Plague Ship (Oregon Files 5)

Juan hit the button for the shipwide PA system. “This is the Chairman. Everyone hold on tight. We’re in for a wild ride. Five minutes.”

The mast-mounted camera was turned aft and switched to night vision mode so they could watch the wave coming at them. It filled the sea from horizon to horizon, impenetrable, implacable. Its face was veined with emerald lines of phosphorus, and its crest looked like green fire.

“I have the conn,” Juan said suddenly, and took command of his ship.

He had noticed they were running from the wave at a slight angle and gave the Oregon a bit of rudder by way of correction. If they were going to ride this out, they needed to take the hit directly on the stern. Any deviation and the five-hundred-foot ship would auger into the wave and roll a dozen times before being released from its grip.

“Here we go!”

It was like an express elevator. The stern came up so fast that, for a moment, there was no water under her middle. The sound of the hull’s moaning was lost in the savage roar of the wave. The bow plunged into the sea. Juan cut power to keep her from burying her prow, and then the entire ship was dragged up the face of the wave. The acceleration sent everyone lurching forward. The ship climbed the wave, her bow pointing down at a dizzying angle. Juan glanced at their speed through the water, which was down to four knots, but their speed over bottom was nearly seventy miles an hour.

The stern burst through the wave’s crest in an explosion of froth that swamped the decks. Water sluiced from the scuppers in sheets and blasted from the drive tubes in solid white jets. Thirty, forty, fifty feet of Oregon’s stern hung suspended over the back of the wave before she began to tip. And then she went over, falling faster than when she’d been plucked off the surface.

Cabrillo fire-walled the engines, asking his ship to give him everything she had. When they hit the bottom of the wave, her stern would knife through the surface, and if the Oregon didn’t have enough power she would simply keep going until the ocean closed over her bow.

With the ship at an

almost sixty-degree angle, the fantail splashed into the rough water in the wave’s trailing edge, and vanished. The sea climbed over the rearmost cargo hatch, and, had it not been for the thick rubber seals, the helicopter hangar under it would have swamped.

“Come on, girl,” Juan cajoled, watching the water claim more and more of his ship. “You can do it.”

The angle began to flatten out as the bow came off the wave, and Oregon’s plunge into the abyss seemed in check. For a long moment, she neither sank nor rose out of the water. The vessel shuddered with the strain of her engines trying to deadlift eleven thousand tons from the sea’s crushing embrace. And slowly, so slowly at first that Juan wasn’t sure he was seeing it right on the monitors, the deck began to clear. The leading edge of the stern hatch appeared as the magnetohydrodynamics thrust her out of what should have been her watery grave.

Cabrillo finally joined the chorus of whistles and cheers when he saw the sodden Iranian flag hanging off her jack staff. He eased off the power and turned control back over to the helmsman.

Max sidled up to his chair. “And I thought you were crazy jumping an ATV off a dock. Any other ship would have turtled on a wave like that.”

“This isn’t any other ship,” Juan said, and patted Max’s arm. “Or any other crew, for that matter.”

“Thank you,” Max said simply.

“I’ve got one of my wayward children home. It’s time to get the other two.”

CHAPTER 39

KOVAC KNEW THERE WAS TROUBLE WHEN HE TRIED TO reach Thom Severance from the Golden Sky’s radio room and got no response. He didn’t even get a ring.

With the radios switched off, on Kovac’s orders, it wasn’t until twenty minutes later that word reached the ship from a satellite-news broadcast. A meteor had been spotted streaking across southern Europe. Estimated at weighing a ton, it had hit an island off the coast of Turkey. A tsunami alert had been issued, but there was only one report from a Greek ferry about a wave, and it was said to be only a few feet high and presented no danger.

He knew it was no meteor. It had to have been an atomic bomb. His two prisoners hadn’t been lying at all. The American authorities knew about their plan and had authorized a nuclear strike. The light people had seen streaking southward across Europe must have been from the cruise missile that delivered the warhead.

Kovac hit the MUTE button on the television remote to cut out the anchorwoman’s speculative blather. He had to consider his options. If they had sent operatives to the Golden Sky, they must have known he was on the ship. No, that logic wasn’t right. He was here because he suspected they were aboard first. So they didn’t know where he was. His solution, then, was simple: kill his two captives and leave the ship when it made its scheduled call on Iraklion, the Cretan capital.

“But they’ll be waiting,” he muttered.

Whoever sent the two Americans—the CIA, most likely, but what did it matter—would have operatives at the port to meet the ship. He wondered if he could slip through their dragnet. Then he wondered if it was worth the risk. Better to simply stop the cruise ship and escape in one of the lifeboats. There were thousands of islands in the Aegean to hide on until he planned his next move.

That still left the question of the prisoners. Should he kill them or take them as hostages? He wasn’t concerned about controlling the man, who looked like a stoner to Kovac. But there was something about the woman that told him she could be dangerous. Better to kill them both than worry about them trying to get away.

That left one last detail. The virus.

It lived only for a couple of weeks in its sealed canister, so it wouldn’t do him much good after his escape. Releasing it would infect the thousand or so people on the ship, and, with a little luck, they would spread it when they returned to their homes. But he didn’t think there was much chance of that. The ship would be quarantined and the passengers held in isolation until they were no longer infectious.

It was better than nothing.

Kovac got up from his chair and walked onto the bridge. Night had fully descended, and the only illumination came from the consoles and radar repeaters. There were two officers on watch and two helmsmen. Kovac’s assistant, Laird Bergman, was outside on the flying bridge, enjoying a cigarette under the stars.

“I want you to go down to the laundry and release the virus manually,” Kovac told him.