Page 124 of Clive Cussler Ghost Soldier

And he would pay dearly for it.

64

Aboard theOregon

After a hot meal and an even hotter shower, Juan sat with one of the Magic Shop’s gifted sketch artists. Each of her long fingernails were painted in a different neon hue, and flew across the keyboard as they spoke.

Cabrillo was still waiting for reports from Eric, Murph, and the other analysts for any clues they could tease out of the fragments of pocket litter, scraps of paper and, most importantly, Plata’s recovered satellite phone. So far, nothing had turned up.

But it was beneath the scalding showerheads he realized he already possessed one of the best clues he could hope for—the Vendor’s physical identity.

One of the many reasons for Cabrillo’s extraordinary success as a CIA field officer was his nearly picture-perfect memory. The problem was getting that visual image out of his brain and into a computer loaded with facial recognition software.

The young artist sitting at her workstation had spent two tours in naval intelligence before leaving the service and pursuing her lifelong dream as a portrait artist and later as a Hollywood set designer. Her combination of skills and devoted service to her nation made her a perfect candidate for Nixon’s workshop when an opening appeared in his roster.

Like most young people, she had grown up a “digital native.” Using a computer for her artwork was as natural to her as speaking her native tongue. But when the AI-powered art program Midjourney suddenly appeared, everything changed. Of course, just about anybody with the capacity to engineer thoughtful prompts could produce incredible AI-generated works of art now. But that was like saying anyone with a cell phone camera could take good snapshots. It took a true artist to produce truly great works of art, and the young woman had just created a masterpiece.

The Midjourney image on her screen was an excellent replication of the Vendor’s essential appearance. The software had generated a very workable likeness in record time. But it was her skilled artisan’s eye and hand that brought it life. Using a digital paintbrush, she took the image to the next level, capturing the Vendor’s high intelligence, arrogance, and savagery with her masterful brushstrokes.

“Anything else we need to add?” she asked.

“You nailed it,” Juan said. “Let’s get that to Eric so he can start a web search for this cat.”

“I’ll send it right now.”

Juan’s earpiece rang. “Thanks. I need to get this.”

She turned back to her keyboard as Cabrillo stood and left her workstation.

“Tell me you found him,” Cabrillo said.

“Not quite,” Linda replied in her high-pitched voice. “But maybe we picked up another thread.”

“Tell me.”

“The Sniffer picked up a sat signal from a place called Jaco Island, just off the coast of Timor-Leste.”

“Formerly known as East Timor. What kind of sat signal?”

“A sat signal that originated from a piece of equipment installed in an American Humvee.”

“Let me guess. A Humvee that should have been located in an Afghani arsenal.”

“Bingo. That Humvee shouldn’t be there.”

“And yet it is. Sounds like a Vendor op.”

“Our best guess, too.”

“Can Overholt contact any of his CIA assets in-country to confirm?”

“He says there aren’t any. Timor-Leste holds no strategic value for Uncle Sam, and it’s way out in the boonies.”

Juan did the math in his head, calculating the distance from their current position to the former Portuguese colony. They wouldn’t arrive on scene until late tomorrow evening. That was a long way to run for a pocketful of nothing.

Linda read his mind. “Wild-goose chase?”

“Yeah, but it’s the only goose in town. Lay in a course.”