Nighthawk (NUMA Files 14)

“Hot damn,” Rudi replied. “Wake me with that kind of news anytime. What’s the probability?”

“Fairly good. Check with Hiram for details and stand by. Also keep the rest of the fleet doing their thing. The busier they look, the less likely anyone is to notice that we’ve gone off the map. Might even want to pretend you’ve found something back that way, it’ll draw the heat in your direction.”

“Great idea. I’ll get something in the works. I’ll even put it in a report to the NSA.”

“Perfect,” Kurt said. He was about to sign off and hang up when another thought occurred to him. “One more thing. If you happen to get any calls from the Malabar Shipping Line or the Golden Fruit Company of Valparaiso, Chile . . . I wouldn’t answer them right away. Probably just a telemarketer.”

The gloom returned to Rudi’s voice. “Do I even want to know?”

“Put it this way,” Kurt said. “If I don’t find what we’re looking for in the next two days, there will be no shortage of limes for your margaritas.”

Rudi acknowledged with a soft grunt and then hung up. Kurt switched off the phone and turned to see Emma approaching him.

“You have them eating out of your hand,” she said. “But how do you intend to pay for this ship? Not to mention the cargo and the pirate’s booty Joe promised them?”

Kurt shrugged and put the phone away. “I figured we’d use that expense account of yours. I took care of dinner, remember?”

“Very funny,” she said. “But, I’m serious. We’re either going to end up walking the plank here or being drawn and quartered on the Capitol steps.”

Kurt didn’t think so. “There’s a ten-hour difference between here and Malaysia, where the shipping company has its headquarters. They’re closed now. They won’t be open again until tomorrow morning, Malaysian Standard Time. By then, it will be dark in D.C. and the phones will be forwarded to the answering service. Between that and the normal speed of bureaucracy, it’ll be a week before anyone starts sorting out this mess. By then, we’ll have found what we’re looking for.”

“And when it doesn’t turn out to be filled with barrels of uncut diamonds?”

“I never mentioned diamonds,” Kurt said.

“No, but the cargo you vouched for is worth fifty million dollars. And this ship is worth twice that much.”

“And how much did the Nighthawk cost?” he asked. “Fifty billion? A hundred? How much would the NSA pay to keep it out of Russian hands? You’re worrying about the pennies and forgetting about the thousand-dollar bills. Trust me, by the time this becomes a problem we’ll have the Nighthawk’s actual position locked down and the most important parts of the aircraft on board. Instead of complaining about the cost of this ship and the cargo, someone will be pinning a medal on your chest and calling you a risk taker and bold leader and buying Captain Kamphausen and his friends their own ships, crewed by beautiful mermaids.”

She took a deep breath and looked away out over the dark sea. “You really are crazy,” she whispered, before turning back to him with a smile. “What sort of Pandora’s Box have you opened for me?”

“Must be your inner rebel,” he replied with a grin.

“All I can say is, you’d better be right or we’re going to end up partners in a fruit stand for the rest of our natural lives.”

“I could think of worse fates,” Kurt said. “But, trust me. It’s going to work out just fine.”

13

NUMA vessel Catalina

Paul Trout thought his wife was playing a practical joke on him as she read the latest order, this time from Rudi Gunn. It made as little sense as the previous one.

“Proceed to specified coordinates and begin dropping sonar buoys on north–south line. After three hours and twenty-seven minutes, begin concentric circles. One hour later, at the captain’s leisure, come to a full stop. At this point, make obvious preparations for deep-sea recovery operation, including launch of ROVs. Send coded transmissions and continue recovery operations until further orders.”

“Recovery of what?” Paul asked.

“It doesn’t say,” Gamay insisted. “Just that we need to make it look good.”

“With what?” he added. “We just dumped our only manned submersible over the rail.”

“I suppose we’ll have to improvise,” Gamay said.

Paul shook his head. “Ours is not to reason why,” he said. “Let’s go give Callahan the news. Hopefully, his head won’t explode.”

Four thousand miles away, Constantin Davidov thought his head might do just that. He’d been traveling in the passenger compartment of a Russian Mi-14 helicopter for the better part of a day. The huge blue-gray-painted craft was the newest, extended-range model, stripped of weapons and armor and given two large auxiliary fuel tanks. It was known to its pilots as the Carrier Pigeon, since it was used to ferry men and equipment over extremely long distances. The men on the ground called it the Clay Pigeon because it was filled with so much jet fuel that it was ponderous, heavy and slow, making it an easy target.

All Davidov knew was that nineteen hours in such a craft, including several air-to-air refueling passes, qualified as torture and should have been banned by the Geneva convention.