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  “Stow the derrick,” Juan ordered, before calling down to Eric Stone: “Helm, edge us away, twenty percent power, and pump us dry. Make ship ready for a high-speed run, and steer us best possible course for Karachi.”

  “I thought we were going to Monaco.” This from Mark Murphy. It was clear in his voice he was looking forward to a few weeks at the opulent principality abutting the Riviera. Maurice had told Juan that Murph had even requisitioned a tuxedo from the Magic Shop so he could play James Bond in Monaco’s fabled casino.

  “Don’t worry,” Juan assured him, “you are. Max and I have other plans.”

  Hali Kasim’s voice cut through the line. “Radar contact, Chairman. Just came on the scope at a hundred miles out, bearing due east.”

  “Track it, and keep me posted.” Juan cupped his hands to his mouth to shout over to the Tallahassee’s captain, as the Oregon put more and more distance between the two vessels. “We just got a blip on radar. Its east of us, and the range is pretty extreme, but you guys might want to do your Houdini act and vanish.”

  “Roger that, and thank you.” The captain waved. “We saw her on our approach. The read from the passive sonar sounds as if she’s derelict, and we caught nothing on any of our sensors, no radar emissions or radio. Not even an automatic distress signal. Obviously, we couldn’t investigate, but you all might want to. If she’s abandoned, it could mean a pretty hefty salvage fee.”

  “We might just do that,” Juan said, intrigued. He could leave a prize crew on her to sail to Karachi while the Oregon went ahead. “Any idea how big she is?”

  “By the sound of waves lapping against her hull, my chief sonar man estimates about the same size as your ship, five hundred and fifty feet or so.”

  “Thanks for the tip, Captain. We might just check her out.”

  “Good luck, Oregon.” With that, the last of the men disappeared down the conning tower hatchway.

  Moments later, spray erupted around the sub’s ballast tank inlets as seawater rushed in and expelled the air trapped inside. A gout of froth boiled at her stern as her reactor directed power to her single, seven-bladed screw. The tail planes sank below the calm ocean surface and a wave began to stream over her bows. She sank swiftly, vanishing into her natural realm, and leaving behind a bare ripple that quickly dissolved as though the massive boat had never existed.

  “Rotten way to make a living.” Max scowled. Though not exactly claustrophobic, Hanley wasn’t fond of confined spaces.

  “Linc has done a couple of stints on fast-attack subs in his SEAL days. Says they’re nicer than a lot of the hotels he’s stayed in.”

  “Linc’s cheap. I’ve seen the places he goes for. Hourly-rates-available, clean-sheets-extra kind of joints.”

  Wind started to blow as the Oregon accelerated eastward. In a few minutes, the magnetohydrodynamics would have them going so fast that standing on the deck would be like facing into a hurricane. The deckhands had finished securing the crane boom, and the trolley had been returned to the torpedo room.

  “What do you say, Max?”

  “What do I say about what?”

  “The derelict out there. Do we stop and take a quick look-see or hightail it to Karachi?”

  Max led Cabrillo into the protection of a stairwell, where he could light his pipe. “Kyle’s been missing since the day before yesterday. My ex thinks she knows who he’s with—some group of friends she doesn’t care for—which makes me think this isn’t as big a deal as she’s making it. It’ll take us at least twenty-four hours to get to L.A., once we reach Pakistan, so losing an hour investigating a ghostship isn’t going to matter much.”

  “You sure?” Juan asked, blinking rapidly because hot ash from Max’s pipe whipped across his face.

  “Sorry.” Max tapped the pipe over the side. “Yeah. It’ll be fine.”

  “Eric, you read me?” Juan asked into the walkie-talkie.

  “Right here.”

  “New course. Get us over to that ship at best possible speed. Track down Gomez and have him prep the Robinson.” George “Gomez” Adams was a matinee-idol-handsome chopper pilot who’d gotten his nickname after using his charms on a South American drug lord’s wife, a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Carolyn Jones, the actress from the old Addams Family television show. “Tell him I want a UAV on the launch rail as soon as we’re in position. If need be, you can fly it.”

  Eric couldn’t fly a real plane to save his life but played enough flight simulator games to easily handle the Oregon’s remotely operated drones.

  Cabrillo asked, “What’s our ETA?”

  “Little over two hours.”

  “Put yourself down for a bonus if you make it in two.”

  CHAPTER 7

  BY THE LIGHT OF THE STARS SMEARED ACROSS THE night sky, she looked like a wedding cake, multiple tiers rising higher and higher, a delicate balance of form and function. Yet to the men and women in the Op Center studying the feed beamed back by the flying drone, she also looked like a ghostship.

  Not a porthole was lit, nothing stirred on her deck, even the bar of her radar transmitter was stationary.

  Cresting waves slapped against her long white hull, hitting her as if she was as immutable as an iceberg. Thermal imaging off the drone’s IR camera showed that her engines and funnel were cold, and while the ambient air temperature in this part of the Indian Ocean hovered near the high eighties the gear was sensitive enough to detect body heat. They saw none.

  “What the hell happened here?” Linda asked, knowing there couldn’t possibly be an answer.

  “Gomez, buzz the deck,” Juan ordered.

  George Adams sat at a workstation at the rear of the Op Center, his slicked-back and brilliantined hair shimmering in the dim neon glow of his computer. He ran a finger across his pencil mustache and eased the joystick forward. The UAV, nothing more than a commercial radio-controlled airplane fitted with powerful cameras and an extended transceiver, complied with his command, diving down toward the cruise ship lying dead in the water thirty miles east of the hard-charging Oregon.

  The crew watched expectantly as the tiny aircraft arced out of the sky and ran along the ship’s starboard rail, the camera tracking along her deck. For several long seconds, it was quiet in the room, each person absorbed with what they were seeing. It was Cabrillo who finally broke the silence.

  He keyed his communications pad. “Medical to the Op Center. Hux, we need you now!”

  “Are those what I think they are?” Eric Stone asked in a hushed whisper.

  “Aye, lad,” Max replied, equally subdued. “Her deck’s littered with bodies.”

  There had to be a hundred corpses on the deck, sprawled in twisted shapes of agony. Their clothing fluttered with the breeze. Adams zoomed in on the open deck around the ship’s swimming pool, where it seemed as if every guest at a party had simply collapsed, the area was strewn with dropped dishes and glasses. He tightened the camera’s focus as he slowed the UAV to narrow in on one passenger, a young woman in a dress. She lay in a pool of her own blood. It looked as though everyone was.

  “Did anyone notice the ship’s name?” Mark Murphy asked.

  “Golden Dawn,” Juan told him, all thoughts of salvage and prize money driven from his mind.

  Mark concentrated on his computer, calling up everything he could get about the ship as the others stared transfixed at the grisly tableau.

  Julia Huxley rushed into the Op Center wearing pajama bottoms and an oversized T-shirt. Her feet were bare and her hair was a gnarled mess. She carried a medical case that she kept in her stateroom. “What’s the emergency?” she asked breathlessly.

  When no one answered, she looked up at the screen holding their attention. Even for a seasoned medical professional, the carnage arrayed around the deck of the cruise ship was appalling. She visibly blanched, before composing herself with a subtle shake of her head. She approached the monitor and cast a critical eye at what she saw. The low light and unsteady UAV made it difficul
t to discern details.

  “It doesn’t appear to be trauma,” she said. “I’d say they were struck by some kind of fast-acting hemorrhagic virus.”

  “Natural?” Max asked.

  “Nothing in nature strikes this swiftly.”

  “They didn’t have the time to send out a distress signal,” Juan remarked, to back up Hux’s assessment.

  Julia turned to him. “I need to get over there. Take some samples. There is biohazard gear down in the medical bay, and we can set up a decontamination station on deck.”

  “Forget it,” Juan said. “There’s no way I’m letting you get some virus anywhere near this ship.” Julia made to argue but Cabrillo wasn’t finished. “We’ll do decon on a tethered Zodiac inflatable and then sink it. Eric, take over the UAV from George. Gomez, get down to the hangar and finish prepping the chopper. Mark, go roust Eddie, get yourselves a couple of pistols from the armory, and meet us in the hangar. Julia, do you need a hand?”

  “I’ll get an orderly to help me,” she said.

  “Okay. Bring a couple extra bio-suits in case there are any survivors.” Cabrillo was already on his feet. “I want to be in the air in twenty minutes.”

  The Oregon reached the stricken Golden Dawn a minute short of Juan’s deadline. Because of the Robinson’s weight limitations, it would take two trips to ferry everyone and their equipment to the cruise ship. Eric had scouted the liner from the drone and determined the best place for them to land was on top of the bridge. It was the largest area on the ship that was free of the dead. Though the chopper wouldn’t land directly on the Dawn, George Adams was kitted out with a rebreathing orange biohazard suit like the rest of them, and two of Julia’s staff were prepping a hose on deck, fed from a tank of powerful bleach concentrate, to disinfect the chopper prior to its touching back down.

  Juan was taking no chances. The crewmen who would tow the Zodiac over with the ship’s SEAL assault boat would go through a similar drill. Because whatever agent had wiped out the passengers and crew of the Golden Dawn wasn’t natural, he knew they were looking at a case of intentional terrorism and murder on a mass scale. He was concerned not only about the virus itself but was already thinking ahead to the people responsible.

  He held out his hands to Julia so she could duct-tape where the suit’s tall gloves meshed with the sleeves. She then secured the back zipper with more of the silver tape. The airflow off his tank was steady, and the carbon scrubbers were activated. He had three hours before he needed to be out of the suit.

  “Move slowly and deliberately,” Julia was telling them over the integrated communications net as she worked. “Plan out everything before you do it. Avoid running. These suits are your life. If the pathogen is airborne, a tiny tear could leave you exposed.”

  “What happens if I do rip the suit?” Mark asked. His voice quavered.

  Murph had been on a few shore operations, but he was clearly uncomfortable going over to the Dawn. Cabrillo wanted him with them to check the cruise ship’s computers and learn exactly where she had been in the past few weeks.

  “I’m going to leave extra lengths of tape on all of your suits. If you get a rip, tape it up immediately and contact me. The suits have a positive air pressure, so, if you’re quick, you should be okay. Don’t move from where you are, because I will need to examine whatever it is that cut you.”

  She worked on Eddie next, looking over every square inch of the rubberized fabric before taping the seams. He, Mark, and Cabrillo had gun belts slung around their waists. The protective gloves made working the triggers difficult, but there was no way Juan would let them go over unarmed.

  “Any time, Chairman,” George said from the Robinson’s open cockpit door. A stack of gear was on one of the nimble little helicopter’s backseats.

  Juan tried to shout at a nearby technician but couldn’t be heard through the hazmat suit. He strode over and hit the button that would activate the hangar elevator. Overhead, the two sections of rear deck hatch folded open as the lift eased upward on four hydraulic rams. He secured the helo’s back door once Julia was inside and swung around to the copilot’s seat.

  Eddie and Murph backed away to give George some room before he fired the engine. After warming up the helicopter for a couple of minutes, he engaged the transmission to start the main rotor turning. The Robinson bucked and wobbled, as the blades built speed, until it had generated enough force to lift them free.

  The ride stabilized as he brought the chopper up vertically and then peeled away from the Oregon. There was a half mile of open ocean separating the two ships. Below, Juan spotted the wake of the SEAL boat and the little Zodiac bobbing behind it. There was a large loading door just above the Golden Dawn’s waterline used when the cruise ship was being provisioned. They would tie off the Zodiac there and return for their bleach shower.

  The Dawn had beautiful lines, Cabrillo thought as they approached. She was slightly shorter than his ship, but with seven decks of cabins and suites she was much taller. Her bow had a nice racy curve to it, and she had a classic champagne-glass fantail. Her single funnel, just aft of the pool, was raked back, giving the impression that she was cutting through the water. As the Robinson crossed over the Dawn’s stern, Juan could just make out the Golden Cruise Lines’ logo, a cascade of gold coins, on the smokestack.

  Adams brought the Robinson to a hover over the wheelhouse, making sure he had enough room to stay well away from the mass of antennas and radar dishes. The confining suit couldn’t diminish his skills as a pilot. He lowered the chopper to within two feet of the deck and kept it there as though it was tethered.

  “Good luck,” he said as Juan threw open his door and jumped clear, instinctively ducking low.

  Julia opened her own door and handed out the crates of medical gear, the rotor downwash rippling her suit. Juan set each on the deck and caught Julia as she jumped free. He closed the door and slapped the chopper’s flank. Adams instantly lifted away to get Murph and Eddie.

  “I want to get down to the sick bay right away,” Julia said when the noise from the Robinson faded enough to use the radios.

  “No. We’re going to wait here for George to come back. I want Eddie with you at all times while you’re looking around.”

  Julia knew Juan was right. He wasn’t being protective because she was a woman. He was being protective because she was the only doctor within a thousand miles. If something happened to them while they were out here, it would fall to her to find a cure.

  The helo returned in less than ten minutes, her underside still wet from being hosed with bleach. Juan and Julia positioned themselves on the stairwell down to the flying bridge to give George room. Eddie and Mark jumped simultaneously from the chopper, and Gomez took off again. This time, the Robinson would be thoroughly scrubbed down, and left on deck in case the boarding team got into trouble.

  “How you doing, Mark?” Juan asked.

  “Little creeped out. I’m starting to regret playing those video games about laboratory accidents that create armies of zombies.”

  “Want me to stay with you on the bridge for a few minutes?”

  “I’ll be okay.” His tone indicated he wanted to accept the Chairman’s offer, but pride was getting the best of him. Eric Stone and the rest of the team in the Op Center were listening in on their conversation, so there was no way he’d show any weakness.

  “Good man. Where did you say the Dawn came from?”

  “The Philippines,” Murph said. “From the cruise line’s database, I learned she’s on a charter from Manila to Athens for some self-help group.”

  “Check her logs and computer memory. Find out if she’s made any stops and, if so, where. Also, see if there’s mention of anything unusual happening during her run. It should all be there. Julia, you know where to go and what you’re looking for. Eddie, stay with her and give her any help she needs collecting her samples.”

  “Where are you going to be?” Eddie Seng asked.

  “We’ve got th
ree hours of air, so I’m going to search as much of the ship as I can.” He clicked on one of the flashlights they had brought and made sure he had a couple of spare batteries in a pouch at his back.

  Cabrillo led them down the stairs and onto the wing bridge. At the far end of the narrow promenade, hanging eighty feet above the ocean, was a set of controls for a harbor pilot to maneuver the cruise liner into port. The door that gave entry to the bridge was closed. Juan pulled it toward him and stepped into the high-tech room. With the power off and the batteries for the emergency lights apparently drained, the bridge was nearly pitch-black. Only the glow of the stars and moon shone through the big windows, rendering everything in murky shadow.

  Juan played the beam of the light around. He spotted the first body in less than two seconds. Julia added her torch to the illumination as she moved past him. Mark had a video camera held up to his visor. The corpse wore the uniform of a ship’s officer, white trousers, and a white shirt with dark shoulder boards. His head was turned away from the team, but even with the uncertain flashlight beams they could see the skin of his neck was a sickly shade of white. Julia knelt at his side and gently turned the body over. The man’s face was smeared with blood, and his torso had been lying in a lake of it. Dr. Huxley performed a quick examination, grunting to herself with each discovery.

  As she worked, Mark Murphy was searching for the backup electrical system, and, in a moment, several lights came up and a few computer monitors flickered to life. There were three other corpses on the bridge, two men in utility uniforms and a woman wearing a cocktail dress. Cabrillo surmised that she had been the guest of the officer who was showing off the bridge when they were struck by whatever pathogen had swept through the passengers and crew like wildfire. The other two crewmen had been standing watch.