The Navigator

“How do we do that? The NSA says the material is authentic.”

“The NSA is a secret organization. It can say it never heard of this stuff. I say we attack the basic premise. That it would be impossible for a Phoenician ship to have made the trip from the eastern Mediterranean to North America. The sailing skills and technology of the day would not have allowed it.”

“Do we know that for a fact?”

“No. We’ll need a source to help lay the foundation for our argument.”

“How about the National Underwater and Marine Agency? NUMA has the experts, the database, and they know how to be discreet. I’ve got a few contacts over there.”

Douglas nodded. “You get busy on that. I’ll set up a meeting with the undersecretary. Get back to me in an hour.”

After Evans had departed, Douglas reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a pipe and tobacco pouch. Although his office was off-limits to smoking, he stuffed the pipe bowl with tobacco and lit up. With the smoke curling around his head, he leaned back in his chair and let his thoughts drift.

It all still seemed so fantastic. Maybe it was a hoax, as Evans theorized. He dove into the Jefferson file, reading every word this time.

Like many African Americans, Douglas was ambivalent about Thomas Jefferson. He recognized the man’s genius and greatness but found it hard to reconcile that with the fact that Jefferson kept slaves. As he reread the file material, he couldn’t help connect with its author on a human level. Although Jefferson’s correspondence with Lewis showed him as cool and competent, there was no doubt that the man was worried.

Douglas could have been excused if the hand holding the pages shook slightly.

The potential for chaos in today’s world was far greater than Jefferson could ever have dreamed of.

Chapter 19

AUSTIN SAT IN HIS STUDY hunting the sea marauders who had hijacked the containership. The magic carpet that carried him over the virtual sea was a satellite-imaging system operated by NUMA. Dubbed NUMASat, the sophisticated system had been developed by the agency’s scientists and technicians to provide instantaneous pictures of the world’s oceans. Satellites circled four hundred miles above the earth in orbits that allowed their cameras and other remote-sensing equipment to transmit information from any point on the globe.

The satellites transmitted optical or infrared pictures of water surface temperature, currents, phytoplankton, chlorophyll, cloud cover, meteorological and other vital data. The system was available free of charge to anyone with a computer, and was heavily used by scientists and nonscientists around the world.

Austin was sitting in front of a twenty-four-inch-wide computer monitor. He was casually dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, shorts, and sandals. He washed down a couple of aspirin with a beer and punched ENTER on his keyboard. A satellite image of the rugged Newfoundland coast materialized on the screen.

“Okay, Joe,” he said into his speakerphone. “I’m looking at St. John’s and points east.”

“Gotcha.” Zavala had the same image on a computer screen in his NUMA office. “I’ll zoom in.”

A shimmering bluish white rectangle popped up on Austin’s screen, superimposing itself on a section of Atlantic Ocean. Zavala expanded the size of the square. Tiny black specks appeared. The specks grew in size and began to assume the long, slim shape of ships. The time and date in the upper-left-hand corner of the screen indicated that the picture had been taken several days before.

“How close can you go?” Austin said.

“Pick a target.”

Austin clicked his computer cursor on a blip. The camera seemed to rush at the target. Hundreds of flopping fish filled the screen. Then the camera pulled back to show a fish hold and a deck covered with the booms and winches of an oceangoing fishing boat.

“Impressive,” Austin said.

“Yeager used Max to pump some hormones into NUMASat’s normal search function. He says it can tell you the color of a sand flea’s eyes.”

Hiram Yeager was NUMA’s resident computer genius and director of the vast computer complex he called Max, which occupied the entire tenth floor of NUMA’s green-glass-faced tower overlooking the Potomac River.

“Their eyes are blue,” Austin said.

“Really?”

“Kidding. But the resolution is better than anything I’ve seen.”

“Before Yeager beefed up the system, the best we could get was one yard square in black and white and four yards in color. He’s got it down to one yard square in color,” Zavala said. “What you’re seeing on the screen has been enhanced by information coming in from other satellites and military and intelligence systems.”

“All done legally and according to Hoyle,” Austin said with a wry smile.

“Mostly. Yeager considers it tit-for-tat, because the military relies so heavily on NUMASat. They’ve worked out a deal to blank out images when military operations are under way. I told him I didn’t want to know, and he said that was fine with him.”

“We’re in no position to criticize,” Austin said. The Special Assignments Team sometimes operated under the radar of traditional government oversight. “Have you located our friendly ore carrier?” Austin said.

“Watch!” Zavala said.

The image slowly zoomed out. The ships again were displayed as specks. Zavala outlined a target within a rectangle. Austin clicked the computer mouse. The image of a huge ship filled the screen. Austin leaned forward.

“Definitely the ore carrier we saw from the chopper,” he said. “There’s that weird bull’s-head logo on the hull.”

“I ran a check on the ship. It belongs to an outfit named PeaceCo. Their website describes them as peace- and-stability consultants.”

Austin chuckled. “That’s the new jargon for mercenaries.”

“They’re up front about the ship’s conversion from an ore carrier. They advertise it as a mobile-force platform. They claim they can have airborne forces on the ground anywhere in the world within forty-eight hours. The ship is guaranteed to arrive with the full unit within twenty-one days.”

“Who’s behind PeaceCo?”

“Hard to tell. They’ve got a roster of retired American and British military people on their board. The ownership is hidden behind layers of shell corporations in several countries of registration. I’ve got Yeager working to unravel that mess too.”

“Sounds like a lead, but what we need is a smoking gun.”

“Hell, Kurt, we’ve got a fully loaded howitzer! I’ve run a sequential album from the archives, starting shortly before the hijacking. These shots were taken at intervals, so they don’t cover every minute.”

Images flickered on the screen in a jerky stop-action mode, like pictures in a nickelodeon. Figures were moving around a cargo hatch. The cover slid back until the hold was revealed as a dark square. A platform rose from the ship’s innards of the hold like the elevator on an aircraft carrier. Two helicopters could be seen parked side by side on the platform. Men got into the helicopters and the choppers took off.

“Who says time travel is impossible?” Austin said. “That nails down our launch.”

“Next I’ll show you the containership.”

The image changed to show the deck of the Ocean Adventure. The choppers appeared as if by magic atop the containers. Figures streamed out of the aircraft. There was little change for several frames until the satellite showed one helicopter hovering above a foaming circle in the ocean where its companion had gone down. Zavala jumped back to the ore carrier. A single helicopter returned to land on the platform. Figures got out of the helicopter, it was lowered back into the ship, and the cargo hold cover slid back over the opening. One of the figures, who was taller than the others, could have been the man who shot Austin, but his back was to the camera.

“That nails it,” Austin said. “Where’s the ship now?”

“The maritime schedules I checked have her leaving New York a few days before the hijacking, supposedly on her way to Spain. She did a funny little loop around the time of the hijacking, then kept on heading across the