Plague Ship by Clive Cussler
“Where is the ship heading now?”
“It’s en route from Istanbul to Iraklion, Crete. I could easily meet it as it comes down through the Greek islands.”
Few people outside of the organization were aware that the owner of Golden Lines, the company that operated the Golden Sky and her ill-fated sister ship, the Golden Dawn, was a Responsivist. He had come to the group because he and his wife were unable to have children, and Lydell Cooper’s teachings made them come to accept that fact and even celebrate it. Although he made substantial contributions to the cause and allowed them to use his boats for their Sea Retreats at a deep discount, the shipping mogul wasn’t part of the inner circle that had conceived the plan to use ocean liners to spread the genetically modified virus.
“You can call the president of the line,” Kovac continued, “and explain that the same group who targeted the Dawn might be planning something similar for the Golden Sky. Let me on board, and keep the ship at sea until after the virus is released. That way, even if they discover it they can’t warn anybody about it.”
“If that’s the case, he will want to cancel the cruise entirely.”
“Tell him to do it as a favor, then. There are fifty Responsivists on that ship as part of a Sea Retreat. Most of them have no idea what’s about to happen, but that gives me more than enough people to search for anyone acting suspiciously.”
Severance looked over to Lydell Cooper. The former researcher may owe his youthful appearance to surgery after surgery, but the fire burning behind his eyes was his own. It was the flame of utter conviction and total dedication to a belief.
“Thom,” Cooper said, “our species is teetering on the brink of disaster. There are too many mouths to feed, and natural resources are drying up at an ever-accelerating pace. We both know this is the only humane way to prevent the collapse of five thousand years of civilization. And it is from the very beginning of that civilization that we found the means of our salvation. This is just and right, and we must do whatever it takes to guarantee our success.
“I don’t like deviating from our plan, but I believe Mr. Kovac is correct. Somehow, someone knows something. I know that sounds vague but we can’t afford to take any chances now. We are just too close. Days rather than weeks. If they have people on the Golden Sky searching for our virus, they will be able to tell the maritime authorities how it is to be released and all our work will have been for nothing.”
Severance nodded. “Yes, of course you are right. I think it’s a bit of hubris on my part to think that we are so good as to be invulnerable. Zelimir, I’ll talk to the cruise line. Make whatever arrangements you need and bring whatever personnel and equipment you feel is necessary. I will make sure the captain knows to give you his full cooperation. Remember this: under no circumstances is that virus allowed to leave the ship. Do whatever it takes. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. Whatever it takes.”
“Can’t you feel it?” Cooper asked. Both men looked at him questioningly. “We are fighting the dark influence from beyond our dimensional membrane. For thousands of years, they have shaped and molded man to become the self-destructive creature he is today. These forces have pushed humanity to the point that it is ready to consume itself. But we are now pushing back and taking control of our destinies again. I can feel it. I can feel their dismay that we are not bending to their will but starting to carve our own path.
“When we succeed, their grip on us will be over. We will flourish in a new world where they can no longer touch us. We are casting off the invisible shackles of a slavery most people haven’t known they were suffering under. But suffer we have. They made us unable to resist our baser instincts, and look where it has brought us. Wars, starvation, hunger, want. It was their subtle control, spanning countless generations, that brought us to this.
“Until I finally understood that no rational society would choose to live the way we do, I realized we were not in control at all, that there were influences from outside the universe. They have held sway over our thoughts and were leading us to Armageddon for reasons even I don’t comprehend. I was the first to see them for what they are, and like-minded people such as you have also come to understand that the world just wouldn’t be this way if not for something plotting against us.
“Their machinations are almost at an end. They will have no say in what comes next in our societal evolution because we will make certain that everyone understands who they were and what they did. Oh, gentlemen, I cannot tell you how excited I am. A great awakening is coming, and we will stand shoulder to shoulder to enjoy it.”
Kovac had always been uncomfortable about the transdimensional mind-control aspect to Dr. Cooper’s teachings. He understood the hard numbers of overpopulation and dwindling resources, and the ultimate result of the two colliding, so he said nothing. It was enough for him to be part of saving humanity from itself. And, right now, he was more interested in hunting possible enemies on the Golden Sky than any great awakening.
CHAPTER 29
JUAN CABRILLO SAT IN HIS CUSTOMARY SEAT IN THE Op Center listening intently to Hali Kasim’s presentation. Eddie Seng hung out near the back of the room with Linc and two gundogs, Mike Trono and Jerry Pulaski. With Eric Stone’s assistance, Hali had performed nothing less than a miracle.
“While Max was still broadcasting, I got in touch with a few amateur radio buffs I’ve gotten to know over the years and had them tune in to Max’s frequency. I had them jack the clocks that regulate our GPS satellites so we were one hundred percent synchronized. As each character came through, I had them write down the exact time they received it. Now the radio waves propagate at various speeds through various materials, so some extrapolations were necessary. That’s where Eric came in. He computed out those discrepancies so we had a clear time versus distance calculation, and we were able to triangulate the transmitter’s location.”
He typed at his computer for a moment, and an overhead picture of a barren island appeared on the main monitor. It was shaped like a teardrop ringed with cliffs, except for one inhospitable-looking rocky beach at the southern tip. The ground rose and fell in craggy hillocks, and there was virtually no vegetation except a few patches of grass and a couple of gnarled trees bent into odd shapes by the constant wind. According to the scale at the bottom of the picture, the island was roughly eight miles long, and two wide at its thickest point.
“This is Eos Island. It’s located four miles off the coast of Turkey, in the Gulf of Mandalay. The Greeks and Turks have fought over it for a couple of centuries, though, judging by what we’ve found, I can’t understand why. Geologically, it’s interesting because it’s a chunk of Precambrian bedrock in an otherwise-active volcanic zone, but it is basically uninhabitable. This picture is dated four years ago.”
Just seeing a picture of where Max was being held sent a jolt of energy firing through Juan’s body. It took him all he had not to order the Oregon to flank speed and charge in with guns blazing.
Hali flashed another shot of the island on the screen. “This was Eos Island last year.”
Clustered near the southern part of the island were a dozen large earthmovers in distinctive yellow paint. A huge pit had been excavated and a cement plant had been erected. A dock had been extended from the beach and a road graded up to the work site.
“The work was done by an Italian heavy-construction company and paid for through a numbered Swiss bank account, although there is little doubt who was behind it. The Turkish authorities were told it was going to be the largest movie set ever built.”
Up came another picture. “This shows the same site a few months later. As you can see, they have built concrete structures inside their excavation.”
Eric added, “Using the heavy equipment to establish scale, the facility’s footprint is nearly fifty thousand square feet. And, at this point in the construction, it has three levels.”
Hali picked up their story again. “Eight months into construction, the bogus movi
He brought up a third picture on the main monitor. There was no sign of the massive excavation. It looked as if nothing had ever happened. All of the material removed from the pit had been returned to it, and the surface was reconfigured so to appear like natural stone. The only thing remaining was the dock, and a macadam road that led seemingly nowhere.
“This picture is from the official Turkish government environmental-impact report,” Hali continued. “We have to assume that some baksheesh exchanged hands and the report was doctored to indicate that Eos was back to normal.”
“Where’s the ELF antenna?” Juan asked.
“Buried beneath the underground bunker,” Eric replied. “Max was very specific when he said in his message to nuke it. He could have easily said bomb it. Same number of letters, so it wouldn’t have added to the transmission time, but he specifically used the word nuke.
“I would have liked to consult Mark about this, but I did a quick computer simulation, and if they were pouring concrete for five or six months and then piled the debris on top I estimate it will take probably two kilotons to crack that nut open.”
“Why not one of the Air Force’s bunker-buster bombs?” Juan asked smartly.
“That would work fine so long as we hit either the antenna or the power generators directly. But looking at this from a purely practical point of view, do you see us getting our hands on one of those?”
Eric had a habit of not getting sarcasm. “No more than us finding two thousand tons of TNT,” Juan shot back, instantly regretting his sharp tone. “Sorry.” He tried to never take his frustrations out on his people.
“Commando raid seems the only way,” Eddie said, and moved up from the back of the Op Center. “We could hit the beach there, on the south tip of the island, or try to scale one of the cliffs.”
“The chance of success is, statistically, zero,” Eric replied. “Probability dictates that the entrance to the bunker is heavily defended and easily sealed. At the first sign of an attack, the outer defenses are closed off, and successive barricades within the bunker will be raised.”
“So we find a back door,” Juan suggested. “There have to be air intakes for the ventilation system, as well as vents for the exhaust from their power plant.”
“Both of which I believe lie under the dock.” Eric nodded to Hali, who brought the first construction picture back up on the screen. “Look carefully at where they are still working on the road.”
Hali manipulated the picture to zoom in on where a paving machine was laying down a ribbon of asphalt. Just ahead of the machine, graders were smoothing the track, while a bit farther ahead excavators were laying dirt into a deep trench.
“They dug out under where the road was going to be laid in order to bury the vent pipes and then layered blacktop over it. Again, we have to assume that the intakes and vents are well guarded and that at the first sign of an intrusion the facility goes on lockdown. A team might be able to gain access to the conduits, but, once inside, they would be trapped.”
Juan glanced at Eddie to get his opinion of Stone’s grim assessment.
Seng said, “One misstep and we would be targets at a shooting gallery. And even if we made it in, we’d have to cut ourselves out of those pipes with torches, not knowing who or what is waiting to greet us.”
“Okay, give me another option,” Juan said.
“Sorry, Chairman, but Eric’s right. Without knowing how that place is laid out—its security systems, guard strengths, and about a hundred other things—we can’t get inside.”
“Two weeks ago, we stole a pair of rocket torpedoes from the damned Iranian Navy. There has to be a way to get Max out of there.”
“With all due respect”—Eric’s voice was hesitant but determined—“our focus should be on silencing that transmitter rather than on Max’s rescue. If the attack is coordinated using an ELF signal to cruise ships scattered all over the globe, then its destruction should be our primary concern.”
The silence was long and pregnant.
“Do you have a suggestion?” Juan asked with stiff formality.
“Actually, I do, sir. It’s called Stalin’s Fist.”
The code name rocked Juan back in his chair. “How do you know about that?”
“I read through the transcripts of our intercept between Ivan Kerikov and Ibn al-Asim.”
Those transcripts were on Juan’s computer, but he hadn’t had the time to peruse them let alone read them in their entirety. Anyway, they were the CIA’s bailiwick, as far as he was concerned. They had been hired to eavesdrop, not sift through the information.
“Kerikov mentioned he had access to something called Stalin’s Fist. When he mentioned it, I did some research. You’re familiar with it?”
“Why do you think it doesn’t work?” Juan asked with a smirk.
“You boys mind filling us in?” Linc called.
Eric typed at his computer and brought up an artist’s rendition of a satellite, unlike anything ever orbited before. The main body was a long cylinder, and ringing it were five enclosed canisters that were more than thirty feet in length. No one needed to see the hammer-and-sickle emblem on its side to know it was Russian. The drawing itself had that distinctive Soviet style that was both pompous and amateurish at the same time.
Eric commenced, “Though its real code name was November Sky, it was known almost exclusively by the nickname Stalin’s Fist. It was launched in 1989 at one of the warmest periods during the Cold War in direct violation of about a dozen treaties.”
“That’s all fine and dandy,” Linc grumbled, “but what in the heck is it?”
“Stalin’s Fist is an OBP, or Orbital Ballistic Projectile, weapon. Our military played around with the idea, calling it Rods from God. The theory is incredibly simple. Inside those tubes are tungsten rods weighting eighteen hundred pounds apiece. When fired, they fall through the atmosphere and hit whatever they are aimed at. Coming in at an orbital velocity of eighteen thousand miles per hour, multiplied by their mass, they hit with the kinetic energy of an atomic bomb, only there is no fallout, and defensive reaction time to such a weapon is cut in half because there is no ascent stage like with a conventional ballistic missile. You might see a flaming object in the sky for a moment, but that’s it. No warning and no chance to escape.”
“The Soviets intended it as a first-strike weapon,” Juan added. “The idea was to target several major Western cities lying along the same longitudinal axis and blame a freak meteor shower. With no radioactive fallout, and the rods themselves vaporized on impact, there would be no way to say it wasn’t. They even had astronomers ready to show doctored photographs of the meteors moments before they entered our atmosphere. With the Western world reeling from losing five cities, the Sovs thought they could roll across the border and Europe would be theirs.”
“How do you know it didn’t work?” Eric asked Juan.
“Because one of my first Black Ops for the agency was to infiltrate the Baikonur Cosmodrome, where it was being launched on an Energia rocket, and disable it. I rigged it so the satellite couldn’t receive a signal from the ground because of earth’s magnetic field. It will only react if the order comes from above the atmosphere.”
“Why not just blow it up on the pad?”
“It was a manned mission. Two cosmonauts went up with it to manually deploy its solar panels. It was three days into the mission before they discovered the bird had been sabotaged.”
Hali asked, “They couldn’t just boost a ground signal?”
“It would have fried the electronics.”
“Couldn’t they have sent a signal from Mir, their space station?”
“They knew the jig was up, so they left it floating around up there in a polar orbit.”
“Do you thin
“Unless it’s been hit by space debris, it should work perfectly.” Cabrillo was warming to the idea. “Okay, hotshot, you found us an alternative to a nuke. How do you propose we get a transmitter sixty miles into space so we can commandeer the satellite?”
“If you can get me the codes from Ivan Kerikov”—Stone typed again and brought up yet another picture—“I’ll get it up there using this.”
Juan and the others stared slack-jawed for a moment at the audacity of the plan. Cabrillo finally found his voice. “Eric, you got yourself a deal. I’ll call Overholt to arrange your transport. Eddie and Linc, come up with a plan to get those codes from the Russian arms dealer tonight. Then, we leave port.”
“You still want to head to Eos Island? Eddie asked.
“I’m not abandoning Max.”
CHAPTER 30
LOOKING AT HIS REFLECTION IN THE MIRROR, JUAN couldn’t tell where his face ended and Kevin Nixon’s makeup began. He glanced at the enlarged pictures that Kevin had taped to the mirror as a guide and then at his face again. It was a perfect match. The wig he wore was the exact shade, and the style was the same as well.
“Kevin, you’ve outdone yourself,” Juan said, and plucked away the paper collar Kevin had put around his throat to protect the tuxedo shirt he was sporting.
“Making you look like Arab terrorist Ibn al-Asim is nothing. If you’d asked me to make you look like one of their floozies, then you can call me a miracle worker.”
Juan deftly tied his bow tie and shrugged his broad shoulders into a white dinner jacket. While nearly every man looks good in a tux, Cabrillo pulled it off with extra aplomb, even with the padding around his middle that filled out his physique to match al-Asim’s. It didn’t hurt that their surveillance showed the terrorist financier favored Armani. He had a flat holster at the base of his spine for his preferred weapon, the FN, Five-seveN, automatic pistol.