Ghost Ship by Clive Cussler
“Than Rang is having an elegant reception for his business partners,” Col. Lee explained. “There will be wine, women, and song, as you Americans like to say. Most important, there will be a guest arriving and delivering a very important package. I believe you know the man. Fortunately, he doesn’t know you. At least not by sight.”
“Acosta,” Kurt said with disgust.
“He’s bringing the other hackers,” Joe guessed.
“Exactly,” Hale said. “He will exchange them for a large sum of diamonds and a painting by one of the masters.”
Kurt’s mind was running now. “For such an exchange to happen, both items would need to be verified.”
Hale said, “Acosta isn’t interested in getting a fake, and Than Rang isn’t interested in delivering a couple of dupes to his friends in the North. They’ll both need experts to make sure the goods are bona fide. Than Rang will use several techs from his company to give the prospective hackers a final exam of sorts. Most likely, they’ll be given a complex code and asked to break it, and then perhaps a secondary task of inserting a program through a sophisticated firewall. In the meantime, Acosta will be examining the painting and that’s where we get our chance. You see, Acosta holds himself out as a big-time collector, but he knows less about art than he pretends. Far less. To make sure he’s not swindled, he’s arranged for a legitimate expert named Solano to go with him. For a healthy fee, Solano will verify what is no doubt a stolen work of art to begin with. It’s all a very sordid business.”
“What do you want us to do?” Kurt asked.
“Mr. Zavala here will pose as our friend Solano, who hails from Madrid. They’re the same build, almost the same height. With a little makeup and subtle lifts in his shoes, Joe will be the spitting image of the wayward art expert.”
“What if Acosta figures it out?”
“He won’t,” Hale insisted. “He’s never met Solano. Only talked to him on the phone. And they’re arriving separately. Solano comes in tomorrow, Acosta will be here the day after.”
Fortunate timing, Kurt thought. But there were problems. “What about his voice? If they’ve talked, Joe will have to sound like Solano.”
“According to his file, Joe speaks fluent Spanish.”
Joe nodded.
“The only concern is that this is Catalan Spanish,” Hale said. “But we’re going to take Solano out of circulation before he makes it to his hotel, get him to talk, and allow Joe to practice his voice.”
Kurt didn’t like his friend taking the risk, but he knew they weren’t likely to get another chance at this.
“Should be a piece of cake,” Joe said.
“I’m going in with him,” Kurt insisted.
“Of course you are,” Hale said. “Because your job is to place a transmitter on one of the hackers while Joe keeps Acosta and the others busy.”
Kurt nodded. That sounded fair, but then what? “I think we can all picture the outcome if we fail. But what happens if we succeed? You can’t get them out of the North any more than we can.”
“The thing is,” Hale said, “we’re not sure where they are. Any of them. North Korea has a cyberforce known as Unit 121. We’ve confirmed that some of them operate in China, others have been tracked to sites in Russia, and some to sites right here in Seoul. You don’t have to be at home to attack a country these days. You can launch your strike from anywhere you find a computer terminal and an Internet connection. If they like, these people can wage war in their pajamas.”
Kurt understood, but something was missing. He studied Hale. Both he and Col. Lee were rather inscrutable. Maybe it was the nature of their occupations or the hangdog expressions that told him they’d been working the angles long and hard on this one. Either way, something didn’t quite fit. Kurt couldn’t begin to guess what it was, but he had a feeling he’d find out at the worst possible time.
NUMA Vessel Condor, Southwestern Indian Ocean
The Condor drifted with the current all afternoon, and Paul Trout began to feel like a sailor on an old galleon, caught in the horse latitudes and going nowhere.
As dusk approached, the ship was enveloped in darkness. The chief and his men rigged up an auxiliary unit that brought power back to the desalinization and ventilation systems, but because the unit was relatively small compared to the need of the ship, most of the lights were kept off and the HVAC processors were run at the lowest settings. As a result, the interior of the ship was a sweatbox and those who didn’t have to be inside congregated on various parts of the deck.
Paul considered himself fortunate to be on the bridge wing with Gamay.
“What a beautiful night,” she said.
“It really is,” he replied. There was a soft southerly breeze, just enough to keep the humidity from being oppressive.
“Maybe there’s something to be said for the old ways,” she added. “No hum of machinery. No annoying computers telling us a new message has arrived.”
She put an arm around his waist and pulled closer. “I wouldn’t mind a candlelight dinner, if you’ve got nothing else planned.”
Paul cocked his head at her. “Are you getting romantic on me?”
She huffed and pushed him away. “If you have to ask, I must be doing it wrong.”
He pulled her back to his side. “No, you’re doing fine,” he said. “Now, where were we?”
“Too late,” she said. “The moment has passed.”
If it wasn’t already gone, the appearance of a crewman sweating through his T-shirt sent it packing for good. “Sorry to interrupt but we’re picking up something on radar.”
“I thought the radar was out?” Gamay replied.
Paul shook his head. “Considering our predicament, I thought it would be wise to know what’s going on around us. I had the chief power up the short-range unit.”
“Do you want to take a look?” the crewman asked.
Paul nodded, and both he and Gamay entered the semidarkened bridge.
“Any chance it’s the tug?” Gamay asked.
“No, ma’am,” the crewman replied. “Target is to the east. Tug will be coming in from the west. By our estimates, she’s a good four hours away.”
Paul stepped over to the radarscope. “What’s the range?”
“Forty-six miles. That’s pretty much the maximum range of the system on this power setting.”
“What’s her course and speed? Maybe we can hail her?”
“That’s just it,” the crewman said, “she has no course and speed. The target has been intermittent, appearing and disappearing. For the last hour there was nothing there and we thought whoever it was had moved on, but then it came back in the same relative position.”
“But we’re drifting,” Paul said. “Even if she was sitting still, her bearing should be changing unless she’s drifting as well.”
“Or it could be shadowing us at the very limit of our radar coverage,” the crewman noted ominously.
“Has to be a pretty big target to show up that far off,” Gamay added. “Maybe they’re keeping their distance, hoping not to be seen.”
It was all guesswork. But considering what they’d already been through, Paul was not interested in giving anyone or anything the benefit of the doubt. “When’s the helicopter due back?”
“That’s problem number two,” the crewman said. “The pilot reported a mechanical failure shortly after leaving Durban. They’ve had to turn back. The last we heard, they were trying to scrounge up a spare part. But even if they found one right away, we won’t have them back until tomorrow morning at the earliest.”
“And the tug is four hours off?”
“At least.”
Paul sighed. Alone on the darkening sea and being watched was not a position he liked being in. “Contact HQ on the satellite phone,” Paul said. “Tell them we might have company.”
“What do you think we should do in the meantime?” Gamay asked.
Paul was pragmatic. “Either hope it’s nothing and enjoy
Gamay folded her arms across her chest and offered a pout. “Guess I’ll cancel my plans for a candlelight dinner and go scour the hold for a few rocks and a slingshot.”
As the Condor continued to drift, dusk gave way to darkness and the lonely feeling of isolation. The ship, normally a hub of activity, was quiet as the crew prepared to fight if necessary. But the feared borders never materialized, and Paul began to wonder if they’d read suspicious intentions into a harmless situation.
“Any change?” he asked the radar operator as he stepped onto the bridge.
“No, sir,” the crewman replied. “Whoever they are, they’ve drifted along with us for the past three hours.”
Sensing the danger had passed, especially with the tug only an hour away, Paul had a new idea. “We have a high-speed launch on this boat, don’t we?”
“An FRC,” the crewman replied. “Fast rescue craft.”
“Good,” Paul said. “Have it readied. I’m going to take it out and investigate our mystery contact.”
“Not without me, you won’t,” a voice insisted from behind him.
Paul turned to see Gamay in the doorway. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said. “In fact, I think we should make it a double date. Bring Duke and Elena.”
Shortly thereafter, the four of them were aboard the quickest of Condor’s motorized launches, a sleek machine constructed by the Dutch Special Marine Group. In design, the thirty-foot boat looked like a police river cruiser on steroids, with a high bow, an open deck, and a centralized control console and navigation mast. Powered by a throaty Volvo water jet, it raced across the waves at forty knots.
Paul stood at the bow with Gamay while Duke handled the controls and Elena prepared a raft of weapons obtained from the Condor’s arms locker just in case they were needed.
Navigating from dead reckoning, Duke offered an update. “We should be close enough to see the target in a few minutes,” he said, “assuming she has any sort of running lights on.”
Peering through the darkness, Paul nodded. He saw nothing yet.
“What’s our plan when we arrive?” Gamay asked.
“Plan?” Paul asked.
“Plan,” Gamay repeated. “You know, that thing you come up with in advance so you can throw it out the window when everything goes haywire.”
“Oh yeah,” Paul said. “I figure we encircle the target and, should it be a threat, talk the captain into surrendering.”
Gamay sighed. “Yep,” she said, “that will go right out the window.”
Paul chuckled at his wife’s concern. “I don’t think we’re dealing with anything hostile,” he said. “I think we’re going to find another ship in distress like our own.”
“Then why do we all have weapons?” Elena asked. She held a pistol. Two AR-15s rested on the deck. Paul and Gamay would carry the rifles.
“For the inevitable moment when my guess turns out to be wrong,” Paul deadpanned.
As the FRC raced on through the darkness, the radio squawked with a barely audible signal as the chief called them.
“FRC, this is Condor. You’ve gone off the scope. We’re not reading your signature anymore. Based on course and speed, you should be rounding third and heading for home.”
The transmission was coded in simple terms in case anyone was listening. “Rounding third” told Paul they were about three miles from the target. He grabbed the microphone. “Are you holding us up or waving us on?”
“No sign of outfielders ready to throw home,” the chief replied. “Keep on running.”
“Wilco,” Paul said. He put the radio down. “Coast is clear,” he told the others.
“So thought the mouse, as she raced for the cheese,” said Gamay.
Paul returned to the bow, watching and waiting.
“She must be running dark,” Gamay said, “or we’d see her lights by now.”
“Have to agree with that,” Paul said. He looked up. The waxing moon was three-quarters full and casting a fair amount of light on this cloudless night. Even if the target was running dark, they should have been able to see it.
“Duke, what’s our heading?”
“Zero nine five,” Duke replied.
“It should be right in front of us.”
“Maybe it’s a ghost,” Elena suggested.
“A ghost?” Paul said.
Elena rolled her eyes. “On the radar. You know, a false return.”
Paul had to consider that a possibility and began to wonder if they’d made the trip for nothing. He pulled on a set of night vision goggles and stared until he finally saw an outline growing on the horizon. It was low and long and just barely jutting above the calm sea.
“Dead ahead,” he said. “At last.”
The gray bulk of the target began to grow larger, though it was hard to calculate distance in the dark.
“Cut our speed,” Paul said. “Give us ten knots.”
The roar of the engine dropped down to a heavy purr, and the wind noise lessened as the FRC slowed appreciably. It didn’t appear they were dealing with a threat.
Paul glanced at Gamay. “So much for a trap,” he said.
“Famous last words.”
They moved in closer, and the black hulk in the darkness began blocking out the horizon to either side of them. Paul estimated the target to be nearly five hundred feet from stem to stern. There were no smokestacks or antennas, no defined areas of superstructure, that he could see. And though some sections were higher than others, there was a rounded effect to them, more like a river barge piled high with coal or some other bulk commodity.
“Looks like a barge,” Paul said.
“What’s a barge doing all the way out here?” Elena asked.
No one ventured a guess.
“Take us around to port,” Paul said.
Duke cut the wheel, and the FRC turned right and traveled down one side of the vessel. As they passed the end of the derelict, Duke took them up along the other side.
“Rounded end,” Paul said. “This is the stern.”
“It’s not a barge,” Gamay added, “it’s a ship.”
“A dark, dead ship,” Elena said.
“A ghost ship,” Gamay replied.
Even Paul had to admit there was something ominous about the vessel, something the grainy gangrene-tinted view through the night vision goggles only added to. Mist shrouding the ship, backlit by the stars and the sliver moon, gave it a spectral aura.
“Ghost ship,” Gamay whispered.
Paul had seen enough. He pulled off the goggles and went to the FRC’s small mast. As a rescue boat, the FRC was equipped with a row of powerful lights. Paul switched the main flood on and turned it toward the target’s hull.
The garish light spread across heavy steel plate, rusted and corroded as if the ship had been drifting for years. The ship’s portholes appeared to be sealed shut and were opaque with a tawny scale. A line of them ran just above the waterline.
As Paul panned the light, it revealed tangled lines running across the hull, strands of brown and green. It took a moment for any of them to realize what they were looking at.
Gamay was first. “Vines,” she said.
Duke brought the throttle back to idle, and Paul angled the spotlight, tracking a tangled group of the vines that ran up the side of the hull past what should have been the sharp edge of the main deck but what was, in fact, an eroding slope of tancolored sediment.
“What in the world . . .”
Up on top, the vines ran everywhere like ivy draping an old stone wall. Dying grasses, weeds, and tangled scrub brush grew where the superstructure should have been.
Duke shook his head at the sight. “I’ve found some strange things floating out at sea before, but I’ve never seen anything like this.”
They passed the bow without sighting any markings, and Duke brought them back amidships.
“I think we should go back to the Condor,” Gamay said abruptly.
<
“Of course,” she said, “I’m as intrigued as you are. But we came here to see if the target was a threat or a vessel in need of our help. It’s obviously neither. With that established, we should get back home before anything strange occurs.”
Paul studied his wife. “Not like you to be the voice of reason,” he said. “Where’s your sense of adventure?”
“On the nightstand back home with my car keys,” she said.
He laughed. “We’ve come this far. Might as well go aboard.”
“And how do you propose we do that?” she asked.
Paul looked at her as if it was obvious. “Tarzan style of course,” he said, pointing to the vines.
With calm precision, Duke brought the launch up against the hull where a thick group of creeper vines hung. Paul grabbed them and pulled with all his might.
“I’m going first,” he said. “If these hold me, they’ll certainly hold the rest of you.”
Using the rim of a porthole as a foothold, he went up, climbing hand over hand, like he was going over the obstacle course wall in basic training. Eventually, he made it up onto the deck, which was covered with sediment.
Gamay came up next, and Elena followed right behind her. Duke remained on the launch.
“Feel like we’ve discovered a deserted island,” Elena said.
“Let’s hope it’s deserted,” Gamay added. “I’d hate to find headhunters living aboard.”
Paul looked around. It really felt as if they’d made landfall. There was nothing man-made in sight. Just a foliage-covered mound in the middle of the Indian Ocean. “Looks like this ship got caught in the Sargasso Sea.”
“Except that this isn’t seaweed,” Gamay said.
“The fact that she’s still afloat tells me she’s basically watertight,” Elena mentioned, “though she’s riding awfully low in the water.”
Paul thought so as well. “I wonder if all this vegetation is weighing her down.”
“Possibly,” Elena said. “Considering the thickness of the vegetation and the soil, it’s probably making her top-heavy. Hopefully, we don’t get any big waves while we’re on board. If she starts to roll, she’ll almost certainly go over.”