The Jungle (Oregon Files 8)

“Mr. Croissard, it’s Juan Cabrillo.” The background din was a symphony of sirens. “What’s happening there?”

“A bombing on the roof of the hotel.” Croissard’s voice was edgy, near panic. “They have evacuated all the guests. It is a good thing, because ten minutes after the first explosion another ripped through part of the casino.”

Juan covered the handset’s microphone and relayed that last bit of information to Max, adding, “See, we were nowhere near the gaming floor. It was a coincidence.”

Max’s perpetual scowl deepened, but he knew the Chairman was

right.

“Are you and Smith okay?”

“Oui, oui, we are unharmed. Just a little shaken up, perhaps. Well, at least I am. Nothing seems to bother John.”

“That’s good. I think we are all victims of being at the wrong place at the wrong time.” Juan had to raise his voice when the Gulfstream’s twin engines began spooling up. “I want to assure you that this will not affect our transaction. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I do. And I am most relieved.”

“Let Mr. Smith know that I will be in touch with instructions for how we will pick him up. As I said earlier it will most likely take place in Chittagong, Bangladesh.”

“D’accord. I will tell him.”

Juan cut the connection. He rummaged through a storage locker and found a pair of mechanic’s overalls. They were sized for Tiny Gunderson, but a dry tent was preferable to a well-tailored but wet suit.

They took off a few minutes later, and no sooner had the undercarriage clicked into the fuselage than Tiny’s voice came over the intercom. “Singapore control just shut down all departing aircraft. They’re requesting we return to the airport, but I figure we’ll be beyond their twelve-mile limit before they can do anything about it. Whatever you and Max got into back there, Chairman, it sure has their dander up.”

Hanley and Cabrillo exchanged a look. Max leaned forward to a small refrigerator and pulled out two beers, a Peroni for Juan and a Bud Light for himself. The “Light” was an admission that his personal battle with the bulge was ongoing. “I’d say,” he said, “that we just barely kept our butts out of a Singapore Sling.”

Cabrillo groaned.

* * *

EIGHT HOURS LATER, and half an ocean away, Gomez Adams held the Corporation’s MD 520N over the rearmost of the Oregon’s five cargo hatches. The ship was pitching mildly, but there was a freshening breeze off the port quarter. He massaged the controls, matching pitch, yaw, and speed, and set the big chopper onto the deck. As soon as the skids kissed steel, he cut the turbine and announced, “We’re home. And, believe it or not, there might just be a little vapor left in the gas tanks.”

A technician immediately rushed forward to secure the chopper.

The eleven-thousand-ton tramp freighter was at the helicopter’s maximum range off the eastern coast of the Indian subcontinent as she drove through the gentle rollers for her rendezvous in Bangladesh. Far to the west the setting sun painted the undersides of the clouds in hues of orange, red, and purple and cast a wavering gilded beam atop the waves.

Nowhere on earth was a sunset as beautiful as those found at sea, Cabrillo thought as he ducked under the chopper’s still-spinning blades. The downdraft made his oversized jumpsuit snap and whip like it was attacking him.

Max grinned at him when the collar slapped Juan across the face.

“Welcome back, boys,” Linda Ross said as she stepped forward to greet them. She wore a pair of cutoff shorts and a tank top. “You have a knack for finding trouble, don’t you?”

Hanley pointed a thumb at Juan. “Blame him. The guy attracts nothing but suicide bombers, terrorists, and madmen.”

“Don’t forget loose women. What’s the latest on the bombings?”

“Some new group called al-Qaeda of the East has claimed responsibility for the attack. No dead and only five slight injuries. The two blasts on the roof were standard vests packed with Semtex and scrap metal. You know, couture for killers. The explosion in the casino was much smaller. No word yet on what it was, or at least it’s not being reported. Mark and Eric think they can hack into the Singapore police mainframe, but they didn’t sound too certain.”

“Tell them not to bother,” Cabrillo said. “My guess is the primary bombers’ handler tossed a grenade in a trash can to cause more chaos. I’d hate to think of the death toll had Max and I not been there.”

“Amen,” Hanley said, and ambled off to give Adams and his mechanics their orders.

Off along the starboard rail, a crewman had opened the lid of what had started out as a regular fifty-five-gallon steel barrel. It was as dented and neglected as everything else aboard the Oregon. Rather than just some bit of nautical junk left to litter the deck, the barrel was a carefully positioned redoubt for a remotely operated M60 machine gun. The technician from the armory had the lid open, and the gun raised and pivoted to the horizontal position while he cleaned it and checked for any signs of salt-air corrosion. This was one of several identical weapons placed around the main deck’s perimeter that were used primarily to repel boarders.

“Why there?” Linda wondered aloud as she and the Chairman walked to the towering amidships superstructure. Its white paint was faded to the color of curdled cream and was flaking off the ship like she was some prehistoric reptile shedding her skin.

Because there were no other vessels within visual range, they hadn’t bothered pumping ersatz smoke though the ship’s single funnel. Unlike any other watercraft plying the oceans today, the Oregon relied on magnetohydrodynamics. The high-tech system used supercooled magnets to strip free electrons from the briny water. This free electricity was then used to force water through two pump jets. Eventually such propulsion would become standard on all shipping since it was environmentally sound, but the staggering cost and still-experimental state of development made the Oregon the only vessel afloat to use it.