Nighthawk

6

After touching down in Ecuador, Kurt checked into the hotel and allowed himself a quick shower and a change of clothes. Refreshed, he caught a cab to a dockside warehouse on the outskirts of Guayaquil’s bustling port.

Passing through a security checkpoint, he entered the cavernous building and quickly found his way to the section NUMA had taken over. There, hidden among towers of stacked shipping containers, he found a rack of hard-shelled diving suits, stacks of torpedo-shaped sonar emitters, a pair of small ROVs and several sleds with cameras and lights on them.

Perched in the center of this collection, like a mad scientist amid his creations, was Joe Zavala.

A few inches shorter than Kurt, Joe had dark, close-cropped hair, high cheekbones and deep, brown eyes that seemed soft and contemplative at times, fierce at others. As Joe moved among the crowded stacks of equipment with a checklist in his hand, he displayed the qualities of a cat. Never once looking up from the clipboard and yet never putting a foot wrong or hitting his head on the overhanging arms, jutting fins or brass propellers that surrounded him.

Joe had been Kurt’s closest friend at NUMA for years. He was an amateur boxer, the most gregarious member of the Special Projects team and an avowed bachelor. He was also a mechanical genius and had built many of NUMA’s more advanced submersibles.

“You look like the proverbial kid in the toy store,” Kurt said, alerting Joe to his presence.

“It’s a candy store in that proverb, amigo.”

“So I did a little rewrite,” Kurt said. “Looks like Rudi really came through. Where’d he get all this stuff? Aside from the hard suits, I don’t recognize any of this equipment.”

“You shouldn’t,” Joe said. “Those submersibles came from an oil exploration firm. These sonar buoys are cast-offs from the Ecuadorian Navy — I have no idea if they even work yet — and those camera sleds came from the movie company that produced Megalodon Versus the Giant Squid.”

“A classic, if ever there was one,” Kurt said.

“So I’ve heard,” Joe replied.

Kurt turned serious once more. “Rudi told me he’d chartered a group of fishing boats to supplement the fleet. I assume this equipment is for them?”

Joe nodded. “And I have twelve hours to get it all ready and send them out. At least we’ve got our own people flying in to run the systems once they’re on board; otherwise, I’d have to teach everyone, too.”

“The more ships we have in the water, the faster we’ll cover the search area,” Kurt said. “But we’re going to need more than a fishing fleet to make this work.”

Joe checked one more thing off of his list and put the clipboard down. “What do you have in mind?”

“How much do you know about the DUMBO project?”

“Big ears in the sea,” Joe replied. “You think you’re going to hear the Nighthawk going down?”

“I was told those sensors could hear a pin drop,” Kurt said. “In this case, a fifty-billion-dollar pin that fell from outer space.”

“That sounds like another bad movie,” Joe said.

Kurt laughed. “The way I see it, if the Nighthawk hit the water hard enough, we might hear it. Even if it parachuted down and then sank, there are compartments that would implode from the pressure. The central core covering the cargo bay, fuel cells and control unit have been built to withstand a thousand atmospheres. Something about sending it to Venus one day. But there are other cavities that might rupture. Hollow spaces in the wings and tail. The wheel wells around the landing gear.”

“Good point,” Joe said. “On top of that, parts of the heat shield would have been hitting a thousand degrees or more shortly prior to touch down. There might be an identifiable hissing and cavitation as that surface came into contact with the water.”

“Never thought of that,” Kurt said. “This is why you’re in charge of building and repairing things.”

“So who’s listening to the tapes?”

“Hiram and Max. I told him to contact you if he needs any more information.”

“Contact me?” Joe said. “Why? What are you going to be doing?”

“I have to go meet a specialist from the NSA who’ll be riding shotgun with us.”

“Are we really getting a chaperone?” Joe asked.

“Looks that way.”

Joe picked the clipboard up once again. “Well, that ought to slow our progress by at least fifty percent. What the guy’s name?”

“Emily Townsend,” Kurt said.

Joe’s eyebrows went up. “Strange name for a guy. Bet he got teased a lot growing up.”

Kurt laughed. “From the profile they gave me, I don’t think Ms. Townsend gets teased much. Around the NSA, her nickname is Hurricane Emma.”

“You know what that means,” Joe said. “Either we got stuck with her because we’re the problem children or we got stuck with her because she is one and the Navy didn’t want her on one of their ships.”

“She’s got a background NASA would kill for,” Kurt said. “A job with Rockwell right out of school, designing propulsion systems. Three years with Jet Propulsion Laboratory, and then the last five with the NSA. She’s definitely an expert in her field.”

“An expert,” Joe said sarcastically, “okay? I’m upping my estimate to a ninety percent reduction in progress.”

Kurt checked his watch. “I’ll do my best to charm her and turn her into an ally instead of an impediment. With a little luck, and some fine wine, all will turn out well. Trust me.”

“You seem to be in a very good mood,” Joe said. “Nothing gets your blood up like a challenge.”

“Especially when someone else is doing all the hard work,” Kurt said. “And all I have to do is charm an attractive woman.”

“Good luck with that,” Joe said, turning back to his inventory of equipment. “But be careful. Some icebergs can’t be thawed.”

Kurt left the warehouse and passed through the security gate unaware that he was being observed. Perched high in one of the oversized mobile cranes that moved the shipping containers around the port, two men were watching, one through binoculars.

He lowered them, revealing dark eyes and little else. A filtered mask covered his nose and mouth, the kind some athletes wore while training in high pollution areas. His voice was muffled as he spoke through it. “When did they arrive?”

“Within six hours of the Nighthawk disappearing,” the man beside him said. “They’re already gathering equipment and chartering vessels to help them search.”

The masked man stared at the activity below him, like a chess master looking over the board. A slight wheezing could be heard in his lungs even with the filtered air to protect them. “The Americans reacted faster than even I expected.”

“But you wanted them here,” the second man said. “Didn’t you?”

“Of course, but it’ll do us no good if they learn too much too soon.”

“We could slow them down,” the second man suggested. “Damage some of their equipment, scare off the charters, so they have to find new boats.”

The masked man pondered this and then shook his head. “Not the kind of delay we need. In fact, I think giving them a push rather than holding them back would better serve our plans. Are you still in contact with the Chinese?”

“Yes.”

“Alert them to the presence of these Americans, suggest that they know something vital. Point out the array of equipment they’ve gathered. The Chinese agent’s imagination will take it from there.”

“And if the Chinese kill them? What then?”

“The American government will send replacements and the race will begin anew.”