Clive Cussler - Plague Ship

“I did,” Eric replied. “I knew Juan would nix my first idea of talking you into getting us a nuke.” Overholt paled at that. “Rightly so.”

“I had to come up with an alternative, and when Ivan Kerikov mentioned Stalin’s Fist and I researched it everything seemed to fit.”

“You know it was Cabrillo who sabotaged the satellite, right?”

“He mentioned it briefly.”

“Knowing him, he didn’t tell you the full story. Juan spent seven months behind the Iron Curtain, living the life of one Yuri Markov, a technician at Baikonur. The pressure to stay undercover for that long, and under the tight security the Russians maintained there at the time, must have been pure hell.

“When he got out, it was standard practice for operatives to see an agency shrink. They met for just a short while. I saw the doctor’s notes. His summary was just one line: ‘That is the coolest customer I have ever met.’ Truer words have never been written.”

“Just curious, what happened to the real Markov? Juan didn’t have to . . .”

“Kill him? Heavens no. We got Markov out in payment for first telling us about the Orbital Ballistic Projectile project. Last I heard, he works for Boeing’s space division. But I know this: if he had been ordered to sanction Markov, Juan wouldn’t have hesitated. He has the strictest moral code of anyone I know.

“The ends justify the means, for someone like Cabrillo. I know in today’s politically correct world that outrages a lot of people, but they live in the freedom men like Juan provide. It isn’t their conscience that bears the burden. It’s Juan’s. They just get to enjoy a false sense of moral superiority without understanding the real costs.

“Toss an animal lover into a pen with a rabid raccoon and he’ll kill it. He will feel bad, even guilty, but do you think he’s going to consider his peers’ outrage that he took that life? Not for a second, because it’s kill or be killed. That is what our world is coming to, I’m afraid, only people are too horrified by that concept to accept it.”

“Unfortunately, their acceptance isn’t a factor to the forces arrayed against us,” Eric said.

Overholt held out his hand to shake again. “That’s what makes our jobs all the more difficult. I fought my war when we all knew it was black and white. Since then, someone convinced us there is gray out there.

Let me tell you something, son: there isn’t any such thing as gray, no matter what you hear.” Overholt released Eric’s hand. “It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Stone. Good luck tomorrow, and Godspeed.”

CUTTING LIKE A KNIFE through blue silk, the Oregon raced across the Mediterranean. They avoided shipping lanes as much as possible so they could run her magnetohydrodynamic engines above the red line and not draw attention to her blazing speed. They slowed only once, when passing through the Strait of Messina, separating the tip of Italy’s boot from the island of Sicily. Fortunately, nature was in a cooperative mood. The seas were calm, and there was no trace of a breeze, as they dashed across the Ionian Sea and entered the Aegean.

Juan spent nearly every waking hour in the Op Center, wedged into his chair with a continuously recharged mug of coffee. In the top corner of the main viewing monitor, a digital clock remorselessly counted backward. In a little over eighteen hours, Eos Island would be wiped off the face of the planet.

And Max Hanley would go with it if Cabrillo didn’t think of something soon.

The ship didn’t feel right to him. Eric and Mark should be at the front consoles, navigating the ship and preparing its weapons systems for her defense. Max should be at the rear of the Op Center, hovering over the engine monitors like a mother hen. Linda should be here, too, ready to lend a hand to whatever section needed her. Eddie and Linc must have felt the same way. They rarely spent time in the Op Center, but, with so many of their friends in danger, there was no place else they would rather be.

“Nothing, Chairman,” Hali said from his station along the starboard side of the high-tech room.

This was the third straight time that Linda and Mark had missed their appointed check-in time. Hali had contacted the cruise line and been reassured that there were no communications problems with the Golden Sky . He had even phoned the ship’s communications center, pretending to be a passenger’s brother with news of a dying parent. The helpful secretary had assured him that she would get a message to cabin B123, a number he had randomly picked. The passenger never called back, but that wasn’t definitive proof of anything since he may have already lost both parents and thought it a cruel hoax. Juan had dismissed the idea of trying a few others with the same ruse, because the receptionist would have grown suspicious.

Even with the Oregon ’s vast arsenal of weaponry and the best communications system afloat, there was nothing anyone could do but wait—wait until they were within range of Eos and hope that an opportunity presented itself. Max had figured out a way to elude his captors long enough to send the message, and the cagey old codger might come up with another trick or two yet. Juan had to be in position to help if he could.

Then there was the situation with Mark and Linda. Juan had no idea what events were unfolding on the Golden Sky . For all he knew, they had been identified as stowaways and were in lockdown someplace on a ship he had no doubt Severance had rigged with his virus. They still hadn’t figured out what Max had meant, that the virus did something worse than kill, but it didn’t matter. If they failed to knock out the transmitter, two of his top people were going to be among the first exposed.

Juan typed a command into his computer. On the monitor, the speeding seconds of the digital clock vanished. They had been reeling back depressingly fast, and he didn’t want to watch them anymore. The minutes display was reminder enough that time was running out.

CHAPTER 33

“THE FBI RAIDED OUR PLACE IN BEVERLY HILLS,” Thom Severance said as he burst into Lydell Cooper’s underground apartment. His voice nearly cracked with panic.

Cooper had been resting on a sofa and swung his feet to the floor. “They what?”

“The FBI raided my house, our headquarters. It happened just a few minutes ago. My secretary managed to call me on my satellite phone. The have a search-and-seizure warrant for all our financial records, as well as membership lists. They also have a warrant to arrest me and Susan on suspicion of tax fraud. Thank God, Susan is with her sister at our cabin in Big Bear, but it’s only a matter of time before they find her. What are we going to do? They’re on to us, Lydell. They know everything.”

“Calm down! They don’t know anything. The FBI is using their Gestapo tactics to intimidate us. If they knew about our plan, they would have arrested everyone in California and coordinated with Turkish authorities to raid this facility.”

“But it’s coming apart. I can feel it.” Severance sat heavily on a chair and buried his face in his hands.

“Get ahold of yourself. This isn’t a big deal.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” Severance spat like a petulant child. “You’re not the one under arrest. You get to hide in the shadows while I take the fall.”

“Damnit, Thom. Listen to me. The FBI has no idea what we are trying to accomplish. They might have an inkling that we are plotting something, but they don’t know what. This is a—what’s that expression?—a fishing expedition. They issued a generic warrant to see our records in hopes of finding something incriminating. We both know there isn’t.

“We’ve made sure from the very first that our records are clean. The Responsivist organization is a nonprofit, so we don’t pay taxes, but we have filed our financials with the IRS like clockwork. Unless you and Susan have done something stupid, like not pay your income tax on the salary you’re paid, they have nothing. You’ve paid your taxes, right?”