Medusa

Zavala took the ID and tucked it into his shirt pocket, grabbed the blanket from the bunk, and wrapped it around him to soak up moisture from his clothes. He took another sip from the bottle and handed it back. One of the officers went over to a sink and got him a glass of water. Zavala washed away the vodka taste with it, and touched his head bandage again.

“No offense, Captain, but you should pay more attention to your driving. Your submarine surfaced right under me and my helicopter.”

Mehdev did another translation that his officers found hilarious, but when he turned back to Zavala he had a somber expression on his face.

“My apologies,” the captain said. “I was ordered to take the vessel to the surface and bring you aboard. Even for someone with my experience, it is difficult maneuvering a six-hundred-foot-long vessel with any degree of precision. You were floating in the water. We brought you on board. I am sorry too for the loss of your helicopter.”

“Who told you to take me prisoner?”

A frown came to Mehdev’s genial face.

“The same criminals who hijacked my submarine and have held me and my crew prisoners,” he said.

Mehdev launched with angry gusto into his fantastic story. He was a Navy veteran of the Typhoon service who had gone into civilian work. The Rubin Central Design Bureau, which designed the submarine, had come up with the idea to use decommissioned Typhoons to carry freight under the Arctic Ocean. The missile silos were replaced with cargo holds that had a capacity of fifteen thousand tons. A corporate buyer purchased the sub, and it was Mehdev’s job to deliver the vessel to its new owner.

The crew of seventy or so was half the normal complement, but without the need for weapons specialists it was large enough to do the job. They were promised big paychecks. The captain’s instructions were to surface for an at-sea rendezvous. But a Chinese freighter carrying armed men met them and took over the ship. They were told to sail the ship to the Pacific Ocean. Using a torpedo tube, the kidnappers launched a missile, targeting a surface ship. Then the Typhoon was involved in an operation to move the underwater lab off the ocean floor.

“Where is the lab now?” Zavala asked.

Mehdev pointed downward with his index finger.

“About three hundred feet beneath our hull, at the bottom of a submerged caldera,” he said. “There was an eruption many years ago and the volcano collapsed, leaving the caldera in place of the island that was once here. Coral grew on the rim, establishing the reef you came across.”

“How did your vessel break through the reef?” Zavala asked.

“We didn’t. We passed under it. The Japanese blasted a tu

“Very important,” Zavala said. “The U.S. Navy has planes and ships out searching. I flew over the lagoon. The water is as clear as crystal. Why didn’t I see you?”

“We’re below a camouflage net stretched across the lagoon. It’s what you Americans call low-tech.”

“What about the island I landed on in the lagoon?”

“That is high-tech. An artificial platform on floats, kept in place through a propulsion system geared to a self-correcting navigational system. It provides an observation post to detect intruders. You were seen long before you landed.”

“Someone went to a lot of trouble to create a hideaway.”

“My understanding is, the people behind this scheme intended to use the atoll for transpacific smuggling.”

A pounding on the door interrupted their conversation. Then the door flew open, and an Asian man holding a machine pistol stepped into the cabin. Right behind him was Phelps. Phelps gave Zavala a lopsided grin.

“Hello, soldier,” he said. “You’re a long way from home.”

“I could say the same thing about you, Phelps.”

“Yes, you could. I see you’ve made friends with the captain and his crew.”

“Captain Mehdev has been very generous with his liquor cabinet.”

“Too bad the party’s over,” Phelps said. “The captain and his boys have work to do.”

Mehdev took the hint and ordered his crew out of the cabin. Phelps told his guard to escort them back to their posts, and then he pulled up a chair and put his boots up on a small writing table.

“How did you find this little hidey-hole?” Phelps asked.

Zavala yawned.

“Dumb luck,” he said.

“I don’t think so. Next question. Anyone else know about this place?”

“Only the U.S. Navy. You and your pals can expect a visit from an aircraft carrier any minute.”

“Nice try,” Phelps said with a snort. “The atoll would be swarming with ships and planes by now if the Navy knew about us. The camera on the island sent a picture of your pretty face directly to my boss, Chang. He’s the one who ordered Mehdev to grab you, even at the risk of being seen by someone. You’ve got yourself in a hell of a mess, Joe.”

Zavala’s lips turned up in a slight smile.

“It only looks that way,” he said.

Phelps shook his head in disbelief.

“What do they give you NUMA guys to drink?” he asked. “Bull’s blood?”

“Something like that,” Zavala said. “Now, I’ve got a question for you: why did you give us the key to the handcuffs and return Kurt’s gun after our skirmish with your boss lady?”

Phelps slid his feet off the desk, put them back on the floor, and leaned closer.

“Actually, I’ve got three bosses,” he said. “Triplets. Chang is in charge of the rough stuff. He’s got a brother named Wen Lo who takes care of business. But the hologram you met back in Virginia is the top dog. Don’t know whether it’s a he or she.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sometimes it’s a man image, sometimes it’s a woman. You never know.”

“What’s with the holograms?”

“They don’t trust anyone, not even one another. They’re crazy too, but you already know that.”

“It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that they’re not playing with a full deck, Phelps. How’d you get hooked up with this bunch of maniacs?”

“I’m an ex-SEAL. Crazy or not, they pay better than the Navy. I was going to retire after this gig.” Lowering his voice, he added, “Like I said, I’ve got family back home. You really think the virus the Triad came up with will hit the U.S.?”

“It’s only a matter of a very short time.”

“Damnit, Joe, we’ve got to stop this thing.”

“We?” Zavala scoffed. “I’m in no position to do much about anything right now.”

“I’m going to change that. I’ve been thinking how to work this out. But I’m go

Phelps’s cell phone buzzed. He answered the call, listened for a moment, said, “Okay,” then hung up. He told Zavala to stay put and slipped out of the cabin.

Zavala pondered his conversation with Phelps. The man was a hired gun and killer, not the type he normally would choose as an ally, but their goals coincided. They would have to smooth out the wrinkles in their relationship later.

Zavala got off the bunk and walked around the cabin. He went over to the sink and splashed water on his face, then walked some more. He was almost feeling normal when Phelps returned.

Phelps was wearing a black neoprene wet suit and carrying a big duffel bag. There was worry in his hound-dog eyes.

“We’re going to have to postpone our talk,” he said. “That was Chang calling.”

“What’s going on?” Zavala asked.

“Things just got more complicated,” Phelps said. “Feel like going for a swim?”

“I just had one,” Zavala said. “Do I have a choice?”