Chapter 50
Outfitted in black fatigues borrowed from their hosts, Kurt and Joe climbed into the back of the pearl-white Humvee.
Two packs filled with weaponry and tactical gear sat in the footwell between them.
As Kurt unzipped the pack to check the contents, Rand climbed in behind the wheel, and his sister took the front passenger seat.
They drove out of the estate, passing two layers of walls and gates before turning onto a road that was a far cry from the smoothly paved driveway.
As they rumbled down the uneven, crumbling pavement, Kurt wondered how Rand ever got to use either of the Ferraris.
He doubted they could be driven at any speed without needing major suspension work by the time they returned.
The Humvee took the uneven surface with no problem, and they were soon cruising along the coast. Several miles from the estate they pulled into a small marina.
A few fishing boats bobbed empty on the surface, but there were no fishermen to be seen.
A small barge with rusted but operational-looking dredging gear sat anchored a hundred feet from the shore.
The place was quiet. A waterside ghost town.
Rand parked the Humvee under the shade of several trees, climbed out, and led them down a path to a dilapidated building that stretched out over the water. Letting them into the building through a padlocked metal door, they found themselves in a large boathouse of questionable construction.
After clearing some cobwebs from a metal breaker box, Rand opened the panel and flipped a switch.
A number of bare overhead lights flickered and came to life.
They illuminated the space, revealing a concrete dock.
Resting against the edge of the dock, held in place by several lines, was a tubular-shaped vessel.
Kurt assumed it was Rand’s submarine, but the oddly proportioned, algae-covered machine didn’t inspire confidence.
Moving closer, Kurt stopped to examine the hull. It was short from nose to tail, but wide in circumference. It was covered in barnacles, tangles of seaweed, and beards of algae. The hull appeared—even on close inspection—to be made from rotting planks of swollen wood.
Joe spoke his shock aloud. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“Not at all,” Rand said. “This is my secret.”
“You said it was a submarine.”
“It is,” Pru insisted. “And it’s perfectly safe and highly seaworthy. All you’re seeing is what I want you to see. Our disguise.”
She climbed onto the wooden hull and picked her way forward to the only part of the hull that stuck upward; a rounded bump that was several feet in diameter.
Reaching down, she lifted a hidden lever, which she turned counterclockwise a half dozen times as if she were stirring a cauldron.
With the last turn complete, she leaned back, pulling the heavy hatch open.
A soft hiss of air sounded from the inside as the pressure equalized.
Joe climbed onto the hull to get a better look. Reaching Pru’s position, he peered down into the hatch. He saw a collar of green-painted steel, a short ladder attached to the side, and a sturdy, functional interior with heavy rubberized controls.
“Pretty good disguise,” he admitted.
“Sitting on the surface, it looks like driftwood, a capsized wreck, or even a dead whale,” she replied. “When we surface during the day we scatter anchovies about to attract the seagulls. It adds to the disguise.”
There was a great tone of satisfaction in her voice, the complete opposite of her manner at the house.
“You built this,” Joe guessed.
“We bought the hull from a friend in the Vietnamese government who was supposed to have it disassembled. It was an aging coastal sub they were discarding in favor of newer and larger boats. Used to carry a crew of twelve and eight torpedoes. We cut the stern off, ripped out the interior, and installed a fully electric engine that runs on lithium-ion batteries. Then we welded a new end cap on the stern, added an overlarge propeller with a shroud around it to keep the cavitation to a minimum, and called it a day.”
“My sister is the mechanical genius of the family,” Rand said proudly. “Our father sent her to trade school for a hands-on education, and then to engineering courses at university. I think he hoped she might build bridges and skyscrapers one day. Guess it didn’t work out that way.”
“It still could,” Pru insisted.
Kurt had to admire her optimism. “How did you go from there to smuggling?”
“Our father’s business went bankrupt,” she said.
“He was an exporter of precious metals. Apparently, he had been skimming from the shipments for a long time. People were angry. Jail terms were coming. Dad ended up having a terrible heart attack. He died before they could prosecute him, so they came for us. About that time, Rand found a shipment of gold and platinum Dad hadn’t yet turned over to the government.
It was worth eight million dollars on the free market. ”
Rand jumped in to add to the story. “My dear sister, Prudence, earned her name by suggesting we surrender it. I promised her I would and then put it on a ship and sold it to one of Dad’s old partners in Malaysia at a discounted, tax-free price.
” He shrugged his shoulders as if it were all a happy accident. “Voilà, a new career was born.”
“At that point it was either go to jail, or go on the run,” Pru explained. “So I joined him. We moved around a lot. Malaysia, Thailand, Vietnam. Finally, we found a spot here where we could operate undisturbed.”
Joe nodded and turned his attention back to the submarine and its unorthodox exterior. “How does the disguise affect your speed and range?”
“Not as badly as you might think,” she replied. “The lines of the wooden planks create a slipstream of sorts, and we never let the algae growth get long enough to be a problem. It costs us maybe two or three knots, but we’re not trying to set any speed records here.”
Kurt had a question. “How good of a welder are you?”
“Good enough that this boat has never sprung a leak,” she said, knocking on the wooden plank. “Besides, we never dive below eighty feet. Easy swim to the surface from there if something goes wrong. Shall we go inside?”
Joe nodded and Pru swung her legs over the opening and climbed down. The submersible wasn’t large enough to need more than a three-rung ladder, and that was more useful for climbing out than getting in.
Joe went in after her, with Kurt and Rand following suit.
With the lights on the interior felt like a throwback to an earlier era.
Analog dials for everything from speed to depth to pressure; thick steel valves that required substantial muscle power to open, close, and adjust; mechanical linkages and levers to control and set rudder and dive planes.
About the only modern touches were a keyboard and computer screen between the two seats, used primarily for navigation, and the fully electrical motor powered by long banks of lithium batteries that lined the sides and bottom of the vessel.
Kurt noticed brand names on the battery packs, quickly realizing they’d been repurposed from electric cars.
Near the front of the vessel were two seats arranged in a staggered formation. The rest of the hull was cargo space, flat, open, and dotted with anchors and attachment points to tie down and secure whatever was brought aboard.
“How much contraband can you haul in this thing?” Kurt asked.
“Almost three tons,” Rand said. “But we run out of space before we run out of buoyancy. Computer chips don’t weigh that much and refined earths are running five hundred dollars a pound these days. Million-dollar shipments each way. Our twenty percent adds up quickly.”
“Did I mention being in the wrong business?” Joe said once again.
Kurt laughed. “Got to hand it to you, you’ve made yourself invaluable to Western governments, who want those rare earths, and the Chinese, each of whom should theoretically be trying to stop you. Are you certain you want to go straight?”
Rand’s reply couldn’t have been simpler. “What good is all the money if you can’t enjoy spending it?”
Kurt could understand that. “Get us to Siabat Island unobserved and we’ll do whatever we can to help you get clear.”