Showdown in the Keys

by Matthew Rief

  It’s a good thing I’ve got a plan B, Scott thought.

  “We don’t need to approach from the water,” Scott declared.

  The two looked at him, and when he didn’t elaborate, Kyle said, “What are you thinking, Scott?”

  Scott glanced down at Kyle’s stomach. “Looks like you’ve kept yourself in decent shape. You still a forty-four regular?”

  Kyle couldn’t have looked more confused. “Yeah, why?” he said, his eyebrows raised.

  “Good,” Scott replied. He turned and handed the binos to Jack.

  “You feeling alright, Scott?” Jack said. “I know it’s been a long couple of days.”

  Scott grinned. “Given the security, I say we utilize an easier approach.”

  “What kind of approach?” Kyle said.

  “We’re just gonna walk right up to the gangplank and ask for a tour,” Scott said with a smile. He motioned for Kyle to follow him into the pilothouse. “But first, we’re gonna need to clean up a little bit.”

  “You’re forgetting that we don’t have an invitation to this thing,” Kyle said, taking a reluctant step toward Scott.

  Scott looked over his shoulder and smiled. “Being a senator has its perks.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Scott and Kyle walked side by side through the parking lot, heading for the bright lights of the ASC Josephine up ahead. They were dressed in pressed black suits. They were both empty-handed, aside from a briefcase Scott carried. They moved with a purpose and managed to cut the distance across the width of the island in under five minutes. After dropping them off, Jack had motored back around into the channel. There he’d stand by until they were ready to be extracted.

  “You don’t look half bad,” Scott said.

  “Restricting and uncomfortable,” Kyle replied, extending his arms out. “How do you wear these all day?”

  “It’s taken a few years to get used to it.”

  They reached the end of the lot. In front of them, the towering container ship rose up and extended out like a horizontal skyscraper. A cluster of people were funneling onto the gangplank that extended from the shore to the bridge. A few businessmen and a guy in a captain’s uniform greeted the visitors and welcomed them aboard.

  “I was really looking forward to going for a swim,” Kyle shrugged. “But I guess just strolling into the party will be easier. Less exciting, but easier.”

  The two strode confidently toward the boarding group, filing into line behind the two groups in front of them. When they reached the front, Scott nodded to the captain. A short guy with a clipboard beside him stepped forward and eyed Scott suspiciously.

  “Invitation, sir?” he said.

  Scott shot him an assuring smile. “I apologize,” he said, unflustered, “but I don’t have an invitation.”

  “What is your name, sir?” he asked, glancing at Kyle, who stood stoically beside Scott with his arms folded.

  Kyle was scanning around them, keeping an eye out for trouble just like a normal security guard.

  “Scott Cooper,” he said.

  The guy with the clipboard scanned through the names, then shook his head. A businessman beside him heard the name and perked up.

  “Senator Scott Cooper?” the businessman said, raising his eyebrows. The guy spoke in a friendly Scandinavian accent. He was tall and lean. His head was bald, and he wore thin-rimmed glasses.

  Scott nodded.

  “You are more than welcome aboard our ship, Mr. Cooper,” he said with a big beaming smile. He whispered something to the guy with the clipboard, then stepped toward Scott and extended his right hand. “We are honored that you have stopped by.”

  “Thank you,” Scott said, shaking his hand. “This was a bit of a spur-of-the-moment thing. I leave town in the morning and was informed of this event just a few hours ago. By that time, I’d already given most of my security detail the evening off. I trust your onboard security is strong?”

  “Of course, Senator,” he assured Scott. “I would accept nothing less for our guests and for our company’s newest ship. There are top security personnel stationed throughout the ship. You have no need to worry about political assassinations here, Senator Cooper. You are safe on board our ship.”

  Men who’ve been paid off by Wake, Scott thought. If not, they can’t be too good at their jobs if they’re going to let a bomb slip right under their noses.

  But Scott didn’t mention any of that. He replied with a compliment about the impressive ship, then stepped up to the small security checkpoint. After a guard checked them both with a metal detector, a second guard did a quick check of Scott’s briefcase, then handed it back to him. To the casual observer, the inside contained nothing more than a few folders, notebooks, and pens.

  Once through security, Scott stepped onto the gangplank with Kyle right on his heels. They moved at a calm pace until they reached the deck. Instead of heading straight up onto the bridge, they slipped out of view from the others and ducked down a flight of stairs to the main deck, where the rows of shipping containers were stacked. The guests had been given free rein to tour the main sections, so they didn’t hit any roadblocks until they dropped below deck.

  After wrapping around to the stern, they entered through a nondescript door and headed down two flights of metal stairs. When they reached their desired level, they pushed open a heavy gray door and came face-to-face with a guard.

  He was standing in the middle of a short, narrow hallway. He looked bored, then perked up when he saw Scott and Kyle.

  “This area is off-limits,” he said, raising a hand in the air.

  “This ship is equipped with a Sulzer single-unit diesel engine, correct?” Scott said, striding confidently down the hall.

  The security guard froze. “I don’t know, sir.”

  Scott and Kyle reached the guard. Scott acted casual, like he was just curious and making conversation.

  “We’re looking to upgrade many of our engines,” Scott said. “I’m sure your boss would be happy to let us take a look. It will, after all, benefit the ASC financially. I’ll be sure to mention your name, Jones.” Scott read the guy’s name tag.

  “That’s not possible, sir. I have strict orders to—”

  The guy was interrupted by Kyle’s fist. It pounded into the guard’s jaw, causing his head to snap to the side. It was lights out in the blink of an eye, and he collapsed to the floor.

  “That’s one way to negotiate,” Scott said with a shake of his head.

  Kyle shrugged. “There’s a time for diplomacy and a time to throw punches. And we’re about to save all their lives, right? I’m sure he’ll forgive me for the nap and headache.”

  He had a good point.

  They dragged the guard into a small utility closet then continued down the short hall.

  “I don’t think that guy was working for Wake,” Kyle said as they stepped into the wide-open space.

  “Me neither. I’m guessing just a handful of the crew are paid off. And if he’d been one of them, he’d have been much more aggressive.”

  They pushed through another door, then stepped up to the railing and looked around the engine room with wide eyes. It was enormous, with two levels of walkways wrapping around the entire upper portions. The space was littered with large pieces of machinery, metal pipes, and local operation control panels.

  Below them and in the middle was the massive main propulsion engine. At forty feet high and over eighty feet long, it was roughly the same volume as forty stacked fire trucks. The shiny hundred-thousand-horsepower beast could propel the ship up to twenty-six knots fully loaded.

  The room was loud, a constant humming of various mechanical equipment.

  “This is one hell of an engine room,” Kyle said, looking around in awe.

  Though it was massive and some of the systems were up and running in preparation for the following day’s voyage, the place was empty. Modern advances in technology no longer required local operation of the equipment. The engine room sta
ff would be in the control room, operating everything remotely via screens and panels.

  After scanning over the room, Scott pointed down the walkway toward a set of steep metal stairs that led down to a passageway forward of the engines.

  “That must lead to the fuel tanks,” Scott said, his voice raised over the reverberating sounds of the engine room.

  On the boat ride up from Marathon, they’d gone over a basic building schematic of a typical container ship. Fuel tanks were usually forward of the engines, closer to the keel’s centerline. The Josephine had two one-million-gallon tanks. Both had been filled in preparation for the following day’s voyage.

  “If I were trying to blow up a ship,” Kyle said, “I’d just ignite the big bombs already on board.”

  Scott nodded. It made the most sense. And based on intel that Murph had recovered, the plan was for the explosives to be set in a space between the two fuel tanks, at a cross-connection for their respective supply lines. According to the intel, an explosion at that particular weak point would cause a chain reaction that would transform the ship’s fuel tanks into massive bombs.

  They moved along the grated metal walkway, down the two flights of steep stairs, and into the passageway. Passing through a heavy door, they headed up another steep staircase between the port and starboard fuel tanks. The two massive tanks were resting parallel to each other, one on the port side and the other on the starboard side. Looking around, they were in awe of the seemingly never-ending maze of piping and valves that surrounded the tanks.

  Scott opened his briefcase and pulled out two radios with attached earpieces. They each donned one, then switched them on. Scott informed Murph that they were in the engine room, looking for the explosives near the fuel tanks.

  At over a hundred feet long and forty feet wide each, there was a lot of ground to look over. Not to mention all the little nooks and crannies in between the various components.

  “Sure wish we had a bomb-sniffing K9,” Kyle said.

  They went to work, inspecting every inch of the pipes that ran between and around the tanks. After five minutes, they had nothing. None of the equipment looked off or out of place. The entire area was brand-new, pristine.

  “Maybe the explosives are somewhere else along the fuel lines?” Kyle suggested.

  “I guess they have to be,” Scott agreed. “There’s nothing up here.”

  Scott glanced at his watch. They were entering the detonation window, which meant that they were quickly running out of time.

  They moved back toward the narrow, steep metal stairs but froze when they hit the top step. They heard the door down the passageway swing open, heard voices and footsteps coming from below. And they were getting louder.

  In unison, the two experienced operatives dropped back and took cover behind a gear locker. The moment they dropped into their hiding spot, figures appeared at the stairs. Scott and Kyle watched with scrutinizing gazes as a group of three guards carrying black duffel bags stomped up the steps one at a time. They each moved with a purpose, quickly reaching the top step and striding across the room. They passed right by Scott and Kyle, then came to a stop beside the center of the starboard fuel tank.

  All three were well built and clean-cut and were dressed like the rest of the guards. Nice black suits, earpieces, and their chests sticking out. They were also well-armed.

  Scott motioned toward the three guards, and Kyle followed as they shuffled quietly within earshot.

  “We’ll place the first one here,” one of them said.

  He motioned toward the top of the fuel tank beside him, right at the base of one of the cross-connect supply lines.

  He pointed to the other fuel tank and added, “Position the second in the center of the port tank. Make sure it’s hidden from view.”

  The guy did as he was told. They watched as the duffel bags were unzipped and explosives were taken out.

  “Looks like C-4,” Scott said.

  The powerful plastic explosive had been used extensively since its development in the late 1950s. Powerful, as malleable as modeling clay, and incredibly stable, C-4 is popular among militaries around the world. It’s also popular among terrorist organizations. The explosive is highly recommended in al-Qaeda’s traditional explosive training curriculum. It was used by the terrorist organization during their attack on the USS Cole in 2000, a tragic act of terror that killed seventeen US sailors.

  Both Scott and Kyle had worked with the type of plastic explosive many times before. If it was detonated, there was no doubt that, combined with the blowing fuel tanks, it would result in the loss of the entire ship—along with most if not all of the people on board.

  Scott watched as the closest guy positioned a stack of explosives under the fuel tank. From that position, it would be completely hidden from anyone who passed by. The two other guys finished placing theirs as well, then they met back up.

  The apparent leader grabbed a radio from his hip and held it up to his mouth. “The packages are in place and ready,” he said.

  “Good,” a voice replied moments later. “Any trouble?”

  “None, sir.” The guy chuckled and added, “Nobody suspects a damn thing.”

  “Stand by for the order to vacate.”

  The guard doing all the talking paused. He looked over the other two, then cleared his throat.

  “When do we get paid?” he said.

  There was a short pause.

  “You can expect the transfer of funds into your bank accounts once the Josephine is destroyed. For now, keep the area secure. We will call you to disembark the vessel prior to detonation.”

  Both Scott and Kyle listened carefully to the conversation, paying close attention to what was said through the small speaker. They listened for keywords. Namely, they wanted to make sure that this was the only location aboard the ship where they were planting explosives. It would be a sad way to end the night if they cleared out the explosives by the tanks, only to find out later that there were more throughout the ship.

  Also, they were listening for a time of detonation. But none had been given, leaving them with a sense of urgency.

  “Yes, sir,” the guard said into the radio. “We’ll be standing by.”

  He lowered the radio, then motioned toward the staircase and a hallway across the confined space.

  “Keep watch,” he barked. “Anyone goes near the explosives, shoot them.”

  The three guards dispersed.

  Suddenly, Scott’s earpiece crackled to life.

  “Logan’s on the move,” Murph said. “I repeat, Logan’s on the move. He’s being taken to Wake’s office. What’s the status on the explosives?”

  Scott shifted into a corner and spoke quietly.

  “We’re about to disable them. Ange, it sounds like that’s your cue to move in.”

  “Way ahead of you,” she replied confidently.

  Scott and Kyle looked back toward the spread-out guards. They were outgunned, but that wouldn’t be a problem. Quickly, they ran through scenarios and formulated a plan to take them down.

  THIRTY-SIX

  My eyes opened as I heard the sound of approaching footsteps. It was pitch black. I couldn’t see anything. My hands were tied behind my back, and my ankles cuffed and bolted to the floor.

  I’d been kept in what I believed was a small room all day. I’d only been let out twice and both times I’d been blindfolded. Sitting on the cold metal chair for hours on end, I’d combated boredom by meditating and running through scenarios.

  I’d also done my best to stretch my aching body.

  The skirmish in Roatán, the tussle with Dante on Monte Cristo, and the fight with Brier had taken their toll. My jaw ached, my knuckles were raw, and my left leg throbbed like I had the worst bruises of my life. I couldn’t even remember how I’d injured it.

  The muffled footsteps grew louder, then stopped. I heard voices, then the metal sliding of a key being inserted. Then a lock clicked, and the door opened.

&nb
sp; A group entered. I blinked and tried to focus on them. One, a tall, wide-shouldered guy, stood right in front of me. After a few seconds, his image came into focus. Red hair and a thick beard. His face weathered, his jaw clenched.

  It was Brier.

  He stood just a few feet in front of me with his hands on his hips. He had a satisfied grin on his face. The skin around his right eye was dark from my blow the previous evening.

  “How’s the leg?” he asked.

  I guess that solves the throbbing pain mystery.

  Brier had apparently had a temper tantrum after I’d fallen asleep. I guess taking a beating will do that to you.

  “Better than your eye,” I said, shooting him a satisfied look of my own.

  His smile faded. He stepped toward me and pulled a knife from a sheath strapped to his leg. I felt the cold steel as he pressed the sharp edge lightly against the neck.

  “You always were foolish, Dodge,” he said.

  I held his gaze, unblinking and unfazed.

  “Beats being a backstabbing traitor.”

  He tried to brush off the comment, but I could tell that I’d struck a nerve. He flared his nostrils for a split second. Narrowed his gaze.

  “You still don’t get it, do you?” he said, shaking his head. “Maybe one day you’ll learn. Though it better be quick. I have a feeling that your clock’s about to run out.”

  He smiled again, then removed the blade and slid it back into its sheath.

  “Brier,” one of the guys behind him said, “Wake wants to see him now.”

  Brier straightened his body, then motioned to me. He stepped backward while the other two closed in. They quickly freed my ankles and forced me to stand. My muscles ached from all the fighting and from being forced to sit for so long. I tried to stretch and get my balance, but the two guys shoved me forward.

  They led me out of the tiny room and into the blinding light of a long hallway. I blinked and looked down to help my eyes adjust. Before I knew it, elevator doors were opening in front of us, and we all stepped inside.