Vulcan Eye

  Vulcan Eye

  A CHUCK BRANDT THRILLER

  ROGER WESTON

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, dialogue, and plot are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Weston Publishing Enterprises

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 1

  Seattle Shipping Canal

  Onboard the Nightingale

  Chuck Brandt had just switched off his table saw and removed his earphones when he saw the man with crutches. The stranger stood in the frame of the open metal door of the ship’s foc’sle.

  Chuck’s curiosity was sparked. Here he was working peacefully in the foc’sle of his recently-acquired rust-bucket ship and a stranger shows up. Chuck put down his freshly-cut board—with exaggerated calmness. He casually glanced over at the long white fish processing table without eyeing the folded rag that was hiding his Glock 9mm handgun.

  Chuck figured the stranger was about thirty. The guy was wearing a tank-top, and his big shoulder muscles rippled as he leaned forward on his crutches. He said, “I’m looking for Chuck Brandt.”

  Chuck shrugged. Keeping the stranger in his peripheral vision, he took a few steps and set the board down next to the folded rag.

  “What do you need to talk to him about?”

  “It’s personal. Is he here or not?”

  Chuck rested his hand on the folded rag.

  “I’m Brandt. What can I do for you?”

  The guy stared at him. He started to speak, but no words came out of his mouth. He glanced back over his shoulder. The ship was docked in the shipping canal, not far from the Ballard Locks. A couple of fishing boats were tied up nearby. Several more slept across the canal tied up to the wharf.

  “Maybe I made a mistake,” the stranger said, turning back to Chuck.

  “Could be,” Chuck said. “How’d you hear about my ship?”

  The guy was leaning forward on his crutches again now, staring down at his feet in heavy thought. “It’s a long story.”

  “Well, why don’t you give me the Reader’s Digest version?”

  “Lawrence Robertson.”

  “Lawrence sent you? I hope this is not about me needing a shrink. He’s been trying real hard to get me into therapy.”

  “There’s no shame in getting help.”

  A seagull landed on the starboard railing about ten-feet away. Chuck saw it flap down just behind the stranger, who was framed in the metal doorway.

  “Lawrence told you to say that, didn’t he?”

  The guy nodded. “He also told me you might be able to help me.” The man stepped forward on his crutches.

  “I didn’t get your name.”

  “Sebastian Lewis.”

  “I’m surprised that Lawrence wouldn’t have called ahead. How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

  “Oh, right.” Sebastian pulled a crumpled letter from his pocket and handed it over. “He had to leave the country in a hurry, so he gave me a letter of introduction.”

  Reluctantly, Chuck left the safety of standing next to his hidden gun. He walked over to Sebastian—ready to rush and tackle him if he tried anything.

  Chuck scanned the letter. “Alright, Sebastian. I can’t guarantee this isn’t a waste of your time, but I’ll at least hear you out. Are you thirsty? I have coffee in the galley.” If Sebastian fell for this ploy, Chuck hoped he would turn and head aft. That would give Chuck a chance to see if he had a hidden weapon tucked under his belt. This caution was mostly habit, though. Chuck was sure the letter was legit due to Lawrence including a code word.

  “No thanks.”

  “Alright, let’s talk here in the foc’sle.” Chuck gestured toward a stack of lumber, which was a couple of feet high. “You can sit there if you want.”

  The foc’sle was the most forward compartment of the ship, just behind the anchors. The room was a white, steel-walled triangle, narrowing toward the front with fish-processing equipment, paint-covered bulwarks, exposed pipes, conveyor belts, and a six-foot high aluminum fish rack. The lumber was stacked a few feet from the table saw.

  Sebastian crutched over and sat down.

  Chuck inhaled deeply. “Nothing like the smell of fresh-cut wood. I’m building some new bunks for a few of the cabins. The ship needs a lot of work.”

  Sebastian glanced around the room. His eyes stopped on the long fish-processing table. He seemed to be looking at Chuck’s folded rag.

  Chuck continued: “This was an old fish processor. That’s what all the equipment is for. The table with gutters is for the slime line. The hatches over there are to drop racks of fish down into the flash freezer. It’s a messy business.”

  “Just like your job, right?”

  Chuck frowned. He leaned against his table saw. “Why did Lawrence refer you?”

  Sitting on the lumber, Sebastian leaned back. He shrugged his bulging shoulder muscles. “I’ll get to the point.”

  Chuck nodded.

  “I met Lawrence years ago. He was a liaison between the CIA and the SEAL teams.”

  “You’re a Navy SEAL?” Chuck said.

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’re coming to me for help? I don’t understand. What about your friends? Why not go to them?”

  He shook his head. “I’ve lost everything … and everybody that’s important to me. I lost my girl, my friends, and I failed my country. I was accused of helping our enemies. I need help.” He gestured to the crutches, which were lying on the stack next to him. “As you can see, unfortunately, I’m not in any condition to take action myself.”

  “Yeah, I can see that, but you’re a SEAL.”

  “I’m not the same man I was a year ago. Fact is, I’m broken merchandise.”

  Chuck frowned. “I thought SEALs never break.”

  “Just listen to me, alright? I ain’t got any pals. I was court marshaled. I was ruined. Get it?”

  Chuck sat on the edge of the processing table. “Okay. Why don’t you tell me what happened?”

  Sebastian put his hands on his forehead then looked at Chuck. “It began a few months ago in Athens, Greece. Me and the boys were drinking in a bar—drinking too much. I got in a fight with another SEAL. I don’t even remember what started it. After that, I was mad. I went off alone, drank more, and talked too much to some Turkish Russians … Then my girlfriend showed up … Me and Angela got in an argument outside the canteen. A bunch of Turks returned and beat me up badly. They shackled my wrists and ankles, and blindfolded me. Then they threw us in a van at gunpoint…”

  “In Athens?”

  He nodded. “Two tourists who witnessed our abduction were stabbed to death by the Turkish Russians. Later, phony witnesses identified me as the killer. As far as the world was concerned, me and Angela disappeared. Because of the fight and then being seen with a woman, I was listed as AWOL and later court marshaled. Because I was a SEAL, the media jumped on the story and convicted me of murder in the press, adding all kinds of
speculations and innuendos to sell more newspapers and get more clicks online. The press researched my girlfriend, found out she was Russian, and accused me of engaging not only in murder but also espionage. This was reported as fact in hundreds of newspapers.”

  “I may have seen a headline. If you were abducted, how did you escape?”

  “I’ll get to that. First, we were taken to Symi Island in Greece. Then to Cypress. Threats against my girlfriend were used to compromise me. They threatened to kill her if I didn’t help them. I played along for a while, hoping I could turn the tables and rescue her. I eventually did rescue her, but as our stolen boat was leaving the dock, I was shot in the back, leading to my… physical problems. My girlfriend drove the boat to Larnaca, Cypress and left me at a hospital. The doctors said I’d never walk again, but after three months of physical therapy and prayer, I was able to walk ten feet with a walker. As you can see, I just walked up your gangplank on crutches. A year from now I’ll be running. But what I need is help now.”

  Chuck got up and walked over to the metal door. He stood in the frame and looked out on deck, but something else caught his attention—two men standing ashore by the landing for the gangplank.

  Chuck turned back to Sebastian. “Who are those guys?”

  Sebastian’s neck muscles tightened. “Military police. I told you they court marshaled me. I’m in custody, but they let me come and talk with you because it’s a matter of national security. Also, they’re desperate. Time is short, and they have very little intelligence. They say you’re a man who can get answers on the move. Very rare.”

  Chuck walked back over and sat down. “You said they used your Russian girlfriend to compromise you…”

  “I mean I had to give up some information to save her life. She’s just a school teacher. We were … talking about getting married.” He shook his head. “I should say ex-girlfriend. She left me at the hospital, and I haven’t seen her since.”

  “I’m sorry.” Chuck paused. “Has anybody seen her?”

  He nodded. “Yes, she’s alive, but she won’t talk to me. It hurts more than being shot.” He sighed deeply. “Anyway, at the moment, I have other concerns.”

  “Such as?”

  “Imagine how this looked to my superiors: a Navy SEAL disappears after a bar fight. Three weeks later, his team is ambushed while delivering a top-secret weapon to the Israelis. Their amphibious landing craft is hijacked at sea. The weapon disappears. The whole team is wiped out.”

  “So that’s why you don’t have any buddies to help you?”

  “My superiors think I sold them out.”

  “Did you?”

  “I didn’t mean to. I was just buying time, so I could escape and warn them. I wasn’t supposed to get shot in the back.”

  Chuck looked out the forecastle door for a moment. Rain was starting to drizzle. Little wet spots were appearing on the rust-colored metal deck.

  Chuck turned back. “So what do you think I can do for you?”

  “I know who these people are. They killed my brothers. I’m turning to you because you work outside of the regular chain of command. I was told you deliver justice when all other channels have closed down or failed.”

  “What’s this weapon you mentioned?”

  “It’s called ‘Vulcan Eye.’ It’s a focused, directed-energy weapon that fries the electronics of missile systems, essentially making missiles obsolete. It works like an anti-cruise missile scrambler. It’s a laser-like weapon that fries electrical circuits in computers, foiling missile launches, missile-guidance systems, and knocking dozens of missiles out of the air simultaneously with 90% accuracy. It can also take out aircraft, making it a fearsome, long-range weapon.”

  “How long?”

  “I heard thousands of kilometers, but I can’t be more specific. It does this with multiple energy beams. Rogue nations are clamoring for the technology which will make them invincible to attack and free to carry out genocide on their own people.”

  “What does genocide have to do with an anti-missile weapon?”

  “A lot. Retaliation against rogue nations sometimes comes in the form of air attacks. No missiles and no fighter jets means no retaliation. That added comfort level would be all the encouragement needed for several dictators to begin purifying their populations with the mass slaughter of less desirable elements of society.”

  “That’s very nice,” Chuck said. “You have some very sick friends.”

  “What friends?”

  “Your drinking buddies who turned against you.”

  “Look, I admit I screwed up, alright?”

  “Yeah, you did. If Lawrence hadn’t sent you, I’d throw you off the boat.”

  “But you’re not going to?”

  “Not yet. If Lawrence sent you, then you’re no traitor. Who has the anti-missile system now?”

  Sebastian squirmed a little in his seat. He pressed his palms down on the wood stack and adjusted his position. “He’s called the Hood. They call him that because he wears a hood all the time—a hood with a mesh veil that covers his face.”

  “You gotta be kidding me.”

  “No, he’s a real nut job. My interrogator told me about him. Several years ago, he was”— Sebastian shifted uncomfortably in his chair—“his face was scarred with acid when he was torturing a victim, and the victim splashed the acid back in his face. That’s why he wears the veil.”

  Chuck shook his head. He glanced out on deck for a second. He got up and walked to the metal door, studying the shore for a minute. A telephone company truck rumbled past the warehouse and gate to the property bordering the shipping canal. Other than that, it was quiet. Rain fell on the metal deck.

  Sebastian resumed talking: “He’s obsessed with art—images of contrast—pain and pleasure, war and peace, happiness and grief. He sails the Greek Isles and recovers underwater treasures for his personal collection at his private estate on the Greek island of Symi. His estate is called Shavaro. It’s on a remote part of Symi Island. We spent two weeks there before we were removed by boat to Turkish-controlled Cypress.”

  Chuck sat down on the other end of the wood stack. “What is this guy? A terrorist?”

  “He has a criminal organization of Turkish Russians and runs false-flag ships in the Med. One of his crews searches for treasures. They loot shipwrecks that they discover through stolen satellite data. He knows of hundreds of untouched wrecks in the Med. He plunders them, claiming the best treasures for himself and selling off the rest in the black market. The other ship engages in illicit trade.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know much. What I do know is that he smuggles heroine from Turkey to Italy.”

  “And the weapon is on this Greek island?”

  “It was, but then it was moved, evidently. SEAL Team Six raided his estate. Nobody was there. The weapon was gone. I was called a liar for that.”

  “Where is it then?”

  Sebastian grimaced. “I don’t know. They think it’s probably somewhere in the Turkish-controlled part of Cypress. That’s why the government is reluctant to send in people with any ties to the US government. That’s why I’m coming to you. Lawrence said you’re an independent contractor or something. He said you could help me.”

  “Help you recover Vulcan Eye?”

  “Yes, but there’s a catch. You have to find it within thirty-six hours. The Hood wants to demonstrate how effective the weapon is, so he’s going to knock three airliners out of the sky. He’s hoping to provoke a response and then shoot down enemy planes and missiles. He wants to create a bidding war among dictators to buy the weapon for the highest possible price.”

  “What if the response is not by air, but with special forces?”

  “Not an option. After he reveals his location, he won’t give them time for anything but an air attack. Then he’ll clear out with the weapon.”

  “How big is this weapon? It must be big to do what you say.”

  “Yes, it’s like a doub
le sized tank with hydraulic a radar dish and tractable weapons racks that raise up for use. It’s the size of a fire truck.”

  Chuck shook his head. “This terrorist—this Hood as you call him—sounds like a real piece of work.”

  “More than you know. I’d go myself, but look at me,” Sebastian said, anger rising in his voice. He grabbed his crutches and threw them. They slammed into the door of the freezer compartment. “I screwed up. I blame myself for what’s happened.”

  Chuck looked at the crutches on the floor for a second then said, “I’m sorry. What’s your girlfriend’s name again?”

  “Angela.”

  “Sounds like you’ve caused a lot of misery thanks to your drinking problem.”

  “Yeah, that’s right. I’m working on a twelve-step program. But I can’t go back. What’s done is done. I have to think about fixing my mistakes. I can’t have any peace until Vulcan Eye is recovered.”

  “All right, I’ll help you. Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “Yeah, I told you that the Hood is addicted to art. That’s part of the reason he plunders the shipwrecks for ruins. Anyway, he has a contact in the Greek Museum of Archaeology, a curator who buys illicit relics from him. His name is Boris Methodius.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Athens, Greece

  25 hours till shoot-down

  The Greek Museum of Archaeology featured a dramatic entrance with ten towering pillars by the front door to a massive building. Chuck ascended three sets of stairs, each step stretching a hundred feet across.

  The interior was an echo chamber. Voices seemed to resonate off the walls. A dozen thick columns rose from floor to ceiling—and the ceiling was at least twenty feet high. Interspaced between the columns were a dozen life-sized statues. Chuck inquired at the front desk and was told that Boris Methodius, the curator, would be out to meet him in just a minute.

  As Chuck wandered around, he passed statues of Hercules, Aphrodite, Poseidon, and Perseus, holding up the head of slain Medusa. He passed statues of a warrior, a discus thrower, and a statesman—and wondered what kind of men they really were in their lifetimes. He was not totally engrossed in art, however, because three loaded jet planes carrying over a thousand people were going to be shot down in twenty-five hours unless he found the Hood and Vulcan Eye.