Deadly Cargo: BookShots

by James Patterson

  “You wanted the hatch open, right?” Rodriguez pointed out as he fixed a length of detonator cord into each piece of Composition-4 plastic explosive, then deftly wired them into a radio receiver. He’d followed this process dozens of times before, and it showed. “Better than spending an hour with a cutting torch.”

  “Not if it means blowing a hole in the side of this tub.”

  “Relax, it’s just a small breaching charge.” Rodriguez held up the main block of explosive. “A block like this could send this ship to the bottom in a matter of minutes, but a few ounces won’t do more than blow out the hinges.” He flashed a grin as he placed the block carefully back in his satchel. “Might want to step back, though.”

  Retreating to the far end of the passageway, both men crouched down low as Rodriguez pulled out the radio detonator unit. Checking that the unit had power, he held it up and glanced at Watkins.

  “Ready to make some noise?”

  For once, Watkins didn’t look his usual cocky, arrogant self. “Just blow it, for Christ’s sake,” he said, covering his ears.

  Reaching up, Rodriguez hit his radio, hoping that at least part of his message made it through the interference. “Fire in the hole.”

  With that, he ducked his head down and pressed the trigger.

  On the bridge several decks above, O’Neill and Starke jumped as the loud concussive boom echoed through the ship, the deck trembling beneath their feet as the shock waves traveled through its steel structure.

  “Jesus, what the hell was that?” Starke asked. “We hit something?”

  O’Neill shook his head. He recognized the sound of a breaching charge well enough, and knew that Rodriguez carried a demolition kit amongst his gear for emergency use. What had prompted him to detonate such a charge deep within the ship was anyone’s guess, but with radio contact unreliable, it was clear they’d get no answers up here.

  At the same moment, his radio crackled into life. “Richards here. Skipper, I just picked up an explosion aboard. What’s happening?”

  “Sit tight, Richards,” O’Neill instructed, already making for the stairwell. “We’re going below to check it out.”

  “Jesus, you sure you’ve done this before?” Watkins asked irritably, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears.

  “Quit bitching.” Rodriguez pointed towards the transverse bulkhead at the end of the passageway, where the hatch was now hanging precariously from the smoking ruins of its hinges. “We’re in, aren’t we? Grab your tools and let’s get this done.”

  Rising to their feet, both men advanced down the corridor, with Watkins leading the way. A good hard kick was enough to sever the last remaining chunk of twisted metal holding the hatch in place, causing it to clatter to the deck and allowing them free access to the engine space beyond.

  “The generator should be around here someplace,” Watkins said, his flashlight beam playing across towering pistons, pipes, and other machinery, all of it still and ominously silent. “As long as there’s still fuel—”

  He was cut off suddenly when a figure leaped at him from a darkened recess, a blade gleaming for a split second in the dull red light as his cry of shock and terror echoed down the empty passageway.

  CHAPTER 10

  O’NEILL AND STARKE were hurrying down the central stairwell, weapons out and ready, the clang of their boots on the steel steps echoing up through the cavernous shaft.

  “What do you think happened on the bridge?” Starke asked as she vaulted nimbly down, moving with the speed and ease of youth. “A mutiny?”

  “If there was a mutiny, where did the survivors go?” O’Neill replied, slightly out of breath. “The only thing I know for sure is that bloodstains and bullet casings don’t make for a good day at the beach.”

  They’d just reached the bottom of the stairwell when they heard shouts, panicked and angry, echoing from the passageway leading aft to the engine room.

  “Let him go, you sonofabitch!” came Rodriguez’ distinctive low-pitched yell, accompanied by frantic shouts in Russian. “Take one more step and I blow you in half!”

  Exchanging a look, both O’Neill and Starke raised their weapons and sprinted down the passageway, past the shattered and still smoking remains of the engine room bulkhead, and into the machine space beyond.

  The scene that greeted them was enough to stop both Coast Guard officers in their tracks.

  Rodriguez was indeed there, standing just inside the hatchway, his shotgun up at his shoulder as he tried to cover several different targets at once. Directly in front of him, maybe ten feet away, Watkins stood pinned in front of another man with a knife held at his throat, face pale and eyes wide with fear.

  The man holding him hostage was partially concealed in the shadows, but O’Neill could see a brawny, tattoo-covered arm clutching the knife so tight that the veins and tendons stood out sharp beneath his inked skin. A pair of eyes glared at them beneath the red emergency lighting.

  Three other men also occupied the engine room, all dressed in the grimy, oil-stained overalls of engineering staff, and varying in age from mid-twenties to late forties. All three were armed with everything from wrenches to sections of steel pipe to claw hammers. Improvised weapons snatched up in a hurry by men not expecting a fight.

  The biggest of the three, clutching a huge two-foot-long pipe wrench, was trying to angle off to the left of Rodriguez, the tension in his body making it clear he intended to strike the moment his target was distracted.

  “Back off!” O’Neill warned, raising his automatic and training it on the man’s center mass. “Back off right now!”

  Whether or not he spoke English was questionable, but a loaded 9mm SIG automatic pointed in one’s face had a way of transcending most language barriers, and he halted.

  “Drop your weapons!” Starke added, brandishing her own sidearm at the man holding Watkins hostage. “Let our man go. Now.”

  He did nothing of the sort, plainly unwilling to relinquish his only bargaining chip. One of the others, a slender young man with blond hair, snarled something at her in Russian. O’Neill’s patchy knowledge of the language translated it as him greatly looking forward to urinating on her grave.

  “Seb, what happened here?” O’Neill asked sharply, eyeing the four hostiles.

  “They jumped us as we made entry,” Rodriguez quickly explained. “Took Watkins hostage. They’d have gotten me too if I was half a second slower.”

  “Will someone please shoot this sonofabitch?” Watkins said through gritted teeth, keeping remarkably calm under the circumstances.

  “I got nothing,” Rodriguez hissed. Armed as he was with a shotgun, it was impossible for him to take down Watkins’ captor without hitting his own comrade.

  Starke, however, was not so encumbered. “Think I’ve got a shot, sir.”

  She was frightened. O’Neill could see the weapon trembling slightly in her hands as she stared down the sights, but she was doing a good job of hiding her fear.

  No sooner had she spoken than the hostage-taker turned towards her, forcing Watkins to move in front of him and blocking her line of sight.

  “Sir, what are we doing?” the young woman asked, her voice more urgent now.

  At that moment, O’Neill did something that none of them had expected. He lowered his weapon.

  “What the fuck are you doing?” Watkins demanded, fear and desperation showing through now. “Shoot this bastard.”

  But O’Neill’s attention was focused on the man behind him. “You speak English,” he said quietly. “I know you do. You reacted when she asked to take the shot.”

  The man said nothing in response, but the recognition in his eyes confirmed to O’Neill that his words were understood.

  “You pretended not to understand us, because you wanted to know what we’d say to each other,” he went on. “You wanted to know who we were, whether we were friends or enemies. Well, here’s your answer.”

  With that, O’Neill holstered his weapon. The
re was no need for it now. What he saw wasn’t some hardened terrorist ready to execute a hostage, or a murderer looking for another victim, but a desperate man pushed to violence to protect his own life and those of his crewmates.

  In any case, he was quite certain Starke and Rodriguez would drop anyone who tried to make a rush at him.

  “We’re U.S. Coast Guard, responding to your ship’s distress call. We got onboard and found the place deserted,” O’Neill explained, then nodded to Watkins. “And that man is probably the only one here who can get this ship up and running, so what do you say you put down the knife? We can talk.”

  The man let out a breath, apparently weighing up what O’Neill had just said. “How can I trust you?” he finally asked in heavily accented but fluent English.

  “The same way I just trusted you,” O’Neill replied, managing to sound a lot calmer than he felt. He took a step forward, his hands up. “We’re here to help.”

  After a few heart-stopping moments the man signaled to his comrade. The knife was finally withdrawn and his grip on Watkins slackened. Wasting no time, the mechanic tore free and hastily retreated, spinning around to face him only when he was well out of the man’s reach.

  “Sonofabitch!” he snarled. “Someone give me a gun so I can shoot him myself.”

  “Stow it, Watkins,” O’Neill ordered, sensing the Russians tense at those words. “Nobody’s going to open fire.” He glanced at the other two members of the boarding party. “Rodriguez, Starke, lower your weapons.”

  Reluctantly his crew members complied, allowing O’Neill to focus on the apparent leader of the Russian group. It was the first time he’d been able to get a decent look at Watkins’ former captor.

  He wasn’t a tall man, but he had the muscular, broad-shouldered build of one used to heavy manual labor, and the grim countenance of a man accustomed to hardship. He was likely only in his late forties, but a tough life had made its own impression on him. His features were strong and rugged, his graying hair was close-cropped, his exposed arms etched with crude tattoos that suggested he’d done prison time.

  All in all, the general impression he exuded was one of brute strength and limited intellect, but his eyes told another story. There was something behind them that stood in stark contrast to his outward appearance; a keen mind that was scrutinizing O’Neill just as closely.

  “You’re chief engineer here?” O’Neill asked by way of introduction.

  The man nodded.

  “What’s your name?”

  A moment or two of hesitation. “Dmitry,” he said at last.

  “Dmitry,” O’Neill repeated. “My name’s Rick.” Exhaling and allowing himself to relax just a little, he glanced around at the silent engine room. “Tell us what the hell happened here.”

  CHAPTER 11

  DMITRY QUICKLY INTRODUCED his three comrades. The big one who had tried to lay out Rodriguez was called Oleg, the young skinny one with the blond hair was Yuri, and the third member was a brooding, shaven-headed man named Iosif. None of them seemed enthusiastic about communicating with the Coast Guard boarding party, content to let their chief engineer do the talking.

  Gratefully leaving behind the claustrophobic confines of the engine room, the group made their way up to the mess hall several decks above. There O’Neill and the others listened while Dmitry, speaking in slightly broken English, did his best to relate the events leading up to their encounter.

  “The engines went down about four hours ago, just as weather closed in,” he began. “I do not know where problems start, but they overheat then seize up. We turn on backup generator to keep power running while we start repairs.” He let out a frustrated sigh. “But we do not have tools or spare parts to make proper fix. Everything here is cheap and old and fucked up.”

  “Then backup generator fail too,” chipped in Oleg, who only minutes earlier had harbored thoughts of taking out Rodriguez with a wrench. He’d lit up a cigarette now that they were away from the engines, and was taking deep drags on it.

  Dmitry grunted in agreement. “No generator, no power. Lights go to emergency batteries only.”

  It wasn’t hard for O’Neill to picture such an unfortunate series of events unfolding. On a ship as old and neglected as the Ossora, seldom-used pieces of equipment like backup generators were no doubt low on the list of maintenance priorities.

  “That was when we hear the call from bridge,” Dmitry went on, his flash of grim humor fading. “Fast boats coming in both sides. I go up to look around, then I hear gunshots on deck.” He looked at O’Neill, as if seeking an understanding. “We were attacked.”

  “By who?” O’Neill asked.

  Dmitry shrugged and shook his head. “I do not see them. I run back to engine room, warn my crew. Then we close and lock the hatch.” It was clear from his expression that the decision to abandon the rest of the crew to their fate hadn’t been an easy one, and that it still weighed heavily on his mind. “We do not hear anything more after this.”

  O’Neill sympathized with him, but he needed answers. “How long ago was that?”

  “An hour, maybe.”

  No wonder the Russians had been on edge when Watkins and Rodriguez made entry. Sitting in silence for so long in the dim glow of emergency lights while the ship rocked and swayed around them, waiting for men with guns to try to force their way in, would have been enough to fray anyone’s nerves.

  “And you didn’t try to fix the generator?”

  Dmitry shook his head. “If they were still aboard, the noise would alert them.”

  “So you just sat there in the dark twiddling your thumbs that whole time,” Watkins remarked skeptically. “Why didn’t you go out and take a look?”

  Dmitry turned his pale gray eyes on him. “Would you have?”

  “Take it easy,” O’Neill warned his surly mechanic. “We’re trying to figure out what happened here, not point fingers.”

  “Sounds pretty much like piracy to me,” Starke concluded. “Fast attack boats, an armed boarding party—”

  “Bullshit,” Watkins cut in. “This ain’t the Indian Ocean. Who would be out in a Zodiac with a Force nine storm bearing down? And why attack an old freighter like this in the first place? Hardly seems like a gold mine.”

  “Good question,” O’Neill conceded. For once, Watkins was on the mark. To the best of his knowledge, piracy was unheard of in this part of the world. “What were you guys hauling?”

  Dmitry made a gesture of ignorance. “I work the engines, not load cargo.”

  “But you have a manifest onboard, right?”

  He nodded.

  O’Neill chewed his lip. Likely any such document would be up on the bridge or in the captain’s cabin. Either way, it seemed he would need to do a little searching.

  His thoughts were interrupted by the crackle of his radio. It was Richards in the MLB outside. “Skipper, come in. Over.”

  “Go, Richards.”

  “Just got word in from the Munro,” he reported, relief brightening his voice. “I’ve updated her on our situation and she’s on her way, making eighteen knots. Best she can manage in this weather. Should be with us in four, five hours tops.”

  Some good news at last, he thought. A full-sized Coast Guard cutter like the Munro could take the Ossora under tow and escort her to safe harbor for repairs. They had only to keep the ship from foundering in the rough weather until then.

  No sooner had this thought crossed his mind, however, than Richards piped up again.

  “There’s something else. Don’t want to worry you, but from out here it looks like the Ossora is riding pretty low in the water. Might be worth checking for flooding.”

  O’Neill had been afraid of that. It was unlikely the ship had been holed or damaged since they were miles from the nearest island or shoal, but with no power to run the pumps, water from the storm-lashed deck had made its way inside and started collecting in the bilges. Left unchecked it could destabilize the vessel, causing it to capsize, or simpl
y flood the lower compartments and sink them.

  Either way, something had to be done.

  “Copy that, Richards. Keep an eye on it, but if it looks dangerous, cut loose and evac. Don’t want you getting pulled under.”

  “Roger that, skip. Standing by.”

  Clicking off his radio, O’Neill turned to regard the small, disparate group clustered around the mess hall table. They were hardly a well oiled machine, but they were all he had to work with.

  “Okay, we split up,” he decided. “Watkins, take the Russian engineers down below and inspect the flooding situation, then get to work on the generator. We need power to run the bilge pumps, and we need it fast.”

  He held out little hope of repairing the engines with the resources at hand, since by Dmitry’s own assessment they’d seized up and would likely need a complete overhaul. However, if they could generate enough power to get the pumps running, they could at least keep the vessel afloat until it could be towed into port.

  “Rodriguez, get down to the cargo hold and have a look around,” he went on. “If someone was willing to fight their way onboard for what this ship was carrying, I’d like to know what it is.”

  “I will go with you,” Dmitry volunteered. “Show you the way.”

  O’Neill nodded. Since this ship was both large and unfamiliar, his suggestion was a sensible one. “Once you’ve inspected the hold, get to the engine room to assist Watkins.”

  “I’m on it,” Rodriguez said, snatching up his shotgun.

  “I’ve got a better idea, sir,” Watkins piped up.

  O’Neill turned to look at him, already quite sure he wasn’t going to like what he heard. “Let’s hear it.”

  “I say we ditch this bitch,” the mechanic said. “Evac to the MLB and get the hell out of here before this storm sinks us both. We did our job, made it out here and rescued what’s left of the crew. Why risk everyone’s lives to save a ship that should be scrapped anyway?”

  “So you just want to let it sink?” Starke challenged him. “This entire ship is a crime scene now. Plus there must be thousands of gallons of fuel in her tanks, not to mention whatever cargo she’s hauling. You’re talking about an environmental disaster.”