submersibles.”
Kurt felt a small amount of vindication, but he’d still been wrong in a highly costly manner.
“And?” he asked.
“And the three of you are to be assigned to a Navy task force charged with finding this submarine,” Brinks said. “Mrs. Trout will work with the Navy acoustics team in trying to refine the signature left on the sonar tapes from the attack on the
“And what are we going to do?” Kurt asked, growing aggravated at what looked like a giant detour.
“Because of your experience in salvage operations and construction of submersibles, you two will be assigned to ASW teams that will be sent out looking for this sub.”
Kurt wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “Looking for it?” Kurt said. “You mean wandering around the ocean, listening to hydrophones and hoping to pick up something more than whales making out?”
Neither Brinks nor Admiral Farnsworth reacted.
“Are you kidding me?” Kurt continued. “There’s forty million square miles of ocean out there. And that’s if these idiots are still sailing around, waiting to get caught. More likely they’ve parked that thing under a shed somewhere and are on to the next step in their plan.”
“Our ASW teams are the best in the world, Mr. Austin,” the admiral said.
“I know they are, Admiral, but how many are you going to spare?”
“Seven frigates and twenty aircraft,” he said. “We’ll also be using both the SOSUS line and other listening stations in the South Atlantic.”
That was better than Kurt had expected, but paltry in comparison to the need. And unless Kurt had missed something, they didn’t even know what they were looking for yet.
“Did we pick up anything on the SOSUS during any of the incidents?” he asked.
“No,” the admiral admitted. “Nothing but the sounds of the
“So all we have is the garbled tape from the
“Do you have a better idea, Mr. Austin?” Brinks asked pointedly.
“Yeah,” he said. “I’m going to track down Andras. And when I find him, that’ll lead us to whoever he’s working for.”
“CIA’s been looking for him for years,” Brinks said dismissively. “He never stays in one place long enough for anyone to get a line on him. What makes you think you’re going to succeed where they failed?”
“Because there are certain rocks they don’t like to turn over,” he said bluntly. “I have no such qualms.”
Brinks pursed his lips, looking disgusted. He turned back to NUMA’s Director. “Mr. Pitt, would you do something, please?”
Dirk leaned back in his chair, looking as casual as could be. “Sure,” he said to Brinks and then turned to Kurt. “Are you serious about this plan?”
“Yes, sir,” Kurt said. “I know someone who Andras used as a contact years ago. I believe he’s still active.”
“Then what are you doing wasting your time with us? Get your butt moving.”
Kurt smiled and stood. “Yes, sir,” he said.
“This is ridiculous,” Brinks said.
“And take Joe with you,” Pitt added, “if he wants to go.”
“Thought you’d never ask,” Joe said.
Brinks ground his teeth and leaned over the table, looking at Dirk Pitt.
“One call and I’ll override this,” he said.
“No you won’t,” Pitt said confidently. “For one, Kurt’s right. Sticking him and Joe on a destroyer is a waste of resources. For another, it puts all our eggs in one basket: your basket. Which I realize, having spent so much time in Washington lately, is half the point. You get the credit if we succeed and you blame them and NUMA if you fail. Simple math. But you forgot a very important variable and that is: I don’t work for you and neither do these men. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you put the country or maritime community at risk for your own personal political agenda.”
Brinks looked about like a man who’d been gored in a bullfight. Even Admiral Farnsworth seemed pleased with the outcome, no doubt wondering what he needed a couple of NUMA civilians on his boats for anyway.
The admiral chuckled and then looked over at Gamay. “We could still use you, Mrs. Trout. Our sonar teams are very friendly.”
“I’ll do my best to help,” she said.
Kurt stepped to the door.
“One thing, Kurt,” Dirk said.
Kurt looked back.
“Stay on the narrow road. This is a mission for us,” Pitt reminded him, “not a sortie of revenge.”
Kurt understood Dirk’s concern. He could feel the conflict inside himself, and no doubt it was easy for someone like Dirk Pitt to pick up on.
He nodded to Pitt, glanced at Brinks, and then headed for the door. He opened it and ran right into one of NUMA’s administrative assistants, a young woman he didn’t know.
“Are you okay?” Kurt asked.
The young woman nodded. “I just came to give Mrs. Trout some news.”
Kurt opened the door wider and let her in.
“Paul’s awake,” the woman said. “He’s asking for you.”
40
DJEMMA GARAND STOOD TALL in the commander’s position in the turret of an aging Russian-made battle tank. His nation had only forty of them, and as Djemma sprung his nationalization plan on the world he intended to put together a show of force in the most public way possible.
While infantry units supported by helicopters and militiamen took control of the mines out in the country, Djemma and twenty of his precious tanks rolled through downtown.
They traveled in a long column, flanked by missile-carrying transports and jeeps and armored personnel carriers. They flowed through the center of town to the sound of thunderous cheers. Tens of thousands of civilians had come out on their own after hearing Djemma promise them better jobs and higher wages once the nationalization was complete. Thousands more had been prodded to line the parade route by the subtle suggestions of Djemma’s security apparatus.
As the convoy rolled past, the cheers sounded genuine, and Djemma took pride in what he was doing. His force was headed to the port in a ceremonial gesture. It was already in his hands, as was the large refinery a few miles to the north and the airport and the few factories on Sierra Leone’s soil.
Riding beside him, a handpicked reporter and cameraman recorded the event.
“President Garand,” the reporter said, almost yelling to be heard over the roaring tank engine and its rumbling, squeaking tracks, “I understand you’ve informed the IMF that Sierra Leone will no longer be making payments on its outstanding portfolio of loans. Is this correct?”
“Yes,” Djemma said. “We are tired of breaking our backs just to pay interest.”
“And that choice is tied to today’s actions?” the reporter asked right on cue.
“Today is a day of liberty,” Djemma said. “Once upon a time, we became free of colonialism. Today we are freeing ourselves from a different kind of oppression. Economic oppression.”
The reporter nodded. “Are you concerned that there will be reprisals for this action?” the man said. “Surely
