Shadow Tyrants

NINE

“What do you mean, there’s no one there?” Max asked Hali. “That island has over three thousand people stationed on it.”

Max now sat in the op center’s command chair, with Linda Ross at the radar station. Eric Stone had come over from the Triton Star to help Murph localize the source of the mysterious internet communication, and they were huddled over a terminal examining a stream of data.

Hali looked completely baffled. “I was talking to Diego Garcia about the USS Gridley’s estimated arrival time, and the satellite connection suddenly went dead.”

“Maybe something happened to the satellite uplink,” Linda said.

Hali shook his head in frustration. “I’ve tried radio, telephone, and satellite. Nothing. I also checked with the military and the CIA. It’s not just us. Nobody has been able to get in touch with them. It’s like the island just isn’t there.”

“Something could have knocked out the island’s electrical plant,” Eric said.

“A power failure might explain why we couldn’t get in touch with the island,” Hali replied, “but it wouldn’t explain why no one can contact any of the ships based there, including the Gridley, which supposedly was just setting sail. How could they all go out?”

“Maybe it was a mega-tsunami,” Murph said without looking up from his computer.

Despite the mocking tone of his voice, Hali answered Murph’s speculation seriously. “No, I already checked. The tsunami warning center hasn’t detected any major earthquakes in the last hour.”

Eric smirked at Murph. He had recommended the weapons designer for the Oregon post after they worked together on a top secret missile project, and although they were opposites in many ways, they had since become like brothers, with all the banter, competition, and squabbling that entailed.

“Are you kidding?” Eric scoffed jokingly. “A tsunami is way too mundane. How about a meteor strike?”

“Or a wormhole?” Murph countered.

“Alien abduction?”

“Sharknado?”

“It doesn’t matter why,” Max said, both amused and exasperated by the two young crew members. “Hali, keep trying. I don’t like coincidences. Especially when strange messages are telling someone to kill everybody. Eric, have you been able to triangulate where the messages are coming from?”

“Somewhere near the stern of the Triton Star. Can’t be more precise than that.”

Murph interrupted them. “We’re getting another message.”

“What’s it say?” Max asked.

Murph looked up at Max. “Our mystery guest just received another text. It’s giving coordinates and says ‘Launch is a go.’”

“Launch? What launch?”

“There’s a satellite launch by Orbital Ocean scheduled right now in the Arabian Sea,” Eric said, “but that’s over six hundred miles away. I don’t see how it could have anything to do with us.” After a pause while he tapped on his computer, Eric added, “And no other satellite launches are scheduled for today anywhere else in the world.”

“Maybe it’s telling the guy on the Triton Star to launch his operation,” Linda said.

“Or someone is launching something at us.” Max turned to Murph. “What are the coordinates referring to?”

“On-screen.”

A map appeared on the main viewscreen. It zoomed in until the crosshairs were directly over Diego Garcia.

Juan was heading toward the stern of the Triton Star with Eddie and Tao to check out the second container when he heard the news from Max.

“Any idea what we’re looking for?” Juan asked.

“The message didn’t have any specifics,” Max replied. “You think they’re talking about the Novichok nerve agent?”

“Could be something coordinated with an attack on Diego Garcia.” Juan had heard about the communications failure at the U.S. base and didn’t like coincidences any more than Max did.

“I’ll let you know if Murph and Eric can pinpoint the stowaway’s location.”

“Thanks. We’ll keep searching. Keep me posted.”

The two Corporation operatives who’d brought the rest of the Triton Star men over from the Oregon exited the superstructure. Each of them was carrying two FN P90 compact assault rifles, an unusual bullpup design with the ammo magazine on top of the gun and the spent casings ejected through the handle at the bottom to keep them out of the line of sight of the shooter. They walked over and handed the extra weapons to Juan and Eddie.

The first Oregon crew member was a muscular African-American with a shaved head who was built like a linebacker but was as light on his feet as a gymnast. He was a Detroit native and former Navy SEAL by the name of Franklin Lincoln. Linc had masqueraded as the Goreno’s chief engineer during the hijacking operation. When they’d gotten the call about this mission, he’d been riding around the capital of the Maldives on his custom Harley that he kept aboard the Oregon. As one of the Gundogs — Max’s nickname for the shore operations team — Linc’s biggest claim to fame was being the best sniper on the crew.

“Chairman,” Linc said, “all of the Triton Star crew are secured in the mess with MacD. You should have seen the looks on their faces when Raven appeared with a P90 in her hands.”

Linc nodded to the woman next to him. Raven Malloy was the newest member of the crew, and a member of the shore operations team. With straight jet-black hair, caramel skin, and a tall, athletic frame, she was often mistaken for a Latina, Southeast Asian, or Arab, though she was actually Native American of Cherokee and Sioux heritage. Raised as an Army brat by adoptive parents, she had attended West Point, where she studied psychology and learned Arabic and Farsi. Upon graduation, she served as a Military Police officer and gained a reputation as a dogged investigator before becoming frustrated with the bureaucracy and leaving to work in private security. During a joint operation with the Corporation taking on communist rebels in the Philippines, she’d meshed well with the crew and performed admirably under dire circumstances, so Juan had offered her a spot on the Oregon.

“I think they were just surprised to see a woman at all,” Raven said. “Shocked might be a better word.” Then with some satisfaction, “Maybe a little scared, too. Like him.” She focused on Tao, who stared at her with wide eyes.

Juan wasn’t surprised that she drew that reaction. Raven was a very attractive woman who could fix a man with a glare icy enough to freeze lava.

“Can’t wait to hear all about it,” he said, “but right now we’ve got a problem.” He told them about the messages referencing an upcoming launch.

“We’ll take the port side. You two search the starboard side. Look for anything unusual. Since you don’t have time to change into NBC suits, call me and Eddie if you see anything like a gas canister. Then back away.”

“Sounds good to me,” Raven said.

“You don’t have to tell us twice,” Linc added.

They headed toward starboard, while Juan and Eddie pushed Tao farther aft.

“Who was that?” he asked in wonder.

“He’s a friend of ours,” Eddie answered.

“Not the big guy,” Tao said. “The woman. She’s amazing. I’d like to see—”

“How easy it would be for her to break your kneecaps?” Juan interrupted. “Because I know you weren’t planning to say something cruder than that, were you?”

Tao opened his mouth, then closed it again.

“Good,” Juan said. “Now, who is on this ship that we haven’t found? We know he’s not part of the crew.”

“Fine. It’s Rasul. We took him on as a passenger.”

Juan yanked Tao to a halt. “Where is he? Tell us or I’ll personally put you on a fishing hook and dangle you over the railing.”

“We searched all of the cabins,” Eddie said. “He wasn’t there.”

“Then I have no idea where he is,” Tao answered.

Juan stared at Tao, then spun him around and pushed him forward. “Show us the second container Rasul supposedly put on the ship. And if this one is empty, too, I might get angry.”

“And remember, you don’t want to see him when he’s angry,” Eddie said.

When they reached the container, Juan opened it again only to find nothing inside.

“I swear I didn’t know!” Tao whined when he saw Juan turn on him. Then something caught his eye. “Wait a minute, something’s not right.” He was peering at the number on the container.

Juan stepped closer to him. “What?”

Tao pointed at it. “I remember this number from the manifest because it ends with five nines. It’s an empty we were bringing back to India. This container should be in the last row.”

“They were switched?” Eddie asked.

“They must have been. The crane operators at the ports are easy to bribe.”

“Show it to us,” Juan said.

They walked to the last row of containers. Tao nodded at the reefer container on the starboard end. Juan pushed him to the side, and Eddie kept his P90 at the ready while Juan wrenched the door open.

They relaxed when they saw the interior was full to the top with crates marked Laranjas/Oranges.

“The Novichok could be stowed somewhere in here,” Eddie said.

“Maybe,” Juan said before keying his comm unit. “Max, send as many people over in NBC suits as you can. We need to rip this container apart.”

He was about to ask Tao about the owner of the reefer unit when he saw the Triton Star’s captain staring at something along the side of the container. Tao started to say something when his chest bloomed with three gunshot wounds from a suppressed automatic weapon whose staccato report nevertheless echoed off the metal around them. Tao collapsed in a heap without a sound.

Juan dove to the deck past the open door of the container, ready to fire at the unknown assailant. He got a glimpse of a man in a desert camouflage NBC suit ducking behind the end of the container. Juan fired off a volley of rounds, hitting nothing. The gunman was gone.

Eddie leaned over to check Tao but shook his head when he saw the mortal wounds.

Juan spotted an opening in the side of the container and cautiously approached. When he reached it, he glanced inside and saw what had to be a custom-made decontamination chamber, based on the nozzles built into the ceiling.

Eddie appeared at his side and pointed to the floor. Resting on it was a case with an empty slot in the foam, plus a duffel for the NBC suit.

Juan nodded and radioed Max as the two of them inched to the external corner of the container. “We found the person sending the messages, Max. Tao told us that Rasul was a passenger, so it’s got to be him. He has a decontamination unit, and he’s wearing an NBC suit.” Juan stuck his head out for a moment and saw an open hatch leading down into the interior accessway. “I think he’s planning to disperse the Novichok.”

“On the Triton Star?” Max said.

“Yes. Eddie and I are the only ones over here in suits, so evacuate everyone else to the Oregon right now.” Juan heard him give the order to Hali. “If Rasul tries to get aboard, shoot him.”

“Roger that.” A second later, the .30 caliber machine guns rose out of their barrels and swiveled to point at the Triton Star.

“Is the portable decontamination station ready near the gangway?” Juan asked Max.

“It’s up and running.”

“Good. We might need to use it. Eddie and I are going after him.”

They sprinted to the hatch and descended into the bowels of the ship.

Rasul checked behind him as he ran down the corridor. He had lost his pursuers for the moment. He’d just finished putting on his NBC suit when he heard the container doors open. Then he heard a man calling for reinforcements, and Rasul knew he needed to get out of the chamber before he was trapped there.

Luckily, he’d already attached the Novichok device to his waistband. The only thing left to do before activating it was to put on his gloves.

His stomach went cold when he reached for his pocket and realized the gloves weren’t there.

The attack had happened so quickly that he’d left the specially designed gloves back in the decontamination chamber inside the duffel. He would need to either get them back or find replacements before he could carry out his plan for the nerve agent.

The other item he needed was something that all cargo ships were required to carry: a SOLAS rocket line thrower. The Safety of Life at Sea regulations stated that a ship of the Triton Star’s size was supposed to be equipped with four of them, which could be used to fire ropes to men overboard even if they were hundreds of yards from the ship.

During one of his midnight excursions onto the deck, Rasul had seen one of the rockets in its yellow plastic bucket hanging from the bulkhead directly under the lifeboat. He’d have to go outside to get it, but only for a moment.

When he reached the stairs nearest to the lifeboat station, he heard the crew being herded out of the mess.

“Come on,” one of the guards said. “Back to the other ship.”

That meant they’d be going in the other direction. Perfect.

Rasul climbed the stairs, his G36 assault rifle at the ready. The hallway was empty.

He went out the door, and there was the line thrower. The bucket had a plastic lid and a handle with a trigger secured by a pin like a grenade.

Rasul took it down and lifted the lid. Inside, the rocket was centered in the bucket with the thousand-foot nylon line coiled around it. The rope was tied to a steel wire clipped to the rocket, which would make it easy for him to attach the Novichok cylinder in its place. The bucket even had helpful instructions on the outside for its operation and how to install a replacement rocket. All he needed to do was dump out the rope, set the Novichok to a two-minute countdown, and tie it to the rocket.

Now he just had to get back to the decontamination chamber. As long as he could get there unseen, he’d have plenty of time to jury-rig his weapon. They’d be scouring the rest of the ship for him. No one would suspect he’d go back to the same place.

He retreated behind an external bulkhead for cover and took out his phone, then opened the specially designed launch app. Once he’d typed in his code, the screen allowed him to change the targeting coordinates that came up. He entered the longitude and latitude for Diego Garcia.

Target confirmed, came the app’s reply.

He navigated to the screen titled Launch. He slid aside the icon protecting against inadvertent activation, and the screen revealed a round red button with a caption that said Launch now.

He clicked the button and smiled as he thought to himself, This will keep them distracted.

“We’re not going to help the Chairman?” Raven said as they double-timed it back toward the gangway and away from the gunshots.

“Orders are orders,” Linc said. “Remember that from the Army?”

“There’s a reason I left the Army.”

“The Chairman worries about his crew more than himself.” He threw her a grin. “Besides, as soon as we get to the Oregon, we’ll put on some NBC gear and see if we can convince him to let us come back.”

“I like the way you think.”

They all stopped at the sound of a loud bang. It wasn’t quite an explosion, but it also wasn’t like any gunshot Linc had ever heard.

MacD rapidly waved to them. He pointed above their heads.

Linc looked up in time to see the side of a container above them tumbling toward the deck like a fluttering leaf.

He picked up Raven and heaved her into the space between two container stacks next to them and then dove in after her. The container side-slammed into the deck inches from his boots and then slid over the side of the ship. There was a dent in the steel where they’d been standing.

“I don’t normally like getting thrown around,” Raven said as she hopped to her feet, “but in this case I’ll make an exception. I owe you one.”

Linc got up, and they ran to MacD, who was still gazing upward.

“You don’t see something like that every day,” he said.

They turned around and saw that the roof and sides of the topmost container on the stack next to where they’d been standing were gone, blown away by explosive hinges.

Now there was nothing there except its cargo: a missile launcher canted at a twenty-degree angle.

They all ducked when a geyser of flame erupted from the tube and a missile blasted out. When it was safely away, the booster rocket dropped into the sea, and stubby wings sprang from the fuselage. White-hot exhaust shot from the tail, and it accelerated away toward the southeast at a fantastic rate.

As they stood up, Linc cocked an eyebrow at Raven and MacD and said with a heavy dose of sarcasm, “I’m guessing that’s the launch they were talking about.”