by Rich Johnson
“No visible signs of life on board. The ship is not moving, it’s just sitting in place, except for the drift of current.”
“Maybe they lost their engines, damaged the wheels or lost steerage. Has the C-130 done a low and slow fly-by?”
“I’ll ask, sir.” The pilot switched off his intercom and talked with the pilot of the C-130. In a moment, he was back on the helmet phones. “No, sir. The closest he’s flown is half a mile at an altitude of twelve hundred feet.”
“Tell him I’m requesting a low and slow, and as close in as he can safely maneuver. I want to wake up whoever is onboard that ship.”
“Aye, sir. We’re at twenty miles now, sir.”
Josh looked at his watch. In ten minutes they’d be circling the container ship themselves, and with any luck a few minutes later he’d be standing on deck. A buzz in his cargo pocket alerted him to an incoming call, and he dug for the satellite phone, flipped the antenna up and looked at the display. It was Curt Delamo. He quickly stripped off the helmet and held the phone to his ear. “Curt!” Josh shouted above the sound of the rotors and jet engine. “What’s up?”
“Where are you?”
“In a chopper, just about to land on the deck of the Desdemonda. What have you got for me?”
“Good news and bad – the worst.” Delamo’s voice trailed off.
“Bad first, then,” Josh shouted.
“Susan’s hurt. Alicia Gomez was blown away. A head shot. Susan caught the bullet after it exploded Gomez’s head. Luckily it was a small caliber round. We figure it was a soft hollow-point that was crosscut to be more lethal. It flared when going through the window, flared more as it passed through Alicia Gomez’s head, but still had enough momentum to do considerable damage to Susan. She’s expected to live, but she might lose her left eye.”
Josh reeled at the news. He and Susan had been together for a long time, and their relationship went well beyond their work. He dropped his head into his hands, overwhelmed.
“Josh, you there?” Delamo’s voice came over the phone.
Slowly, Josh raised the phone back to his ear. “Yeah, I’m here.”
“The good news is that she’s still alive. I’m betting the terrorist shooter thought he got them both. It was bloody, and they were both down in the seat. So the sniper evidently left the scene thinking he killed Susan as well.”
Josh could hardly catch his breath. He threw his head back and forced himself to inhale deeply, then he blew it out and talked into the phone again. “I’m glad she’s alive. But when we catch the bas—”
“Don’t let it get personal!” Delamo’s voice was sharp. “You do that and you’ll lose focus and end up making mistakes. I know how you feel about Susan. But don’t let this tear you down. Do I need to bring you in and send out a replacement?”
The chopper banked and started a low circle around the ship. From the window, Josh saw the bow and the disorganized pile of containers that were once stacked precisely and locked together. He exhaled hard. “No. I’ll be fine. Who’s taking care of Susan?”
“She’s in the army hospital in Manila. They’re doing the best they can. I think she’s out of danger of anything more serious than losing her eye, though we’re not entirely sure about that yet. The doctors are hopeful. I’ll keep you informed of her progress. In the meantime, the other news is that I have the numbers for the container you’re looking for. Susan relayed them to me just before she and Alicia Gomez boarded the plane. Are you ready to receive them?”
“Yeah, go ahead.”
“Okay, here they are. Bravo, alpha, one, one, mike.”
“Bravo, alpha, one, one, mike,” Josh repeated for verification.
“That’s correct. The container is rust red in color. The lettering is white. That’s what you’re looking for. The loading manifest listed the container as the last one loaded, and it should be in the top row on the starboard bow. Questions?”
“What did the manifest show as cargo?”
“Personal items, including an RV trailer belonging to a navy man being transferred to Pensacola from Manila. Needless to say, the guy doesn’t exist. The navy’s never heard of him. Anything else?”
A deep sigh escaped his lungs. “None for now. We’re circling the ship. The bow is a mess of tumbled containers. I’ll be on deck in a few minutes and I’ll get back to you with what I find.”
“Right,” was all Delamo said.
“If you can get a message to Susan, tell her …” He paused to think of what was appropriate to say by way of his boss.
“Don’t say it. I know what to tell her. You just take care of yourself. We’ll do everything we can for Susan.”
Josh pressed the button to end the call, flipped the antenna down and stowed the phone in his cargo pocket. He pulled the helmet down over his head and immediately heard a voice in the earphones.
“Bad news?” It was Pfister, and he was looking at Josh with concern. “I can read bad news a mile away.”
“One of our people, was, um …” he lost his words.
“How bad is it?”
Josh felt the wetness in his eyes, so he reached up under his sunglasses and brushed them as casually as he knew how. “It’s bad.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Pfister said. “These are dangerous times. Your people and mine, and some others like us are all that stand as a barrier to protect the innocent ones back home. If not us, then who?”
“I know,” Josh whispered. He looked up into the eyes of the captain. “You a praying man?”
A smile crossed Pfister’s lips. “Humph. Are you kidding?”
Josh didn’t quite know how to take that, but decided to go ahead anyway. “Well, if you were …”
“If I were?” Pfister challenged. “Of course I’m a praying man. I don’t leave my room in the morning without checking in and requisitioning some special favors.”
“Do you mind adding a name to your prayer list, then? Her name is Susan, and she’s really going to need some help.”
“Consider it done. I believe in miracles, and I know just who to ask.”
The helmet earphones clicked and the pilot was suddenly on the intercom. “We’re on final approach. Touch down in thirty seconds.”
The chopper bobbed and weaved, fighting turbulence created by powerful wind swirling around the ship’s structure. From the window, Josh saw the bridge of the huge ship, tilting first one way and then the other as the chopper struggled to find a level spot to set down. He spoke into the mic. “Was there ever any VHF contact? I was on the phone at the time.”
Pfister shook his head, “No joy.”
From beneath the seat, Josh felt a solid impact, then another, as the landing gear slammed onto the upper rack of containers halfway between the bridge and the wreckage at the bow. They were down. While the rotors slowly coasted to a stop, Josh stared out the window at the desolate vision of a ship adrift on the open sea. Scrambled containers at the bow looked as if they had been tossed there by the hand of a giant who was throwing a temper tantrum.
“Sir, we’ve got company,” the pilot said over the intercom. Through the window, Josh saw three men walking across the top of the containers, heading toward the chopper. The side door slid open and Pfister moved past him and jumped onto the container deck.
Even though the rotor height was well overhead, all three men instinctively ducked as they met below the slowly swirling blades. With a hand extended, Pfister introduced himself in a loud voice that carried above the declining whine and whirr as the chopper’s engine and rotors slowed. “Captain Klaus Pfister, United States Coast Guard. How can we be of service?”
“Captain Eric Sleagle, sir,” The captain yelled, as the men shook hands. “Thanks for coming. We’re in kind of a mess.”
“How about your crew?”
“All accounted for and in good shape. We were lucky in that regard. This is Bill Keith, my first officer, and Steve Flynn is our navigator.” The men shook hands all around, then the captain con
tinued. “But we have sustained quite a bit of damage. All communications were lost when a rogue wave broke across the bow with such force that it swept over the bridge. Never seen anything like that before. Stripped our array completely off, including radar and satellite antennas. I’m afraid we’ve lost a few containers overboard, and one of them apparently damaged our rudder as it went under the ship. We’re basically dead in the water.”
As the rotors coasted to a stop, Josh climbed from the helicopter and Pfister made the introduction. “This is Mr Josh Adams. He’s here on official business. We can help you with your ship, but I think you need to hear what Mr Adams has to say before we do anything else.”
Josh stepped forward and extended his hand. “Captain Sleagle, is there someplace private we can talk?”
The ship captain’s grip was powerful, his smile engaging. “Of course. Follow me. We’ll go to my cabin.”
As they made their way toward the bridge, the flight crew scrambled to attach tie-down straps to secure the helo to the platform created by the containers. The ship rolled slowly through a series of deep troughs, and movement on deck was just enough to make it difficult to walk a straight line. The chopper shifted side to side on its landing gear as the crew fought to ratchet the straps tight. The men had not taken a dozen steps before the tortured sound of metal against metal coming from the bow stopped them in their tracks. In unison, every man turned to look forward. Against the backdrop of heaving seas, it was difficult to determine what caused the awful sound, but Josh knew from what he had seen while circling the ship that the pitching and rolling bow was a wrecking yard of tumbled containers. While they watched, the noise came again and, like a sudden avalanche, the precariously piled cargo gave way, launching at least two containers off the starboard side into the water.
“How many have you lost?’ Josh asked.
“Not sure. We lost a couple yesterday, just as the storm started to really hammer us. We’ve been in survival mode for the past twenty hours. It’s been impossible to deal with that load on the bow. Before the storm, that forward stack was two boxes higher all the way across than the stack you landed on. Take a look. You can see that the starboard half of the stack has been torn away, leaving some of the boxes jumbled like a child’s toy blocks. I’m not sure how many we’ve lost altogether. The ship has been too unsteady to risk sending my men into that pile to have a look. I figure at least another twenty-four hours before the seas will be calm enough to start working around that mess.”
A moment later, they turned and headed toward the bridge again, and Josh knew that he couldn’t wait another twenty-four hours for the seas to calm down enough to satisfy the captain before sending his crewmen into harm’s way. Josh would have to go in by himself. And he’d have to do it soon.
Chapter Twenty-five
In Sleagle’s office, Josh bent over the table and checked the manifest and cargo grid diagram that showed where each container was stacked. “The one I’m interested in is a red 40-footer with the serial number bravo, alpha, one, one, mike. According to what I’ve been told, it was one of the last containers loaded.”
“Then it would be right here.” The captain pointed to a spot on the grid map, and crosschecked against the manifest. “Yep, top of stack, starboard side. Right there in the front corner.” He looked up from the papers spread out on the table, straightened his back and exhaled hard. “The one you want was at ground zero, right where it looks like a bomb went off. I’d be surprised if that wasn’t the first box off the ship when we were smashed by that rogue wave yesterday.”
“Is there any possibility that it’s still on the ship? Maybe it collapsed into the crater when other containers beneath it tumbled out of the stack.”
“Well, anything can happen, Mr Adams, but if was I a betting man I wouldn’t lay too much on the table to back that theory.”
“Just the same, I’d like to have a look.”
Captain Sleagle drew a breath. “Must be important cargo.” He eyed Josh, hoping to jog a clue out of him. “Mind telling me who you work for and who this cargo belongs to?”
“The answer to both questions is the same. The government. I’m asking your permission to explore that pile of wreckage to find out if my container is there.”
“If the government is involved, I have a hunch you will do it with or without my permission. Be my guest. But, Captain Pfister, I want you to stand as a witness that I am released of any liability related to this venture.”
Pfister nodded. “If it ever comes to that, I’ll testify. You’re on your own, Mr Adams.”
“Can I have a copy of the grid map and manifest, so I can make sense of what I’m seeing down there?”
“No problem,” the captain said, handing the papers to Josh, who folded them and stuffed them inside his shirt.
“Can I get a few men to stand by with ropes, just in case I need a hand?”
“We are short-handed, and my primary responsibility is to get this ship back in shape to continue the voyage. But I’ll send one man from my forward deck crew, and a hundred feet of five-eighths double braid. That enough?”
It was less than Josh hoped for, but with a practiced poker face, trained to not show disappointment, he said, “I’ll take it. Have him meet me at the chopper. If you gentlemen will excuse me, then.”
Josh showed himself out of the bridge, down the ladder, and across the platform to where the helicopter was lashed. From his duffle bag, he retrieved a short-barreled Berretta, pulled back the slide just enough to verify that there was a round in the chamber, slid the clip out to check that it was full, then slammed it home and thrust the gun into the cargo pocket of his pants leg. Into a breast pocket went a short, rubber-coated flashlight, sized right for holding in his teeth.
By the time he was ready to go, the deck crewman was there with a coil of rope over his shoulder. “I hope you know what you’re getting into,” the man shouted over the noise of the wind.
Josh reached out a hand. “Hi, what’s your name?”
“Romero.”
“Well, Romero, If I’d known what I was getting myself into, I’d have become an actuary.”
Against the roll of the ship, the men scrambled forward the distance of a football field before coming to the edge of the wreckage. From up close, it looked worse than it did from the air or from the bridge. The forward stack had once been two levels higher than where he now stood on a ship-wide platform made up of containers stacked four high above the main deck. The bow stack was once eighty feet from front to rear, being composed of a mixture of 20- and 40-foot cargo boxes laid together like bricks.
Now, half of those top two rows were missing along the starboard side. And like a landslide, when the boxes on the right front corner collapsed overboard, the stack below was yanked out of position, and several of those lower containers had also disappeared, dragging the boxes next to them down into the crater. What stood before Josh was a huge hole filled with an avalanche of railroad car-sized steel boxes, thrown every which way.
“Let me have the rope,” Josh said. “You ever belay anybody before?”
Romero nodded. “Oh yeah, around here, rappelling is sometimes the quickest way to get from one place to the other.”
Josh quickly tied a bowline around his waist. “I’ll try to avoid rappelling, but I’ll use this as a safety rope. Let me have slack to move, but be ready in case I go over. I’ll yell if I fall.”
“Got it,” Romero said, taking the rope around the back of his waist, moving to a spot where he could take a seat with his heels propped against a ridge in the platform. “Belay on.”
“On belay,” Josh answered, then walked to the edge and disappeared over the side into the crater. He moved easily down the side of the first container, came to the bottom of the first descent, then turned and stared into the jumbled mess. The cargo boxes had tumbled sideways at angles that left small openings between them, leading into black holes.
A large wave pounded the ship from the side, and
salt spray rained down on Josh. On the sharply angled wet metal, his feet slipped, and he went down hard, grabbing at the ridges on the side of the container, but unable to get a grip. The rope tightened around his waist, and he stopped.
“You all right down there?” a voice shouted from above.
Josh struggled to get his feet back under him. “Yeah,” he yelled back. “Sorry about that. Just a slip.”
“Thought you were going to let me know if you fell.”
“Well, let’s not count that one as a fall. Okay, give me slack, I’m going in.”
He pulled against the rope until he had enough slack to allow free movement, then he ducked through a small triangular space formed by containers lying helter-skelter. Deep in the narrow opening between tangled boxes, he came to a corner with markings on it. He turned on the flashlight and studied the serial number. With the other hand, he pulled the grid map out to study container numbers and positions. From the numbers, he could see that the container that formed the angled roof directly above him had been loaded at the top of the stack and three rows inboard from the position shown for BA11M.
I need to look farther to the right.
He refolded the map and crawled into the open. “Need more slack,” he called, then pulled the rope to him as he scrambled around the end of the next container that was lying at a severe angle.
“Three rows,” he muttered, digging his fingers and the toes of his shoes into small nooks on the wet steel walls and clawing his way toward the outboard side of the crater. Should have brought my Mad Dogs. “Slack,” he yelled, tugging again at the rope. On his rare days of leisure, he enjoyed recreational rock climbing, and his Mad Dog shoes fit his feet like a second skin, and had soft, sticky rubber wraparound soles that let him climb like a spider.
For the next ten minutes, Josh scrambled around the wild canyon of steel, repeatedly pulling the grid map out of his shirt and beaming his flashlight in dark crevasses to study serial numbers and compare them with what he was seeing around him.
“One more to go,” he whispered into the air as he crouched to duck through another dark chamber leading, he hoped, to the final row on the starboard side.