Page 50 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
Callie shrugged. “If I can’t get to the bolts directly I can use thecutting torch. But that torch is a real battery drain. We might cut our way through but run out of air in here if I’m not careful.”
“I vote for careful,” Linda said.
“It’s just going to take a little bit of time,” Callie said. “I’ve seen worse.”
“We’ve got all the time in the world,” Juan said. “Or at least eleven hours, if I’m reading your gauges right.”
“Easy peasy.” Callie smiled.
Juan smiled back. That was something his Gundog Linc always said.
Usually before all hell broke loose.
26
Aboard theIzanami
The Indian Ocean
The Vendor pulled away from the microscope on his lab desk. He yawned and stretched his tall, muscular frame to work out the kinks in his back from sitting too long. He’d been so deep into his mental “flow state” that he’d lost all track of time. The ability to concentrate his brilliant mind entirely on a single problem for hours on end was his ultimate superpower. It allowed him to make incredible breakthroughs over the years, and ultimately, to build the vast organization he now controlled.
His primary challenge with getting into such a flow state was losing the ability to stay abreast of other events needing his immediate attention. His solution to that challenge was a heavy reliance on automated systems to track and execute decisions quickly and reliably without his input.
The Vendor’s bleary eyes suddenly popped open when the overhead alarm sounded. He called out in a loud voice to his AI assistant, Keiko, available to him in every department throughout the ship.
“Keiko, why the alarm?”
“Flight number 252 out of Kabul self-destructed three hours ago.”
The Vendor swore. That could only mean something went terribly wrong.
“Why am I only hearing about this now?”
“The nature of the alarm was not a Priority One threat. Also, you silenced the audible alarm when you came into the lab to work. I have been sending visual alarms, but you have not responded to them. As per my protocols, I overrode the audible prohibition after the allotted time.”
The Vendor glanced over at the nearby station. A warning light was, indeed, blinking.
He swore again. Keiko was still too “programmed” in her thinking. He was still trying to work out the algorithms that would allow her to take more initiative in threat assessments. But that was a problem for another day.
He hobbled over to the computer station.
“Keiko, pull up the last fifteen minutes of 252’s internal video feeds and put it on my screen.”
“Certainly.”
A moment later, the video screen was filled with a dozen separate CCTV images.
“Keiko, edit these video files so that they produce a single narrative organized chronologically.”
“Just a moment, please.”
Seconds later, the twelve small screens merged into a single large one.
The Vendor scrubbed through the newly assembled movie. He stopped when the bound figure—an American undercover operative, according to Banfield—began to move. He leaned in close to watch the squirming American work his way out of his bondage. Impressive.
Especially the part with his prosthetic leg.
“Those idiots,” the Vendor said. The Taliban had done a poor job of securing the American. They should have known better.
