Plague Ship - Cussler Clive - Страница 16
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Cabrillo’s cabin was on the port side of the Oregon, but the angle the ship sailed relative to the sun allowed light to stream through his porthole and made his suite swelter despite the air-conditioning. He woke bathed in sweat, momentarily disoriented about what had roused him until he heard the phone ring a second time.
He glanced at the big wall clock opposite his bed, as he yanked his arms free of the twisted sheets. It wasn’t yet eight and already the sun was a torture.
He lifted the handset. “Cabrillo.”
“Chairman, it’s Hali. The jig is up.”
Juan did some mental calculations as the news sank in. The Oregon would be clear of the strait by now but wouldn’t have ventured very far into the Gulf of Oman. They were still very much within Iran’s military sphere of influence.
“What’s happening?” he asked, swinging his legs out of bed and running a hand across his crew cut.
“There was a burst of chatter out of Bandar Abbas about five minutes ago and then nothing.” Juan had expected this. It would take some time for the base commander to figure out what had happened and finally have the courage to report the theft to his superiors in Tehran. They in turn would have immediately told the naval base to stop using radios and nonsecure telephones and to switch to dedicated landlines.
During the first Gulf War, America tipped her hand to the world concerning her eavesdropping abilities.
Using its satellites and ground listening stations, the NSA could listen in on or read virtually every telephone call, radio broadcast, fax transmittal, and any other form of communication with impunity. It was how our military knew exactly where to target Saddam Hussein’s command and control facilities. In response to this overwhelming technological advantage, nations who saw the United States as a threat—namely, Iran, Syria, Libya, and North Korea—spent hundreds of millions of dollars building a network of landlines that couldn’t be hacked or listened in on without a direct tap.
After those first frantic calls that the Oregon intercepted, the Iranians had switched to this system and denied Cabrillo a valuable source of intelligence.
“What did you get?” Juan asked.
“They reported a break-in at the dry dock, a small explosion that damaged the control room, and the theft of two whales.”
“That’s their code name for the rocket torpedoes,” Juan said. “I think the Farsi word is hoot.”
“That’s what the computer said. After that, there was an order out of the defense ministry to switch to something they call ‘the voice of the Prophet.’”
“That’ll be their military communications lines.” Juan clamped the cordless phone between his head and shoulder to free up his hands so he could dress. “Anything else?”
“Sorry, Chairman. That was it.”
Cabrillo put himself in the Iranians’ shoes and thought through what would come next. “They’re going to close Bandar Abbas and reinspect every ship in the harbor. The Navy’s going to be put on high alert, and they may try to stop vessels within fifty or so miles of the coast all along the Gulf of Oman.”
“We’re still within that radius,” Hali told him.
“Tell the helmsman to get us the hell out. I’ll be in the Op Center in two minutes. Assemble the senior staff.” Although Juan’s top people had been on duty until just a couple of hours ago, he wanted them manning the ship until they were well beyond Iran’s ability to strike.
When Juan had designed the Oregon, a tremendous amount of effort went into the ship’s Operations Center. It was the brain of the vessel, the nerve center from which everything could be controlled, from her engines and weapons systems to the fire-suppression sprinklers and communications. The room was as high-tech as the exterior of the Oregon was decayed. Dominating the front wall was a massive flat-panel screen that could show dozens of images at a time, from the battery of ship’s cameras as well as feeds from her submersibles, the unmanned aerial ROV, and from cameras mounted on the Robinson R44 chopper. Sonar and radar images could also be flashed onto the screen.
The helm and weapons station was immediately below the flat panel, with Hali’s communications console, Max Hanley’s engineering station, and the principal sonar waterfall display ringing the darkened room. In the center of the Op Center was what Mark Murphy and Eric Stone had dubbed the “Kirk Chair.” From the command position, Cabrillo could monitor everything happening on and around his ship and take over any of the other stations if necessary.
With its low ceiling and the glow from dozens of computer displays, the Op Center had the palpable buzz of NASA’s mission control.
An exhausted Max Hanley was already in his chair when Juan strode in, as was Mark Murphy. Murph was the only member of the crew without a military or intelligence background, and it showed. Tall and gawky, he had nearly black hair that was long and unkempt, and he was trying to grow a beard, although, so far, his best efforts resembled an anemic billy goat’s. He possessed the highest IQ of anyone aboard ship, having gotten a Ph.D. from MIT while still in his early twenties. From there, he had gone into systems development for a major military contractor, where he had met Eric Stone. Eric was working procurement with the Navy but had already planned on resigning his commission and joining the Corporation. During the two months the pair of them had spent on a still-secret long-range cannon for the Arleigh Burke Class destroyers, Eric had convinced both Cabrillo and Murph to join up as well.
Juan couldn’t fault Murph’s proficiency with the Oregon’s weapons systems. He just hoped for the day young Mr. Murphy would stop dressing in all black and playing punk music loud enough to shake barnacles off the hull. This morning found him wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with a pair of ruby lips. On the back it read THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW. His workstation was littered with half a dozen empty energy drink cans, and Juan could see by the glassy look in Murph’s eye he was mainlining on caffeine.
Cabrillo took his seat and adjusted the computer display at his elbow. A steaming cup of coffee materialized at his side. Maurice had approached so silently Juan never heard him coming. “I’m going to have to put a bell on you.”
“To employ an overused cliche, Captain, over my departed corpse.”
“Or dead body, whatever.” Juan smiled. “Thanks.”
“You’re most welcome, sir.”
Over the rim of his coffee, Juan studied the displays in front of him, especially noting the radar picture of the surrounding waters. The coast of Iran still showed at the top of the screen, at the radar’s extreme limit, while around them countless ships were heading into and out of the Persian Gulf. From the size of the returns, he knew most of them were tankers, and the traffic seemed as thick as Atlanta at rush hour.
Far to the south was a cluster of ships around one large vessel he guessed was an American aircraft carrier task force.
He checked their speed and heading, as well as the depth of the water under the ship. The bottom had dropped to four hundred feet, plenty deep enough for a lurking Iranian sub. But with the Americans so close, he was more concerned with a helicopter or aircraft assault, if they were linked to the theft somehow. A quick glimpse at the camera displays showed him that the Oregon looked as she should, with her single funnel, and decks devoid of containers. Her name was back to normal, though he noted the Panamanian flag still flew from her jack staff. A prudent precaution, because the Iranians wouldn’t need permission to board a ship flying their ensign, as the Oregon normally did. The mast camera high atop one of the cargo derricks showed a tanker they must have passed recently less than a mile astern and a containership steaming along their track a half mile to the north.
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