“But the corporation abandoned the development and production due to ecological concerns.” Bill chimed in.
The CIA director continued, “Maguambi built it instead and used it for pirate attacks.”
“Including the one on the Vera Cruz which our operative was on, sir,” Bill said.
The president looked out the window. “So if you find the person or group that stole the initial batch of this super-fluid, they are the ones who are planning to attack CERN?”
“That is the working theory, Mr. President.” Bill said.
“Ron, you think Bill’s op will succeed?” The president asked the secretary of the navy.
“My head of warfare tactics worked with Bill on it and he’s the best, so I approved it.”
“Good hunting, Bill. When are you heading back over?”
“I’m wheels up in two hours, sir.”
The USS Cayuga, a fleet support vessel that was generally in the rear and well away from any action, was emanating the broadband wavelengths. The sonar man, who also served as radar and satellite communications tech on the small ship was surprised at the return suddenly coming from a spot in the ocean two hundred eighty miles due east of his location. Then it was gone. He placed his hand on the new signal generator that had been installed in his radio shack three days earlier. He switched off the auto-sweep and manually swept the dial that changed the frequency the machine put out. Slowly, he raised and lowered the setting until he got another return. He made note of the setting: one hundred eighty-six megahertz. He then radioed the USS Saipan, the Quint control ship for the sector of the ocean they were patrolling.
SEAL Jump Two was the closest team at ten nautical miles from the spot. The huge twin turbo-shaft engines of the Sea Stallion CH-53D started gulping air as it top ended at 170 knots or 196 miles an hour vectoring to the coordinates they received from the Combat Information Center on the Saipan.
They spotted the whale in the water at two hundred fifty feet altitude. The whale machine was making headway at eight knots. This was a challenge for the frogmen, because they’d have to keep up with the thing as they tried to capture it. They decided to dead drop onto the body, which was luckily just under the surface.
The Stallion hovered to match the speed of the machine at six feet over the waves, its prop wash surely being noticed by anyone inside operating the machine, unless it was a remote-controlled weapon. Operator Number One flattened out to jump and land across the top of the machine, but the whale jerked right and he wound up off the side. Number Two waited as the pilot adjusted his position, then jumped in. He landed on the back of the machine as Number One swam to keep up and Number Three waited on the copter’s skid for the disabling of the machine before he jumped.
On the back of the whale, Number Two jammed the needles into the rubber-like skin and pressed the trigger. The entire whale bloated and became rigid, like steel. He felt a tingle, even through his wet suit. The forward propulsion was halted, and it became a rock solid mass due to the high voltage being applied to the fluid, which caused it to solidify and expand, like Bill’s electric ice.
It was now Three’s turn; he grabbed the winch hook outside the cabin door. The crewman released the cable and he, the cable and the hook dropped into the ocean. Number One was swimming up to the tail and Number Three handed off the cable to him. He submerged and came up on the other side of the whale, then passed the hook back to Three, who locked it around the cable, creating a slip-noose of sorts. He gave the thumbs up, the crewman operated the winch, and the tail of the stiff machine rose.
The whale was estimated to weigh two tons. The Stallion was good for a four-ton payload, but not the winch. So as not to stress the line, they lifted it only a few feet up and then throttled forward at five knots as the Saipan closed in on their location at thirty knots. SEAL Jump One pulled up, recovered the three SEALs in the water, and accompanied the other chopper on its slow drag of the machine across the wave tops.
Then, as if in blasphemy to the gods of Duracell, operator Number One asked, “How long will the knitting needles stay charged?”
Suddenly, the Sea Stallion bucked. The whale’s tail started flapping, making huge tugs, straining the winch and with it, the whole copter. It was all the pilot could do to counteract the jolts. He knew he couldn’t keep it up much longer. “Cut the line!” he yelled back at his crewman.
The petty officer was about to release the winch when Operator Four interceded. He jumped out of the cabin door and shimmied down the cable as it was whipping from the bucking whale. It was an incredible feat of strength and guts. He slipped the last five feet but had the presence of mind and the dexterity to pull out his knitting needles as he fell and landed jamming them into the tail. Once again the whale stiffened and the bucking stopped. He righted himself and was straddling the tail as the chopper resumed dragging the machine once more. The three SEALs on the other chopper started hooting and hollering and snapped a few shots as Number Four looked like a triumphant broncobuster at a rodeo.
Back on the Saipan, the second chopper landed first and the SEALs watched as Number Four, who rode the thing all the way in, unhooked the slackened cable and attached the harness of the heavy supply crane that swung out off the side of the amphibious assault ship. As the whale machine was being lifted on to the deck, Number Four joined the team and asked the crane op to stop the machine as it hung directly over the deck. They ran beside it with one final mission goal to achieve, as a deckhand handed them a hastily made sign…
At 3:10 p.m. Paris time, Bill’s secured smart phone chimed as a terse text message appeared from SUBCOMPAC. It simply read, “Quint got his fish.”
Son of a bitch, it worked, was Bill’s immediate thought.
XXVII. THROW IN THE TOWEL
Brooke spent the day in the field chasing down a lead in Canton Two on a man who had been taken into custody there. A business card on his person indicated he had recently been in touch with someone called the Architect. After three hours of tedious translations, it turned out his contact had been with the architect of an automobile dealership. A total dead end.
At around seven, Joey called it a day and Brooke left for the club. She had decided the night before to snoop around the nightspot. It was early and the crowd was mostly business people grabbing a drink after work. She walked around a little, then left and went to the hotel down the block where the murder had taken place. It was a fleabag hotel, and while she was standing there a few hookers walked their clientele into the lobby and up the stairs. She had to give the Swiss credit: these girls were less sleazy looking than the New York whores she’d seen as she left her office on the West Side late at night. These working girls had meat on their bones and were not as diseased looking. She went in and asked the sleepy deskman if he spoke English.
“Yes. Very much so,” he said.
“Is room 212 empty?”
The desk clerk immediately perked up. “Why are you interested in this particular room, may I inquire?”
“I work with FedPol and I want to see the size and layout of the room.” She flashed her new FBI ID.
“Wow. American FBI. I like very much J. Edgar. And Leonardo DiCaprio.”
“That’s great. Can I see the room now?”
He led her upstairs past many moans, groans and squeaks muffled through the doors of the various rooms. When they reached 212, the clerk opened the lock and added, “The police have told us not to rent the room until they tell us to do so.”