Clive Cussler - Plague Ship

His thoughts started to drift as his brain burned up the last of his air. He was growing desperate, his motions uncoordinated. It was as if he no longer remembered how to swim, or even how to control his limbs. He’d been close to drowning before, and he recognized the symptoms, but there was nothing he could do about it. The broad ocean beckoned. He just couldn’t reach it.

Juan stopped swimming and felt water sear his lungs.

And as soon as he did, he started accelerating. Linc had recognized the trouble Cabrillo was in and had grabbed the back of his T-shirt. The ex-SEAL had to be as desperate to breathe as the Chairman, but his legs kicked like pistons, and each great arc of his right arm propelled them closer and closer. Juan had never seen a more determined display. Linc was simply ignoring the fact he was drowning and kept swimming anyway.

The water suddenly grew lighter, as they emerged from the cavern. On guts alone, Linc dragged them to the surface. Gasping, Juan spewed a mouthful of water and coughed up what felt like lungfuls more. They clung to rocks like victims of a shipwreck, as the sea surged gently around them. Neither man could speak for several minutes, and, when they could, there was nothing to say.

It would take an hour of hard climbing and another two and a half to circle far around the former Japanese installation before they reached their hidden jeep. Cabrillo had put the ordeal behind them even before they reached the top of the cliff. His mind was focused solely on the images stored on his cell phone. He didn’t know how or why, but he was certain it was the evidence he needed to blow the case wide open.

CHAPTER 25

HALI KASIM FOUND EDDIE SENG IN THE OREGON ’S gym. Seng was wearing the baggy pants of a martial arts gi but no shirt. Sweat coursed down his lean flanks as he went through a series of karate moves, grunting with each punch and chop. Eddie noticed the look on Hali’s face and ended the routine with a roundhouse kick that would have taken off the head of an NBA center.

He grabbed a white towel from a bin next to a Universal weight machine and wiped his neck and torso.

“I screwed up,” Hali said without preamble. “After Kevin interviewed Donna Sky, I went to that damned tape again, programming new parameters into the computer. Gil Martell didn’t say ‘Donna Sky.’ He said

‘Dawn’ and ‘Sky.’ I checked, and the Golden Dawn has a sister ship named Golden Sky . Eric and Murph did some digging. The Responsivists are holding one of their Sea Retreats aboard her as we speak.”

“Where is she now?” Eddie asked.

“Eastern Mediterranean. She’s scheduled to dock in Istanbul this afternoon. Afterward, she heads to Crete.” Hali then added, before Eddie could ask, “I’ve already tried to call Juan. He doesn’t answer.” With the Chairman incommunicado and Max still in the hands of Zelimir Kovac, Eddie was in command of the ship, and any decision would fall on his shoulders.

“Have there been any reports of illness on the ship?”

“Nothing in the news and nothing on the cruise line’s internal communications logs.” Hali recognized the hesitation in Eddie’s dark eyes. “If it helps, Linda, Eric, and Mark have all volunteered. They’re already packing.”

“If the ship is hit with a chemical or biological attack, they’ll be at risk as much as anyone else,” Eddie reminded.

“This is too much of an opportunity to pass up. If we can get our hands on some of their people, the intelligence will be invaluable.” Hali had put into words the other half of a dangerous equation.

Balancing risk versus reward was the most difficult of all military decisions because lives invariably hung in the balance.

“They can get to shore on the Rigid Inflatable Boat. The jet’s waiting at Nice. Tiny can file an emergency flight plan, and our people can be in Turkey as the Golden Sky arrives. It isn’t likely the Responsivists will attack while they’re in port, so we can at least sneak aboard and have a look-see.”

“Okay,” Eddie agreed, and then stopped Hali as Hali turned to go. “But under no circumstances are they to remain on that ship when she sets sail.”

“I’ll make sure they understand. Who do you want to send?”

“Linda and Mark. Eric is a first-rate navigator and researcher, but Mark’s weapons background will give him an edge finding a chemical- or biological-dispersal system.”

“You got it.”

“By the way,” Eddie said, to stop Hali from rushing off a second time, “what’s the status on our little eavesdropping gig?”

An hour before sunset, the Matryoshka , Ivan Kerikov’s luxury yacht, had eased out of Monte Carlo’s harbor with Ibn al-Asim and his entourage on board. Al-Asim was an up-and-coming Saudi financier who had begun funneling money into radical Islamic schools and some fringe terror groups, with an eye toward linking up with al-Qaeda. The CIA was particularly interested in him and his meeting with the Russian arms dealer because there was a chance he could be turned, and thus give access to the upper echelons of the terrorist world.

Nothing of any great importance had been discussed while the yacht was in port. Most of the men’s afternoon had been taken up by the women Kerikov had provided. But when the Matryoshka slipped out of the harbor and headed into the waters of the Mediterranean, everyone on the Oregon knew the real negotiations were going to take place far from prying eyes.

With her running lights doused, the Oregon had followed the Matryoshka , staying low over the horizon so that just the tip of her tallest mast peeked above the earth’s curvature. The Russians went out twenty miles before idling the megayacht’s engines. Feeling comfortable that they had the seas to themselves, Kerikov and al-Asim had started talking in earnest over an al fresco dinner on the boat’s back deck.

Using the Global Positioning System and the ship’s thrusters, Eric had programmed the computer to keep the Oregon dead even in relation to the drifting Matryoshka , while, high atop the tramp freighter’s mast, sophisticated electronics monitored the yacht. Utilizing state-of-the-art parabolic receivers, high-resolution cameras to read lips, and a focused-beam laser that could sense the faint vibration of a conversation taking place on the other side of a window, they were able to eavesdrop on everything.

“Last I heard, al-Asim and the Russian were talking about SA-7 Grail missiles.”

“The Grail’s a piece of junk,” Eddie said. “They’d never be able to hit any of our jets with those. Ah, but a civilian aircraft would be vulnerable.”

“Kerikov made it clear early on he didn’t want to know what al-Asim planned to do with the arms, but the Saudi alluded to hitting airliners.”

Born in New York’s Chinatown, Eddie was especially enraged by the idea of terrorists targeting commercial aviation. Although he didn’t know anyone killed on 9/11 personally, he knew dozens of people who did.

“Anything else?” Seng asked.

“Al-Asim has already asked about nuclear weapons. Kerikov said he didn’t have access but would sell them if he could.”

“Lovely,” Eddie spat with a grimace.

“The Russian went on to say he would be willing to deliver something he called Stalin’s Fist, but said there were too many technical challenges to make it practical. When al-Asim tried to pursue it, Kerikov told him to forget he’d mentioned it. That’s when they started talking about the Grails.”

“Ever heard of anything called Stalin’s Fist?”

“No. Neither has Mark.”

“Langston Overholt might know something about it. I’ll ask when we turn over the raw-data intercepts.