Typhoon Fury

26

After arriving in Manila and loading the PIG back onto the Oregon, Juan had the ship cast off and race down to its current anchorage five miles off the west coast of Negros Island in the central Philippines. The crew had spent the day planning and prepping for the midnight mission to intercept the Magellan Sun when it was scheduled to off-load its mysterious cargo. With only three hours until the anticipated arrival of their target, Mark Murphy was monitoring the radar in the op center and would inform Juan as soon as the ship appeared on the scope.

He and Julia Huxley were in his quarters finishing a pre-mission dinner loaded with carbs. Although the cabin was situated in the center of the ship, what looked like a huge window dominated the far wall. Only close inspection revealed that it was actually a 4K display screen feed of the view from a high-definition camera up on deck. The sun had set long ago, but the reflection of the brilliant half-moon shimmered off the calm sea.

The state-of-the-art TV was the only item to remain from Juan’s recent cabin renovation. He had grown tired of the modern design, so using his share of the generous budget all crew members received to decorate their homes at sea, he had it converted back to its previous style: retro classic forties based on Rick’s Café Américain from the movie Casablanca. The antique desk, dining table, chairs, and even the black handset telephone wouldn’t have been out of place in Bogie’s smoky office. Though he didn’t have room for Sam’s upright piano, the bedroom held a massive safe where he stored the ship’s working cash and his personal weapons. Other than the old-fashioned electronics, the only object that would have seemed unusual sat on his desk, a detailed model of Robert Fulton’s nineteenth-century hand-powered submarine that had been given to him as a gift by the French government after the successful completion of a past mission.

“How did Beth take it when you told her and Raven that they couldn’t come with us?” Julia asked as she nibbled on the remainder of her pasta. She had met the women briefly when she stitched up Mel Ocampo’s wound. Instead of the scrubs the Navy-trained physician favored while on board, Julia was still wearing the peach blouse and black pants from her shore excursion. As usual, her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and her soft, dark eyes conveyed both the intense focus and caring empathy of a first-rate doctor.

“They weren’t happy about it,” Juan replied, taking a drink from his coffee mug. He would have preferred to savor a glass of “Sori Ginestra” Barolo, but because of tonight’s upcoming mission, he restricted himself to caffeine instead of alcohol.

“She’s never been on the Oregon, has she?”

Juan shook his head. “And I didn’t think participating in this operation was the proper introduction since we don’t know what we’ll face. I’ll show her around when we get back to Manila.”

“I think she’ll like what we’ve done with the art she’s consulted on.”

“I don’t know about that. She probably thinks we’ve got it displayed in some corporate headquarters in New York, not on a ship loaded with weaponry.”

“After yesterday’s excitement, I think she might be more understanding.”

Juan still couldn’t get the image of the gravely injured guard holding the knife to Beth’s throat out of his mind. That was one reason he’d asked Julia to join him for dinner, as she also served as the ship’s counselor. But his main reason was to pick her brain to see what she thought of Ocampo’s assessment of the Typhoon drug, and, so far, she hadn’t been able to poke any significant holes in his story.

“I should have made sure that guard was dead,” he said. He often confided in her about things he couldn’t talk about with anyone else, like the fact that he continued to endure pain from phantom leg syndrome.

“You couldn’t have known,” she said matter-of-factly. “I mean, it’s possible I might not have noticed. You said the guy wasn’t bleeding?”

She knew Juan was no stranger to witnessing gunshot wounds. “There was blood, but it wasn’t flowing out like I’ve seen in the past.”

“From where you said the shots were placed, I’d have expected him to be incapacitated at the very least, if not dead instantly. You know, Ocampo wasn’t wrong about dolphins surviving massive shark bites. I looked it up before dinner.”

“So you think Typhoon really is this miracle drug?”

“I wouldn’t say ‘miracle.’ Steroids are powerful drugs based on hormones produced naturally by the human body. When we use the term, most people think of anabolic steroids taken by athletes to increase muscle mass, but I use them all the time in treatments for allergic reactions and to reduce severe inflammation. On the other hand, they can have serious harmful health effects if they’re used over a long period or in high doses.”

“He said the pills are stamped with the image of a cyclone. Can steroids be taken in pill form?”

“Corticosteroids are typically taken orally, while anabolic steroids are usually injected. But steroids can also be inhaled or applied topically as a cream or gel. But, there must be more to Typhoon than just steroids. It sounds like it’s a combination drug. I’ve never heard of anything like it. Ocampo really said the pills date from the 1940s?”

“That’s what he claimed. Is it possible?”

Julia shook her head in amazement at the thought. “I guess. Steroids were first discovered in the thirties in Germany, and the Japanese, who occupied the Philippines for the majority of World War Two, were notorious for conducting obscene medical experiments during those years.”

“You mean their biological and chemical warfare group called Unit 731.”

Julia nodded solemnly. “I could go into their wartime atrocities, but you wouldn’t be able to keep your meal down. They might’ve been trying to perfect a drug to make their soldiers stronger and more aggressive. In fact, a Japanese chemist was the first to synthesize methamphetamines, which were supplied to kamikaze pilots to make them fearless. They had such a huge stockpile left over after the war that it caused an addiction crisis in Japan until the use of it was outlawed in the fifties and the remaining supplies destroyed.”

“It sounds like there is another stockpile still left over of this Typhoon drug.”

Julia put her fork down and pushed her plate away. “If there is, you might run into more of these guys. And given what you told me, I have advice for you that goes against my nature as a doctor.”

“What’s that?”

She leaned toward Juan to emphasize her point. “I’m telling you this as a friend and colleague. If you have another battle against someone taking Typhoon, aim for the heart or head. It may be the only way to make sure he goes down for good.”

A gentle knock at the door broke the sobering spell of her words.

“Come in, Maurice,” Juan said.

The Oregon’s chief steward had a knack for knowing within seconds when to make an entrance. As the only member of the crew older than Max, he carried himself with a regal sophistication from his days in Britain’s Royal Navy. Dressed in black tie and white jacket, with a spotless napkin draped over the arm and carrying a silver tray, Maurice was in his element in the luxurious surroundings of the Oregon’s hidden interior.

“May I clear those away, Captain?” Unlike the rest of the crew, Maurice adhered to naval tradition instead of addressing Juan as “Chairman.”

“Yes. Thanks, Maurice.”

“I will indeed, sir. Would you care for anything else?”

“Nothing for me right now. Maybe later. Hux?”

“No, thanks. I’ve got to get back to work.” Julia had a ritual of preparing the med bay before a mission in case it was needed. When she stood, her voluptuous five-foot-three figure provided a stark contrast with Maurice’s tall, thin frame.

“Remember what I said, Juan,” she said before excusing herself.

As Maurice cleared the dishes, he said, “I understand you are currently working with Ms. Anders. Will you please convey my gratitude for the magnificent art she has brought to our lives?”

Juan suppressed an amused chuckle. He was always amazed at how well connected the steward was with shipboard scuttlebutt.

“Happy to. I plan to invite her on board in the near future. If you’d like, you could give her a guided tour.”

Little could scratch Maurice’s stoic demeanor, but Juan thought he could detect a slight curl of a smile. “I’d be delighted, Captain.” With the tray full, he glided to the door and turned before exiting. “I shall have your favorite Cuban from your private humidor and a vintage port awaiting your return from the mission. A 1985 Fonseca, if that will suit you.”

On the Oregon it was considered bad luck to wish someone “good luck” before an operation, but Maurice had his subtle way of expressing his wish for a safe return.

“Thank you, Maurice. Looking forward to it.”

Maurice nodded and eased the door closed behind him. A few seconds later, the phone rang. It was Hali Kasim.

“Chairman, Murph spotted a cargo ship matching the Magellan Sun’s profile approaching on long-range radar thirty miles to the west.”

“ETA?”

“At their present speed, they’ll reach the coast in two hours. And I’ve got Langston Overholt on the vid line.”

“Okay, put him through to my cabin screen. And tell Linc and Eddie that I’ll meet them in the moon pool for mission prep as soon as I’m off the call.”

“Aye, Chairman.”

Juan hung up, and the moonlit waters of the Sulu Sea on the wall monitor were replaced by the giant face of Juan’s octogenarian mentor. Dressed in a tailored three-piece suit, the patrician career intelligence official with the shock of white hair sat behind a spartan but elegant desk. A copse of trees dappled by the morning sun was visible out the background windows, reminding Juan that his old mentor was twelve hours behind him.

Overholt looked just the same as he did the day he brought Juan into his group as a Foreign Service officer, and he seemed just as imposing up on the big screen.

“How’s it going out there, Juan?”

“Just about to go down and prep for the mission. Do you have any new info for us?”

“Well, we’ve got Dr. Ocampo and his friends squared away in a safe house outside Manila, where CIA officers are debriefing them. And through anonymous sources we’ve informed the Philippine National Police about the incident at the chemical lab. They’re scouring the crime scene as we speak.”

“I doubt they’ll find anything useful,” Juan said.

“That’s our assessment as well. Which is why we are giving you our support to go after Salvador Locsin. If Typhoon is as dangerous as Dr. Ocampo says it is, it could pose a clear and present danger to U.S. national security. In recent years, the Philippines remains one of our most important allies in the region to push back against Chinese expansion in the South China Sea. They’re even allowing us to base naval vessels there again. If Locsin were to threaten government stability, it might give China a blank check for taking over Taiwan and the rest of Southeast Asia.”

“Understood. Were you able to find any information about the Magellan Sun? Murph and Eric could only trace ownership to a Hong Kong shell corporation called Tai Fong Shipping and that it sails under the flag of the Marshall Islands.” Registering a cargo ship under a flag of convenience was common, and the Oregon herself often hoisted a Liberian, Panamanian, or Iranian flag on her jackstaff to maintain her anonymity.

Overholt shook his head. “Sorry. The only thing we can add to what you already know is that it was owned by the Chinese government before it was sold to Tai Fong.”

“Then we’ll have to assume everyone on board is a member of Locsin’s insurgency.”

“I think that would be wise.”

“In Ocampo’s debriefing, did he mention recalling anything about what they’re off-loading?”

Overholt picked up a piece of paper and scanned it. “He did remember a few words about parts for something they are manufacturing, and one word in particular stood out. Weapon.”

“It makes sense that the Chinese would be shipping weapons to them.”

“Or they’re building one.”

“You mentioned the U.S. naval base. They could be planning to attack it.”

“All the more reason to find out what Locsin is up to.”

“Then I’d better get moving.”

“One final thing before you go. Our meteorologists report that a tropical storm has formed to the east of the Philippines. They’re calling it Hidalgo. It’s headed your way, but it’ll be a few days before it arrives. However, they’re estimating that it’ll pick up strength by the time it makes landfall.”

Juan shook his head and gave Overholt a wry smile. “Typhoon Hidalgo?”

“Looks like it, my friend.”