They went along to a cabin close to the bridge where a thin, undernourishedlooking man with the reddest hair Dave had ever seen that wasn't on a dog, was seated in front of a series of teak-mounted transceivers and loudspeakers. In his hand was a digital telephone handset and on the table next to him was a sheet of paper covered with team names and scores.
'This is Jock.'
The red-haired man looked up and nodded.
'He's Scottish, so don't expect to understand a bleedin' word he says.'
Jock replaced the handset on the cradle and sat back on his plastic office chair.
'How'd the Arsenal do, Jock?'
'Lost, three-nil.'
'Bastards.' Ross sighed and looked away in disgust. 'Jock, this is Mister Dulanotov. One of our supernumos. He's got a problem with his VHF.'
Dave answered a few rudimentary questions about the VHF system aboard the Juarista while at the same time he considered what would be the best way of taking out the ship's radio. The sailor in him recoiled from the idea of simply putting a bullet in the radio and leaving a hundred people stranded on the ocean with no means of communication. But he could see no obvious alternative. At least that was how it seemed until, backing out of Ross's way, he caught and tore the pocket of his chinos on the heavy steel door.
'Sorry about that,' said Ross.
But Dave was more interested in the discovery that there was a key in the door than in any apology. All he would have to do was steal the key and then hide it somewhere.
Jock leaned forward in his chair, frowning with puzzlement as through the loudspeaker came a sound like a fax machine in transmission. He said, 'Odd. There it is again.'
'What is?' asked Ross.
'That sound. One of the supernumos must be broadcasting a signal using a digital scrambler.'
'So?'
'So, it's a little unusual, that's all.'
'What channel?' asked Dave, curious.
Jock hit the squelch button on the transceiver to try and filter out the background atmospheric noise. He shook his head and said, 'It seems to be between frequencies.'
Ross shrugged and said, 'Whoever it is is probably trying to have a private business conversation, that's all. There are a lot of nosey bastards around these days. You never know who's listening to your blower. I was reading about it in the paper. Industrial espionage is on the increase.'
'That's true,' said Jock in an accent as thick as porridge. 'But digital's sophisticated.' He looked accusingly at Dave. 'Even for some mega-rich supernumo. Normally it's only the military and the intelligence community who get to play with these kinds of toys.'
'Are you sure it's coming from the Duke?' asked Dave.
'Positive. Look at that signal strength. We're right on top of it. And what's more, VHF has a very short range. Fifty miles max. If someone's broadcasting then it's to someone else who's quite close.'
'Can you get a fix on it?' asked Dave.
'Not with this kit.' Jock picked up a half-smoked cigarette and puffed it back into life. 'There is another possibility, if the signal's not actually coming from the ship.' He took a drag, stubbed out the cigarette in a saucer, and started to roll another.
Ross said, 'Well, don't make us change our underwear for it.'
Jock licked his cigarette paper and said, 'It's possible. Just possible, mind, that we're over a submarine.' He put the cigarette in his mouth and scraped a match alight. 'Those bastards play all sorts of stupid games. If it is a sub, he's probably using us as the subject of an exercise. Right now he could be going through the motions of firing a torpedo at us.'
Dave said, 'That's a comforting thought as we prepare to go to bed.'
Ross said, 'Yeah. And to think that it's to help us all sleep soundly in our beds that they do these bloody stupid things.'
Aboard the Carrera, Kate finished her conversation with the first officer of the USS Galveston, the 688-Class attack submarine that was, she had just been informed, 200 feet below the twin hulls of the Duke. She felt a lot better knowing they had company, even though it would only last as far as the Sargasso Sea. After that there would be several hundred miles across the Cape Verde Basin before they picked up their French nuclear sub escort at another underwater landmark, Great Meteor Tablemount.
She and Sam Brockman were seated behind the drawn shades and closed doors of the wheelhouse skylounge. Brockman was keeping one eye on the electronic chart, more out of habit than of necessity. A tall man -- too tall to be really comfortable on the yacht: at six feet five his steel-gray hair was forever brushing along the Carrera's suede-covered ceilings -- Brockman had the air of someone who'd seen it all before. Kate liked him, finding confidence in his steady demeanor, admiring his attention to duty, but most of all enjoying the fact that he shared her own low opinion of Kent Bowen.
Kate said, 'Where is His Excellency?'
