Ghost Ship (NUMA Files 12)

“I’m an American,” Joe said.

To Joe’s right, another soldier had a rifle aimed at Kurt.

“He’s injured!” Joe shouted. “He needs a doctor.”

More shouts came his way.

“We’re American,” Joe replied. “We’re on your side. We’re operating undercover. For Colonel Lee of the National Intelligence Service.”

No response.

“CIA,” Joe shouted, hoping they knew the acronym.

With the spotlight on his face, they could clearly see that he was not Korean. A quick discussion was held, and Joe and Kurt were cuffed, thrown in the back of one of the Humvees, and driven off.

As they pulled out of the warehouse, Joe got a firsthand look at the effectiveness of his plan. South Korean helicopters, armed with missiles and spotlights, were circling the landfill. Several others were patrolling down the line of the DMZ, looking for invading troops or infiltration units of the North Korean Army.

In addition to the helicopters, soldiers were everywhere. And as they took the road out, Joe saw Abrams tanks moving into position, while a flight of F-16s flashed overhead in full afterburner.

Joe looked for the lights of Seoul, but the city had gone dark in response to the expected invasion.

“Hmm,” Joe whispered to himself. “Maybe that plan of mine worked a little too well.”

They were taken to a military base and quickly separated, Kurt whisked off to the infirmary, Joe to an interrogation room. For two hours, Joe was subject to continuous interrogation by officers of the South Korean military. He told them all the same thing, and he asked repeatedly about Kurt. He got nowhere until Col. Lee and Tim Hale arrived.

They were livid.

“You two must be insane,” Hale said, “following them into North Korea.”

“We were following the lead,” Joe said. “What did you want us to do? Just let them go?”

“Maybe you should have,” Hale said.

“You know

this will calm down,” Joe said. “It’s a minor incursion. And let’s not forget who built the damned tunnel.”

“I wasn’t talking about the political situation,” Hale said, “I was referring to Kurt.”

“Why? What’s happened?” Joe said, concerned.

“He’s in a coma,” Hale explained. “The doctors can’t say when—or if—he’s going to come out of it.”

Indian Ocean, 1230 hours local time

Seven thousand miles and six time zones from Korea, a small flotilla of ships was in the process of linking themselves together with heavy steel cables.

Over the course of a day, two oceangoing tugs had arrived from South Africa. The Drakensberg had reached the Condor and towed it to where the Waratah lay drifting in the current, while a second tug, known as the Sedgewick, had arrived six hours later and was preparing to run lines to the foliage-encrusted hulk of the old ship.

But before she could be put under tow, an inspection had to be made. At Paul’s direction, a salvage crew had gone aboard, splitting into three groups. The main contingent began clearing the accumulated growth and sediment from the ship’s hull, hoping to make her lighter in the water and less top-heavy. As they excavated up above, the Condor’s chief engineer went down into the lower recesses of the ship to check the integrity of the hull and internal bulkheads. As they worked on the inside, Duke and another diver were finishing up a survey of the hull’s exterior below the waterline.

The radio cackled at Paul’s side. “Paul, this is the chief.” Paul put the radio to his mouth. “What’s the word?” “The engineering spaces are pretty gunked up. At least two feet of sludge

down here. And in some places several feet of water.”

That didn’t sound promising. “Can you find the leak?” “No leaks,” the chief reported happily. “It’s freshwater. Rainwater, if you want me to guess, must be leaking in somewhere. But if you ask me, the hull itself is sound.”

“That’s good news,” Paul said. “What about corrosion?” “I think we’re fine,” the chief said. “To be honest, the old gal is in great condition for a ship that’s passed the century mark.”