Higher Cause

by John Hunt

  Reaching to his waist, he removed a serrated knife. It was not his usual knife: it had a shining steel blade, unlike his own, which was blackened. He turned his head slowly from side to side and let his eyes search the surrounding darkness. Then he stayed completely still, held his breath, and let his ears seek out the nearby threat. Hearing nothing, he slid the blade up toward the fishing line to cut through it. It should take but one stroke.

  Petur wished he could have treasured this moment. It was his first view of the internal workings of the massive device that he had planned to build since he was young. But instead of glowing and glorious, it was dark and foreboding. In the minimal light, he was unable to appreciate the size of the place, although he knew it was expansive. With no turbines spinning, no pumps sending water and ammonia through complex paths and no condensers dripping, the place was completely silent. The only sound he heard was his own breathing, which seemed to echo loudly throughout the chamber.

  Jeff indicated that he should stay put, and so he did. Jeff then slipped off toward even deeper shadows and became invisible within a few seconds. Petur looked around. The whole floor level was black. It was only by looking upward that he could make out any of the interior features. The huge turbines were overhead, attached to the generators. He could see up and through the grated access pathways for the individual turbine-generator pairs. Below the turbines, on the level he now stood on and at the moment invisible to him, sat rows upon rows of condenser arrays, already filled and primed with pressurized ammonia.

  It takes thirty minutes for the receptors of light in the human retina to fully acclimate to low light conditions. As Petur stood there, his retinas continued in their efforts. Ever so gradually, he could make out more and more shapes. To his left and right were rows of piping, penetrating the grated floor on which he stood, aiming down toward where the cooling water would be when the entire system was activated. Those were the pipes filled with fairly toxic ammonia. A leak could be fatal. Ammonia had not been ideal, but it would work, and it was the only option. It was not the only risk that he and the Project was taking.

  A flash of light caught his eye and drew his attention to a dark shape low to the floor. The flash was gone instantly, but Petur stared at the spot. The shape moved slightly, and Petur caught his breath. He aimed the flashlight toward the shape on the floor. He pressed the switch.

  The man on the floor snapped his head toward the flashlight and then tucked his head behind his arm. He was solid and stocky and dressed only in a short wetsuit. He held in his hand a glimmering knife adjacent to a shiny thick thread. The shimmering nylon fishing line was highlighted well by the bright beam of the light. Petur saw that it led over part of a guardrail and then downward. The man quickly sliced through the line and rolled out of the beam of the flashlight.

  Petur searched around again, but with the flashlight marking his position he was a perfect target. Quickly, he switched the light off and moved to an area dense with vertical condenser piping. He hoped he would be invisible there.

  Three gunshots echoed loudly throughout the metal chamber. The noise of several ricochets led Petur to compress himself firmly between the wide insulated pipes. He looked out at a flashlight that flew through the air to the floor in the middle of the giant chamber. Its beam spun around the chamber wildly. It landed on the metal grating of the floor with a crash but miraculously stayed lit. It aimed straight at the door through which they had entered.

  Petur watched as the stocky man in the wet suit ran from the shadows and out the now-well-lit door. Petur took a long breath and extracted himself from the piping.

  “Jeff!” he called loudly. “Are you all right?”

  There was no response.

  “Shit, Jeff. Talk to me!”

  Still no answer. Petur flipped the switch of his flashlight and aimed the beam around the ring of piping and machinery. Almost immediately he heard Jeff shout.

  “Turn it off, Petur! And get down, dammit!”

  Petur dove to the deck as he flipped the light off. Several gunshots echoed throughout the chamber. It seemed as if they were being fired in random directions. He rolled along the metal grating away from the illumination provided by the flashlight on the floor. He peered through the shadows, futilely trying to determine how many men remained in the room.

  A loud crash reverberated, followed by the grunting of two men locked in combat. Petur could see nothing, but he could hear the sounds of the scuffle well: the sound of a fist striking a cheek and the groan of a man having been struck in the abdomen, perhaps with a knee. Then he heard the dull thud of a man falling hard against a bulkhead. Next were the footsteps of someone running on the metal grating.

  He saw a rapidly moving dark figure. Petur felt the foot of the shadowy figure catch firmly on his own legs, which were stretched low along the floor. The man went down hard, and Petur could now see him, as he was backlit by the beam of the flashlight. Petur dove at the shadow, landing firmly on the man. Another wetsuit. He threw his fist into the man’s right kidney with all his might, then reached up for his neck and squeezed.

  “Jeff, I got him! Get over here!” But he spoke to soon. The man under him spun one arm between his attacker’s arms, and with one motion, he twisted and broke free of Petur’s stranglehold and rolled on top of him. Petur groaned as the man drove his knee solidly into his groin. He was unable to take a breath. He felt himself shoved along the floor toward the safety rail. Grabbing one of the metal supports, Petur struggled as his legs and hips were forcefully pushed under the lowest horizontal bar. He kicked violently but had no target. Another shove and he was on his belly, his head out beyond the edge of the metal floor, looking down into the deep darkness far below. He felt himself slipping over the brink. He locked his left elbow firmly around the metal railing as the shadowy attacker lunged against his side. The force of the impact pushed Petur over the edge.

  Petur hung by his left arm as his feet searched frantically for a foothold. He reached his right arm upward as the first kick slammed hard into his elbow. Another kick, and another. The kicks were not effective, for they did not diminish Petur’s hold. The man pried at Petur’s elbow, searching for the pressure points that would force Petur to release his grip.

  Petur’s foot caught on a metal protrusion on the wall to his right. But then gravity swung him down and away. He struggled to bring his leg back over to that place again, to no avail and at the sacrifice of his elbow’s fast grip on the rail. He was now only a moment away from falling 160 meters to his death — he knew it. He flailed his right fist wildly out into the darkness again and again, but made no contact. Then he reached for the horizontal bar of the rail under which he had been shoved, firmly grasping it in his right hand just as his left elbow finally wrenched free. He swung precariously from his fingers, but now his foot had found that protrusion once again.

  It was the metal rung of a ladder that saved him. Petur searched along the metal surface above his foothold with his free left hand, twisting freely as he hung there. There it was. Another rung. He grasped the ladder with one hand, as the other hand above was assaulted by the heel of his attacker’s foot. Had there been a shoe, his fingers would surely have been crushed, but the assailant wore a soft rubber scuba boot which cushioned the blow as a boxing glove would. The hand, nonetheless, was kicked free of the safety-rail. But it did not matter. For Petur, now securely on the ladder, scurried downward as fast as his hands and feet would move.

  Above, Jeff began to recover from the disabling blow he had received a moment earlier. He could hear Petur’s struggle but had no way to determine its outcome. He did not hear the crash of a body falling from the great height — and no further gunshots — and this reassured him. But the sound of a blade slicing a throat, or piercing an abdomen, would not be audible. He hoped that Petur was safe.

  Jeff rolled across the floor to the side wall and stared toward the doorway. It was well-lit by the flashlight on the floor. He had seen the first man run out the door t
here but had not seen the other man leave after his battle with Petur.

  After struggling to his feet, he moved toward the door. His foot caught on a prominence on the floor, and the soft noise that this produced was enough. Three more shots sounded. Jeff heard the first ricochet off the thick steel bulkhead immediately behind him. The second shot flew right by his ear. The third found its mark, striking him in the fleshy part of his upper left arm.

  Jeff let his arm hang loosely by his side and raised his right hand — his pistol firm in his grasp. He aimed toward the light.

  A dark figure raced toward the door, ducking and rolling as he rushed. Jeff squeezed the trigger twice as the man dodged. One of the bullets impacted and twisted the man around wickedly as he fell to the floor. But he rolled out the door and out of sight.

  Jeff ran across a catwalk to the center of the chamber and grabbed the flashlight. Flipping it off, he moved through the shadows to the doorway. He cautiously peered out into the corridor and, seeing nothing, lighted the flashlight. The hallway was empty.

  Turning back into the chamber, he called, “Petur. Where are you?”

  No answer. Again he called, more loudly this time.

  A distant and muffled voice replied, which echoed up from far below.

  “I’m all right, Jeff. I am in the shaft.”

  Jeff ran over to the precipice, shining his lamp downward. Far below, he could barely make out the descending figure of Petur.

  “My God, man! What are you doing?” Jeff cried.

  Petur’s face reflected the light back upward as he answered. “One of them lowered something down here on a fishing line. I am going to check it out.”

  “Do you have your flashlight?”

  “No. I dropped it up there somewhere. But I’ll be okay.”

  Jeff called down to him. “Be careful, and be fast. What you are trying to get closer to is likely to be a bomb.”

  “I know. Did you get the bastards?” Petur asked hopefully.

  “No, but I’m on my way. Hurry up down there.”

  Jeff turned quickly away and raced across the room and into the corridor. If there was a bomb, there would likely be a signaling device to detonate it. He had to reach that device before Petur, and his dreams, were blown to kingdom come.

  Jeff ran down the corridor and turned left into the short hallway leading to the outside spiral staircase. He burst through the door onto the platform and suddenly was face-to-face with a man in a wet suit. Jeff’s flashlight lit the face well. He was an Arab. And he held a gun, pointing it directly at Jeff’s forehead.

  With the sky completely black, and the only light shining from the narrow spotlights of the Elijah Lewis, the shadows were as dark as the darkest pitch. Jeff’s foe was well lit, his eyes glowing intensely. Jeff’s face, however, was completely obscured by shadow, and his own gun hung low by his side, invisible.

  “Goodbye,” the man said, in Arabic. Jeff understood. As the trigger squeezed, Jeff lunged at the arm holding the weapon, and sent the shot harmlessly into the night sky. He struck the man’s head with his flashlight. It was only a glancing blow. Another round fired wildly as he smashed the man’s arm into the railing of the metal staircase. The gun spilled from the Arab’s bent hand, spinning down into the sea below.

  Jeff pulled as far back as he could, and raised his own gun into the light. He said nothing as he shined his flashlight up and down the Arab, who now stood still. He indicated with his gun that the Arab should turn around, which he did. An examination of his back revealed no equipment other than a knife. Jeff moved forward quickly, took it, and threw it into the sea. Satisfied that the man had no detonator device on him, Jeff allowed him to turn around.

  “Down the stairs,” Jeff said in English.

  The man did not move. Jeff reached over and shoved him viciously downward. The Arab stumbled toward the stairs but caught his balance. Then he stopped. At least two shaking spotlights, searching for the source of the gunshots from the spectator boats, had turned on. The Arab man now appeared only as a shadowy wraith.

  Jeff was cautious, but not cautious enough. Reflecting on the situation later, he decided he should have just shot him dead. But he did not do that. Instead he moved close enough to give another shove.

  A fist shot out from the glare of one of the spotlights and connected with Jeff’s side, knocking the wind out of him. And then another sent him smashing into the frame of the open doorway — his gun flying from his hand and back into the hallway. The flashlight in his hand hit hard the metal floor, flickered twice, and then died.

  The Arab saw Jeff’s weapon on the floor inside and seemed to consider lunging for it. But Jeff was much closer.

  Without further hesitation, the man turned and leaped over the railing, and dropped out of sight immediately. It seemed a long moment before Jeff heard the splash of the man plunging into the water far below.

  “Damn! Crazy bastard!” Jeff muttered as he scrambled for his gun. Then back out the door he moved, and he navigated down the metal stairs. Around and around he went, much faster going down than up.

  He saw the engineers huddled against the wall of the OTEC one spiral below him in the bright light. They held their hands up high. A stocky man in a wet suit stood on the small docking platform with them. This was the other man — the one Petur saw lower something down the shaft. Jeff watched as he climbed into the inflatable boat and shoved off. The boat accelerated, and the man steered it around to the dark side of the OTEC. Jeff ran down the spiral after him, closing the distance between him and the boat with every step.

  Jeff launched himself over the safety rail and flew into the darkness, as he spun his arms to stay upright. He landed — heavily, but feet first — in the metal hull of the blackened Zodiac. The boat almost flipped under Jeff’s weight. The propeller of the outboard motor whined to complain as it spun fiercely in the air — the boat’s port side completely lifted out of the water. The stocky Arab was thrown off balance and, overcompensating, dove toward the port pontoon. The boat careened precipitously to starboard, and its bow slammed into the painted dark steel wall of the OTEC.

  Jeff was on his knees on the floor of the boat and so was fairly stable when the boat bounced violently off the OTEC. But the Arab was driven forward along the pontoon, rolling out of control. Grasping desperately, his hands found nothing but the slick rubber surface of the pontoon. With a gasp, he rolled off into the water and under the boat. The whine of the spinning propeller suddenly changed to bone-crunching groan as it made certain contact with human flesh.

  Jeff raced back toward the controls on the outboard motor, but the going was not easy. The throttle was set fast, and the inflatable kept smashing back and forth — glancing off the great steel impediment ahead. Jeff felt as if he were on a demented carnival ride as he was thrown wildly about. But with effort, he made it back to the engine, and decreased the throttle.

  Dropping into neutral, he searched the black water for the Arab. He saw nothing at first. It was so very dark. He saw a flashlight in the bilge, perhaps the one that his adversary had been carrying. He picked it up and felt around for its rubberized toggle switch. Aiming the flashlight in sweeping arcs, he sought in vain for a bobbing head or a spreading stain of fresh blood. Finding nothing, he turned the flashlight to the water line of the great steel cylinder. He twisted the handheld throttle of the outboard motor very slightly and the boat moved around the OTEC.

  Jeff felt that it was unlikely that the man died when he fell from the Zodiac. So he searched diligently. Furthermore, the taller man — who had bravely, or insanely, leapt from the high tower — may well have survived also. But the flashlight’s beam revealed no one.

  Jeff was just about to give up when his eye caught something unusual near the OTEC’s side. He was again on the dark side, and the lights from the spectator boats were not aimed this way. In the insufficient light, he could just discern a faint disturbance in the water. Bubbles broke the surface — not popping, but staying intact and sti
cking to the steel bulwark. They formed a little mountain of foam before the topmost bubbles became unstable enough to silently burst. The reflecting steel of the side of the OTEC seemed to have a rusty patina here where the bubbles were carrying blood to the surface. Jeff searched the length of the visible waterline and noted no other such effects.

  Quickly, he withdrew his gun once again and placed it on his lap. He turned the Zodiac toward the area where the bubbles still formed on the surface. As he approached, the bubbles suddenly moved to his left, became difficult to track, and then disappeared. Jeff knew what those bubbles meant. At least one of the men had survived and wore concealed scuba gear. He suspected that both of them had.

  “Crap!” he shouted. He was worried about Petur. Assuming that these men had been planting a bomb — a reasonable assumption — they would likely detonate it as soon as possible. But Peter therefore still had some time. The attackers swimming below surely would be killed by the underwater blast if they triggered it now. No, they would wait until they could climb safely into their boat, likely very nearby.

  Jeff turned the throttle to full as he swung the Zodiac around to the bright side of the OTEC. He aimed straight toward the small metal dock and the awaiting engineers, cutting the engine and running toward the bow as the boat’s momentum carried it alongside. One of the engineers deflected the bow with his arms and simultaneously grasped the line.

  “Where is Heinrich Poll?” Jeff demanded, looking around at the engineers intently.

  One of them responded. “He went up looking for Petur. Is he all right?”

  “He was when I left. He was climbing down the cylinder. Look, there is a bomb in the OTEC!” Jeff pointed to the Zodiac. “Get in this thing and get back to the Elijah Lewis. Tell the captain that there are two terrorists in scuba gear. They’ve got to be going to a boat nearby. See what he can do about finding them. They will probably be armed.”