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“At least now we know our little ruse works.”
When docking in ports where oversight was lax and the underpaid administrators were corrupt, Juan could get inspectors to cut short their visits by buying them off or making the ship so disgusting that they couldn’t wait to leave. But that trick wouldn’t work in countries where the standards were higher and the harbormasters well paid and principled.
The new Oregon could be made to look like a brand new technological marvel, allowing her to call on ports that were never available to the Corporation’s previous ship. To get past an inspection that might come uncomfortably close to revealing some of its hidden secrets, they had to come up with a new technique to get inspectors off the ship prematurely.
Since the Oregon was actually controlled from the op center, the non-functional bridge could be made to look like a shambles or, as it was today, it could be dressed up to seem as if it were fresh from the shipyard. The process for embarrassing Gulman enough to make him leave before finishing the tour had several segments.
The video of the fake engine room being doused with fire retardant foam had been filmed weeks ago on a movie set. The only part that was live was Eddie’s appearance on the monitor in his costume. The trick spill cup had been rigged up by Kevin Nixon. It had a hidden heating element that induced Gulman to put it down, and tiny neodymium magnets embedded inside pulled it over once he got it close to the control panel. The rest was theatrics and Juan’s improvisation.
“Any more word on that incident in Port Cook?” Juan asked Eddie. News had been trickling out about a situation that sounded suspiciously similar to what happened on the Empiric.
“The Australian military began flying in teams this morning,” Eddie said. “The latest is that they have five hundred and eighty-four casualties. Of that total, there were seventeen deaths, and the rest are paralyzed like Murph.”
“Anyone not afflicted?”
“Just the four airmen who were the skeleton crew of the nearby base. The rumor on the internet is that a gas leak at the base was caused by a fire in a top secret storage depot. A lot of Australians are convinced that both Port Cook and the Empiric are the fault of their own military.”
“Or it was made to look that way. I don’t buy that the military could have two similar ‘accidents’ a thousand miles away from each other in just a few days. Port Cook and the air base are right on the coast.”
“Do you think it was another attack like the one Sylvia Chang described?” Eddie asked.
“Maybe. But we don’t have anything concrete to connect them. Eric and Murph are still working on the facial recognition of Sylvia’s mystery couple. The only lead we have is a crate she saw with a logo of Alloy Bauxite, and that’s pretty thin. Do you have the satellite photos of their facility?”
“Right here,” Eddie said, tapping on his tablet. “But it doesn’t look like it’s going to be easy to get to.”
The image from a few days ago showed a large rectangular building in the middle of a green expanse dotted with muddy bogs. It had a small annex attached to it. The structure looked more like a warehouse than a smelting factory. The Marsh Flyer was parked next to it, and several other vehicles were scattered nearby. Eddie zoomed out, and there was nothing but swampland for miles around, with just a corridor denuded of trees for the hovercraft to navigate to and from the bay.
“We can’t go in by air,” Juan said. “The tiltrotor is too noisy. Can we get there by boat?”
“Only part of the way,” Eddie replied. “Then it would be a long slog wading through those marshes, which happen to be filled with snakes and crocodiles. Exfiltration would be just as difficult.”
“Not to mention that they might have guards patrolling the perimeter. Some of those smaller vehicles look like hovercraft as well.”
“If they’re connected with the gas attack, we have to assume they have armed security,” Juan said. “And whatever that building is, it’s not configured like a bauxite processing plant. Which is why we need to see what they’re actually doing in there.”
“Before we try to sneak in, some firsthand intel about the place would be helpful
,” Eddie said.
Juan looked out at the giant hovercraft being loaded with trucks. “I think it’s time for me to have a chat with the pilot of the Marsh Flyer.”
TWENTY-SIX
When Juan entered the Lazy Goanna with Max, it took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Unlike the upscale bar and grill up the street, this tavern was the kind of dive bar where people came to either drown their sorrows or celebrate making it through the day. Tacky signs and knickknacks were nailed haphazardly to the walls, and in front of the mirror behind the bar there was a large neon Foster’s logo with half the letters burned out. The place reeked of beer, sweat, and testosterone.
It was around dinnertime, and the place was filled with bauxite miners, mechanics, fishermen, and other working folk. The only group who looked out of place was a table of four men in their twenties doing shots and whooping it up, giving away their status as tourists every time they shouted taunts at each other in their American accents.
“You think this is where they got the idea for Crocodile Dundee?” Max asked.
“This might be where they filmed it,” Juan said, scanning the room now that he could see more clearly.
“I don’t see Parsons.”
“Neither do I. But the harbormaster was pretty certain he’d be here.”
“Might as well have a brew while we wait,” Max said.
They took two stools at the end of the bar. The only woman in the place was a pretty blonde bartender wearing a tight tank top.
