Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

She narrowed her gaze, looking suspicious and excited all at the same time. “And that step would be . . .”

Kurt pulled out his phone, double-checked the message from Hiram Yaeger and made up his mind. “We need to steal our own equipment and go rogue for a while.”

“Because stealing a bus wasn’t enough excitement for one night?”

“We’re being watched,” he said. “The group we met tonight aren’t the only agents we’re going to have to deal with. And our problems won’t end when we get to the open sea. According to a few satellite photos I looked at before dinner, some awfully suspicious-looking trawlers are already following the Catalina and our other vessels.”

“Chinese spy trawlers with tall masts and lots of antennas,” she said. “I already know about them. But none of that matters if we can find the Nighthawk and pull it off the bottom before their salvage fleet gets here.”

“Which would be great if it was just sitting down there ready to be picked up like a stuffed bear in a carnival game. But I have information suggesting it didn’t come down in one piece like your people think it did. In fact, it’s probably sitting on the bottom in several large pieces and a thousand small ones.”

She folded her arms across her chest, a faraway look that suggested she was calculating something. “Our people are adamant that the Nighthawk did not break up.”

“And my people have audio recordings from underwater listening posts that pinpoint an impact four minutes and seventeen seconds after you lost track of the Nighthawk. The particular sound signatures suggest a high-speed surface impact, mid-frequency noise consistent with sudden generation of superheated steam—which is to be expected when a thousand-degree surface touches seventy-degree waters—and low-volume implosions at deeper depths consistent with wreckage breaking up.”

“Where?” she asked.

“Approximately fifty miles east of the Galápagos Islands chain,” Kurt said. “Right in the heart of your probability cone.”

“How sure are you?”

“Certain enough to risk a case of Don Julio tequila and a box of Cuban cigars,” he said. “Trust me, this information is not wrong. Our subsurface listening posts are more advanced than the Navy’s SOSUS line and our computers, and the guy who built them, are one of a kind.”

She seemed almost convinced. “Share it with the NSA’s central office and we’ll confirm. I promise you’ll get the credit.”

“I don’t care about credit,” he said. “And telling anyone at the NSA would be a major mistake.”

For the first time, she looked angry. “You’re working for us, remember?”

“Sure,” Kurt said. “But what about everyone else who’s working for you? Are you willing to bet no one’s moonlighting?”

By the look on her face, she obviously got the implication. She clenched her jaw and stared at him, and Kurt wondered if Hurricane Emma was about to make an appearance. “What are you getting at?”

“We’ve only been here for six hours, we’ve already been followed and attacked. There’s a Chinese spy trawler following the Catalina and it’s officially still doing an environmental survey. By the look of things, the Chinese are aware of every move we make almost before we make it. That tells me we have a leak.”

“It might not be the NSA,” she suggested. “How can you be sure NUMA doesn’t have a mole hiding in the woodwork somewhere?”

“I can’t,” he admitted. “That’s why we tell no one about our next move. Not NUMA, not the NSA, no one. It’s the only way to be sure this information doesn’t end up in the daily briefing in Shanghai.”

She looked him in the eye. Once she’d accepted his logic, the path became clear. Her lips curved into a knowing smile. “Okay,” she said. “So we go rogue. I must admit, it has a certain appeal. Count me in.”

“Fantastic,” he said. “Now . . . all we need is a helicopter and a ship big enough to operate from. One they would never suspect us to be using.”

9

NUMA vessel Catalina

One hundred miles west-southwest of Guayaquil

2200 hours

The NUMA vessel Catalina continued through the night on a northerly heading, traveling at full speed. Two hundred and sixty feet long, the Catalina was sleek for a research vessel and she took to the high-speed run well, cutting through the waves and rolling only slightly with the crossing swells.

Gamay Trout was thankful for the ship’s stability as she walked from the communications room to the bridge with an odd message to deliver.

Five foot ten and willowy in build, Gamay had dark red hair with a rich and ever-changing luster; her eyes and easy smile suggested a tough playfulness, brought about from growing up as a tomboy. She spoke in a clear, concise way, with few wasted

words, a pattern she’d been told came from an uncluttered mind that moved with effortless speed.