Read The Orpheus Deception Online
Authors: David Stone
The Orpheus Deception (57 page)
Vigo Majiic pushed the throttles forward and the entire ship’s frame shuddered as the prop dug into the cold waters of Lake Michigan. White water began to curl back from the steep prow, feathering out into a widening wake. Five hundred feet of steel and iron and liquid, driven by eight huge diesel engines, pushed forward by a massive steel prop that stood thirty feet high and weighed a hundred tons, came up to speed and aimed itself at the mouth of Calumet Harbor. They had three miles to cover. At forty miles an hour, they’d be in the canal in less than five minutes. The
Mingo Dubai
was on the last three miles of her long career.
Mingo Dubai
was on the last three miles of her long career.
In the Port Authority office three miles away, right next to the tall steel gateway that marked the entrance to Calumet Harbor, Ray Fyke came back from a long cigarette break and looked around the room, crowded with agents and sailors, saw Micah Dalton, leaning back in a chair, staring back at him, smiling, sipping a cup of steaming black coffee.
On the situation screen behind Dalton, Fyke saw the listed details of the next Seawaymax-class tanker scheduled to arrive—the
Maersk Empire,
carrying a load of condensed soy; she was the ninth Seawaymax-class tanker they had marked for surveillance today, and the twenty-fourth since they had set up shop in Calumet—and, besideit, he saw a telephoto shot of a man with an underslung jaw and shaggy black hair. He was leaning on the wing deck railing and smoking a cigarette. He looked worried.
Maersk Empire,
carrying a load of condensed soy; she was the ninth Seawaymax-class tanker they had marked for surveillance today, and the twenty-fourth since they had set up shop in Calumet—and, besideit, he saw a telephoto shot of a man with an underslung jaw and shaggy black hair. He was leaning on the wing deck railing and smoking a cigarette. He looked worried.
He
fooking
well should be,
thought Fyke.
fooking
well should be,
thought Fyke.
“Mikey,” he said, quietly, “that’s Vigo Majiic.”
Then the radio set beeped. It was the Coast Guard surveillance craft they had tasked to shadow the
Maersk Empire,
discreetly, into the harbor.
Maersk Empire,
discreetly, into the harbor.
“Port, this is Whiskey 6. We have a problem here.”
THEY WERE ALL
gathered around the radar screen. It was easy to pick out the incoming tanker. She was moving faster than any other tagged blip on the screen. She was now a half mile out. She’d hit the canal entrance in four minutes. The Harbor Master had seen to it that the South Ewing bridge and the Ninety-fifth Street bridge were down and locked. Armed cops had taken a position on the decks of the bridges, and more men were on the rooftops of the buildings that lined the canal. The Harbor Master turned to the Homeland Security man next to him, tapped the screen, and said:
gathered around the radar screen. It was easy to pick out the incoming tanker. She was moving faster than any other tagged blip on the screen. She was now a half mile out. She’d hit the canal entrance in four minutes. The Harbor Master had seen to it that the South Ewing bridge and the Ninety-fifth Street bridge were down and locked. Armed cops had taken a position on the decks of the bridges, and more men were on the rooftops of the buildings that lined the canal. The Harbor Master turned to the Homeland Security man next to him, tapped the screen, and said:
“Bring in those Apaches!”
“No,” said the Homeland chief. “You can’t blow the hull.”
“Well, we better do something fast,” said the Harbor Master.
“We are,” said the man from Homeland.
THERE WAS SILENCE
on the bridge. The ship was vibrating like a church organ, a deep, thrumming energy that seemed to rise up from the deck plates and pour out from the bulkhead walls. The lights of the harbor were sharp and clear through the windshield, less than a mile away and getting larger by the second. Vigo had set the course and locked it in. There was little to do now but to brace himself against the wheel and hope to survive the impact with the South Ewing bridge.
on the bridge. The ship was vibrating like a church organ, a deep, thrumming energy that seemed to rise up from the deck plates and pour out from the bulkhead walls. The lights of the harbor were sharp and clear through the windshield, less than a mile away and getting larger by the second. Vigo had set the course and locked it in. There was little to do now but to brace himself against the wheel and hope to survive the impact with the South Ewing bridge.
If he was still standing after that, if they hadn’t blown the ship out of the water with one of those Apache gunships, he’d try to swing the ship to port and get her bow around in time to take the Ninety-fifth Street bridge. Five hundred feet of iron moving at thirty, maybe forty knots. He didn’t have a chance. But if he didn’t try, or if he grazed her bow or hung her up in the bend, Tarc would kill him.
Tarc was standing by the wheel, his attention fixed and rigid, his mouth half open, a witch light in his black eyes. He was paying no attention at all to Vigo Majiic. He had his hand on the VENT switch.
Gospic had given instructions that all fifteen holding tanks could be vented from below the waterline. Venting sixty thousand metric tons of condensed soy would take quite a while. But, once it had started, the process could not be stopped. Mainly because, once he pressed that VENT button, he was going to shoot the console to pieces. The wheelhouse was suddenly filled with the klaxon sound of an alarm.
Tarc looked at Majiic.
“What’s that?”
“Proximity alarm. It computes our speed and bearing and combines it with the radar returns. It’s a collision warning.”
“Can you shut it off?”
“Emil, we’re gonna be in the canal in thirty seconds. I can try.”
“Try!”
Majiic hurried over to the signals console behind Tarc, opened the door, reached down and pulled out a large Very flare gun. He lifted it up and aimed it at Tarc. Tarc was not there. Tarc had seen Majiic’s reflection in the wheelhouse glass.
He was a few feet to the left. He smiled at Majiic, triggered the MP5, and stitched six holes up Majiic’s belly and into his chest. Majiic went back and down. Tarc stepped over to Majiic’s body, looked down at it, shaking his head. “Poor, dumb—”
A slamming boom that echoed around the wheelhouse walls and the front of his chest blew outward in a spray of bone and blood. The deck came up like an onrushing steel wall. Tarc hit it hard, rolled over onto his back, staring up at the wheelhouse roof. A face appeared in his rapidly shrinking field of vision, a battered Irish face, missing a few teeth.
“Raymond Fyke,” the man said. “Pleased to meet you.”
“Ray,” said Dalton. “How do we stop this thing?”
Fyke came to the wheel. The entrance to the canal was five hundred yards away. Fyke hit FULL ASTERN and turned the wheel to starboard. The lights of the harbor entrance began to slide slowly—very slowly—from dead ahead to a degree to port; there was a large empty field on the northern side of the canal, and a low stone breakwater. Fyke had the wheel hard over; the entire hull was groaning and creaking, a grinding sound of steel plates bending; the engines were howling, and the prop, reversing now, was churning up a pillar of white water and foam at the stern. Slowing . . . slowing. The canal entrance had slipped a little bit farther to port. The hull was vibrating like a struck gong, the windshield was full of lights, the proximity alarm was braying loud enough to stun. They saw the chopper that had dropped them onto the roof of the wheelhouse rise up and get out of the way; they saw the red-and-blue flickering of police lights all along the canal sides and crossing the South Ewing bridge—
“Mikey,” said Fyke, standing by the wheel, “you better grab something solid because we are going in.”
Dalton did. Fifteen seconds later, the
Mingo Dubai
struck the nine-foot stone breakwater at the northern edge of the Lake Calumet canal, traveling at a speed of approximately sixteen knots. Her forward stabilizer crumpled like eggshell and broke wide open. Momentumcarried the tall, flaring bow up and over the breakwater wall. With a shrieking, grinding sound, with sparks of steel flaring out across the earth, the steel plates of her hull slammed through the stone wall like boxcars hammering over a railroad crossing. The ship drove on into the field, fifty, a hundred, a hundred and fifty feet, slowing, her lights flickering. The area had been cleared of civilians, but the rooftops and canal sides were packed with federal officers and Coast Guard people and they stood in stunned silence, watching this mountain of steel grind its way slowly into the deserted field. And stop. The ship had almost one-third of its length on dry land now. The big prop was still churning in reverse. The hull settled, rocked, and settled some more. There was a long, stunned silence, filled with the sounds of distant sirens and the slow chuffing of the ship’s engines. Fyke killed the engines, and the prop froze in the water. He looked over at Dalton.
Mingo Dubai
struck the nine-foot stone breakwater at the northern edge of the Lake Calumet canal, traveling at a speed of approximately sixteen knots. Her forward stabilizer crumpled like eggshell and broke wide open. Momentumcarried the tall, flaring bow up and over the breakwater wall. With a shrieking, grinding sound, with sparks of steel flaring out across the earth, the steel plates of her hull slammed through the stone wall like boxcars hammering over a railroad crossing. The ship drove on into the field, fifty, a hundred, a hundred and fifty feet, slowing, her lights flickering. The area had been cleared of civilians, but the rooftops and canal sides were packed with federal officers and Coast Guard people and they stood in stunned silence, watching this mountain of steel grind its way slowly into the deserted field. And stop. The ship had almost one-third of its length on dry land now. The big prop was still churning in reverse. The hull settled, rocked, and settled some more. There was a long, stunned silence, filled with the sounds of distant sirens and the slow chuffing of the ship’s engines. Fyke killed the engines, and the prop froze in the water. He looked over at Dalton.
“Jesus, Mikey, that was a—”
There was a huge, rending sound—steel breaking away, girders popping—the hull gave a final, convulsive shudder, and the
Mingo Dubai
snapped itself completely in two. Everything that was in the ten holding tanks that were in the part of the hull that was still in the water gushed out in a pale gray torrent. Forty or fifty thousand metric tons of condensed soy milk went into the Calumet harbor canal, and there wasn’t a damn thing anybody could do about it but stand around and watch.
Mingo Dubai
snapped itself completely in two. Everything that was in the ten holding tanks that were in the part of the hull that was still in the water gushed out in a pale gray torrent. Forty or fifty thousand metric tons of condensed soy milk went into the Calumet harbor canal, and there wasn’t a damn thing anybody could do about it but stand around and watch.
TEN MINUTES LATER,
they were still doing that—standing around and watching—when Dalton’s cell phone rang. It was Mandy Pownall.
they were still doing that—standing around and watching—when Dalton’s cell phone rang. It was Mandy Pownall.
“Mandy, where are you?”
“In London. They tell me the ship just hit the fan in Chicago.”
“It did. We’re fucked.”
“Tony Crane and I have been watching something develop at Burke and Single. In the U.S. commodities market.”
“Like what?”
“No time now. I need to talk to someone named Nikki Turrin. The girl who found the video on YouTube. Do you know where she is?”
“Why her?”
“Micah, just tell me where she is.”
“Far as I know, she’s at Fort Meade.”
“No. She booked off at the end of the day. The Duty Desk says she’s off until eight in the morning. She’s not answering her cell. I reached a woman named Alice Chandler. She works in the office of the AD of RA—”
“What’s that?”
“Micah, you’re beginning to wear on me. He’s Nikki Turrin’s boss. Retired Marine officer. Alice Chandler was evasive. I got the impression that Nikki Turrin and her boss have started up one of those office romances and Chandler’s covering. I think she knows where they are, but she won’t—”
“Try Langley. Cather knows him.”
“Okay. You hang on—”
“I will.”
Fyke was at his side.
“What is it?”
“It’s Mandy. She’s been watching the commodities market. She thinks there’s something happening.”
“The
American
commodities market?”
American
commodities market?”
“Yes.”
“Crikey. That was fast.”
“What do you mean?”
“We know Gospic, you and me, as well as anybody. He’s no
fooking
fanatic. This stunt, he did it for the money. That’s all he cares about. What happens if this
poison
he’s come up with, what happens if it really does go all the way down to the Mississippi, Mikey? And the word gets out?”
fooking
fanatic. This stunt, he did it for the money. That’s all he cares about. What happens if this
poison
he’s come up with, what happens if it really does go all the way down to the Mississippi, Mikey? And the word gets out?”
“The Illinois and the Mississippi water half the farmland in the Midwest. If a panic started—”
Mandy was back on the line.
“Micah?”
“Yes. Here.”
“I got her. She was thinking the same thing.”
“Which is what?”
“Why the video? Why put it out in the first place?”
“No idea. Gospic’s a sick—”
“Maybe. But he’s not stupid. We’ve seen a lot of proxy buyers on line. Out of Odessa, Russia, all over Eastern Europe. They’re locking down bids all up and down the U.S. commodities market. If it crashes, these buyers will make—God—billions—”
“Only
if
there’s a panic.”
if
there’s a panic.”
“Of course there’ll be a panic, Micah. When word gets—”
“That’s my point. Have you got Nikki Turrin on the other line?”
“Yes—hold on.”
“Hello . . . Mr. Dalton?”
“Nikki. Is your boss there?”
A brief hesitation.
“Yes. He’s right . . . right here.”
“I need to talk to him.”
Muffled words, then a deep vibrato voice.
“Dalton, this is Hank Brocius. I’m the AD of RA. What’s up?”
“Sir, can the NSA monitor a whole sector of the grid? Everything going in or out?”
“Depends on the grid.”
“This would be Eastern Europe, the entire Adriatic seaboard.”
“Yeah, we could. We have that area pretty well covered.”
“If I could give you a list of specific grids—particular locations and websites and commo nets—could you lock them down? Nothing gets in or out. Their world goes dark.”
“How big a region are you talking about?”
“Maybe a city. Like Odessa. Kotor. The entire region.”
“That’s almost an act of war. That would need a presidential order.”
“How long would that take?”
“God. Maybe two hours. Maybe less.”
“It has to be done
now.
Right now.”
now.
Right now.”
“I don’t have the authority—”
“I know. But do you have the power?”
“Yes. I mean, it could be done. The SURGE program could do—”
“Will you do it?”
“It’ll mean my job. Maybe prison. I’m gonna have to know why.”
Dalton told him.
44
Kotor, Montenegro
Branco Gospic, a heavy-bodied, slope-shouldered bull of a man, with cold gray eyes and a bald skull distorted into a chestnut shape by a near-miss mortar round, was sitting stiffly upright—his bullet-pocked belly would tolerate no other position—on an iron bench on the pillared balcony of his villa overlooking the Montenegrin coastal village of Kotor. The night was coming on, a cold, bleak night, with snow on the peaks and the cutting Bora winds ruffling the waters of the sound. Rain was misting the air. The lights of Kotor were on far below his balcony, and long rollers, driven by the Bora, were crashing into the breakwater that, in the summer, would be full of pretty girls and tourists. Tonight it was empty, as was the large old mansion behind him.
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