Sabotage (45 page)

“I watched you carefully, made sure you were always in a position to go down with the others if they heard us. Besides, fifty out of three thousand is a drop in the bucket to you. From your perspective, a few fugitives could even be a good thing. These eyewitnesses could testify to the horrors they observed aboard the hijacked vessel. Reports from a few survivors would help tank Sapphire Pacific, which you wanted to happen.”

“And how did you eventually connect Lachlan Fawkes with Clifford Pearl?”

“It wasn't easy. Your Aussie accent and vernacular were convincing, at least to an ignorant guy like me. But there's a portrait of you in my stateroom. You were younger and wearing your uniform. I began seeing traces of resemblance, even though you had a beard and a bald head in the painting. It hadn't occurred to me you'd actually shaved yourself smooth for the portrait. When I realized it was you, I laughed at myself for not picking up on the clues you'd dropped. ‘Cliffy and I go way back,' you'd told me. Then there was the Viking's letter ending with, ‘The
Pearl Enchantress
is mine.' How literal.”

“Clever,” Pearl said. “I've enjoyed getting to know you over the course of our strange misadventure, Jake. I really am sorry for it to end like this. I should have known better than to find someone I genuinely admired, knowing how it would go.”

“It doesn't have to end like this,” Rove said.

“I'd have preferred to let you live.” He threw his hands open. “I'd have preferred to let you all live. But you understand—at least, the professor does—that reputation is everything. I've a name to protect.”

“And a retirement to look forward to,” Rove said. He saw Victoria eyeing a rifle on the ground, only yards away. He tried to catch her attention to warn her against it, but she wasn't looking.

“Nice chatting with you all,” Pearl continued. “Our conversation must be over now. The ships are loaded. I'll be the last aboard, but the first to sail away from this cold place.”

Victoria began to move for the rifle. Rove cleared his throat loudly. She didn't hear him.

“Victoria,” he said quietly.

She seemed intent.

Austin and Malcolm Clare didn't seem to notice what she was up to. Dirgo stared furiously at Pearl, holding her arms in her favorite position—akimbo.

“Where do you plan to go?” Clare asked. “You can't get away with this.”

“I plan to go ashore and continue my life as normal,” he said, “supposing it should begin with a good shave of the head. Somewhere out there, if investigators are thorough, they'll learn of a suspicious Wall Street trader with a strange prescience for disaster. They'll trace the transactions to an Australian steward whose identity exists on paper only.”

“Someone will turn you in.”

“Who? Everyone who knows the truth is dead, or soon will be.”

Victoria began tiptoeing toward the rifle. Rove got her attention with a soft clap of his hands. His expression read:
Don't do it. Let him go.

She stared back in defiance—
Are you crazy?

The old mariner sauntered to a rope ladder connecting the cruise ship with a corsair. “If anyone thinks of cutting the ropes as I climb down, I'll detonate the charges. And if you find a gun and shoot me, my finger will almost certainly spasm over the button.”

“What does it matter to us?” Victoria said. “You said you're going to blow the ship anyway, as soon as you reach a safe distance.”

“Stop challenging him,” Rove murmured, so Pearl wouldn't hear.

“Wait, and you'll at least have time to try to fill another lifeboat with passengers,” Pearl said. “Won't you?” The old man tossed his Luger overboard and began descending the rope ladder.

“We can't let him do this!” Victoria cried. She made for the gun. “Stop him! He'll kill thousands!”

Rove grabbed her by the waist. She resisted. He cupped a hand around her mouth.

“Shhh,” he said. His voice had reduced to a whisper. “Let him go.”

Confused, Austin said, “She's right, though. If we do nothing, we're all going to die. We have at least five minutes to help passengers onto lifeboats.”

Clare shook his head. “It wouldn't be enough time. Not even for one.”

“It's already over,” Rove said.

His expression was serene, untouched by pain, dread, or remorse.

Victoria wrenched Rove's hands away and peered over the edge in desperation. “How can you give up like this?”

Below, Clifford Pearl landed safely aboard the corsair. Several dozen hands awaited his command. “Cast off,” he said. “Let's go.”

The sails billowed with a violence that threatened to fray their canvas. Mooring lines disengaged from the cruise ship's cleats. Four corsairs pushed off from the hull of the
Pearl Enchantress
and began to grope their way through the fog.

*   *   *

The old man stood on the bow of the flagship
Jarnsaxa,
leaning into a wind that whisked over a berg.

The
Pearl Enchantress
had faded to a silhouette. The corsairs would soon leave range.

The metallic cylinder felt cool in his hands as his thumb hovered over the button. He waited until the outline of the ship's dolphin-nosed bow had fully faded, and pushed it seconds before the charges were set to detonate. It would feel more like an act of will that way.

Pillars of seawater soared skyward like geysers. Flames erupted from beneath the surface, clinging to flotsam and debris.

Hearing the roar, the wrinkled mariner laughed.

 

EPILOGUE

Over the hum of the engine, Austin heard the words through his headset: “Grab the yoke. She's all yours.”

He looked through the windshield at Stanford's campus. Hoover Tower shot up ahead. The Farm lay nestled in foothills rising up toward higher mountains. Evening was near. They soared toward the Coast Range into a deeply flushing sunset fire.

The biplane stalled, and her nose dropped a few degrees before Austin led her into a plunge. More words came through his leather hearing device. “Careful now.” The words faded to static.

The aircraft lost altitude fast. Austin let several seconds pass without altering course, feeling the pressure his waist exerted against the safety belt. He loved the sensation of weightlessness and the funny tingles that accompanied free fall.

They gained speed. Sensing an updraft, he eased up the yoke and channeled the plane's momentum into a vertical climb. Rapture crackled through his headset in the form of a high-pitched laugh. His copilot howled with thrill.

“How's it look?” Austin said.

“Keep a firm grip!” Clare replied. “Pull the yoke into your chest.”

The straps around Austin's groin tightened, imparting a little reassuring pain. He sustained his heavy clutch. The draft aided him. Their angle steepened until finally the biplane turned back on itself. For a moment Austin could no longer feel his own inertia, and he swore he saw tiny particles of dirt and debris suspended in space. Blood rushed to his head, causing his ears to prickle. He leveled the craft.

His patent exhilaration told his copilot he wasn't finished.

“Ready for more?” Austin said.

Clare returned a fiendish gaze. “Who's stopping you?”

Austin rotated the plane's belly toward the sky and executed an inverted half-Cuban eight, followed by a tail slide and ending in a series of barrel rolls. The professor helped him.

“Welcome to Glitnir Defense,” Clare said. “If you'll forgive the pun, I'd say you've passed your first lesson with flying colors.”

“That one's hard to forgive,” Austin said. “But I'm glad I took the job.”

“With Chatham gone, I'm appointing Kate Dirgo president of Glitnir. You'll begin as projects engineer. Your first assignment will arrive sooner than you might imagine. Until then, I want you to focus on your studies and keep out of trouble.”

“Roger.”

“You'll begin training soon.”

“How soon?”

“Sooner than you may feel comfortable with. I work in ways that are certain to capture your attention.”

“You're really selling this hard, Professor. What kind of training?”

“Let's first discuss the purpose. I established Glitnir Defense to protect the rights of the ultimate minority.”

“Which group?”

“I'm not talking about a group.”

A sun ray caused the wings to glitter. “I understand.”

“By pioneering new frontiers in military technology and empowering our armed forces—even joining the front line if necessary—Glitnir protects the rights of the individual. Our tools of retaliatory and
defensive
force are designed to oppose the
initiation
of force. Self-defense demands we be able to discern friends from enemies. Some enemies are easy to identify; they hold a knife to your throat or a gun to your head. Others, well, not everyone can see them.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“Enemies of the mind, of reason, of life. These enemies don't always carry the guns themselves. But they are still enemies.” Austin continued to look pensively at a glittering wing of the plane. “Some live overseas, many not as dangerous as those here at home. You'll learn to identify them, to understand how they think and operate. If you reject their vision for your life—and your death—as I think you will, you'll choose to fight them.”

“Sounds like you're proposing a philosophical education.”

“To supplement your aerospace studies, yes. My goal is to equip you with a kind of X-ray vision that sees straight to the heart of issues, issues that might now seem hazy or unsolvable. I'll present you with a set of principles for living, intellectual ammunition to help you appreciate the nature of the battle rational men face. But you must be the one to integrate the concepts and abstractions, evaluate the system of thought, and judge the correctness of what I teach.” Clare was looking directly at Austin. “I think you'll leave these lessons with a renewed and refined sense of purpose. And you'll look back on your life so far, on what you've done—and feel prouder than ever. This isn't to say your training will be purely philosophical. There will be other facets.”

“Such as?”

“Oh … some things that are just plain
fun.
”

“I'm listening.”

“You'll learn to dive, sail, fly a helicopter, among other things. All important skills for what you'll eventually be doing.”

“You mean as an engineer?”

“Beyond that. You'll go through rigorous physical training. And you'll surely enjoy the spy games.”

“Dare I ask what those are?”

“Wouldn't want to spoil any surprises. You'll meet your instructors at the Glitnir Academy in Mojave. I've recruited many special operations retirees over the years. Green Berets, Night Stalkers, Rangers, SEALs, Delta Force, among others. They lead physical, tactical, environmental, and weapons training. You'll get acquainted with all kinds of technologies used in strategic planning, unconventional warfare, and counter-terrorism. You'll be in expert hands. Consider your recent adventure a mere overture.”

“Hard to imagine keeping up with those aerospace studies at the same time.”

“You'll stay at Stanford, keep after the degree. At first you'll work summers. No need to go full-time yet. You're not going into combat, remember. Training's meant to help you understand strategy and warfare.”

“I'll look forward to June, then.”

“You can be introduced sooner, if you want. Any plans for winter break?”

“Nothing pressing. I'll be going home to visit my mom and dad.”

“Maybe you'll visit our Mojave headquarters.”

“I'd like that.”

“You should know something else. Until now, my daughter has been relatively unaware of the goings-on at Glitnir. She knows of our existence and purpose, has low-level access to some classified files. But she knows little of our special projects. This isn't for lack of trust, but for lack of reason to disseminate secrets.”

“I'll be mindful of that.”

“You needn't be. I'm going to try to hire her, too.”

“When did you decide that?”

“I've thought about it for years. She's come far in her mathematical studies. I'm confident her expertise will prove valuable alongside yours. The two of you may collaborate on future assignments. I've also taken the liberty of consulting with your friend Ichiro's professors. They say his computational skills are remarkable. I'd like to invite him to Glitnir.”

“I should introduce you to Rachel Mason,” Austin said. “She and Itchy are thick as thieves, and wonderful as a team.”

“Please do. This is an exciting time for Glitnir. We're expanding operations, can hardly keep up with hiring needs. I like to handpick the talent myself. I've even thought about asking Jake Rove to instruct at the academy.”

“Can't imagine a finer choice, if you manage to convince him. He's set on returning to his beach house in Mexico.”

“I'll do my best. One final thing.” Clare reached behind his seat and produced a square box. “Open up. Careful the wind doesn't claim the contents.” He set the container on Austin's lap. Austin felt the edges of the container before lifting the lid. “Victoria thought this would make a good gift for you. I happen to agree. For reclaiming the satellite.”

Austin opened the box and beamed. Its velvet liner cradled a pure-white, wide-brimmed Stetson. He lifted the hat from the fabric and nestled the roof of his head in its crown.

“Fits perfectly,” he said. “Great feel.”

“It's one hundred percent beaver fur. Looks sharp.”

“I'm married to it already. Thanks, Professor.”

“Thank Victoria,” Clare answered. “Anyway, the sun's setting. We'd better head back to the landing strip. Can you find it, tucked away in the mountains? Head toward the satellite dish and bear northeast.”