Chapter 17
Nightshifts were not a problem for John Freeman. As long as he was left alone. But when one of the air-traffic controllers shook him awake at three in the morning, he became grumpy. The man stood ill at ease beside Jonathan's bed and said: “Mr. Freeman, you are requested in the tower.”
John Freeman turned moaning on his left side and pushed his legs out of the small bed in the basement of the control tower.
“What is it this time?” he wondered. Lately things had been crazy with unexpected night flights and unannounced war games. He scratched his belly and put on a perfectly ironed shirt and trousers. He inspected himself into the tiny mirror that was glued above a cracked basin and thought: “mirror, mirror on the wall, who is the craziest of them all?”
The control room was blanketed by a soft red hue in which the crystal-sharp monitors clearly showed their information on atmospheric conditions, radar, temperature, planned flights, runway state and so on. Jonathan, legs wide apart, stood at the large window and observed the two fighter planes that taxied towards the beginning of the runway.
“Hi Jonathan, isn't it a bit too late or early to play with planes?” John greeted him. Stratford answered with a solemn look: “a bit of an annoying mission, I am afraid. We have intel that Pieter van Dyck is involved in stealing secret information from our base and is planning to sell this on the black market. He has escaped with the ship of those two Australian women. I have taken the liberty of getting the pilots-on-watch already in their planes. But as the officer in charge, also you need to give approval to launch.”
“Pieter is a spy? Come on. I know that at the time he might have gotten himself into trouble for not exposing his sources and putting salt on some sensitive issues. But I always thought, and I am still convinced, he has high ethics. Why would he do such a thing in the first place?”
“Yet it is true. Believe me. I was as surprised as you are now. But I did get debriefed by Bramaud on all the evidence they collected against him. There is also a trail from Pieter to Votilio. The forensic examination showed that the man was shot by a weapon owned by Pieter according to the database. A weapon that we had given him when he arrived here for the first time.”
John scribbled an initial on the device that was handed by the same air-traffic controller who had disturbed him in his sleep. “Ok, get them going,” John said. Almost instantly the two jets jumped forward on their high landing gears, to rapidly accelerate and disappear seconds later in parallel flight.
Stratford took a headphone, flipped the microphone in front of his mouth and established communication with the pilots.
“Captain Stratford speaking. You need to search for a yacht, the Port of Call. It will not be so easy to locate, but I have all reasons to assume that it is on its way between Egmont and Mauritius. Your computers have received the probable coordinates. Contact the control tower when you are flying over Egmont and report back to me whether someone is home.”
Without bothering for their confirmation, Stratford took off the headset and made a gesture that he wanted to speak to John privately. They stepped into the glass office reserved for John. He hardly ever used it, being too glad to be with his team.
“Well, that came as a surprise. What is going on?” asked John while he inserted two pads into the coffee-machine and closed the lid with a bang. Jonathan gave more details while the machine started to rattle.
The day that Pieter had arrived with Jane and Jackie, he, for unknown reasons at the time, inquired whether Votilio had carried an iPod. Jonathan thought the question a bit weird, but had not paid any attention to it. Hardly knowing what an iPod was. However, Pieter continued to nag about it until finally Jonathan had handed over the thing with the question to have a look at it and to check whether it contained some good songs. He had, unusually nervous, taken the device and connected to a computer and quickly concluded that the hard drive was empty except for some bad-taste music. Nothing else.”
“As I have no clue about these things, it all sounded acceptable and logical. I did look on the computer screen together with Pieter, though. And I did see the songs. But that was all. Well, apparently it was not all.”
The coffee machine puffed some steam indicating that the two cups were brewed. John handed one to Jonathan. “Pure black Arabica, the way that I like it.”
Jonathan continued his story. Pieter had asked to obtain the iPod. His argument had been that his on his old PC he would be able to research the device more thoroughly. Jonathan did not care even if this was not exactly following the procedures. Nobody would ever be interested in a dead person hundreds of miles from the civilized world. There was hardly interest in a dead man in that civilized world. However, during the debrief with Bramaud's team it had become clear that more was going on. In Votilio's quarters they had found documents and DVD's containing downloaded information from Diego's supercomputer. Specialists had analysed the log files from Votilio's portable computer and had come to the conclusion that sensitive information had been copied on a mobile device. A device like an iPod.
“I tried to reach Pieter last night. To bring him back to reason before he did stupid things. But his mobile was disconnected and the radio switched off.”
John shook his head: “sorry, but I find this all very hard to believe.”
Jonathan agreed: “I know it sounds as a cliché, but do we ever know each other for real?”
From a centrally placed speaker came, surprisingly clear, the voice of one of the pilots. “Sir we are approaching Egmont. Descending to fifty feet and checking for people.”
John and Jonathan continued to watch the black speaker box on which they heard the background noises from the two cockpits till the pilot came in again.
“Everything looks deserted. In the lagoon I can see the seaplane moored to the pier and also the Zodiac in the boathouse. No signs of a sailing yacht.”
Jonathan bent over: “that's what I expected. Continue your search for the yacht.”
The two Super Hornets banked sharply to the left, direction Mauritius. Their computers had received additional coordinates from signs picked up by heat sensitive satellites that could come from the yacht's engine. The hornets had similar heat sensitive equipment on board, so it should be a piece of cake to pick up that source, even from miles away.
The weather en route started to change quickly. However, the pilots were not overwhelmed by any anxiety when looking at the lightning in the distance. The only side effect of the heavy rain and high waves would be a more elaborate and difficult positive visual identification of their target. The gusts of wind gave slight vibrations in the war planes built like a truck.
At low airspeed, but still over two hundred kilometres per hour, they screeched over the position where the ship should be. They decided to split left and right and circle to search the area.
One hour after they had departed from Diego, the pilot confirmed that they had identified the target.
“Hornet one. We have a positive identification of The Port of Call. No mistake possible, quite recognisable without the mast. What are our orders?”
Jonathan did not wink.
“Destroy the ship.”
Without questioning, the pilot loaded one of the Stinger rockets, approached the boat and fired. The projectile detached itself from the left wing with a venomous hissing.
Seconds later The Port of Call was lifted out of the water to be shattered in a bright explosion. The Hornets did not even bother to check the fast sinking ship that quickly disappeared between floating debris of polyester and wood.
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