Piranha

30

The stench from the harbor made checking the cargo an odious task, but this equipment was too important for Lawrence Kensit to leave to the crew of Russian scientists and technicians he had hired from a defunct nuclear fusion weapons laboratory. The contents of this container were critical if testing for Sentinel Phase 2 was to finish on schedule. He had to know right away if anything was damaged or missing, which was a distinct possibility considering he was buying all of his hardware on the black market.

The physicist called out the checklist to the team unpacking the crates that were to be loaded onto trucks for the rough ride over cracked and potholed roads to their final destination. Despite his small stature and reedy voice, Kensit was confident that his team would follow his orders to ensure the fragile instruments would make the trip intact and be ready for testing.

The barely functional harbor, severely damaged by the 2010 earthquake that killed a quarter of a million people, served as a strong reminder of why the world needed Kensit to take drastic action to save it from itself. Garbage was piled everywhere. Buildings that had crumbled in the temblor remained unusable. A gantry crane teetered in the middle of the harbor like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, its base completely submerged. Gaunt children rooted around in the refuse for whatever useful scraps they could find and sell.

The scene was representative of the laziness, corruption, and lack of will rampant in every country. Kensit thought of himself as too intelligent to believe in fate or destiny, but he did know an opportunity when it presented itself and the inheritance he had received nearly three years before was just that. If it had gone to anyone else, it would have been wasted; in his hands, the radical theories could usher in a new direction for civilization, with Kensit as its guide.

Lawrence Kensit had been unlike anyone else as far back as he could remember, which he saw as their deficiency, not his. His parents constantly told him that he was special, a fact that he considered self-evident in his ability to master calculus by the age of ten. He didn’t connect with other children, and adults found him to be an oddity or an amusing diversion trotted out to perform tricks.

Kensit found the isolation strangely appealing. People were annoying and tedious, with their small talk and need to placate others’ feelings. Instead, he immersed himself in online worlds where he could take on the persona of a powerful dark knight or sorcerer, someone equal to the stature that he could not hope to achieve in the real world because of his small build and meek appearance. In the real world, his towering intellect provoked jealousy and discomfort from those around him that radiated from their pores, but online he could make them submit to his will whether they wanted to or not.

After graduating from Caltech at eighteen with Ph.D.s in both physics and computer science, he had been recruited by the top universities. Although the idea of shutting himself away to ponder the deepest questions of the universe was intriguing, weapons design was far more fascinating to him. Drone warfare was in its infancy, but he saw the potential for transforming his video game experiences into reality.

The end result was more frustrating than he’d imagined it would be. His elegant software designs were used inefficiently by politicians who were more concerned about limiting civilian casualties than killing the terrorists or winning the wars the drones were meant for. Kensit’s eyes were opened to all of the other problems that faced the planet. When he saw the answers in his mind, they seemed so simple to him, but when he explained them to others they seemed strangely repulsed by his solutions.

Then one day three years ago a lawyer called him up and told him that a great-aunt he’d never met had died. Because his parents had both succumbed to cancer at an early age, Kensit was his aunt’s last living relative and she had left him a small inheritance that included a diary from her uncle, a German scientist named Gunther Lutzen who had died in the volcanic eruption of Mt. Pelée in 1902. Kensit nearly chucked the thing without reading it, but he casually flipped it open and found his uncle’s equations, one of the few times in his life that he’d been truly stunned academically.

Kensit at once recognized that his genius had been familial. The equations he understood, but Pearson’s prying when Kensit had asked him to translate some of the words made him realize he would need a professional translator to decipher the German text for him. When Kensit read the results, he knew he alone had to carry on his distant relative’s work. If he turned the radical concepts over to his employer, the U.S. government, they would just waste them like they wasted his drone technology.

That was the day he began plotting to fake his death. It took two years to accomplish, followed by another nine months of eighteen-hour days, but he was nearly finished with the next step toward attaining the power to remake the world however he saw fit.

When the final checks of equipment were finished and the trucks drove off, it was time for his phone call. He found a quiet section of the loading dock and dialed Admiral Dayana Ruiz.

“Yes,” she answered on the fourth ring.

“Admiral, didn’t you see who was calling?” His voice was transformed by a modulator so that NSA eavesdropping software wouldn’t recognize his voice.

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Then you should answer faster next time. You waste our time when you play petty mind games.”

“I waste our time?” she said. “You were the one who didn’t sink the Ciudad Bolívar. I lost twelve men on the operation, and I’m having to answer questions about why Venezuelan Navy seaman were aboard her when she was discovered. And where are my drone subs?”

“I had to sink them.”

“You what?”

“They were about to fall into American hands. I couldn’t let that happen.”

Ruiz shouted so loudly that Kensit had to hold the phone away from his ear. “When I find you, whoever you are, I will destroy you!”

“Your focus is on the wrong person,” Kensit said. “You should be after Juan Cabrillo.”

“Who is that?”

“You know him as Buck Holland, captain of the Dolos. His ship is actually called the Oregon, and you didn’t really sink it. It was all an elaborate ruse.”

“What are you talking about? How do you know that we sank the Dolos?”

“As I said, you didn’t sink it. You sank a duplicate.”

“Nonsense.”

“Is it? Then how can you explain Lieutenant Dominguez and the rest of his men getting ambushed aboard the Ciudad Bolívar?”

“You. You’re behind all of this.”

“Why would I do that? Now I don’t get the balance of the money you owe me. What would I have to gain? Admiral, this really isn’t that difficult.”

There was a pause. “How do I know you’re not lying to me?”

Kensit tapped on the phone’s screen, then said, “Look at the text I just sent.”

It was a photo of Juan Cabrillo and Franklin Lincoln aboard the Ciudad Bolívar after it had partially capsized, standing on the railing, with the Oregon in the background.

“Do you recognize them?” Kensit asked.

“The blond man, no. But the black man was at my warehouse in Puerto La Cruz.”

“The man you don’t recognize is Juan Cabrillo, aka Buck Holland. The ship you see is the Oregon.”

“It’s the same dimensions, but it looks nothing like the Dolos.”

“They can disguise their ship.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“I thought you might say that. Check your messages again.” He sent her a short time-lapse video of the Dolos being transformed into the Oregon.

After watching it, Ruiz growled, “I will hunt those spies down and vaporize them.”

“How? You have no idea where they are.”

“But you do?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I can’t just leave Venezuelan territorial waters with a frigate. I need a reason.”

“I know. In three days there will be a combined fleet exercise called UNITAS in the Bahamas.”

“I’m aware of it. Venezuela was not invited to participate.”

“Neither was Cuba,” Kensit said. “But both of you can send your own ships to observe their operations. When you are near Haiti, you will divert your vessel and sink the Oregon.”

“Why are you so eager to help me? What will this cost?”

“You have political ambitions. I’ll make sure you achieve them.”

“Why?”

“You’re my type of leader. Direct, action-oriented, a little emotional for my tastes, but I can live with that. Once I help you sink the Oregon, I expect the rest of my payment.”

“You’re insane!”

“No, that’s only fair. And if you don’t sink the Oregon, I will reveal that her captain outwitted you. Your credibility in the Venezuelan Navy would be shattered. Then once your reputation is destroyed, you’ll go to prison when I release details about your smuggling operation. Be there in three days.” He didn’t wait for a response before he hung up. Ruiz would come. She didn’t have a choice.

He put the phone away and saw Hector Bazin walking toward him.

“Doctor, Brian Washburn arrived as you instructed. I’ve got him in the car. Shall I bring him?”

“Yes. Once we’re on the boat, I need you to go to the United States. Captain Cabrillo is causing us more problems.”

“Kill him?”

“If you can. But now that he’s found out about the Piranha subs, the U.S. military may suspect that someone on my old weapons development program was responsible for selling the plans, so your highest priority is to eliminate any remaining links between me and the Sentinel project. I’ll brief you about the target once you’re in the air.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get the governor.”

Bazin returned with Washburn, who looked as if he didn’t want his six-hundred-dollar shoes to be exposed to the air here, let alone touching the dock. When he got close to Kensit, he stuck out a hand and turned on the charm.

“You must be the Doctor,” Washburn said with a smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“No, it’s not,” Kensit said, ignoring the hand. “I sent for you and you came. There is no power balance in this relationship. You’re used to being the one in charge. Not here. You work for me now.”

Washburn’s smile vanished, replaced by a sneer. “Who do you think you are, you little weasel?”

“I’ve been called every name possible during my life, so save the macho posturing. I have video of you murdering a man. You can leave now and face the death penalty or life in prison. You can try to kill me, and Bazin here will break your neck before you can reach me. Or you can do as I say and become president of the United States. Choose right now.”

Washburn looked at Bazin, then back at Kensit, and realized he was completely outmatched, both physically and mentally. The sneer dissolved.

“All right. But why have you brought me to this godforsaken place? It literally reeks.”

“That’s what happens when you have a city of three million people with no functional sewer system. You would not want to swim in the harbor. We’re going to take a ride on the Victoire over there.”

Kensit pointed at a white, hundred-foot-long Lürssen yacht with a satellite dish on the foredeck.

“We’re going on a cruise?” Washburn said.

“First, I’m going to show you my facility. A place called Oz.”

Washburn’s lip curled. “You’re joking.”

“Have you found me funny up to this point?”

Washburn put up his hands. “Okay. Oz. Where is it?”

“You won’t know that, but I will show you my operation because I need you to believe I can do everything I say I can do.”

“Which is what, exactly?”

“I operate a revolutionary surveillance system. One that needs to be seen to be believed. It’s called Sentinel. I also want you with me when we complete our most important mission using Sentinel’s capabilities. You gave your company the excuse I told you?”

Washburn nodded. “I’m here to review our aid for the Haitian earthquake rebuilding efforts.”

“Good. That will survive scrutiny. Not that anyone will suspect you have anything to do with what’s about to happen.”

“Which is?”

Kensit ignored the question. “Who is standing in your way in the next presidential election?”

“No one’s declared yet, but James Sandecker has a head start as the incumbent vice president if he wants the presidency. Are you saying you have dirt on Sandecker, too?”

“No, he’s squeaky clean. But you’ll need an edge to win in the primary. That’s why we have to make you vice president.”

“How are you going to do that?”

“I’m going to kill Sandecker.”

Washburn’s eyes bugged out. “You want me to be party to killing the vice president of the United States?”

“You’ve killed before. You’ll have to kill again if you’re president, you’ll just have drones and soldiers doing it for you. You’re all in, just like I am.”

“You think killing him will make me president?”

“You were the second choice for vice president in the election. You’re nearly certain to be selected as his replacement, making you the instant front-runner.”

“But it’s crazy! Even if I agreed to go along with this, you’d never be able to do it. The Secret Service protects him as well as they protect the president.”

“You leave that to me.”

Washburn eyed him with the implacable face of a career politician. “If I’m ‘all in,’ I think I deserve to know what you’re planning.”

Kensit sighed in annoyance, but he supposed it wouldn’t hurt now to reveal the mission’s goal. All of Washburn’s electronics had been confiscated by Bazin, so there would be no way for him to convey any information until after the deed was done. By then it would be too late for him to chicken out.

“In three days the vice president will be returning from a summit in Rio de Janeiro,” Kensit said. “When he is over the Caribbean, I’m going to shoot down Air Force Two.”