The unmarked salvage vessel left no digital footprint. It operated under cover of darkness and cloud-covered skies. The NSA satellites were of little use, and surrounding vessels in the region had no recollection of the phantom salvage ship. It didn’t vanish, said investigators. It was if it was never there.
Now it was preparing to anchor off the coast of Puerto Rico. To any other ships in the area, it appeared to be one of hundreds of environmental research vessels mapping or studying the unique marine ecosystems in the Puerto Rico Trench. The Ecuadorian flag flying from its stern was not out of the ordinary, and anyone searching its name would see it was part of a much larger ocean survey fleet.
Ordinarily, more precautions would be taken by those who dispatched the vessel to this part of the North Atlantic. They believed in planning. They were patient people, committed to considering all angles and obstacles before making a move. They’d learned from the past. A period in time when hasty, emotion-filled decisions resulted in the demise of their once great nation.
When they were given the opportunity to rise, and then to strike, they’d not do it on hastily designed plans. They would succeed this time.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Off the Northern Coast of Puerto Rico
Atlantic Ocean
The feeder bands of a tropical depression that had formed up in the Caribbean Sea off the southern coast of the Dominican Republic had caused the winds to whip up the surface waters of the Atlantic above the Puerto Rico Trench. The Ecuadorian salvage ship, containing two identical human-operated submersibles, moved deliberately through the water to their designated dive location. Churning through the choppy sea, the ship rode low, its bow crashing through the occasional rogue wave that sent sprays of seawater surging over its bow.
“Distance?” the captain of the vessel asked. The Hamburg, Germany, native came from a long line of ship captains. The man himself was the epitome of the cartoonish depiction of the ship’s captain on the package of the Gorton’s Fish Sticks box. He had sun-kissed, crackly skin, with a salty demeanor to boot. His sweat-stained clothes and gamey smell showed he had priorities other than hygiene. The scent of alcohol on his breath revealed he had an affinity for Jägermeister in his coffee.
The captain had not been hired to entertain tourists or kiss asses in the dining halls of a cruise ship. He was tasked with getting to a mark. Dispatching his assets. And disappearing into the night. He’d proved his capabilities to his employers on more than one occasion, including the Baltic Sea operation. Not that it mattered. His résumé began with the blood coursing through his veins. His grandfather had not been a national hero during his day as a naval commander, but he’d sacrificed much for his country.
“Six kilometers. Traveling at eight knots.”
“Have the first two teams been alerted?”
“Yes, sir. Teams are in place for the second drop. All crew members are in place to off-load the salvage and secure it during the second round of dives.”
Suddenly, a bridge wing door flew open, and an armed man dressed in khaki cargo pants and a skintight black tee shirt stepped through. He was drenched in rain and made no effort to keep the moisture from following him onto the bridge.
“What is it?” the captain barked. He was used to the armed security personnel insisted upon by his employers. He did not approve, however, of their total lack of respect for the captain, his crew, and the operations of his ship.
“The sea is rough and water is lapping over the decks. It will make unloading of the cargo treacherous.”
The captain couldn’t resist. “Are you sure it is not your own vomit? Those aboard my ship who are not sailors should leave this to me.”
The Polish man patted his holstered sidearm with his right hand. He was green around the gills, as they say, but it didn’t prevent him from doing his job. “I am responsible for the cargo and its safe delivery back to Moa. I cannot protect something that isn’t within my possession. None of this must be lost to an angry sea!”
“Get off my bridge. These seas that cause you to lose your stomach are nothing to my ship. In minutes, we will be underway to retrieve your precious cargo, and by dawn, we will off-load it into your precious plane.”
“I will accept nothing less.”
“Who cares what you’ll accept? We are not here for you. Now, leave us to our jobs.”
The captain spun around and studied the maps and photographs spread out on a table behind the helmsman. He nudged the man’s elbow and pointed to the map.
“Yes, sir. Two minutes away.”
The security man left the bridge, lingering for a moment in an effort to spite the captain, who couldn’t have cared less. Guys like him came and went. They held a gun, which made them think they had some kind of power over others. The captain had his own gun, too. However, he had a power the hired guns did not. Bloodlines.
For the next four hours, the two submersibles made their way to the bottom of the Puerto Rico Trench. Two two-man dive teams, using state-of-the-art Chinese-manufactured exosuits, retrieved their salvage with the aid of propulsion-driven sleds. The underwater vessels not only allowed them to carry more of the sought-after salvage, but their power pulled the sleds and the divers quickly through the water, cutting their movement time along the sea floor by eighty percent.
After the second set of dive teams returned to the surface, the captain and the head of the security team descended upon the deck to interview the submersible crew.
“Is that all of it?” asked the security man.
“No, sir. One more dive is required, but with only one submersible.”
He shook his head in disbelief and stomped around the deck of the ship, gesturing as he screamed at the diver, “Why
