Clive Cussler's Hellburner Page 2

  Calvera nodded. “Put him on speaker.”

  Santos flipped the toggle switch.

  “This is Capitan Calvera of El Valiente. We are a flagged ship of the sovereign nation of Argentina sailing lawfully in international waters. Who are you and why are you pursuing us with the intention of harm?”

  “This is Captain Jorge Soto on the Sungu Barat. We have no intention of harming you. But you are ordered to shut down your engines and allow us to board and inspect you for contraband cargo.”

  “Under color of what authority?”

  “International maritime law.”

  “In other words, you have no authority, Capitan Soto. That means you are a pirate, and piracy is a violation of international law. We will not allow you to board us.”

  “If you say we are pirates, call the Suriname Coast Guard and report us, Captain Calvera. Go ahead. I’ll wait.”

  That pendejo captain called his bluff, Calvera thought. They both knew he couldn’t call the Coast Guard. That would be even worse than letting this pirate Soto on board. He signaled to Santos with a finger across his neck to kill the call.

  Now what?

  “Evasive maneuvers, Captain?”

  Calvera stood, tugging at his beard. “No. Keep a steady course.”

  “Sir?”

  “Do it.”

  “At this rate of speed, they’ll overtake us in less than two minutes.”

  Calvera’s eyes narrowed, focused on a bead of sweat glistening on his first officer’s forehead. “My math skills are equal to yours, Santos.”

  “Mis disculpas, mi capitán.”

  Calvera checked his watch, his father’s vintage Rolex Submariner. He called over his shoulder to the weapons officer. “Valentín, ready number one.”

  Valentín nodded grimly. “A la orden, mi capitán.”

  Calvera’s watch hand swept toward thirty seconds. “Distance and location?”

  “Five hundred meters, directly astern.”

  Calvera’s eyes remained fixed on his watch. He was doing the calculations in his mind, a more reliable instrument than any computer.

  “Valentín . . . ready—now!”

  The weapons officer slapped a button. Three mines were released beneath El Valiente’s hull, deployed directly in the path of the Sungu Barat.

  Calvera stepped outside onto the bridgewing and raised a pair of binoculars to his eyes. The frothing white wake from his churning propeller drew a straight line to the bow of the distant freighter like a tracer round to its target.

  Santos called out the seconds before impact with the first mine.

  “Five . . . four . . . three . . .”

  Calvera grinned.

  Any moment now.

  “Captain!” Santos shouted.

  He didn’t have to say a word. What Santos saw on his radar screen Calvera witnessed with his own bulging eyes. His jaw dropped.

  The Sungu Barat suddenly shifted ninety degrees to his port.

  Impossible!

  Calvera’s heart pounded. In all his years at sea, he’d never seen anything like it.

  “Fire the mines!”

  Valentín hit the remote trigger. Three towering geysers erupted harmlessly to the Sungu Barat’s starboard as it veered away.

  The violence of the Sungu Barat’s sudden shift sent water crashing over its high deck like a rogue wave. The ship rolled steeply with the impact, then righted itself and resumed its forward speed. But now it was running three hundred meters parallel to Calvera’s course to avoid future mine attacks and catching up quickly.

  Santos appeared in the hatchway, his face ashen. “Your orders, sir?”

  Calvera had never seen his number two this shaken up before. Santos was as loyal as an old hunting dog and just as reliable. But Santos had more to lose. He kept several spoiled young wives and fifteen fat children in three separate countries.

  “Get that cabrón Soto on the horn.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Calvera keyed his radio mic. “Soto, this is Captain Calvera, over. Do you need assistance? We saw three explosions—”

  “Cut the crap, Calvera. Those were mines. Your mines. Kill your engines. Now.”

  “Look, Soto. If this is about money, I’m authorized to pay a small fee—”

  “There’s no fee you can pay, Calvera. No bribes. No negotiations. Kill your engines now or I’ll kill them for you—and maybe your entire crew.”

  Calvera swore violently. He’d butchered men for lesser insults. But he swallowed his pride—a tactical necessity.

  “I will comply, but under protest. However, your inspection team must not be armed.”

  “You’re in no position to dictate terms, Calvera. Kill your engines, come to a halt and be prepared to be boarded. ¿Entiendes?”

  “Entiendo.” Calvera spat out the word like a curse and shoved the mic into Santos’ hand. He shouted at Rico, “Kill the engines!”

  Rico confirmed the order and throttled down. “Full stop, mi capitán.”

  Calvera turned toward Valentín at the weapons station.

  “Ready number two. Wait for my signal.”

  Valentín smiled.

  Moments later, El Valiente was dead in the water.

  Calvera crossed back out to the bridge’s outer wing to get a better view of his pursuer. He pulled his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the wreck. It was even more disgusting and dilapidated than the photos had suggested. How was it possible for such a poorly maintained vessel to have performed so incredibly? he wondered.

  The Sungu Barat came to a full stop three hundred meters directly to port. Calvera adjusted the focus ring on his binoculars and zoomed in on the bridge. His eyes fixed on the occluded windows, caked with salt and grime. He couldn’t see into the bridge, but he knew that bastardo Soto was standing up there grinning down at him.

  “Valentín—fire!”

  Down on El Valiente’s deck, a single-barreled Chinese 20mm Gatling gun leaped through the roof of a fake shipping container and opened up. The deafening chain saw roar unleashed a stream of continuous lead, showering the steel deck with brass casings.

  Calvera laughed as the Sungu Barat’s bridge windows shattered instantly and chunks of the rusted bridge pulverized beneath the hammering shell fire.

  But before the laugh had escaped his mouth, the two six-barreled rotary cannons of a Russian-made Kashtan close-in weapons system opened up from the top of the cargo ship’s forward mast. The cannons delivered ten thousand rounds per minute, but it only took one brief, earsplitting second for the Kashtan to deliver enough 30mm explosive tungsten-tipped ammo to utterly destroy Calvera’s smaller weapon.

  In a single beat of Calvera’s pounding heart, the gun battle was over.

  Calvera dashed back into the bridge, shouting at his helmsman.

  “Flank speed—now!”

  Rico slammed the throttle. The specialized diesel engine roared to life, groaning belowdecks. The ship reared up like a racehorse exploding out of the starting gate.

  Calvera shot a hopeful glance at Santos. The big, turbocharged diesel had saved them before.

  But hope fled his first officer’s eyes with the dull, metallic thud that rang like a hammerblow beneath their feet. They felt the entire ship fall back onto its haunches.

  “Capitán, we’ve lost speed,” the helmsman shouted.

  “Give it more power.”

  “Throttle’s maxed out, sir.”

  “Putting Montoya on speakers,” Santos said.

  The chief engineer’s voice called out from the engine compartment.

  “Captain. We’ve been hit!”

  Calvera snatched up the comms mic. “Damage report.”

  “We’ve lost the prop. The shaft is damaged and torquing badly. I’m shutting the engine down.”


  Santos pressed a hand against his wireless headphone.

  “Lookout reports a fast-moving rubber skiff with armed men heading our way.”

  “We can fight them,” Rico said, his face flushed.

  Calvera ran a final calculation in his head. The numbers all pointed in one direction.

  He snatched up a satellite phone from his command station, then turned toward Santos as he pulled his pistol from its holster.

  “You know what to do.”

  Santos stood smartly and flashed a smile in the face of fate.

  “A la orden, mi capitán.” He pulled his pistol, squared his shoulders and headed for the lower decks.

  2

  The rigid-hull inflatable boat launched out of the Sungu Barat’s waterline garage’s Teflon-coated ramp and hit the water with its paired outboard engines screaming.

  Blue-eyed, sandy-haired Juan Cabrillo—posing as Captain Soto—held on tight. The RHIB bounced beneath him as it raced across the dark blue water. The four-man team was kitted out in body armor, flash-bang grenades and silenced Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine guns strapped to their chests.

  Boarding a hostile ship was always a risk and Calvera had already played his hand with two failed direct attacks on the Oregon—currently disguised as the cargo ship Sungu Barat. The 200-foot-long Argentine fishing trawler raised all kinds of red flags when it first came to Juan’s attention, including the unusual ports of call it had made. Captain Calvera’s attempts at evasion and kinetic defense only proved he was smuggling something of incredible value—and no doubt illegal. Smuggling was as old as seafaring itself, but Juan’s gut told him that the unusually capable fishing trawler was connected to something bigger than simple larceny.

  Juan had to find out what El Valiente was carrying and the only way to do that was to get boots on its deck and eyes on its cargo. He led the boarding expedition, leaving Linda Ross in charge of the ship and Mark Murphy on overwatch with his vast array of automated guns at his disposal in case things went sideways. He gave orders not to fire unless fired upon because, as Ross reminded him, they had no legal right to board the trawler.

  What troubled Juan now was the disappearance of the entire trawler crew, no doubt preparing to repel boarders. He kept his assault team small, to minimize casualties, but they all punched above their weight. No matter what came at them, his people would handle it.

  Blond ex-Ranger Marion MacDougal “MacD” Lawless was in back on the wheel driving the RHIB.

  Eddie Seng, a lean and wiry Chinese American, sat near the bow. The ex-CIA operative held the pneumatic telescoping boarding pole. It featured a grappling hook and a wireless video camera so that he could see what they were up against before climbing up the rope ladder. He wore augmented-reality goggles synced to the camera.

  Buckled in behind him was Raven Malloy, a combat-decorated Native American fluent in Farsi and Arabic who could do more pull-ups in one go than most of the males on the ship.

  Juan smiled to himself.

  His people would handle it.

  “Ten seconds,” MacD said into his molar mic as he wound the engines down. His voice echoed clearly in their skulls, masking the roar of the twin Mercurys in back.

  “Ready, Eddie?” Juan asked.

  “Good to go.”

  MacD drove the rubber hull right up to the edge of El Valiente’s steel skin, then killed the engines. The trawler rocked in the gentle swell but was otherwise dead in the water thanks to the Oregon’s surgically targeted wire-guided mini-torpedo that took out the propeller and ruined the shaft.

  Eddie leaped to his feet and fired the pneumatic telescoping pole. The grappling hook snagged on the steel railing high above. His head swiveled as the augmented goggles took in the sweeping view of the deck. Juan stood right behind him.

  “Clear!” Eddie shouted.

  “Go!” Juan shouted back, laying hands on the ladder first and scrambling up.

  Whatever surprise waited for them up top, he wanted to be the first to face it.

  * * *

  * * *

  MacD secured the RHIB to the rope ladder and raced up last. He cleared the railing, pulled his MP5 and charged toward his assigned position, sweeping the main deck.

  According to the downloaded schematics, there were two ladders down into the ship—one fore, one aft—and a third up into the bridge. MacD’s head was on a swivel. He watched Eric and Raven with his peripheral vision racing toward their respective hatchways, each heading for the lower decks.

  MacD spun around in time to see Juan clambering up the bridge ladder, his gun up, his motion fluid and swift, like a raging river running uphill.

  But MacD had his own job to do. He raced forward, the MP5 stock welded to his cheek, the Primary Arms micro-prism sight centered in his field of view with both eyes open. He first pointed his weapon down into the empty holds that should have been brimming with fish, then checked behind barrels, covered pallets, stacks of nets—anywhere a threat might be crouching in ambush.

  Nothing.

  * * *

  * * *

  Juan stormed up the bridge ladder, his EOTech holographic sight pointing the way.

  “Chairman, the Sniffer just caught an encrypted burst from a sat phone,” Hali Kasim said in his comms.

  “Copy that,” was all Juan said as he reached the bridge’s hatchway, his bloodstream supercharged with high-octane adrenaline.

  He grabbed the hatch’s handle with his left hand but kept the gun sighted and his finger on the trigger with the right.

  He flung the hatch open—just in time to see Calvera slap a button on a console. The air stank of burnt gunpowder. Two corpses were sprawled on the deck behind him, bleeding from head wounds. Pieces of a broken sat phone were scattered at his feet.

  “Drop your weapon!” Juan shouted as Calvera whipped around, pistol in hand.

  Terror blazed in the captain’s eyes.

  Calvera shoved the pistol beneath his chin and pulled the trigger. The top of his skull erupted, splattering blood and brains onto the steel ceiling.

  Before Juan could react, he heard explosions rippling through the lower decks and felt the vibrations running through him, rattling his teeth.

  The dead captain was scuttling his ship.

  Worse, he was threatening Juan’s team.

  Juan bolted for the hatch, barking orders to abandon ship.

  He prayed he wasn’t too late.

  * * *

  * * *

  Juan and his team scrambled back onto the main deck as the ship began to list.

  Raven and Eddie had reported on their comms that they had found eight dead crewmen, each killed by a bullet to the head.

  And nobody else.

  Juan ordered the others to the RHIB while he ran back to the stern hatch that led belowdecks.

  “You’re taking on water fast,” Linda said in his comms. “You have less than a minute to get off that death trap.”

  “Copy that.”

  Juan stood in the hatchway, staring down the steps leading into the abyss. Everything in him wanted to rush below and see what was worth a wrecked ship and a slaughtered crew but knew he’d be dead before he found out anything.

  He scanned the rest of the deck for any kind of clue. Then the ship lurched beneath his feet and his lizard brain kicked in. Time to get back to the RHIB before his team came looking for him.

  Juan raced back to the ladder, with MacD calling for him over the molar mic. He threw one leg over the side and began the climb down. The others had already reached the RHIB and were staring up at him. Juan knew the RHIB had to get away before the ship plunged beneath the waves; the suction of a seventeen-hundred-ton vessel would pull them under if they were too close.

  Halfway down the ladder, Juan glanced below. MacD had already fired up the engines, the others urging him in his mic
to hurry as the stern began to rise against the plunging bow diving for the deep.

  The rope ladder snapped tight in Juan’s grip as the ship rolled over, rolling him higher like Ahab’s corpse strapped to Moby Dick. He was sixty feet above the water, too far to jump without injury—and fatal to his crew in the RHIB if he crashed into it.

  “Take off!” Juan shouted into his molar mic.

  “Chairman—” MacD said.

  “That’s an order!”

  MacD gunned the throttles; the RHIB turned on a dime and sped away just far enough from the sinking ship to avoid its deadly suction. Every eye in the RHIB was fixed on Juan.

  Or something else?

  Juan glanced up at what sounded like a buzz saw whirring over his head. It was the Oregon’s new twelve-bladed xFold Dragon cargo drone—capable of hauling a thousand pounds. A knotted rope dangled just inches from his head.

  “Need a lift?” Gomez Adams, the Oregon’s chief drone pilot, asked. “Or do you want to wait for the next cab?”

  Juan grabbed the rope just as the ship rolled all the way over and plunged away from him in its death spiral to the bottom. The downdraft from the drone’s powerful rotor wash ten feet above his head battered him like he was in a wind tunnel.

  As the drone lifted higher, Juan began to spin like a top.

  “Sorry about the rotation, boss,” Gomez said. “No time to set up a ladder.”

  “No worries. Reminds me of my fraternity rush at Caltech,” Juan said.

  He glanced down. His vision whirling, he saw the white wake of the RHIB speeding far beneath his feet, racing for the Oregon, the same direction he was now heading in.

  Home.

  3

  NAGORNO-KARABAKH

  THE SOUTH CAUCASUS

  The camouflaged T-72 tank idled on the road in the narrow mountain pass, the lead unit in a column of ten commanded by a young Armenian Army captain, his uncle’s namesake. The oily stench of the diesel exhaust and the sharp tang of his driver’s cigarette choked the cold, sweet mountain air he’d come to love these last several weeks. The passing clouds had finally parted and the high morning sun felt warm on his face as he sat on the hard steel turret.