Shadow Tyrants

THIRTEEN

The USS Gridley reached the Oregon and Triton Star a day after the missile attack. The hazmat team was already searching the contaminated cargo ship for clues, and the captured crew had been handed over to the CIA agents on the destroyer for further interrogation.

Juan sat next to Max in one of the Oregon’s two high-speed lifeboats. An orange sun was setting over a calm horizon. Max was at the wheel, piloting the boat away from the Gridley after Juan’s daylong debriefing with the ship’s CIA contingent. To keep the Oregon out of view of the destroyer’s crew, she maintained a position ten miles away, while the crew painted her and reconfigured her profile to make her unidentifiable by anyone on the Triton Star.

Max shook his head as Juan told him about the B-1B lying with its nose in the surf next to Diego Garcia’s runway.

“Those guys got lucky if they all survived a crash like that,” he said.

“Sounds like they had a good pilot,” Juan replied. “He brought it in on hydraulic power alone.”

“Any word on how the computers were shut down?”

Juan shook his head. “They’re coming back online, though. The computers weren’t permanently fried. The technicians on the island said it was as if the computers had been scrambled. Something about disrupting the electron flow in the transistors. The event didn’t disable basic electrical functions, only computer chips. The effect seemed to end a minute before the missile arrived, which explains why it wasn’t disabled as well. Now all the computers on the island and in the harbor’s naval ships are working again.” Then, turning his head, Juan said, “Maybe Eric and Murph can make some sense of it.” Juan’s tech wizards had been part of the debriefing before returning to the Oregon earlier.

“Whatever the weapon was,” Max said, “it could do a number on the Oregon. Everything on board is computer controlled. We’d be dead in the water.”

“I thought about that, too. Take some time to figure out how to keep us operational if our computers conk out.”

“Already on the agenda. I’ll have more time now that we’re not acting as babysitters for Tao’s crew anymore.”

“They’re the CIA’s problem now,” Juan said, “along with the Triton Star.”

“Do we know where the missile came from?”

“The CIA thinks that it was shipped in pieces to Mozambique. That’s what was in the container labeled FARM MACHINERY. They traced the launcher’s serial number to a missile supposedly stolen by the Pakistanis, but so far it’s a dead end.”

“Then that puts us back at square one,” Max said. “Does the CIA have any theories for who’s behind this?”

“They’re focusing on the Iranians — because of Rasul, whose last name we still don’t know — and the Pakistanis. They think it’s either an Iranian plot to take out the island or that Islamic terrorists in Pakistan tried to cripple America’s ability to bomb Afghanistan.”

“But why frame the Triton Star crew? If we hadn’t been there, it would have looked like they had launched the missile, then killed themselves by accident or committed suicide.”

“I agree,” Juan said. “And no one has claimed responsibility for the attack.”

“Most of the world doesn’t even know there was an attack. I’ve been keeping tabs on the world news, and right now the official story is that the island suffered a sudden power failure during routine maintenance of the electrical plant.”

“The military suspended all social media feeds, telephone service, and internet access from Diego Garcia to keep a lid on the real story. The people who organized the attack might even think they succeeded.”

“Do you buy the CIA line?” Max asked.

“I don’t think the Iranians are behind it,” Juan said. “If we discovered they were responsible, they’d be risking all-out war with the U.S.”

“What about terrorists? ISIS? Al-Qaeda?”

“If it had been a group like that, they’d be bragging to every news outlet in the world about how they had handed big, bad America a huge defeat. No, I think something else is going on here. Maybe a test?”

Max turned to Juan with a frown. “You think this was all to see if their pseudo-EMP weapon worked?”

Juan held up his fingers and ticked off the answers one by one. “Isolated base. High-profile target. Supposedly hardened against this kind of attack. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to make this operation work. What I can’t figure out is why they launched when they did.”

“It does seem odd,” Max said. “They could have launched the missile long before we intercepted the Triton Star.”

“Which makes me think Camp Thunder Cove wasn’t the original target. It was sheer luck that we were available to intercept the Triton Star. We know that Rasul’s mysterious connection sent him the coordinates of Diego Garcia after we arrived.”

“So what was the original target?”

“I don’t know. Tao mentioned that Rasul’s containers were supposed to be delivered to somewhere called Jhootha Island. But if he was going to fire a missile from one of those containers and then kill the crew, why set course for that island?”

“Maybe he wanted to launch the missile from Jhootha Island.”

“That’s a possibility.”

“What’s on the island?”

“And what’s nearby? I have Eric and Murph checking into those questions. But I think we should go there and check it out.”

Max shook his head. “Sounds like a long shot to me.”

“The CIA thought so, too. Do you have any other bright ideas? I’m all ears.”

“That wasn’t a criticism,” Max said with a smile. “Your long shots usually come through.”

When they reached the Oregon, Max and Juan headed to the op center, where they found Eric and Murph in a heated discussion.

“Why would they go there?” Murph said, notably exasperated. “It doesn’t make sense.”

“How should I know?” Eric shot back. “But that’s where Tao said they were heading.”

“Okay, you two,” Juan said as he and Max entered. “You can settle your differences by video game duel later. Is this about a certain island I asked you to investigate?”

Eric nodded. “We found Jhootha Island, all right.”

“But it’s highly unlikely the Triton Star’s size would regularly be able to stop there to unload a container,” Murph said.

“Why is that?” Juan asked.

Eric brought up a satellite image of the island on the main viewscreen. It was circular, ringed with sandy beaches, and covered in tropical jungle. No roads or settlements were visible.

“This is Jhootha Island — its Indian name — two hundred miles off the west coast of India,” Eric said. “On Western maps, it’s known as Killington Island, named after its discoverer. As you can see, it’s surrounded by atolls, and there are no natural harbors or coves big enough for a yacht, let alone a large containership. There’s definitely no pier.”

“Maybe Tao unloads the contents of the containers and transfers them to a tender,” Juan said. “A small boat could make landfall on the island.”

“If they did,” Murph said, “I can’t tell you why they’d want to. Not when they’d be killed the moment they set foot on land.”

“Why?” Max asked. “Is it full of poisonous snakes like that island near Brazil?”

Eric shook his head. “It’s home to a tribe of natives who are completely cut off from the modern world and hostile to anyone intruding on their territory.”

“Killington landed there by accident and got a spear through the gut for his trouble,” Murph said. “But they named the island after him, so that’s a nice consolation prize.”

“We knew the Triton Star was heading somewhere called J Island because of their computer records,” Juan said. “Tao then gave us the name Jhootha Island without prompting. He had no reason to lie about it, so I’m inclined to believe that’s where they were going.”

“That would be an oddball destination,” Murph said. “The Indian government has declared Jhootha Island off-limits to outsiders.”

“Which makes me want to take a look even more now,” Juan said as he sat in his command chair. “Discreetly, of course. Eric, lay in a course.”

“Aye, Chairman,” Eric said, taking his position at the helm.

“National Geographic is going to be so jealous,” Murph said with a chuckle.

“Why? You planning to sell photos of the islanders?” Juan joked.

“If I did, the magazine would probably pay through the nose for such a huge scoop. According to Indian records, it’s been forty years since anyone has come back from that island alive.”