Piranha (22 page)

Juan sprinted after Dominguez on the angled deck. He could see the controller device in the lieutenant's hand, its screen illuminated. Dominguez stopped to turn and fire at Juan, but his footing failed him and he lurched to catch himself.

Juan tackled Dominguez, sending their weapons flying. The two of them locked together in a vise grip and tumbled until Juan's back hit the tread of another bulldozer, knocking the wind out of him. But in their fall he'd snatched the controller from Dominguez's hand.

Juan could see three dots on a grid. Two of them were side by side and labeled “Ciudad Bolívar” and “Bahia Blanco,” which had to be the fishing trawler. The third dot was labeled “Unknown.” It had to be the
Oregon
. Crosshairs hovered over it.

Dominguez drew his knife from a hip sheath. Not wanting to drop the controller, Juan blocked the knife with one hand while he kept hold of the device with the other. That left an opening for Dominguez's other hand to squeeze Juan's neck, cutting off his air.

Juan was intent on the controller. Dominguez had his knee atop Juan's arm, but he could still move his hand. His fingers shook as he moved his thumb to “Bahia Blanco.” He tapped once and the crosshairs now centered on the trawler. An on-screen button said “Confirm target.” Juan pressed it and with a flick of his wrist tossed the controller away. It slid down the deck and out of sight.

With his free hand he jammed his thumb into Dominguez's left eye. Dominguez released the grip on his neck and yelped. Now that he could breathe, Juan whipped the knife around and shoved the blade into Dominguez's chest. The lieutenant gasped in shock, then with a final choking wheeze he fell on his side.

Juan got to his feet in time to see Eddie approach.

“Your timing is impeccable.” Juan nodded at the limp body.

“Mine is history, too. The
Oregon
?”

“Safe. But the trawler should be heading to the bottom any moment.”

“Then there's no one left to answer why someone wanted to keep us from saving this ship.”

“I don't think it has anything to do with the
Ciudad Bolívar
,” Juan said. “I think whoever sent those Haitian assassins in Jamaica didn't want us to find out about the subs. When we recover them, we'll get some answers.”

Juan and the others got up on deck in time to see the smoking ruins of the fishing trawler slip beneath the waves. Max told him that the trawler had exploded, possibly when one of the subs lanced into a fuel line. It was long past sunset. The
Oregon
swept the sea with searchlights but found no surviving crew.

They left the bodies of Dominguez and the others where they were on the car carrier. Because the incident happened in international waters on a ship owned by a Venezuelan company but flagged in Panama, jurisdiction was hazy at best. Any investigation would likely be carried out by the insurer, but all of the viable evidence would lead back to the Venezuelan Navy.

Gomez had the MD 520N fuel tank patched up and he ferried the five of them back to the
Oregon
, which had been temporarily renamed the
Norego
in case they were still around when other rescue ships arrived.

After Maria's injuries were tended to, Juan suggested that she change into a fresh set of clothes and go to the public mess hall for food and coffee. He then joined Max and Murph on deck to oversee the retrieval of the subs.

Three of them had survived the explosion and were floating on the surface, awaiting their next command. Juan had searched for the controller, but it seemed to have been lost in the standing water in the
Ciudad Bolívar
's hold. The car carrier was still listing, but it was stable for now.

Juan studied the subs with binoculars while his crew readied the crane to haul them up. The sleek design made them look like tiny jet fighters, with short wings, a rudder, a water intake on the front end and an exhaust port at the stern. The subs were topped with a dorsal protrusion that housed whatever was used to anchor it to the hull and cut through it. A short antenna jutted from the body to receive the controller's instructions.

“I can't wait to take one of those babies apart,” Max said, rubbing his hands together with glee. “I might be able to build one for ourselves. You never know when it could come in handy.”

“Have you ever seen a design like that?”

“No, but it seems way too sophisticated for the Venezuelans to create. I'm guessing they bought it from the Chinese or Russians.”

“Or they stole it,” said Murph, who was taking photographs of the floating subs. “When I was a systems developer, we had to assess potential technologies for the military. One was an underwater stealth drone for attacking ships, but it was barely on the drawing board when I left. These could be based on that design.”

“If they're based on American technology,” Max said, “the CIA is going to want them back. I predict Langston Overholt is going to be writing a big check in the near future.” Juan had to agree that this discovery would be riveting news for his old CIA mentor and liaison.

“Speaking of checks,” Juan said, “did you call Atlas Salvage?”

Max nodded. “They'll be on their way shortly with an oceangoing tug from Kingston. The owner, Bill Musgrave, is negotiating the contract with Cabimas. As a finder's fee, he's cutting us in for ten percent.”

Salvage was a lucrative and dangerous business, so the payouts were usually a percentage of the ship and cargo value. In this case, it would be more than one hundred million dollars if they were able to get the ship back to port intact, so the Corporation's split would be handsome.

Not bad for a day's work. And they were about to bring in even more.

The crane lowered its net toward the water, and divers in the RHIB would wrap it around each sub to pick it up.

Without warning, the first sub sank below the surface.

Max blurted. “What the . . .”

Another sub disappeared. Then the third.

Juan radioed to the op center. “We're losing the subs. Are they preparing to attack? Report.”

“Negative, Chairman,” Linda replied. “Sonar shows they're aiming straight for the bottom.”

Juan called for the divers to try to snag one of them, but it was too late. All three were shooting two miles to the seafloor. Even if they could eventually recover the subs, at the rate they were descending little would be left on impact.

“Get those pictures to Overholt,” Juan told Murph. “I'm going to talk to our guest.”

Juan entered the fake mess hall and got a cup of coffee for himself before sitting down with Maria.

“Is my crew treating you well?” he said.

While looking around at the dingy room, she said, “Everyone has been wonderful. I'd never imagine that a ship in this, uh, condition would have such excellent food.”

“It's all for appearances. The ship is cleaner than she looks. We spend the money where it counts. Listen, I have a favor to ask.”

“Of course. Anything. You saved me and my ship.”

“We'd appreciate you not mentioning our involvement.”

“Why? You and your men should get a medal for what you did.”

“Because of the cargo we tend to carry, we don't like a lot of attention.” There was no harm in giving her the impression that they were smugglers. The fact that they had been experienced with guns and fighting tactics would only enhance the notion.

Maria gave him a knowing look. “Ah, I see. What about the dead men on my ship?”

Juan was ready with a story. “Pirates. They attempted to take the ship when it foundered and killed your crew.”

“And who killed all of them?”

“Intragroup rivalry. No honor among these thieves, who will eventually be identified as rogue Venezuelan Navy sailors. The rest of them took off in their boat when they couldn't get the ship under way.”

Juan could see her gears working as she pondered his story. Finally she said, “That all makes sense. It's the least I can do for you.”

“Thank you. In the meantime, I think you should stay with us. It's your decision, of course, but if Admiral Ruiz is really behind this, you may be in danger. I don't think she likes loose ends. That is, if you don't mind going missing until this blows over.”

“I don't think I'll be commanding my ship for a while. And my ex-husband certainly won't care. But I should at least report in to Cabimas.”

“Tell them the truth, that you're afraid for your life because the attackers got away. When they're caught, you'll feel safe enough to return.”

She thought about the suggestion, then said, “All right. I think they'll understand that. They'll be more concerned about recovering the ship for now.”

“Fine. I'll have my steward Maurice set you up with a suitable cabin.”

“Thank you again, Captain Cabrillo.”

He gave her a smile. “Glad to help.”

Juan left her in Maurice's capable hands and went to his cabin, where a call from Langston Overholt had been routed.

“You've set off all kinds of alarms here with those photos, Juan,” the gruff octogenarian said. “Nobody expected to see them surface—no pun intended.”

“So this is a U.S. design?”

“The Navy was working on it for years until a virus set back the program. All of the controller software was corrupted and the design files were wiped clean. Only someone on the team could have done it.”

“So it was an inside job. Why would you expect that the design hadn't already made its way into foreign hands?”

“Because we identified who stole them. It had to be a weapons designer named Douglas Pearson. The files were recovered from his home. He must have planted the virus.”

“Is he in prison?”

“No, he's dead. Or at least we thought he was. He was participating in a training exercise when his boat was destroyed by a malfunctioning aerial drone. His body was never found, but we assumed it was incinerated in the crash and washed out to sea.”

“Now you're not so sure?”

“Oh, we're sure he has to be alive. If these subs were built by the Venezuelans, there's no way they could have done it so quickly without his expertise. He was one of a handful of people who had intimate knowledge of the program. Two of the others were killed in the same incident and the rest are still employed with defense contractors here. We don't think they're responsible, but we're rechecking them just in case. I think Pearson is our man.”

“Then I want him just as much as you do,” Juan said, and told him about the attempts to kill the
Oregon
crew.

“How did he know where you were?” Overholt asked.

“That's a question I would love an answer to. But I think there's something more going on. He seems to have an army of Haitian soldiers at his command and may be planning a larger operation.”

“He's probably the one who sank the subs. Do you think he has more?”

“I don't know, but one of the Haitians said that the world is going to change in four days. If Pearson is part of this, it sounds like he has the means to pull it off.”

“It's bad enough that a stolen U.S. weapons design was used to sink three ships and damage a fourth. We can't let him use it for a terrorist attack.”

“Since you thought he was dead,” Juan said, “I'm assuming you have no leads on his whereabouts.”

“No, and we can't go internal with this. You know Washington. The story would leak in about five seconds. I'm tasking you with finding Pearson. If you find evidence of a credible threat, I can use that to warn the appropriate agencies.”

“Then I guess the best place to start is the last place he was seen alive. Maybe there are some clues in the boat wreckage that were overlooked. Did Dirk Pitt handle the recovery?”

“NUMA raised the boat from the bottom of the Chesapeake, but Dirk hired a disaster analysis firm to do the forensic investigation into the accident. A company called Gordian Engineering.”

“Who's my contact?”

“Their chief engineer was brought in because of the sensitive nature of the technology involved. He has all the top security clearances.” Juan heard some paper shuffling in the background. “Here it is. He's still at Patuxent reconstructing the wreckage. His name is Dr. Tyler Locke.”

—

With the sun now long
set,
Hector Bazin could make out nothing past the reach of the headlights of the Toyota SUV that David Pasquet was driving. Because Haiti was the poorest nation in the Western Hemisphere, its rural citizens couldn't afford power generators, and night lighting was no more sophisticated than a wood-fired stove. The extreme darkness of the hilly central part of Haiti they were now passing through was so profound that the border between Haiti and its wealthier neighbor to the west, the Dominican Republic, was easily visible in night satellite photos of Hispaniola, the island comprised of the two countries.

As they rounded a hillock, the sudden appearance of high-intensity arc lights brightly illuminating a cement factory—in the middle of nowhere—was jarring. Nestled between the hills and Haiti's second-largest body of water, Lake Péligre, the plant consisted of a dozen buildings, a pattern of cantilevered conveyer belts, and a dome where the raw limestone ore was piled for processing.

If the buildings looked ancient, it was because they'd gone unused for more than fifty years until Bazin reoccupied them. They served as the base of operations for his mercenary force. It was the perfect location, miles from any town that would raise questions about the sound of guns being fired.

There was no chain-link fence to keep the curious out, but motion sensors had been placed at strategic intervals around the facility, setting off alarms the minute any intruders set foot within the property's perimeter.

Pasquet rolled to a stop in front of a large building closest to the hill behind the plant. Bazin took his duffel bag and entered the building.

Inside, he found sixty men, all Haitians, kneeling with their hands over their heads. His men circled them like wolves, their G36 assault rifles at the ready. Two bodies lay on the floor.

The phone call he'd received on the way from the airport had prepared Bazin, but he was enraged again by this further setback.

“What happened?” Bazin asked the senior officer he'd left in charge.

His officer nodded in the direction of a man kneeling in the front row. Blood dripped from a fresh wound on his forehead. He glared back at Bazin with grim determination.

“While they were digging, he and the other men jumped two of the guards and killed them,” the officer said. “We were able to subdue them before they got to the weapons.”

“The guards should have been more careful,” Bazin said. “I told them Jacques was clever.”

Jacques Duval turned his head and spat blood that had trickled into his mouth. “You can't keep us here forever, Hector.”

Bazin cocked his head at his old housemate and until recently deputy commander in the Haitian National Police before he was abducted and brought here. “Who says I'm planning to?”

“We won't keep digging for you.”

“You will if you want your families to live.”