Skeleton Coast

  Eddie’s sober assessment hung in the air because no one in the boardroom could refute it.

  There came a quiet knock on the open boardroom door. Juan turned and was delighted to see Sloane Macintyre standing at the entrance. She wore a pair of baggy shorts and a plain white T-shirt. Her arm was in a sling across her abdomen. Her coppery hair fell in waves past her shoulders. It was the first time he had seen her wearing makeup. The mascara and shadow brought out the depths of her gray eyes and the artful strokes of blush hid the pallor of her still-recovering body. Her lips were full and shining.

  “Hope I’m not interrupting,” she said with a smile that said she knew she was.

  Juan got to his feet. “No, not at all. How are you feeling?”

  “Fine, thanks. Doctor Huxley says I’ll be good as new in a couple of weeks if I stick to the physical therapy regimen she laid out. The whole crew’s talking about the rescue you pulled off and how you not only saved your men and rescued Geoffrey Merrick but also freed some leader from Zimbabwe.”

  “Believe me, it was a team effort.”

  “I just heard voices and wanted to say hello.” She gave Juan a look. “You still owe me an explanation about what it is you all do and where you got this incredible ship.”

  “And I’ll tell you everything. I promise.”

  “You’d better.” She glanced over at Linda. “I’ll see you back in your cabin.”

  “See you, Sloane.”

  “So what the hell are we going to do?” Max asked bluntly to get the conversation back on track.

  “Obviously, we can contact Langston,” Linda said. “If he can’t clear the way for a rapid reaction force to be sent here, at least he can warn the governments of Angola and the Congo about a credible terrorist threat.”

  “What are our relations like with those countries?” Linc asked.

  “No idea.”

  “What about getting in touch with some of our people who’ve left the Corporation, like Dick Truitt, Carl Gannon, and Bob Meadows,” Mike suggested. “I know Tom Reyes runs a bodyguard service in California.”

  “Do the oil companies have their own security forces?” Max asked. “I assume they do. Juan?”

  “Huh?”

  “Are we boring you?”

  “No.” Cabrillo got to his feet. “I’ll be right back.”

  He was out the door before anyone could ask him where he was going. He stalked down the hallway, his broad shoulders bowed and his head down. Decisions had always come easy to him and this one was no different but he had to ask a question before he committed himself. He caught up to Sloane as she reached Linda Ross’s cabin.

  “Juan,” she said, startled by his sudden appearance and his deadly serious look.

  “How sure are you about the diamonds being aboard the Rove?” he asked brusquely. For what he intended even the considerable financial resources of the Corporation weren’t enough, and he doubted he could get the CIA to fund his plan appropriately.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “The Rove. How sure are you that the diamonds are aboard her?”

  “I’m not sure what you—”

  “If you were placing a bet what would be the odds? A hundred to one? A thousand to one? What?”

  She composed herself for a second. “H. A. Ryder was the best guide in Africa at the time and he knew the desert better than anyone. I know as sure as I’m standing here that he got those men across the Kalahari. They had the stones when they reached the coast.”

  “So they are on the Rove, then.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure.”

  “Positive.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  He turned to go but Sloane placed a hand on his arm to stop him. “What’s this all about? Why are you asking about the diamonds?”

  “Because I’m going to promise them to someone if he helps me out.”

  “You don’t know where the Rove is. It might take years to find her.”

  Juan gave her a wolfish grin. “I’ve got someone who owes me a favor who’s going to find her for me.”

  “Who are you giving the diamonds to and why?” Caught up by Juan’s determination Sloane had forgotten for a moment who she worked for and what had brought her to Namibia in the first place. “Wait just a second. Those stones don’t belong to you. They belong to my company.”

  “According to maritime law they belong to whoever finds them. As for why I want them, come with me.”

  Juan stopped first at his cabin to get an item out of his safe. When they reached the guest suite, Juan knocked and entered. Moses Ndebele was sitting on the floor in the living room talking with four of his men. All of them were heavily bandaged. Canes and crutches littered the floor like a giant version of a children’s game of pickup sticks. But none of it mattered. They were all smiling that their leader was back.

  Moses made to get to his feet but Juan waved him down. “Your Doctor Huxley tells me that there is no need for me to be shopping for a new leg,” Ndebele said.

  “I’m glad to hear it. I can function with one but I sure as hell wish I still had ’em both.” Juan said as they shook hands. “May I speak to you in private?”

  “Of course, Captain.” He said a few words to his followers and they slowly got up from the floor and hobbled to the bedroom.

  Juan waited until the door was closed before speaking.

  “What are the chances of you ever overthrowing your government and returning prosperity to Zimbabwe?”

  “You are a man, so we will speak as men. I have eager fighters but few weapons, and if the people rise up to support a poorly armed revolt they will be gunned down. My government is ruthless. Its leaders are willing to commit any atrocity to remain in power.”

  “What would it take to topple them?”

  “It is the same for any problem. Money and time.”

  “I can’t do anything about the time, but what if I could fund your movement?”

  “Captain, I know you are a brave and honorable man but you are talking about tens of millions of dollars.”

  “Mr. Ndebele, I’m talking about hundreds of millions of dollars, actually.” Juan paused a beat to let that sink in, and then added, “And it’s yours but I’m going to need something from you in return.”

  “For now I will not ask about the money,” Moses said. “Friends do not discuss such matters. What is the favor you seek?”

  “I need a hundred of your best fighters,” Cabrillo told him. He then explained the situation. Ndebele listened wordlessly, although Sloane gasped when he described a hurricane laden with poison bearing down on the United States, most likely gunning for her native Florida.

  “My people are willing to sacrifice themselves for their children and the future of our country,” Ndebele said when Juan had finished. “You are asking me to send them into a battle for which they reap nothing and risk all. For what you have done for me I would fight by your side anywhere you asked. But I cannot ask my men to do this thing.”

  “But they are fighting for their country,” Juan countered. “By doing this you will secure the financial resources to oust your government and return Zimbabwe to the democracy you all fought for when you first gained independence. I’m not going to lie to you and say that all of them will be coming back. Because they won’t. But their sacrifice will be the rally cry for your followers. Explain to them what they will achieve and they will do it for you, for your country, and, most important, for themselves.”

  Ndebele said nothing for a few moments as he looked into Cabrillo’s eyes.

  “I will take this to an indaba, a council of my men.” He waved at the closed bedroom door. “And I will let them decide.”

  “I can ask for nothing more,” Juan said and shook Ndebele’s hand again. He withdrew a pouch from his pocket and turned Ndebele’s hand flat. Onto his open palm he poured the rough diamonds they had received in exchange for the weapons. “Consider this a good-faith gesture. They’re yours no matter the dec
ision. There’s an intercom on the desk. The communications officer who answers will be able to find me.”

  Out in the hall Sloane grabbed Juan’s hand. “Is that all true? And where did you get those diamonds.”

  “Unfortunately, it is. Daniel Singer has had years to plan this and we only have a couple of days to stop it. As to where those diamonds come from, it’s a rather long story that brings this whole mess full circle.”

  “I guess I’ll have to wait to hear that one, too.”

  “Sorry, yes. I have to get back to the meeting. There’s a lot we have to go over.”

  Sloane released his hand. “I want you to know that I’ll help you in any way I can.”

  “Good, because once we find the Rove you’re going to help me blackmail your bosses into buying those diamonds.”

  “That,” she said with a grin, “will be my pleasure.”

  Before returning to the boardroom Cabrillo went back to his cabin to place a ship-to-shore call. It was early morning on the East Coast, but he suspected the man he wanted to reach would be in his office.

  Juan had the direct number and when the phone was picked up he said without preamble, “You owe me a leg but I’ll call us even if you lend me a hand.”

  “It’s been awhile, Chairman Cabrillo,” Dirk Pitt replied from his office high atop the NUMA building overlooking Washington, D.C. “What can I do for you?”

  25

  THE Oregon coursed northward like a greyhound, driven by her phenomenal engines and the impatience of her crew. There was activity in nearly every section of the ship. There were five men in the armory unpacking the weapons that would be carried by Moses Ndebele’s men, cleaning them of Cosmoline and loading hundreds of magazines. Other armorers were checking over the vessel’s defensive systems, making certain that ammunition bins were fully stocked and that the salt air hadn’t corroded the machine guns, Gatlings, and autocannons.

  Down in the moon pool technicians were inspecting the Oregon’s two submersibles. Gear was being stripped out of both and extra CO2 scrubbers installed to increase the number of people each could carry. They also touched up the anechoic coating that made the two craft almost undetectable when submerged. Over the sound of their work roared an air compressor filling dozens of scuba tanks in case they were needed.

  In the kitchen every chef and assistant was on duty preparing combat rations while the dining staff sealed the food in airtight packages as soon as it came out of the galley. In medical, Julia Huxley and her staff were setting up the OR for an influx of casualties.

  Juan Cabrillo was in his customary seat in the op center while around him his staff worked at a dizzying pace prepping the vessel, and themselves, for the upcoming battle. He read over every report as it came in concerning the vessel’s status; no detail was too trivial to overlook.

  “Max,” he called without looking up from his computer monitor, “I’ve got something here that says the pressure in the fire suppression system is down by fifteen pounds.”

  “I ordered a test trip in the hold. The system should be back up to full pressure in about an hour.”

  “Okay. Hali, what’s George’s ETA?”

  Hali Kasim pulled down one side of his headphones. “He just took off from Cabinda, Angola, with Eric and Murph. We should be able to rendezvous in about two and a half hours. He’ll call ten minutes out so we can slow the ship and prep the hangar.”

  “And Tiny? Where’s he?”

  “Thirty thousand feet over Zambia.”

  Juan was relieved. The plan, like so many recently, had been hastily put together. One of the biggest obstacles was getting a hundred of Moses’ best men out of their refugee camp near the industrial town of Francistown, Botswana. Unlike a lot of sub-Saharan Africa, there was very little corruption in Botswana, so getting the men onto a plane without passports had been more expensive than Cabrillo would have liked. Tiny’s bush pilot friend had cleared the way for them on the other end, and ensured that they would have no difficulty landing in Cabinda. The Oregon would tie up to the city’s main pier about five hours after they landed and would stay just long enough to get them aboard.

  From there they would proceed north to the oil fields off the coast where Murph and Eric had detected three of the ten AK-47s with the Corporation’s radio tags. The weapons were grouped in a swamp less than five miles from a massive new tanker terminal and within a ten-minute boat ride of a dozen offshore oil rigs.

  Juan had contacted Langston Overholt as soon as Murph had reported in. Lang had then alerted the State Department so they could issue a warning to Angola’s government. However, the wheels of diplomacy turn slowly and so far Juan’s information was languishing in Foggy Bottom while the policy wonks hashed out a statement.

  Because of the low-grade civil war being waged all across Cabinda Province, the petroleum companies who leased the oil fields had their own security apparatus in place. The tanker terminal and workers’ compounds were fenced off and patrolled by armed guards. Cabrillo had considered calling the companies directly but knew he would be ignored. He also knew that whatever force they had in place was a deterrent for theft and trespassing and wasn’t capable of holding off an army. Any warning he did issue would likely only get more of their guards killed.

  Also, he had learned from Murph’s aerial reconnaissance that there were hundreds of people living in shantytowns around the oil concessions. There would be far fewer civilian casualties if the fighting took place well inside the facilities.

  Linda Ross entered the op center with Sloane Macintyre in tow. Sloane stopped as soon as she stepped through the door. Her mouth hung a little loose as she looked around the futuristic command center. The main view screen on the forward bulkhead was split into dozens of camera angles showing activity all around the ship as well as a clear shot of the Oregon’s bow as she powered through the sea.

  “Linda said I’d get a better idea of what you all do if I came with her,” Sloane finally said as she approached Juan. “I think I’m more confused now than I was five seconds ago. What is all this?”

  “The heart and soul of the Oregon,” Juan said. “From here we can control the helm, the engines, communications, safety teams as well as the ship’s integrated weapons systems.”

  “So you are with the CIA or something?”

  “Like I told you before, I used to be. We’re private citizens running a for-profit company that does freelance security work. Though I will admit the CIA has thrown us a lot of business over the years, usually with missions best left off their blackest books.

  “Originally, our contract was to sell some arms to a group of African revolutionaries. The arms had been modified so the rebels could be tracked. Unfortunately we were double-crossed but we only learned about it after committing ourselves to rescue Geoffrey Merrick. So now we’re back to get the weapons, only it turns out Merrick’s ex-partner has other plans for them.”

  “Who paid you to supply the guns in the first place?”

  “It was a deal worked out between our government and the Congo’s. Most of the money came from the CIA; the rest was going to come from selling the blood diamonds we were given in exchange for the arms.”

  “The diamonds you gave to Moses Ndebele for his help?”

  “You got it. Hey, I guess the story wasn’t so long after all,” Juan quipped.

  “And you make a living doing this?” she asked and then answered her own question. “Of course you do. I saw the clothes in Linda’s closet. It’s like Rodeo Drive in there.”

  “Chairman, can I talk to you privately?” Linda asked.

  Juan didn’t like the tone in her voice. He got up from his chair and offered it to Sloane with a flourish. “The ship’s yours.” He guided Linda to the far corner of the op center. “What’s up?”

  “I was going over my interrogation notes and, while I’m not positive, I think Susan Donleavy withheld something.”

  “Something?”

  “Not about what Singer’s attemptin
g here. I got everything out of her about this that I could. It’s something else. I just can’t put my finger on it.”

  “It’s about the timing of this whole operation,” Juan stated.

  “It could be. I don’t know. Why would you say that?”

  “It kept me up for most of the night,” he admitted. He laid out his concern. “Singer’s had this in motion for years, with the generators and the heaters, and suddenly he’s striking at an oil facility in order to release a couple million tons of toxic sludge. Why? Why now? He’s expecting hurricanes to carry the vapors across the Atlantic but he can’t predict when and where a storm will form.”

  “Do you think maybe he can?”

  “What I think is that he thinks he can.”

  “But that’s impossible. At least with any degree of accuracy. Hurricanes grow randomly. Some never get stronger than a tropical depression and simply blow themselves out at sea.”

  “Exactly, and that wouldn’t work for his grand demonstration.”

  “You think he knows there’s a major storm coming and that it will carry the oil vapors across the ocean?”

  “I’ll do you one better,” Juan said. “I think he knows the storm’s track will slam it into the United States.”

  “How could he know that?”

  Juan brushed a hand through his crew cut. It was the only outward sign of his frustration. “That’s what kept me awake. I know it’s not possible for him to predict a hurricane, much less its path, but Singer’s actions can only lead us to that conclusion. Even without us here Makambo’s men will eventually be overrun and the oil shut off. So Singer can’t guarantee the fumes would drift far enough and remain airborne long enough to be sucked into a forming hurricane, or that if they do that the storm wouldn’t dissipate on its own. Not unless there’s another element to all this we don’t know about.”