Artifact Read online

  “I’ll be right back,” Lulu finally said. She got up and scampered to the hatch, disappearing.

  The first mate glanced at Forrest.

  “She’s got a fantastic rack,” Forrest said with a grin. “That’s for damn sure.”

  The first mate reddened, turning away.

  That’s what Forrest had been waiting for. He picked up the satellite phone, turned so the first mate wouldn’t see that if he looked back and stepped through the hatch.

  Using a tiny screwdriver and working fast, he opened the back of the phone and inserted a special chip. Before anyone saw him, he raised the phone and punched in a number. Three rings later, a woman answered through a scrambler.

  “One, seventeen, three, forty-six,” Forrest said.

  “Roger that,” the woman said.

  Forrest waited, wishing the woman could make her decision faster. Some things, though, one just couldn’t rush.

  “Stick to the plan,” the woman finally said.

  “Affirmative,” Forrest said. He saw Lulu skipping back to the bridge, coming fast. “I have to go.”

  Forrest pressed the “off” button. He’d resealed the phone before calling and put the tiny screws in halfway. He wasn’t going to have time to remove the chip now. Lulu would turn the corner any minute.

  I’ll have to do this later. Forrest twisted the screws in deeper and palmed the tiny screwdriver as he stepped back onto the bridge, with the phone behind his back.

  The first mate glanced at him. Forrest gave the man a dead-eyed stare. The first mate turned away as Forrest had figured he’d do. Quickly, he put the satellite phone back into its holder.

  A second later, Lulu entered the bridge, picking up her chatter exactly where she had left off.

  Thirty seconds after that, Selene shouted for Forrest.

  Damn, the doc had come quicker than Forrest had expected. He headed out the hatch, hoping no one would find the chip he’d put in the satellite phone.

  -8-

  WASHINGTON DC

  Mrs. King put a hand over her heart as her face twisted with pain. There, it felt—

  The throbbing abruptly subsided. She began breathing again, massaging her chest. Several minutes later, she relaxed enough to sit back in her chair.

  At sixty-three, Secretary Carroll King still had smooth features and glossy brunette hair thanks to the marvels of modern medicine and an excellent stylist. She had won Miss. Rhode Island thirty-nine years ago. These days, Mrs. King ran Detachment 17, an ultra-secret activities group that worked closely with DARPA.

  The Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency, or DARPA, belonged to the U.S. Department of Defense. They were primarily concerned with emerging technologies.

  Detachment 17 was also interested in high tech, primarily of a biological, chemical or nuclear nature. Their task was to hinder or halt such advancements among the enemies of the United States. Mrs. King’s best agents worked in the cold, meaning Detachment 17 and thereby the United States of America had perfect deniability concerning them. Few people knew that the American Intelligence Community now had eighteen agencies instead of the advertised seventeen.

  Secretary King frowned as she sat forward, putting her white-gloved hands on either side of a sheet of paper. She was self-conscious of her arthritic fingers, seeing them as twisted and disfigured witch’s hands. It was much better to view the delicate gloves, remembering the smooth hands of youth.

  The paper contained a hodge-podge of corporate names in her spiky, almost indecipherable handwriting. Mrs. King picked up a pen and drew another line from one name to the next. A spider-web of lines connected many although not all of the corporations.

  Sitting back once more, Mrs. King tapped the end of the pen against the desk. She’d run Detachment 17 since its inception, coming over from the CIA. Since that time, she’d cut all connections with the Agency. D17 was America’s ghost, going where no one else could to fix the “unsolvable” problems.

  Unfortunately, a year and a half ago, the failed number of activity operations had grown. There had been agent deaths, too many of them for mere probability. Morale had begun to drop as word of these deaths leaked out.

  The pen tapped quicker with greater force. Then, the motion stopped as Mrs. King stared straight ahead. Her gaze took in but didn’t really see the drawn curtains of her office window.

  A new tinge of pain—like a woman bouncing up and down on a high dive, getting ready to leap—threatened her heart. After a pregnant moment, the threatened attack faded away.

  Did the possibility of a heart attack accelerate Mrs. King’s thinking? The thought was half-formed in her mind enough so she recognized it. Then, the primary idea expanded, pushing the half-formed notion into oblivion. The greater idea—

  It must have bubbled up from my subconscious. I must have known this for some time now. No wonder I’m feeling queasy.

  Mrs. King set aside the pen, standing, walking to the curtains. She put her gloved fingers to the edge of the curtain as if she was about to peer outside into the city. Slowly, she lowered her hand, turning around, returning to her desk.

  She sat on the edge of the chair, her back hunched and her brow furrowed. Normally, she refused to frown, and if she did, she hurriedly pressed her index finger against the skin crease to smooth it out.

  She clasped her white-gloved hands in her lap, the frown battling the Botox-frozen skin.

  The reason why too many agents had died the last year and a half was obvious to her now. Inadvertently, D17 must have stumbled upon…

  I’ve found a master puppeteer. What is their goal? I can’t see it, but I can feel the strings stirring, moving the various puppets.

  Mrs. King sat up. She believed that she’d stumbled onto something big. It was insidious and secret beyond her understanding.

  Conspiracy theorists aside, it was extremely difficult keeping large and long-term secrets. Eventually, human stupidity or laziness revealed the darkest and deepest mysteries. Something this big and insidious…it implied—what?

  Mrs. King swiveled her chair, facing her desk. She stared at the corporate names on the paper, willing the secret to reveal itself to her.

  Abruptly, she stood again, heading for the door. It was time to talk to Deputy Secretary Smith. Although many considered him the quintessential nerd, the man had a ruthlessness that had left her breathless on occasion. That didn’t happen often. People stepped lightly around Mrs. King for a reason.

  She wanted to study each of the ongoing operations. Given the year-and-a-half trend, there would be another failure soon, maybe even another death. When it happened, she wanted to be ready to pounce.

  -9-

  THE CALYPSO

  96 MILES OFF THE COAST OF SUMATRA

  Selene couldn’t believe it. Forrest had been right. A small ship had headed straight for them—a 110-foot Indonesian cutter. The patrol boat belonged to the KRI, Kapal Republik Indonesia.

  The cutter was off the port bow, dead in the water, just as the Calypso rode a giant ocean swell with the engines idling. The crew over there aimed a .50-caliber machine gun at them. An Indonesian officer, a lieutenant, held a loudspeaker.

  “You must leave the area immediately,” the lieutenant said in exceptionally good English.

  With a shaky hand, Selene raised her own loudspeaker. She clicked the trigger. “Why should we leave?”

  Everyone on the Calypso had come up to watch the exchange. They’d see if she backed down, something Selene had no intention of doing.

  “This is not a question for debate,” the Indonesian said.

  How dare he try to just brush her aside? “Tell me the reason,” Selene said.

  “We should leave,” Junior told her. “This is the final straw, don’t you see?”

  The Navy lieutenant spoke to another officer. Forrest had told her here were two on the cutter with fourteen enlisted personnel.

  “We are staging a special training session in the area,” the lieutenant said. “Return
here in a week, if you must.”

  Selene pulled the trigger of her loudspeaker. “I don’t think so.”

  “Dr. Khan,” Junior pleaded. “You can’t argue against a heavy machine gun. They’ll sink us, kill everyone.”

  She lowered the loudspeaker to stare at Junior. “That’s seems unlikely.”

  “Please, Dr. Khan,” Junior said with strain. “I think it’s very likely.”

  Selene gave her chief engineer a careful scrutiny. This fear wasn’t like him. “What aren’t you telling me?” she demanded again.

  Junior opened his mouth as if to say something. Then, he looked away.

  “I am coming with a boarding party,” the lieutenant said. “Do not resist in any way or I shall be forced to confiscate your vessel.”

  “He can’t do that,” Selene said.

  Junior turned to stare at her as if she’d said something stupid.

  The next few minutes frustrated Selene. She watched enlisted personnel lower a motor launch. The English-speaking lieutenant climbed aboard along with several sailors carrying assault rifles.

  The minutes ticked away as the launch crossed the distance to the Calypso. During that time, Selene paced one way and then another. Finally, she ran to the bridge, picking up the satellite phone. She punched in a sequence of numbers, putting the receiver to her ear.

  There was a strange buzzing sound on the other end. Was the phone going to fail her? Several clicks were added to the unusual noise. She was ready to shake the phone, maybe open it up to see if there was anything wrong with it. Then the connection went through.

  Selene began talking fast, going up a short chain of command until she explained the situation to Danny Ferguson’s closest friend, a U.S. Navy commander stationed in the Philippines on a U.S.N. cruiser.

  “You’re quite right,” the commander told her. “This is highly unusual. Did you say the lieutenant has come onto your vessel?”

  “Yes, sir,” Selene said.

  “Let me talk to him.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said. “Give me a few minutes to get down there.”

  “I’ll hold on,” the commander said.

  Selene grinned, taking the satellite phone with her as she hurried from the bridge.

  It was already tense by the time she reached the main deck. The lieutenant with his boarding party had just climbed aboard the Calypso. They looked like a tough bunch, holding the assault rifles as if they meant to use them. The really weird thing was that the lieutenant didn’t look Indonesian in the slightest, more Dutch than anything, while his boarding party was composed of some of the whitest men that Selene had ever seen. They didn’t look like individuals who had spent much time at sea in the sun.

  “You will put down your rifle,” the lieutenant told Forrest.

  The ex-SEAL had a deer rifle aimed at the lieutenant’s chest. Forrest grinned as he said, “If any of your boarding party starts swinging their rifles toward me, I’ll kill you.”

  The words shocked Selene. The look on Forrest’s face indicated he meant to do exactly what he said. The grimness of the boarding party showed they didn’t care.

  “Wait!” Selene shouted.

  The lieutenant glanced at her.

  She raised the phone, saying, “I have a U.S. naval commander on the line.”

  Several of the boarding party laughed in a mocking way. The lieutenant smirked.

  Selene squared her shoulders, walking toward the lieutenant, speaking to the commander, telling him the “Indonesians” thought she was bluffing.

  “I’ll take care of that,” the commander said.

  A few seconds later, Selene handed the satellite phone to the lieutenant.

  With a superior smile, the lieutenant accepted the phone. The shocked expression on his face caused Selene to wonder about the lieutenant’s former certainty.

  “Yes,” the man finally said into the phone. “I understand.” He handed it back to Selene. “I am sorry, Dr. Khan,” he said. “There has been a misunderstanding. I have decided to give you a pass on the matter. You may proceed to your destination.”

  The lieutenant turned toward the boarding party, gesturing sharply.

  They looked equally startled and then baffled. Slowly, the men shouldered their assault rifles. Crestfallen, they followed the lieutenant to the ladder, climbing down to the launch.

  “What did you say to him?” Selene asked the commander.

  “Nothing much,” the commander said. “I asked for his orders, telling him I would check immediately with the Indonesian Admiralty. He didn’t seem to like that. What he liked even less is that I told him I have you and him on satellite intelligence.”

  “You do?” Selene asked.

  “Surprisingly, yes,” the commander said. “I received a strange call—well, never mind about that. I think what’s going on is a bit of smuggling of some kind. Be careful, Dr. Khan. I know how much Danny loves you. I would hate for anything bad to happen to you.”

  Selene wasn’t sure she wanted to hear that. She asked the commander, “You don’t think the lieutenant has genuine orders to stop us?”

  “Not in the least,” the commander said. “I hope you keep me informed of the situation.”

  “I will, and thank you again. You’re a lifesaver.”

  “It’s been my pleasure. Good day, Doctor. Please give my regards to Danny once you’re back in Honolulu.”

  “Yes, I will.”

  The line clicked off. On the water, the launch was halfway back to the Indonesian cutter.

  That was close, Selene thought, but maybe that will be the end of our troubles.

  ***

  “I don’t understand,” a deep-voiced man said over a scrambled radio. “How was she able to call through your jamming? Or did you fail to do even that correctly?”

  “I assure you we jammed their communications on all levels and at full strength,” the man who had pretended to be a KRI lieutenant said.

  “The fact of her call going through means you are incorrect.”

  “That’s just it,” the pseudo-lieutenant said. “I can’t explain what happened.”

  “I can. It’s called incompetence, a sin of the highest order, as I’m sure you are aware.”

  “I take full responsibility.”

  “That’s a splendid eulogy. I shall remember to announce it at your funeral.”

  “Respectfully,” the pseudo-lieutenant said. “I should point out that I discovered the commander had us under satellite surveillance. I could have taken out the target, but brought the U.S. Navy into this.”

  “Yes,” the deep-voiced man said grudgingly. “In retreating you did the right thing. You defused what could have been—well, that doesn’t matter to you. I want you to leave the area. Change your markings and head toward Australia.”

  “I could slip back under cover of darkness, release a scuba team and destroy their vessel with a—”

  “I have given you your orders because you failed in your attempt. Now, I will do this myself.”

  “The American satellite surveillance—”

  “Bah!” the deep-voiced man said. “What is that to me? I will eliminate the target and leave a mystery no one will ever puzzle out. If I leave this to you, I’m sure you’ll simply find another way to fail.”

  “Please, you will tell Mother I had no choice in my decision? I—”

  “Enough! Obey me by leaving the area and getting off the line. It’s out of your hands now. Do you understand?”

  “I do,” the pseudo-lieutenant said. “I hear and obey.”

  “Good, because I have much to do before this twit shows up…”

  -10-

  D’ERLON ENTERPRISES

  ARDENNES FOREST

  Jack stuffed his hood, dark garments and boots into a bag. He had a lean frame with puckered scars dotting his nearly naked body. Two of the scars had come from bullets, one a nine millimeter and the other a .22 from an Israeli assassin. Two more were knife scars. The fifth was on his right shou
lder where a German contract killer in Bangkok had pummeled his flesh with brass knuckles. His shoulder muscles were sore every morning, forcing him to stretch before he began his day.

  Donning D’erlon Enterprises attire—a dark pair of coveralls like ones from a bad 60’s science fiction show—he clipped a stolen badge to his chest and quickly tied his shoelaces.

  Simon did likewise.

  They stood in the dark behind a metal shed within the perimeter fence. Jack hung a pair of ordinary goggles from his neck and screwed a square-shaped cap onto his head. Then he picked up a clipboard with a magnetic pen attached. He lacked a gun or even a knife.

  The snitch—the one who had stolen the badges for what he thought was IZENOV consortium hoodlums—had been clear. D’erlon Security would quickly discover any weapons on their persons. They had to go the final lap unarmed.

  “Ready?” Simon asked.

  Jack saw that his partner was. The man had dark hair, wore glasses, stood three inches taller and outweighed him by fifty pounds, his biceps straining against the fabric of his coveralls. Simon was the scientist, but he was also one of the strongest men Jack knew.

  Peering around a corner, Jack spied several D’erlon workers riding a long electric cart.

  “Let’s go,” Elliot said, stepping into view, striding purposefully toward a large hangar door beyond the moving cart.

  Simon hurried, catching up in an instant. The two of them walked together. Jack watched his partner in his peripheral vision. Simon seemed okay except he held his neck and shoulders a bit too rigidly.

  The cart driver—who wore a black hat with a holstered gun at his side—glanced at them. Jack increased his pace a trifle so he stood in front of Simon in relation to the driver. Whatever the driver saw must have seemed ordinary enough. The long cart passed them, heading elsewhere in the giant complex.

  Under his breath, Simon muttered an oath.

  Jack glanced at his clipboard. It had a layout of the huge plant. He’d memorized the complex route to their destination, but the map helped. He would have told his partner to relax, but it wouldn’t have helped Simon any. This was the rough part for many people. The two of them were exposed. There was no doubt about it. One simply had to act normally. Yet, it was one thing to know what to do. It was another to actually do it.