Leap - 02 (4 page)

7

Admiral Langford was at his desk when his secretary rang on a special phone line, prompting him to end his other call.

“Yes,” he answered, switching over.

“Sir, I have a call for you from John Clay.”

Langford glanced at his watch then leaned forward onto his wide desktop.  “Put him through.”  He waited for the familiar “click” in the line before speaking.  “Clay?”

“Hello, Admiral.”

“You and Caesare onsite?”

“Yes, sir, a bit north of Belem.  We’ve just arrived.”

“Good.  Do you have an ID on that November?”

“Well, sir,” Clay said, staring out at the submarine.  “It’s definitely a Soviet class, but it’s not nuclear…and it’s not a
November
.”

“Not a November?”

“No, sir.  It’s a Beluga class.”

Langford froze on the other end of the phone.  “Did you say Beluga?”

“That is correct, sir.  As in the Forel.”

“The
Forel
?
!
  Are you sure, Clay?”

Clay turned to Caesare, who was watching three men standing on top of the sub.  “I am.  And, sir, it’s painted blue.”

“Christ.”  Langford took a deep breath and leaned back into his chair.  “Listen to me, Clay, carefully.  I just got off a call with the State Department.  It seems the Brazilian government has decided it no longer wants our help.  They’re putting up obstacles left and right which means I don’t think I can get anyone else in there except you two.  More importantly, I think it’s just a matter of time before the higher ups realize you’ve arrived, escort you both back to the airport, and send you off with a couple of nice Brazilian tarp hats.”

Clay looked at Costa, patiently waiting about ten feet away.  “I see.”

“If that boat is the Forel,” continued Langford, “you’d better get a look at it fast, before whoever is in charge there gets a call.”

“Understood.” 

Langford leaned forward again, gripping the receiver.  “There’s something about that sub they don’t want us to see.  So get aboard quick and get as much intel as you can!”

“Yes, sir.”  Clay abruptly hung up and lowered the satellite phone from his ear.  He folded down the bulky antennae and stuffed the unit back into his pack.  Standing back up, he took a casual step closer to Caesare and whispered.

“We’ve got to hurry.”

Caesare gave a knowing nod.  He then spoke loudly to Costa.  “All right, Ensign, we’re all set.  Show us the way.”

Costa smiled graciously and turned back toward the sub, motioning them to follow.

Unlike the Soviet November class nuclear submarines with their more compact but noisier power generators, the Beluga was very different.  It was a prototype diesel-electric, originally designed to test new propulsion technologies and hull properties.  However, the project was thought to have been scrapped in 2002.  The S-553 Forel was the only known Beluga class submarine built, and it hadn’t been seen since 1997.  Until now.

Langford sat silently in his chair, thinking. 
So the Forel was still in operation.  But what for?  And what in the hell was it doing in Brazil? 
He knew one thing for certain.  There was only one reason to paint a submarine blue: for hiding in shallow water.

Like all subs, the Forel’s interior was spotless and metal gray, yet Brazil’s warm, moist jungle air gave the compartments of the Russian sub a subtle dank smell. 

Once aboard, Clay and Caesare quickly made their way aft.  They stopped and examined the giant diesel generators, taking several pictures.  The generators were modernized with a more compact design but after some inspection, nothing appeared unusual.  However, what did surprise them was what they found in the engine room.

Against the wall were two large metal racks filled with computer and audio equipment.  From the racks, very thick, black cables ran up the steel wall, branching off into dozens of slightly smaller cables.  They all spread around the engine room, terminating at the giant electric motor in the tail.

“What do you make of this?”  Clay stepped forward and curiously ran his fingers over the cables.  Caesare continued taking pictures behind him. 

“Dunno.”  After taking pictures of the computer racks, Caesare flipped the tiny digital camera into video mode and proceeded to record.  He carefully turned and covered the entire room.

Clay turned back to the rack.  All modern subs were computer-controlled these days, but he’d never seen any with computers like these.  “Look at this,” he said to Caesare. 

Caesare stepped in next to him and peered at the large devices on top.  “What are those, amplifiers?”

“I’m not sure.”

Suddenly they heard footsteps approaching quickly from a forward compartment, along the metal floor.  Caesare turned off the camera and dropped it into his pocket just moments before Costa appeared at the hatch.  His face bore a look of confused urgency.

“Commanders,” he said, “I’m sorry, but I am informed that you need to leave this submarine immediately.”

8

Will Borger was sitting in his office, studying his computer monitor, when the phone rang.  He didn’t acknowledge it at first as he scrolled down a window filled with complex computer code, examining it carefully.  After the phone’s third ring, he finally glanced at the number and opened his eyes wide.  He immediately reached out and picked up the receiver.  “Yes, sir.”

“Borger,” barked Langford’s voice, “I need you up here right away.”

“Now?”

“Yes, now!”

“Uh, yes, sir,” he repeated.  “I’ll be right there.”

Borger scrambled to hang up the phone then closed the window on the computer to save his work.  He grabbed his half-empty can of Jolt and finished it off before finally looking down and straightening his shirt.

He turned to leave.  As an afterthought, Borger reached back and grabbed his laptop, quickly unplugging its cables and tucking it under his arm.

Will Borger was what Admiral Langford liked to refer to as his secret weapon.  He worked in the Department of Naval Investigations with Clay and Caesare and was arguably the smartest geek in the Pentagon.  Even after Langford’s promotion, he kept a few “key” personnel reporting directly to him and Borger was one of them.

Although Borger was technically a contractor, it never made a difference to Langford.  Which was why, even being forty pounds overweight, Borger was now running for the Admiral’s office.

When he arrived, Langford’s secretary was waiting for him and opened the door.  Upon seeing him, Langford waved Borger in and motioned to one of the chairs in front of his desk.

“Good, hold on.  I’ve got Borger here too.  Let me put you on speaker.” 

Langford pushed a button on his phone set and replaced the receiver back on its cradle.  “You there?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Clay.

“Did you get on board the Forel?”

“Briefly, but you were right.  Someone got the word down fast.  We received a first class escort off the boat, but apparently we can’t leave yet as our plane requires some emergency maintenance.  I presume that was your doing.”

“It was,” grumbled Langford.  “We needed to buy you some time there, so our pilot found something important that needed fixing.  Where are you now?”

“We’re at a hotel.  They dropped us off with instructions to leave as soon as possible.”

Langford nodded.  “They want us out, but they’re certainly not going to risk ruffling feathers.  Did you get anything from the sub?”

“We did.”  Clay looked at Caesare, who was reviewing the video on the camera.  “It’s got a pretty advanced computer system on it, along with what looks to be some strange audio equipment.  The video is hi-def but trying to send it over the sat phone is going to take a while.  It might be easier to find a hotspot somewhere if we want to forego security.”

Langford looked up and across his desk at Borger, who shrugged.  “Doubtful anyone would be watching for it.”

“Okay, send it,” Langford followed.  “I want to find out what we’re looking at before you and Caesare are airborne.  Any idea what this is?”

“No, sir.  Not yet.”  Clay glanced at the video over Caesare’s shoulder.  “How much longer can we keep our plane grounded?”

Langford frowned and shook his head.  “Not long.  They’re pushing hard.  We probably have about twelve hours before they get rude about it.  The Brazilians have clearly decided there’s something on that sub they can benefit from, and I’m assuming it has to do with the equipment you found.”

“Agreed,” replied Clay.  “Will, we’ll send the files over for you to take a look at.  In the meantime, Steve and I will try to find out more.”

“Alright.  Keep me posted.”  With that, he ended the call.

Langford sat staring at the phone.  This was feeling damn peculiar.  That sub obviously had something the Brazilian government wanted badly.  But what was it?  Normally he wouldn’t have been all that concerned.  Countries were always coming up with new prototype ideas but most never made it even close to production.  In this case, there were two facts about the Forel that bothered him.  One was its mysterious rise from the dead.  The other was that, even with their best sonobuoys, this particular sub had been
damn
hard to find.

Their hotel was located on the colonial side of the city and was one of the oldest in Belem.  With its traditional blue tiles, it looked more like a historic building than a hotel.  And judging from a few patches of peeling paint and old furniture, it seemed that their complimentary bottle of water in the Humvee had been the peak of their special treatment.

Costa had dropped them off with another round of apologies.  It was obvious he had no idea why Clay and Caesare were being evicted.   Even though he was following orders, one trait that most citizens of South American countries all shared, even the soldiers, was a healthy skepticism of their governments. 

When he dropped them off, Costa mentioned that his cousin worked at the hotel’s reception desk should they need anything.  And if she was like most people in a country with a struggling economy, she was no doubt just as helpful.

Shortly after hanging up with Langford, the men made their way downstairs to find Costa’s cousin, Mariana.  They spotted her across the tiled lobby, standing behind the long, faded reception counter and typing on a computer probably half her age. 

Caesare approached and gave her his award-winning smile.  “Olá, Mariana.”  She smiled back warmly. 

“Olá,” she replied in a light Portuguese accent.  “What can I do for you gentlemen?”

Caesare leaned casually on the counter.  “Enrique said you might be able to help us with something.”  With that, he withdrew a hundred dollar bill and placed it in front of her.

Mariana stared at him for a moment as her expression turned dubious.  “What exactly are you looking for?”

Clay peeked around from behind his friend and laughed, watching Caesare realize the girl had misunderstood his request.  Caesare shook his head, embarrassed.  “No, no.”  He turned and shot Clay a sarcastic frown, only to find him still grinning.

“That’s not what I meant.  I’m wondering if you know someone who can rent us some scuba equipment.”

Mariana smiled again, relieved.  “Oh, yes, you would like to go on a boat?  I have someone pick you up in the morning.”

“Actually, we don’t need a boat, just the tanks.  And we were hoping to go out tonight.”

“Tonight?”

Caesare whispered and motioned back to Clay.  “What can I tell you…my friend’s a little weird.”

Mariana glanced at Clay and thought a moment.  “Um, yes, I know someone.  I will call him.  He is to meet you here?”

“That’d be swell.”

Mariana picked up her phone, but Clay stepped forward before she could dial and laid another bill on the counter.  “One other thing.  We need an internet connection.”

“We have one here, senhor,”.

“Better yet,” Clay replied, lowering his voice, “is there another hotel and internet connection nearby?  Perhaps one you know the password to?”

After transferring the files to Borger, Clay and Caesare returned to the hotel.  Mariana was waiting in the lobby with a young man who looked a few years older than she. 

“Misters,” she started, when spotting them, “this is my brother, Lucas.  He is come with your scubas.”

Caesare smiled and shook the young man’s hand, as did Clay.  Lucas nodded toward the door and led them out and around the side of the building.  Another young man was waiting next to a darkly painted car, smoking a cigarette.  As they approached, he tossed it to the ground and walked to the back of the car, opening the trunk.

They rounded the rear of the Chevy Malibu, which looked older than it probably was, and peered into the trunk.  Inside were two scuba units, complete with buoyancy control devices or BSDs, regulators, and tanks.  Clay and Caesare looked at each other, amused when they saw the words “Hilton Belem” painted on the side of each tank.

The large mesh bag next to the rest of the gear held snorkels, masks, fins, and two dive lights.

“Did you bring suits?”

“Yes,” nodded Lucas.  He reached under one of the tanks and pulled out a fold of neoprene to show them.  When Lucas straightened back up, he gave them a slight grin.  “My sister says you’re swimming tonight?”

Caesare frowned sarcastically.  “Why would you think that?”

Lucas’ grin turned into a smile as he reached up and quietly closed the trunk.  “You must be here about the submarine, yes?”

Caesare retrieved his wallet and opened it.  “You know about the submarine?”

“I know about many things.”

“I bet.”  Caesare counted out the rest of the money before looking to Clay with raised eyebrows.  “How much you got?”

Clay reached for his own wallet and motioned to the Chevy.  “We need the car, too.”

With some extra direction from Lucas, they managed to find the old dirt road that put them just over a quarter mile past the Forel’s location.  Caesare’s shorter, more muscular frame stretched his wetsuit to the limit and made Clay chuckle, never having seen a wetsuit without any creases in it.  Yet, Clay’s was only slightly better, being more than two sizes too large.

After locating a footpath toward the beach, it took them nearly forty-five minutes to reach the water and start swimming south.  Progress was slow to avoid making any unnecessary ripples or noises in the water.  Once they reached the crumbling walls of the old channel, they floated inward, now barely moving their fins behind them.

Several vehicles were still parked along the dock, sitting idly in the darkness.  The rest of the men they had seen earlier appeared to be gone, save for some soldiers guarding the bridge on the far side of the Forel.

Clay, slightly in front, put his hand up and signaled to stop.  Together they floated motionlessly for a few minutes, listening.  Nothing.

They continued forward, closing in on the top of the Forel’s giant vertical tailplane. 

When they were within a hundred yards, Clay nodded to Caesare a few feet away and inserted his black regulator into his mouth.  He gave a thumbs up before donning his mask and releasing some of the air out of his vest, causing him to sink gradually below the surface. 

Once well below the surface, they both turned on their modified dive lights.  The red colored T-shirt they had torn up and banded over the top of each light presented a subtle glow as they reached the hull.

What they found was puzzling. 
Small depressions in the metal ringed the rear of the hull, just above the propeller.  The rings were successive and traveled consistently down the hull to the base of the lower stern plane, where they ended.  Inside the holes appeared to be a thick, metal mesh painted the same color as the sub.  The indentations were large but very subtle and probably impossible to spot unless within inches of the hull.

Clay made a rough measurement of the
depressions with his fingers and pushed himself back to get a closer look at the prop.  Nothing else seemed out of the ordinary.

After several minutes, Caesare joined him and shook his head from side to side, motioning that he hadn’t found anything else further up.  Clay nodded and pointed back the way they came.  Together, both men descended further and proceeded to head back out toward the sea.

At 6:31 a.m., when the bright orange sunrise broke over the horizon of the Atlantic Ocean, Clay, Caesare, and their Gulfstream jet were gone.