The Jungle - Cussler Clive (читать книги без .TXT) 📗
The Chairman’s cabin was decorated like it had been the stage for the film Casablanca, with all sorts of archways, finely carved wooden screens, and enough potted palms to seed an oasis. The tile floor was laid over a rubber membrane so the ship’s vibration wouldn’t crack it.
Before he saw to his own needs, and inspired by the gun crew up on deck, he retrieved the Kel-Tec pistol from his overalls’ pocket and set it on the blotter on his desk next to what looked like an old Bakelite phone but was actually part of the Oregon’s sophisticated communications array. Behind his desk was a gun safe. He opened the heavy door, ignoring the assortment of arms and the bundles of currency and gold coins stored within. Instead, he retrieved a gun-cleaning kit. He knew the little automatic’s chamber was clear, but he jacked the slide several times, once he’d pulled out the empty magazine. After carefully scouring the barrel and chamber, he wiped all the parts with gun oil. He loaded fresh .380 ammunition into the magazine. He would have chambered a final round, but he wanted the armorers and Kevin Nixon down in the Magic Shop to give his artificial leg a going-over after its dunking, so he just put the pistol into his desk drawer.
An unchambered bullet wasn’t a danger until someone touched the gun.
He fought his way out of the XXL-sized jumpsuit, pulled off the prosthetic leg, and hopped easily into his luxurious bathroom. It had a copper tub big enough for elephants to laze away an afternoon in, but it was rarely used. Instead, he got into the shower, adjusting the heat and the multiple heads until his body was being pummeled by tsunamis of water just a few degrees cooler than scalding.
He dressed casually in lightweight khakis and a rich purple polo shirt, his feet shod in soft leather moccasins without socks. Unlike his combat leg, the prosthesis he had on now was a virtual twin of his flesh-and-bone limb.
His cabin was the closest to the Op Center, the electronic nerve center of the freighter. It was from this room, as high-tech as the bridge of a science-fiction starship, that all the Oregon’s weapons, defensive systems, damage control, helm, and propulsion were controlled. The semicircular room, dominated by a massive flat-panel display and kept dimly lit, had a helmsman and fire-control officer sitting toward the front, with duty stations for communications, radar and sonar, and a dozen others ringing it. The watchkeeper sat at the middle of the space in a single chair with its own monitor and controls that could supersede all others. Mark and Eric had dubbed it the “Kirk Chair” the first time they had seen it, which secretly pleased Cabrillo since that had been his inspiration when he’d designed the space.
Eddie Seng had the conn but leapt to his feet when Juan entered the Op Center.
“As you were, Mr. Seng.” On the split screen were feeds from multiple cameras mounted at strategic locations around the ship. “Anything to report?”
“We’re all alone out here, so I’ve got her humming along at forty knots.”
“Any word from young Mr. Lawless?”
“He’s still in Kabul but will make our pickup in Bangladesh.”
“Get word to him that he’ll be choppering out to the ship with another passenger, and that discretion is the better part of valor. A loose lip could sink this ship, and all that.”
“Who’s the other passenger?” Eddie asked.
“A corporate minder named John Smith,” Juan said. “Ex-Legionnaire. He’s Croissard’s muscle, and Croissard’s insisting that he come with us.”
“And I take it by your tone you’re none too happy about it.”
“Truer words have never been spoken, but we don’t have much choice in the matter.” Cabrillo didn’t like variables he couldn’t control, and Smith was definitely one of them.
MacD Lawless was another. He wasn’t sure if this would be the right first mission for him, not with Smith along and Lawless’s abilities still unevaluated. He’d have to think it over further. By now his research team of Mark Murphy and Eric Stone should have all the details of the man’s military career and the circumstances of his capture in Afghanistan. He’d read through it after dinner and then decide if Lawless would be on the mission with the Corporation rescuing Soleil Croissard.
The Oregon’s dining room had the hushed sophistication of an English gentlemen’s club from a bygone era. It was all polished brass and dark woods. The furniture was heavy with subtly patterned fabrics, and the carpet was muted and plush. All that was missing were some stuffed animal heads on the wall and a couple old men smoking cigars and regaling each other with tales of safaris and imperial wars.
Juan caught a break from having to read Lawless’s dossier because Murph and Stony were sitting at one of the tables.
Eric Stone was a Navy vet but hadn’t been a fighting sailor. Like Mark, who’d been with a Defense contractor before joining the Corporation, Stone was a technology guy. It was only after he’d come aboard that his innate sense of ship handling came to light. After Juan himself, Eric Stone was the best helmsman on the Oregon . Stone, a shy man by nature, retained a little of the deportment he’d learned in the Navy. He still tucked in his shirts, and his hair was always in place.
Mark, on the other hand, cultivated a nerd-chic vibe, though it seemed pretty heavy on the nerd and light on the chic. His dark hair looked like he dried it in a wind tunnel. He had tried, unsuccessfully, to grow a beard and had since given up, but his shaving schedule was erratic at best. Both men were of average height, though Eric was the slenderer of the two. Because he lived mostly on junk food and energy drinks, Mark had to spend time in the gym to keep from packing on the pounds.
Tonight he wore a T-shirt with a picture of a dachshund puppy lying asleep on a dinner plate with some potatoes and a serving of traditional German spatzle. Next to the plate was a half-full beer mug and eating utensils. Under the picture were the words “Wienerdog schnitzel.”
“That’s just wrong,” Juan said as he approached the table.
“I Photoshopped it myself,” Murph said proudly. “I made another for chimi-chihuahuas.”
Cabrillo took a chair opposite. “Are you eating canned ravioli?”
“You can’t beat Chef Boyardee,” Mark replied, taking a spoonful.
“I sometimes wonder if you’re twenty-eight or just eight.” Cabrillo plucked the crisp linen napkin from the table and draped it over his lap. A moment later a wedge salad with strawberry balsamic dressing was placed in front of him.
“I was actually thinking about a Caesar,” he said to the server without looking up.
“You’ll eat the wedge,” said Maurice, the ship’s impeccably dressed but irascible steward. He added as he walked away, “You’ll have the beef bourguignon too.”
He returned a moment later with a bottle of Dom Romane Conti, a rich French burgundy that would be the perfect accompaniment to the Chairman’s meal. He poured with a flourished twist so as not to spill a drop. “I had to drink two full glasses to be sure it hadn’t turned to vinegar.”
Juan chuckled. Maurice’s little tasting stunt cost the Corporation around eight hundred dollars. Times might be a little leaner than normal, but the retired Royal Navy valet wouldn’t be denied “a touch of the grape,” as he would put it.
Cabrillo turned to his dinner companions. “You guys could save me from staring at my computer for the night by giving me the condensed version of what you’ve found out about MacD Lawless.”
“I see absolutely nothing wrong with staring at a computer all night,” Murph said, setting down a can of Red Bull.
“So, Lawless?”
“Linda used a contact left over from her days on the Joint Chiefs’ staff and was able to pull his service record.” Eric’s tone was now serious. “Marion MacDougal Lawless was an excellent soldier. He’s racked up a Good Conduct Medal, a Purple Heart, and a Bronze Star. These last two for the same engagement outside of Tikrit. After Iraq he qualified for the Rangers and aced the school at Fort Benning. He was then shipped to Afghanistan and saw some pretty heavy fighting up near the Pakistan border.
