Devil's Gate Page 29

  “Okay, here we go,” he said for the fiftieth time.

  Paul put a hand to the soft-padded headset and pressed it into his ears. He saw Gamay click a pen into writing mode and tilt her head in anticipation. The young petty officer pressed “Play,” and Paul heard the familiar sounds of the tape beginning for the umpteenth time. Each time there had been a slight difference as the ensign and his computers filtered out background noise or other sounds. This time, he’d added something.

  “To better orient you with what you’re actually hearing,” Petty Officer Collier said, “we’ve synced up your voice records from communications with the surface with the tape.”

  This time, as the playback ticked over, Paul heard his own voice—it was he and Gamay, bantering with the Matador on the surface and then with each other.

  It was all so surreal. It was him, he knew it was him, but he couldn’t recall saying any of the things he was hearing. Couldn’t recall what he was doing while the words were being spoken.

  Gamay looked over at him. “Anything?”

  “You mean memory-wise?”

  She nodded.

  “No.”

  She looked back at her notes, and the tape continued. Finally, it reached the point of the initial attack.

  Paul pressed the headphones against his ears once again but kept his eyes on Gamay. Each time it reached this point she got agitated. And this run-through was no different. She’d already begun tapping her pen nervously.

  “I’m taking her deeper into the ship,” he heard Gamay say on the tape in reference to Rapunzel.

  A slight change in the background noise was detected, marked by a spike in certain frequencies on the computer screen.

  Several seconds later the Matador’s controller spoke.

  “Paul, we’re picking up a sonar contact.”

  “What kind?”

  “Unknown. West of you and very faint. But moving fast.”

  Paul listened to the sound. It was more discernible this time, as if it had been enhanced.

  He heard his own voice ask if the sound was mechanical or natural, and then, as the signal grew louder, the controller’s voice changed in pitch as well, suddenly gaining half an octave.

  “Mechanical or natural?”

  “Unknown . . . It’s small . . .”

  “It’s a torpedo. Two of them, heading your way.”

  “Stop the tape,” Paul said. “Play back the last twenty seconds.”

  “I don’t think we need to, Paul,” Gamay said. “It’s useless.”

  “No,” Paul said. “I heard something. Something I didn’t hear last time. Play it back.”

  Gamay turned from him, looking frustrated and pensive. Her fingernails were chewed down to nothing, and she kept looking around, focusing on the door and the clock like a kid in the last class on the last day of school.

  Paul guessed that listening to the tape over and over again was forcing her to relive the incident and he understood how it might be affecting her, but despite his repeated suggestions she would not leave him to do it alone.

  The tape played again, and Paul listened closely.

  As it finished, he asked for one more listen.

  He saw Gamay gulp at an imaginary lump in her throat as the tape ran forward again.

  “Paul, we’re picking up a sonar contact.”

  “What kind?”

  “Unknown. West of you and very faint. But moving fast.”

  “Stop!” Paul said. “Right there.”

  Gamay took her headset off and put it down on the table. “I have to get some air,” she said.

  Paul nodded and watched her leave the room. In a bizarre way his memory loss seemed to be helping them, as he had no emotional attachment to what had gone down. It was an investigation like all the others. A mystery he wanted to solve. But it dredged up no particular feelings for him.

  “Can you isolate the vibration and remove the voice track?” Paul asked.

  “Sure,” the petty officer said.

  It took a minute, and then it was ready and playing again. There was something else blocking the sound. Paul looked at the computer screen. A frequency chart showed a bunch of low-level background noises and two major vibration sources. One was on a slightly lower band than the other.

  “What’s this?” he asked, pointing to the spike on the chart.

  “That’s the Grouper’s motor signature,” the ensign said.

  “Can you pull it out?”

  Collier nodded, and a few seconds later indicated that he was ready.

  “Go,” Paul said.

  This time, as the playback went through, Paul was sure of what he was hearing. He didn’t know what it meant, but it wasn’t his imagination.

  He pointed to the other frequency spike. “Can you eliminate all other background noise and just play this? And can you enhance it?”

  “Mr. Trout,” the petty officer said, “the government makes sure we have the best equipment in the world. I can make it play the ‘Star-Spangled Banner,’ if you want.”

  Paul laughed. “Just make this sound wave louder,” he said, “and stretch it out a bit.”

  This time, as the playback came, it sounded a little like a moped speeding toward him on an empty city street. No other noise, no urgent shouts of inbound torpedoes, just a whiny vibration that grew slightly louder and then lowered its pitch, not once but twice. As if it had passed them and was turning away.

  “Is that what I think it is?” Paul asked.

  The petty officer played the tape one more time and nodded.

  “Compression,” he said. “The initial sound is compressed to high frequency because the source is coming toward the Grouper, and on the last three seconds of tape the sound is stretched out to lower frequency because the source is moving away from the Grouper.”

  “Like a train whistle,” Paul said, “or a car passing you on the street. The vehicle is still making the same sound, but your perception is different. So it can’t be the torpedoes.”

  “Nope,” the petty officer said. “It’s definitely a vehicle. From the sound of it, I’d say it’s two vehicles.”

  Paul nodded; that’s what he was thinking. “But why didn’t we hear them before?”

  “All the distortion,” Collier said. “And the torpedoes. In fact, the signature is being picked up in almost the same frequency bands as the torpedoes.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “To me, Mr. Trout, that means you were attacked by something small and fast. Submarines making high rpms with small propellers, much like a torpedo.”

  “Not one big submarine but two small ones,” Paul said. He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he guessed it would bring the mother ship theory back into play. At the very least, they were making progress.

  Collier ran it one last time just to be sure. The sound was only audible for a couple of seconds in real time before the noise of the torpedoes drowned it out.

  Collier took his headset off. “I’ll inform the captain. And we’ll do some more work on this.”

  “You want me to stick around?” Paul asked.

  “I think you have some work of your own to do, Mr. Trout.” He nodded upward as if to suggest Paul go topside.

  “Right,” Paul said. He put his headset down, got up, and made his way through the bulkhead door.

  Two minutes later he stepped out onto the Truxton’s aft deck.

  Sunshine, fresh air, and the sound of thumping helicopter blades greeted him. A stone gray SH-60B Seahawk was descending toward the helipad with a payload suspended beneath it.

  He found Gamay watching it and moved up beside her.

  “I think we’ve found something,” he shouted over the noise.

  She didn’t respond except to acknowledge that he was there.

  “I think we’ve isolated the acoustics of the sub that attacked us,” he explained. “It was actually two subs.”

  “Good,” she said, sounding anything but excited.

  “I th
ought you’d be happy,” he said. “We don’t have to listen to the tape anymore. Why are you so upset?”

  She looked at him and then nodded toward the helicopter. “What’s that doing here?”

  Paul looked over. The payload beneath the helicopter was being lowered to the deck in a cradle. It was now close enough that Paul could make out what it was: a small submersible. Attached to the rear of the sub was a package of mechanical equipment and a human-shaped figure made of metal. Rapunzel.

  “Dirk sent it over,” Paul said.

  “You knew about this?”

  “He told me this morning,” Paul said. “It’s only a contingency. Just in case we need it.”

  Gamay said nothing. She just shook her head angrily, glared at him for a second, and then pushed past him and went back inside the ship.

  47

  Sierra Leone, July 5

  IN HIS EXECUTIVE PALACE, with its marble floors, Djemma Garand sat with Alexander Cochrane. Cochrane had spent the night reviewing the options arrived at by the ad hoc scientific guests.

  “Essentially,” Cochrane said, “they’ve all come up with the same solution. I see minor differences, no more.”

  Cochrane looked tired. His usual petulance had been replaced by a sense of exhaustion and perhaps fear.

  “And your evaluation of their solutions?” Djemma asked, eager to get to the point.

  “The fact that they all came to it independently tells me it’s probably correct. I see nothing wrong with their calculations.”

  “And the implementation?” Djemma asked.

  “In essence, we can use the particle accelerator as it stands now,” Cochrane said. “We just have to generate a heavier charged particle to fire through it. It’s like trading out a twenty-two shell and replacing it with a forty-five. Everything else is the same. The particles will move a little slower, not enough to affect the operation, but they’ll hit with three times the power.” He put his notes down. “It’s rather simple, actually.”

  “Pity you didn’t think of it months ago,” Djemma said, the words sliding off his tongue with open disdain.

  “This is theoretical work,” Cochrane said. “Not my field.”

  “Yes,” Djemma said. “After all, you are just a mechanic.”

  The intercom on Djemma’s phone buzzed. “Mr. President,” his secretary said, “a guest has arrived to speak with you. The American ambassador.”

  “Excellent,” Djemma said. “Send him in.”

  Cochrane stood. “I need twenty-four hours to make the changes.”

  “Then I suggest you get to it,” Djemma said. He pointed to a back door. “Leave that way.”

  Cochrane obliged, moving quickly out the back as the front door to Djemma’s office opened and the American ambassador came in. Normally, Djemma would meet such a man halfway across the floor, but he remained in his seat, beckoning the ambassador to sit across from him in the spot Cochrane had just vacated.

  “President Garand,” the ambassador said in an easy Texas drawl, “I’m sure you know the sad business I’m here to ask you about.”

  “Whatever do mean, Mr. Ambassador?” Djemma said. “We are celebrating our Fourth of July. A day late, perhaps.”

  The ambassador managed a forced smile but shook his head. “What you’re calling independence is nothing but naked aggression, theft, and the violation of international law. To be honest with you, I can’t recall such a brazen act.”

  “Then you must be a poor student of history,” Djemma said. “In 1950, under the threat of nationalizing all of Standard Oil’s assets, the Saudi royal family took half the oil in Arabia. That oil has been worth three and a half trillion dollars over the last sixty years. In 2001, Hugo Chávez of Venezuela did virtually the same thing. In 1972, Chile nationalized its copper mines under Salvador Allende. In 1973, India nationalized its entire coal industry. In 1959, Fidel Castro took Havana, waiting patiently until the Havana Hilton was complete so he could use it as the Communist Party’s headquarters. He seized all foreign assets and has never relinquished them. Do you not recall any of these events, Mr. Ambassador?”

  The ambassador took a deep breath. “Of course I recall them, but this is different.”

  “Yes,” Djemma said. “And just how different you have not yet discovered. In the meantime, in strict dollar terms, my actions are relatively minor in comparison to the events I have just reminded you of. To be honest, I’m surprised to see you. I would have expected the Chinese ambassador to arrive first; they stand to lose far more than you.”

  The last statement was a jab at the ambassador’s pride, but he didn’t react.

  “We’re here on their behalf,” he said. “And on behalf of all the countries that have a grievance and a claim. Now, off the record, we’re prepared to consider modifying the repayment terms of your loans, but we’re not forgiving you any of the principal. And before any negotiations start, your forces must withdraw from the industrial institutions owned by foreign parties.”

  Djemma smiled. “I make you a counteroffer,” he said. “I will keep what we have rightly taken. And I will ask only for twenty billion a year in grants from your country.”

  “What?” the ambassador said.

  “I would ask for new loans,” Djemma said, “but considering that I didn’t pay the other loans back, I fear no one will extend us credit. Therefore, it will have to be grants. Do not worry, we will be demanding the same contributions from China and Europe.”

  “You can’t be serious,” the ambassador responded curtly. “You steal the world’s property and then demand that we collectively give you sixty billion dollars a year in free money?”

  “It is a small amount,” Djemma assured him. “You gave your own banks seven hundred billion a few years ago. You spent a trillion dollars on Iraq, twenty billion a month. What I ask for is a fraction of that, and no one has to suffer. In return, we will allow American corporations to handle many of the construction projects. You may consider it a stimulus program.”

  By now Djemma was smiling like a madman. For so long he had listened to the Europeans and Americans lecturing poor nations on fiscal responsibility. Hypocrites, he thought. Look what they had wrought upon themselves. Now he would throw it back in their faces.

  The ambassador’s face was turning red. “Your reach is stretching beyond your power to grasp, Mr. President,” he blurted. “This will not stand.”

  “The Saudis still stand,” Djemma said. “Chávez still stands. So does Castro. You will find it easier to negotiate than you are letting on. And if you don’t . . . I warn you there will be consequences.”

  This was the first hint of a threat that Djemma had made. He needed to be subtle. By the sudden focus on the ambassador’s face, he knew he hadn’t been too obscure. But when the ambassador began to chuckle, Djemma felt his own ire rising.

  “What is so funny?” he demanded to know.

  The ambassador settled down, but a smile remained on his face. “I feel like I’m in a production of The Mouse That Roared,” he said. “I could take over this country with a group of Boy Scouts and a few state troopers, and you think you can threaten us?”

  The laughter returned, and Djemma snapped. He brought the riding crop down on the desk in a stunningly swift move. The ambassador jumped back at the sound, shocked.

  “Your arrogance betrays you, Mr. Ambassador,” Djemma said. He stood, drawing himself up to his full six-foot-two-inch height.

  “For too long you and the other rich nations have mocked countries like mine,” he said. “Whether you believe it or not, those days are about to end. The industrialized world will support us, not in dribs and drabs but in substantial amounts. You will help us stand or we will drag you down into the mire with us! Only then will you see the truth. We are not mice for you to play with. Sierra Leone is the Land of Lions. And if you are not cautious, you will feel our teeth in your soft, decadent necks.”

  Djemma didn’t wait for a reply from the American ambassador. He pressed
the intercom button, and a group of guards entered the room.

  “See the ambassador to the airfield,” he shouted. “He is to be deported immediately.”

  “This is an outrage,” the ambassador shouted.

  “Take him!” Djemma ordered.

  The ambassador was hustled outside, and the door slammed behind him.

  Djemma sat alone, fuming. He was angry with the ambassador’s arrogance and disdain. He hadn’t expected it so soon. But he was even angrier with himself for jumping at the bait and voicing his threat so forcefully. He hadn’t planned to speak so soon. Now there would be no negotiations. Unless . . .

  He had no choice. He had made a claim that the Americans would assume to be a bluff. He had to demonstrate his power, otherwise they and the world at large would only scoff and laugh with disdain as he ranted and raved: another mad dictator in a banana republic.

  He would unleash his weapon in all its glorious power and leave them no choice but to treat him with respect.

  48

  Washington, D.C., July 6, 1330 hours

  DIRK PITT HAD A FRONT-ROW SEAT in the Situation Room at the Pentagon. Cameron Brinks of the NSA was putting on a show. The President wasn’t there, but his Chief of Staff, military brass from all four branches, and several members of the cabinet were present. As was the Vice President of the United States, Dirk Pitt’s former boss, Admiral James D. Sandecker.

  With the bizarre actions in Sierra Leone over the past few days, followed by the threats coming from its President, Brinks had totally embraced the possibility that Sierra Leone was involved in the scientific kidnappings and the creation of some type of energy weapon.

  How else could they have the gall to threaten the world and America in particular? After several days of searching with his satellites, Brinks claimed to have identified the location of such a weapon, calling it a clear and present danger.

  At the front of the room, on a screen that was just a fraction smaller than some Jumbotrons he’d seen, Pitt studied a satellite feed. It showed an area off the coast of Sierra Leone, a shallow bay ten miles across, home to an oil production zone known as the Quadrangle because of its dimensions and the four evenly spaced platforms. On a wide angle they showed up as four pinpoints of gray. At closer ranges, those points were easily identifiable as huge offshore oil rigs.