Page 60 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier
Juan hung by his fingertips, his feet dangling some thirty feet above the deck. A fall from this height would kill him.
And that was the point.
Cabrillo had no natural fear of heights, but his recent adventure without a working parachute was still a splinter in his mind—something that needed to be extracted before it had the chance to fester and possibly affect future performance. Peak mental conditioning was the sine qua non for everything he did.
Equally important, wall climbing was one of Cabrillo’s new favorite pastimes. Staying in top physical condition was the second leg of his performance stool. Nothing was better for large and small motor muscle development, endurance, and overall strength than a perilous climb up a sheer rock face even if it was only attached to theOregon’s hull.
At the moment, he faced a particular challenge. The next handhold was technically out of reach. To get to it required a herculean effort to release one secure grip in hopes of acquiring the distant one. The likelihood of failure was nearly certain, but failing to make the attempt guaranteed no further upward progress. It was a classic rock-climbing zugzwang dreamed up by Russ Kefauver, theOregonfitness maniac who constantly redesigned the climbing wall he originally installed.
“How’s it going up there?” Linda shouted from below.
Juan tightened his grip on the one secure handhold and reached into his chalk bag with his other hand. The chalk would strip the sweat off of his fingers and increase his grip in preparation for his leap.
Before Juan could answer her, Hali Kasim’s voice rang overhead in the gym. “Chairman, call for you. Langston Overholt.”
“I’ll take it over the speakers, Hali. Thanks.”
Cabrillo glanced down at Linda Ross on the floor holding the safety rope wrapped around her waist and strapped to Juan’s harness. “You hear that?”
“How could I miss it? I’ve got ya.”
Juan kicked away from the wall and began his assisted descent as Overholt came on the line.
“Juan, my boy. Catch you at a good time?”
“Good as any, Lang. Linda Ross is with me.”
“Delightful. Ms. Ross, always good to speak with you. I hope this call finds you well.”
“Fit…as a fiddle,” Linda grunted as she eased Juan’s two-hundred-pound frame toward the ground, letting the rope slip through her gloved hands.
“Are you in some distress, Ms. Ross? Your breath sounds labored.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”
Juan’s feet finally touched down on the rubber mat. “She’s just pulling her weight around here—and mine. We’re in the gym.”
“I was calling to find out if you heard the latest news about the sinking of the South Korean destroyer?”
Juan unhooked himself from his harness.
“Only the headline. I’ve been out of the loop over the last twenty-four hours. Fill me in.”
“The Office of Naval Intelligence has done an analysis of the attack studying sonar, radar, and radio transmissions. The bottom line is that it was sunk by a high-speed torpedo of unknown design.”
“How ‘high-speed’?” Linda asked.
“In excess of nineteen hundred knots, I’m afraid.”
Juan whistled. “Is that even possible?”
“The U.S. Navy Lab once fired an underwater projectile in excess of twenty-nine hundred knots,” Linda said. “And there are rumors of a new Russian system, theKhishchnik, supposedly capable of that kind of speed. But as far as actual torpedoes go, the RussianShkvalonly tested at two hundred knots—and the IranianHoottopped out at 194.”
“The sensors don’t lie,” Overholt said. “Neither do the three-hundred dead and wounded Korean sailors who suffered the catastrophe.”
“I’m guessing we’ve ruled the Norks out,” Linda said.
“Our analysts are confident this technology is well out of their reach,” Overholt said. “It’s clear the North Koreans fired it, but they certainly didn’t build it.”
