by Randy Dutton
Pete limped to the port bridge wing. He called up, “Nine minutes before the shoreline comes closer, and 12 before we ground this thing! How are you holding up?” His head tilted upward as he strained to hear an answer.
Nothing.
“Anna, are you okay?!” he yelled louder. His pulse raced while he clambered up the ladder. He staggered to her, his eyes widened in fear.
Anna lay next to the Anzio, unconscious, with blood pooling beneath her head. The ear protection head band had been split in two.
His heart leapt out of his chest. “Oh God! No!” he stammered as he leaned over her. The black wig was soaked in blood. Pete pulled out the clips holding it in place and threw the wig over the side. She had a crease across her scalp, but still had a pulse. He had eight minutes before he had to make another course correction.
He pulled the medical kit out of her cargo pocket and applied a quick-clot gauze bandage to her scalp. After some quick wraps with a self-adherent elastic tape, he pulled out his cell phone – still no reception.
Cradling her in his arms for a minute, he softly spoke to her. “Hang on, Darling. I’ll take care of you.” He knew the ship would hit the mudflat abruptly, and everyone not braced would be thrown forward. He needed something to protect her from sliding across the deck. “The flag locker.” A large wooden box was bolted to the deck where the ship kept its pennants and national flag.
He kissed the top of her head, went to the box, and redistributed the various pieces of fabric into a nest. He returned and picked her up, hobbled back to the box, and placed her inside as he would a baby bird, making sure her head was braced and padded with flags. He left the lid off, kissed her gently on the lips being sure not to interfere with her labored breathing, and hustled back down the ladder.
Like a vulture, Sven’s eyes followed Pete as he returned to make the slight course adjustment. It was less than two nautical miles to impact.
Walking to each bridge wing, Pete saw no movement to either port or starboard, but his foot found the hanging shooter’s 9mm pistol lying on the pilot house deck. He picked it up and put it on a front shelf. Next, he looked around the pilot house to figure out how to best protect himself. An idea came to him – he went into the captain’s cabin. Pushing aside the dead guard, he pulled out the mattress, leaned it up against the forward wall and made sure nothing aft would rush forward to crush him when the impact came.
Back at the helm, he saw the ship hadn’t slowed as much as he feared. Good...18 knots...we’ll have enough speed to beach this beast. He picked up his cell phone. Two bars! He hit speed dial – Mac answered. “Mac, no time to talk. Get a medevac helo to Puyuhuapi. Anna’s unconscious with a head wound – it’s bad. Call the FBI Director and tell them the ship will be beached there in about six minutes. They need to treat this as a hazmat threat. We’ve got hostiles that may be attacking when we land. Did you get that?”
“Yes, Pete. Thank God you’re okay. I—”
Bullets zinged through the pilot house. “Gotta go. I’m being shot at.”
Pete peered out the window to see a vehicle with three men and rifles pacing the ship along the right shoreline road 400 meters away. Okay, we’re vulnerable to starboard. Town lights dead ahead. He turned off autopilot. Using the town lights directly ahead, he steered the ship more to port to maximize the distance. Two minutes later, the firing stopped, and vehicle lights raced ahead. He reset the autopilot. This should beach us in the stream delta. Soft mud and, hopefully, enough of a channel to slide into.... 16 knots. Less than a mile to go. I hope the engine room doesn’t flood in the next four minutes. The townspeople are going to be really surprised when they hear a gunfight break out.
From just over the bow, two bright landing lights approached, the illumination momentarily blinding him. As it raced over the ship, the rumbling of four propellers echoed throughout the narrow fiord valley.
He sighed.
Got to be a cargo plane. If these are merc reinforcements, we’re screwed. Their parked vehicle lights help them target the ship. At least they can’t drive onto the mudflat.
Pete looked out the large hole made by the hanging shooter.
I’ve got maybe 40 meters of standoff distance between the ship and each flanking side once the ship comes to a rest. My ammo’s low and I’m alone. I might be able to escape if I were alone. I hope the sabotage on the cylinders was enough.
Sven broke the silence. “Well Petey, it looks like your luck’s run out.... My benefactor will take no mercy upon you, unless...maybe...you surrender to me. Maybe he’ll let you live. Think of your spawn.” He chuckled. “Your call tells me Anna’s probably dying. Doesn’t matter. If she’s alive, whether we turn her over to Swanson or my benefactor, someone gets the pleasure of torturing her...then she dies. I’ll make sure of it—”
Pop. A shot reverberated throughout the pilot house.
Pete staggered to the captain’s stateroom and braced his back against the mattress. A low-pitched groan echoed from the weaving ship as it slowly slid through the mudflat. His body gently pressed into the padding as items fell and rolled in nearby compartments.
Not as jarring as I expected. He checked his ammo. One UMP9 magazine remains. At least I’ve got the Anzio....
Dragging his right leg, Pete moved back into the bridge. He nonchalantly glanced at the chair.
Sven’s blank stare was frozen in time while a red spot oozed from his chest.
Moving to the port wing, he pulled himself up onto the signal bridge. The height gave him a tactical advantage, as long as he didn’t stand up. The solid railing now resembled Swiss cheese. It was designed to deflect wind and rain coming over the bow, and could deter small arms fire. But the large caliber rounds it had just encountered were too much for it. Regardless, the protection only extended from the front and the first three meters of the sides. Whang! Another quarter-sized hole appeared through the metal plating.
“Damn, another Anzio!” he growled as he scampered to his sniper rifle. The vehicle with the mounted 20mm rifle was parked to starboard on the parallel coastal road 800 meters away. One round was in Pete’s Anzio. The rest were in Anna’s cargo pocket.
If I go to the box to retrieve more, the sniper might hit her while trying to get me. I’ve got to make this shot count, get the Anzio ammo before he reloads, and get away from the flag box. Pete scoped in and saw the sniper looking straight at him. Seeing a flash, Pete released the Anzio and rolled left. A round clipped the rifle bolt, slightly turning the weapon. Damn, he’s good!
Pete rolled immediately back in place. Looking through the scope’s HUD display he took stock of the various factors it adjusted for: range, target velocity, compass heading, shot angle, gun cant, wind, barometric pressure, and time of day. The opposing sniper was chambering another round. Pete exhaled and took his shot just as a flash came from his target. This time Pete rolled right, turning the Anzio slightly as a shield. Another round ripped a hole though the metal plate to his left.
Pete pushed himself up. Dragging his right leg, he hopped to the nest to retrieve more half-kilo rounds, then moved behind the metal shield to check his left flank. He peered through one of the many large holes to see if others were attacking.
To port, five men, wearing protective vests and aiming UMP9s, had spread out along the embankment. They seemed to be trying to figure how to cross the soft mud and shallow water to board the beached ship.
Pete sprayed rounds to drive them back, then ducked when rounds showered his position. A few rounds passed through holes in the shield.
He hunched over and staggered to his sniper rifle. He noted the calm on his right flank. Odd the sniper hasn’t fired again. From behind the metal plate he rolled to his right, inserted a round, and looked through the scope.
I needn’t have worried. Slumped over the weapon was a bloody body with a missing right shoulder. Both our shots must have passed within a meter of each other.
Pete sighted carefully, and put a round through the gas tank
of the vehicle, causing a fuel fire and eventual engulfment. That’ll destroy the Anzio.
He crawled to the port side shield to concentrate on the men now flanking him. He fired – pop, pop, pop, click. Silence. He released the magazine – empty.
Along the coast road, headlights illuminated several military-style vehicles with mounted machine guns racing toward the town.
Okay, this will end it. I don’t have the ammo for much more and I’m boxed in. He breathed in the colder salt-free air dropping from nearby snow-covered mountains – it chilled him. He slumped in defeat against a section of unperforated shield as metallic rain pelted his shelter. He looked forlornly at the wooden nest several meters away, then pulled out his 9mm pistol. He depressed the magazine release button and sighed. Four rounds. He reinserted the magazine. This is our last stand, Darling. Your greatest fear is being captured alive and tortured.
He looked at the pistol.
You’d want me to do it...would demand it...and I’ll join you right after.
His cell phone rang – he flipped it open.
“Pete? Are you okay?!” yelled a worried Mac over a background of metallic pinging.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” he replied in an exhausted voice over the noise of bullets denting the metal plate, and others whizzing overhead. Ricochets off nearby equipment were becoming more frequent as the mercenaries expanded their flanking. “I’ve got a broken metal leg, and I’m afraid their reinforcements have arrived. This is it. Mac, I’m sorr—”
“Pete! They’re Chilean military, coming by C-130! There’s FBI with them too. Don’t shoot them! Stay safe! Let them clean up the terrorists.”
His spirits lifted, and he slowly released the pistol’s hammer. “Thank God! How about the medivac?”
“It’s on its way. Should be there in about five minutes. How’s Anna?”
“Unconscious...bleeding. She’s is a bad way. Once the shooting’s over, I’ll check. But until then it would expose her—”
Rat, tat, tat, tat... Distinctive .50-caliber machine gun fire momentarily echoed through the valley, then the fiord went silent except for the rumbling of diesel engines and the churning of prop wash from the still turning propeller pounding the mud.
“Wait...the shootings stopped!” Pete peered over the metal shield. Three spotlights were triangulating the mercenary vehicles and men. One beam was scanning the ship.
“The military vehicles have pulled up behind the mercs. And...yes, they’re surrendering. It looks like it’s over! And...yes! I see a helicopter’s landing lights! Thanks, Mac!”
“Pete. They’re using the codenames you told me...got it?”
“Got it! Gotta go and get these guys onboard to get Anna off! Bye!”
Pete staggered to the flag box. Anna was unconscious and blood still oozed out of the bandage. He touched the side of her face and said softly, “I love you, Darling...best you stay here a moment. We’ve made it! Help’s on the way. There are a few things I have to do before they get here.”
He took her silenced pistol, and the ammo out of her pockets, then paused and pulled her sword from its belt scabbard. Wiping down their weapons, he removed the magazines and, as if he were throwing long-bomb football passes, flung them – the pistols, the sword, and the remaining explosives – over the starboard side and into the deeper water of the delta. The water’s running fast from recent rains. God, I hope it buries this stuff or sweeps it into the fiord!
Under the scrutiny of a vehicle spotlight, Pete limped as best he could down to the pilot house and turned on the few still-functioning deck lights. A quick look at his rescuers showed them still securing the site.
In the shadows of the pilot house, he lifted one particular Beretta off the floor and wiped it free of prints. Then he put it back into the hanging man’s hand and let it drop with a thunk. Next, he collected and wiped down all the other weapons lying around the bridge. These he also threw into the stream, out of sight of the gathering soldiers.
Now I need to get the medics onboard! Staggering down stairs to the main deck, he tied a rope to the end of the gangway and flung the line outward. While he lowered the accommodation ladder with an electric winch, the military vehicles’ headlights and remaining spotlights were being re-aimed at the ship. The area was taking on the appearance of a crime scene.
From the ship’s quarterdeck, where the gangway met the ship, Pete nervously watched soldiers in body armor leading the assailants away.
Two more fully protected soldiers then grabbed hold of the rope and pivoted the gangway out toward the shallower mud flat. With muddy boots and soaked trousers, the uniformed men with weapons aimed left and right as they charged up the steep ramp. A military officer was close behind.
One civilian who obviously didn’t relish having ruined his shoes and pants slogged through the muck and mire to the gangway. From the AgustaWestland AW119 helicopter, two paramedics were running to the ship with a stretcher.
First up were two Comandos de Aviación—Chile’s elite Air Force Special Forces. With raised M-16s, they seemed to know he wasn’t a risk and passed him to take up armed positions on the ship. A major followed close behind.
“Señor Neo?” the officer initiated the exchange.
“Si.” Pete nodded, not sure would happen next.
“I understand we have a situation here requiring great sensitivity,” the officer said flatly.
Pete answered with voice shaking with urgency, “Yes, but first I have an injured woman who must get to the hospital immediately. She’s unconscious with a head wound. If your men could assist getting her off the signal bridge and to the medevac helicopter, I’ll assist any way I can.”
“Certainly.” The major snapped his fingers and in rapid Spanish, ordered two more arriving soldiers and the oncoming emergency medical techs topside. He turned back towards Pete. “Do you have any weapons on you?”
“No.” Pete responded and spread his arms out, his open hands toward the officer. As the officer frisked him, Pete’s eyes shifted to the civilian who had just arrived and was waiting his turn.
With a look of dismay, the major pulled out Pete’s VersaTool and put it in his own pocket. He paused when he got to Pete’s right leg. With both hands, he slowly patted the leg down to the bottom and lifted the fabric to expose the metallic ankle. Nodding with the understanding of an experienced military veteran, he stood up and put his hand on Pete’s shoulder as he would a brother. “Don’t go anywhere without my direct authority. You’ve got some explaining to do.”
Pete nodded.
The major directed more arriving Chilean military to take control of the crew and mercenaries.
The civilian stepped forward. “Neo, I’m special agent Fred Thorpe of the FBI, out of Santiago.” The agent pointed to the stern. “Let’s talk privately.”
“Okay,” Pete replied, limping as they moved aft.
“Do you need a medic for your leg?”
“No...maybe a good mechanic.” Pete lifted his pant leg, exposing his metallic ankle through ripped artificial skin.
“Right,” the FBI agent chuckled. He switched his attention to the first row of cylinders. “152 of these?”
“Yes, I sabotaged—”
His brow lifted. “Just you?” he asked skeptically.
“Uh, yes.”
“Stop right there!” Agent Thorpe interrupted angrily.” I know there’re two of you, the other being your wife...probably the injured woman. So start again! This time tell me only the truth. Is that all right with you...Dr. Heyward?”
Pete showed genuine surprise.
“Don’t worry, even my report to the Director won’t use your real name. This’ll be the last time I use it, unless you decide to go public, which may happen anyway.”
“How’d you find out?” he asked sheepishly.
“The coincidence of the conference you suddenly attended, then abandoned.... Do you want me to continue?”
With a sigh, Pete’s head hung. “No. Sorry....” He
returned direct eye contact. “You’ll get the details accurately.”
Pete started describing where his genetic research identified weaknesses in the phytoplankton. Part way through the telling, Anna—strapped to an evacuation stretcher—arrived at the gangway.
“One moment,” Pete said to Agent Thorpe, then staggered to the stretcher and looked at his blanketed and still unconscious wife – her head was braced in a cervical collar and an IV drip had been initiated. His lips brushed hers and then moved to her ear. He whispered, “I’ll be with you soon, Anna. Hold on. I love you.”
With anguished eyes, Pete continued to watch as Anna was carried to the helicopter and flown away.
Pete staggered back to the agent. “Please make sure she gets the best treatment and an armed guard? We’ve pissed off some very powerful people.”
“No doubt. And considering who gave me the assignment, I don’t discount your story. You’ve got a high-powered friend.... We’ve some NOAA and USDA biogeneticists arriving in a few hours to take charge.” Agent Thorpe’s voice lowered as he led Pete farther from soldiers on the quarterdeck. “Now, I’ve got to tell you that we may or may not be able to help your legal situation. Piracy is hard to defend against. Let’s just say, I’ve been instructed to tell you the FBI isn’t planning on prosecuting you, or going out of its way to assist the Chilean government in that effort if they so choose. What you tell me is confidential.”
Pete swallowed hard. “I understand. Once you hear the rest of what we were trying to prevent, all this should become clearer.”
“Then please, finish your story.”
Chapter 109
June 18, 2100 hours
Puerto Montt Hospital
Darkness brightened to a white cloud. A ghostly image drifted across her vision, accompanied by murmuring speech. Blinking repeatedly, colors gradually added to her view. Details became clearer. Anna squinted at the flower vases and Mylar balloons directly in front of her. Taking stock of her surroundings, she sniffed the air. Antiseptic? Her head throbbed, and she felt the pressure of a heavy bandage across it. Sounds became more distinct – an electronic beeping was to her left.