-salt quinoa.”

“If she asks, tell her I had a glass of club soda and some carrot sticks.”

“It’s the scale you better be worried about tattling, not me.”

Max patted his stomach, which strained against his belt. “Hey, this isn’t bad for a guy my age. I’d like to see what you look like in another thirty years.” Max may have put on ten or fifteen pounds since his days in the Navy and wasn’t going to qualify for a 5K run anytime soon, but he could still handle himself in a fight and was reasonably fit for a guy in his sixties. Though Hux hounded Max about his nutrition, Juan figured his friend deserved a pipe and a bowl of ice cream when he felt like it.

“Julia just wants to make sure you’re around when you’re eighty,” Juan said.

Max snorted. “Maybe my ex is paying her off, so she can keep those alimony payments coming.”

On several occasions, Mark Murphy had accused Max and Juan of bantering like an old married couple. The two of them had been together since the Corporation was formed, even before the Oregon was purchased and refitted to its current state. Juan not only counted on his number two to keep the company and ship running smoothly but also confided in him more than anyone else.

Both of them were single and considered the Oregon their permanent home, and they shared an easy friendship because of it. Most of the crew knew about Max’s ex-wife, primarily because of his frequent comments about her, but few besides Max had heard about how Juan had become a widower, that his alcoholic wife had died in a single-car crash while intoxicated, despite his repeated attempts to get her help. The guilt for not being able to save her from herself ached more than the phantom pain where his right leg ended.