Page 128 of Clive Cussler's Quantum Tempest
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The inflatable cut sharply as the seaman turned the wheel and slammed down the throttles, landing the boat just inches from the black chute floating on the surface like an oil stain.
The chief petty officer in charge leaned over the bucking hull, holding on tight with one hand against the rising swells that threatened to throw him off. The chutist fought desperately against the tangle of cords and canopy wrapped around him, sputtering and coughing seawater like a man near to drowning.
The chief petty officer grasped one of the chutist’s hands and pulled him with a thunderous grunt halfway up onto the hull. The seaman driver charged over and grabbed two fistfuls of the chutist’s black tactical jumpsuit in his thick hands. A moment later, the two sailors managed to haul the half-drowned security man into the bottom of the boat, still snarled up in cords. The seaman pulled a razor-sharp knife and cut the cords away as the petty officer lifted his walkie-talkie to his mouth. He had to shout over the whistling wind and crashing waves.
“Captain Zhao! We have him!”
“What is his condition?” Zhao asked over the crackling speaker.
The sailor glanced over at the man, now smiling as he pulled off his chutist’s goggles and flashed two thumbs up.
“Director Peng is alive and well. We’re heading back now.”
70
Aboard theOregon
TheOregonwas well underway at top speed, and El Salvador far behind in her rearview mirror.
Juan and his senior leadership team were gathered in the conference room for a pre-mission briefing. Only Murphy was missing, still confined to his cabin.
Modeled after the White House Situation Room, the conference room featured a large mahogany desk ringed with high-backed leather executive chairs, banks of large LCD monitors on the walls, and videoconferencing stations at each position. Eric Stone had a laptop open in front of him.
“What are we looking at exactly, Stoney?” Max Hanley asked. He nodded at one of the monitors displaying a map of the Pacific Ocean. A gray-shaded fifty-mile-radius circle marked the map’s center, contrasting with the deep blue background. A small red triangle representing theBaktunsat at its core. The circle’s eastern edge lay nine hundred thirty nautical miles west of Nicaragua, the exact point where the seaplane’s last ADS-B signal vanished. A bright yellow line traced the seaplane’s path from a Nicaraguan airfield to the red triangle.
“That’s our target area,” Eric said, “and our best guess as to the probable location of theBaktun, based on the radar and signal logs we recovered and the flight-range specs of the ShinMaywa US-2.”
“Unless he was carrying spare fuel tanks or planning to refuel at theBaktun,” Linda noted. “Then the range could be much farther.”
Eric shrugged in agreement. “In that case, he could be almost anywhere in the world.”
“I’m confident this is the target area,” Juan said. “Let’s continue.”
“Why don’t we have a pinpoint location?” Max asked. “Why the fifty-mile circle?”
“Because we don’t know if Fierro shut off his satellite signal the moment he landed or before. And that circle represents the maximum distance the seaplane could have traveled and returned safely to its base in Nicaragua on a single tank of JP-5.”
“Given the initial ships’ traffic we’ve encountered and the sea state conditions farther ahead, we’ll be lucky to maintain an average speed of fifty-five knots,” Linda said.
“That will put us at the outer edge of that circle in just over sixteen hours.” Juan checked his watch. “That puts our ETA at approximately 1030 hours tomorrow.”
“Eidolon’s text said Project Q will launch at precisely 1100 hours,” Linda reminded everyone.
Max frowned. “That’s cutting it pretty close. If Eric’s estimate is off even just a fraction, we’re going to be late to our own funeral.”
“And that’s assuming they don’t accelerate the timeline,” Eric added.
“Was Mr.Overholt able to get a reconnaissance satellite tasked over the area?” Linda asked. The spy satellites possessed Hubble Space Telescope capabilities—only, these cameras were pointed at Earth, not outer space.
Cabrillo shook his head. “He checked into it. There currently aren’t any birds on a near-pass trajectory over the target zone. The soonest he can get one is four days from now. He might be able to get us a Lacrosse/Onyx radar satellite in twenty-four hours but no guarantees. That’s too late anyway.”
“Doesn’t matter,” Eric said. “That boat was darn near invisible and we were within spitting range of it when it hit us. TheBaktunmustdeploy some kind of suite of cloaking technologies. I doubt either optical or radar sats would have done us any good.”
Cabrillo leaned forward. “Let’s assume we know where theBaktunis. What else do we know about her?”
“In our prior engagement we encountered holographic drones…surveillance drones…swarming drone mini torpedoes…and a full-size carbon-fiber-hulled torpedo,” Linda said.
