the ice-covered surface of a pond. Kannaday was close to freedom yet not quite there.
His temples were pulsing hard, and his vision was beginning to swirl. He did not have much time. The way the debris had piled up in front of him, there was only enough room to extend his right arm. Turning onto his back, he stuck his hand toward the trapdoor, turned his palm up, and grabbed the near side of the opening. He pulled hard. The edges of metal boxes, tools, and the other gear cut into him as he dragged himself up. It would not be enough to get to the opening. It was already underwater. He had to get through it and out of the crawl space.
He needed to breathe. In a few moments he was going to breathe, even if he took in only seawater. He worked his left arm past the pile of equipment, ripping his sleeve and rending his flesh as he stretched it toward the opening. He grabbed the edge and pulled with both hands now. He moved slowly up the side of the mountain of debris. His forehead was near the opening. It went through. His shoulders followed. Now he was pushing on the edge instead of pulling. He was in the water-filled corridor. He bent at the waist, drew his feet out, flipped over, and scrambled ahead.
He half-swam, half-jumped to his feet and gasped at the same time. He took in air. It was salvation, the common made uncommon. All other fears and considerations dwarfed in comparison. He splashed back down and felt for a wall. He found one on the starboard side. It was at a slight angle, tilting away from him. He leaned against it and got his feet under him. He rose, his shoulders rounded, water running from them.
Blood from his fresh wounds mixed with the seawater. The salt in the water stung, but it was not like the pain of the beating. He had earned these wounds by deed. He felt reborn.
Kannaday was just forward of the radio room. The water came up to his waist. At this rate, the boat would be underwater in about a half hour.
Suddenly, there was a snap like a dry twig breaking. The water must have reached the batteries. The lights went out.
The captain turned back toward the trapdoor. He looked down into the crawl space. His flashlight was still on, twisting in the rushing water. He waded back to get it. Now that Kannaday was no longer pushing the debris, it had begun to slide back into the aft depths of the crawl space. It knocked the flashlight around, but he managed to grab it before it drifted away. He turned and balanced himself against the sloping wall as he slogged through the water. There was something he needed. Something he was sure that murderers in the night would not take.
Kannaday entered the radio room. Most of the wrecked equipment was underwater. Smaller pieces, mostly wires and microchips, were floating on the shifting waters. But the box he wanted was still bracketed shoulder-high to the inner wall. The captain knew that Hawke and Marcus would not have bothered with it.
The box was bright red and the size of a lunch pail. Kannaday reached up, flipped the lid, and removed the contents. As the yacht moaned and lurched, he made his way quickly toward the stairs and freedom.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Like a federal Darwin exploring survival of the fittest in a bureaucracy, Paul Hood had identified countless functions for the director of Op-Center. Sometimes the job required a quarterback. Sometimes it called for a cheerleader. Sometimes there were other responsibilities. This happened to be one of those rah-rah times.
Paul Hood entered the small, bright room that was Stephen Viens's work area.
Officially, this area was Op-Center's internal security department. Viens and his one-person team watched for moles and people who might be tempted to pass secrets on to other nations. That was how it had been described when Op-Center's accountant Carolina Burdo drew up the annual budget. Unofficially, it was also where Viens used his years as satellite imaging supervisor with the NRO to get priority satellite time for Op-Center.
Viens's office was the only one in the underground sector that had a window. The window looked out into the corridor, but that did not matter. After years of working for the National Reconnaissance Office, Viens wanted a real-time view, even if it was of more work space. That included Mary Timm's small cubicle, which was located just outside his door. The young woman was reviewing data being fed to her by various surveillance satellites. She was collating that information and sending it to Viens.
Viens himself was seated with his back to the window. Before him, on a laboratory table, three laptop computers sat side by side. The surveillance expert looked over as Hood entered.
'Sorry to disappoint you, Paul, but we're not getting anything useful,' Viens lamented.
'Are you getting anything at all?' Hood asked. He stopped beside Viens. There were very different kinds of maps on each monitor. Hood guessed that they were the sections of sea that Viens was studying. This sector of intelligence gathering was relatively new for Op-Center, which used to rely exclusively on the NRO for satellite surveillance.
'We haven't seen or heard anything that resembles a boat on the run,' Viens informed him. 'And we've covered a lot of territory along the Great Barrier Reef, the eastern reaches of the Celebes, the entire Banda Sea, and the western and southwestern Coral Sea.'
'You did all that in ninety minutes?' Hood asked.
'Yes, but we had three processes going at once,' Viens said. 'Audio, visual, and thermal. One often eliminates the need for the other.'
'How?'
'For instance, we've been monitoring the ARCON,' Viens told him. 'That's the Asian Rim Civilian Observation Network. It consists, basically and informally, of whoever is out there. The maritime police and navies in that region use specific frequencies for civilian communication. If the radar on a freighter or a cruise ship saw another vessel barreling through, the night watch would have reported it on an ARCON frequency. Since no one did, our program calculated how far the radar of reported vessels was sweeping. Odds were that our target ship was not moving through that area, so we didn't waste satellite time looking for it.' Viens made a face. 'I don't like the fact that we're using technology to figure out where people aren't, not where they are. But it's the best we can do.'
'Michelangelo said that sculpting is taking away the parts of the marble that aren't the statue,' Hood said.
'It also took the man about four years to paint a ceiling, if I'm remembering my Vatican history correctly,' Viens said.
'You are,' Hood told him. He had spent several nights reading about the Vatican during Op-Center's church- allied mission in Botswana. The Vatican's wealth included its vast art collection, and facts about it were in the files.
'Stop kicking yourself in the ass,' Hood said. 'You're searching with no idea of what to look for. At least we can tell Bob where not to look.'
'I'll E-mail the clear zone parameters to your office,' Viens said.
'Thanks,' Hood said.
'But I'm still not satisfied,' Viens said.
'That's okay,' Hood said. 'Just don't be down on yourself. There's a difference.'
Viens grunted in what Hood took for agreement. He began collecting the data for Herbert.
Hood left the office. He had not managed to boost Viens's morale. Worse than that, there had been backwash. The futility of the operation was starting to gnaw at Hood. Viens literally had access to a world of electronic data. He was usually in the forefront of any we-can-do-this movement. If he was worried, then there was real cause for concern.
Hood glanced down at Mary Timm as he passed her desk. He gave her a brave little smile and a wink. She smiled back. It was a big smile. Not just pretty but confident. It was a smile full of youth and uncorrupted hope. Even Mary's eyes were radiant.
Hood remembered when he used to feel that way. First as mayor of Los Angeles, and then when he first became the director of Op-Center. Even if he were being naive at the time, Hood always felt that things would work out. And invariably they did. Not always without cost, but they had a saying on Wall Street when he worked in finance. If the goods are worth it, the price was worth it.
These goods were worth it.
Things would work out again, somehow. He had to believe that.
