Charon's Landing - v4

by Jack Du Brul

  “Forget it. You’ve done your part.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mercer was shocked that his friend was taking him out of the loop.

  “If it hasn’t slipped your mind, there have been two attempts on your life in the past couple of days. You’re out of it as of right now.”

  “Dick, don’t turn bureaucrat on me now. You still have no idea what’s happening, which means the attempts on my life aren’t going to stop. If I’m at risk, then I want a say in the investigation.”

  “Forget it, Mercer,” Dick Henna repeated sternly. “I’ve got nearly two hundred agents working in and around Alaska right now, looking for anything that may threaten the opening of the Arctic Refuge and the building of the second Trans-Alaska Pipeline, and so far they’ve turned up nothing. Christ, two gas stations in Anchorage were firebombed last night no more than five blocks from our field headquarters. Now that we’ve gotten a lead, my personnel are the ones who are going to track it down. Not you.”

  “Come on, none of those guys have my scientific background. If the FBI had had agents who knew that ammonium nitrate fertilizer and fuel oil combine to make an explosive, the Oklahoma City bombing might never have occurred. I was playing with Amfo when I was a kid.”

  “Dr. Goetchell, would you please excuse us.” Henna’s tone was tight. She got up quickly, shaking Mercer’s hand and nodding to her superior before leaving the conference room.

  Henna continued. “Number one, don’t think our friendship means you can talk to me like that in front of my people. It undermines my authority and makes you look like a jerk. Number two, I appreciate what you’ve done here, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to give you free rein to continue. This is an FBI investigation, not a personal crusade. I like you enough not to want to see you killed. Kerikov never got close to you last time, but now he’s in the country, and if you go sniffing around, you’ll end up in the same condition as your three friends. If you think I’m being a hard-ass, you’re right. The country is a powder keg, Alaska is its fuse, and any moment someone’s going to light it. I have enough to worry about without you making this personal.”

  Mercer knew that Henna was speaking from the heart. Henna was being forced against a wall by the administration, pouring a ton of man-hours into the Alaska crisis with absolutely no results. Mercer had just provided a major clue, but there was just no way Henna could let him get involved. Mercer understood this, respected Henna for it, but had no intention of backing down.

  Rather than continue his entreaty, he changed tack. “What about those guys who attacked me last night? Have you found anything?”

  Henna wrongly assumed Mercer’s question meant he was dropping a personal investigation. “The guy you left in your bar was named Burt Manning. Before he left the CIA in 1990, he was also known as ‘The Ghost.’ Consider yourself lucky. As far as we can determine, you’re the first man since Manning worked for the Phoenix Project who ever went up against him and walked away. The guy was the culmination of four years in Southeast Asia and twenty more as a cold warrior in the front lines against the Soviet Union. He’d run ops in Africa, South and Central America, Eastern and Western Europe, and Russia. His dossier at Langley reads like a spy thriller.

  “Since retiring from the Agency, he has owned a private security consulting firm here in Washington contracting to corporations that feel their upper management is ripe for kidnapping or assassination. The other guy in your place was a former colleague of Manning’s from the CIA. We figured he was hired by Manning to back him up on the hit. We raided Manning’s office, but an alarm tripped when we broke through the door and crashed his computer system, erasing everything. A couple of our pet hackers are attempting to reconstruct the files, but they aren’t optimistic. We’ll probably never know who hired him.”

  “Damn,” Mercer spat. “Knowing that would have saved you a shitload of time.”

  “Be thankful we found out who he was in the first place.” Henna shot a glance at his watch. “I’ve got to get going. I need to coordinate with the Anchorage office and get them working on this new lead. You need anything?”

  “I’m going home to pack and see about someone to repair my shattered skylight. Then I’m going on a vacation, maybe fishing in Belize.”

  “There’s a contractor at your place right now, billed to my office. It’s the least we could do. Call before you go over just to warn the agents on guard. Have a good time. We should have this cleared up in a week or two. Don’t come home until then.”

  Back in his room at the Willard, Mercer shed his jacket as soon as he passed the threshold and had his tie undone by the time he threw his key on an oak credenza. An ornate tabletop pendulum clock stood on the large desk in the corner of the elegant room. Ten-thirty A.M.

  “Screw it,” Mercer said aloud and dialed room service. “I’d like two vodka gimlets and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s, please, and the minibar is about to run out of ginger ale so send up a few more cans.”

  He cut the connection, then dialed an outside line. A moment later, Harry White answered with a rasping hello that sounded more like a curse than a greeting.

  “Have fun last night?”

  “Mercer, knowing you is going to kill me quicker than the cigarettes or booze.”

  “The women will do you in first, you lecher,” Mercer teased. “How’s the leg?”

  “I’m going to be on the fucking peg leg for two weeks until my orthopedist can get a new prosthesis, you ungrateful bastard.”

  “Ungrateful, you say? How’s this for ungrateful. I’ll let you use my new digs for a couple of days to show my appreciation.”

  “Where are you?” Harry asked suspiciously.

  “Willard Hotel.”

  “I’ll be there in an hour.”

  “I won’t be here, but I’ll leave the key in an envelope with the concierge. The room number’s on the key. You’ll find a bottle of JD on the nightstand. Dial zero for more. There’s full cable hookup, and the FBI is paying for the whole thing. You can stay until they throw you out.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Back to Alaska.”

  “You figured out who Roger is, huh?”

  “Yeah, he’s trouble.”

  Alyeska Marine Terminal Valdez, Alaska

  The light drizzle had turned into a driving slushy snow in the predawn darkness. It was merciless weather that soaked everything it touched, seeping into Lyle Hauser’s pea coat as he stood on the bridge wing, a walkie-talkie clutched in his numbing fingers. In the glare of the terminal’s powerful spotlights, the sky was an angry swirling mass, churned by a shrieking twenty-knot wind. The seas of Prince William Sound mirrored the ugly mood of the sky, whitecaps slicing through the slag gray water like daggers. Visibility was so poor that Hauser couldn’t see the lights of Valdez nestled across the bay.

  “Start of another miserable day,” Hauser muttered to his ship. He lifted the walkie-talkie to his lips and barked, “Status.”

  “Green across the board, Captain. Engines are on line, turning at sixty-nine rpms.” Because of its massive size, the Hyundai engine could turn at such low revolutions and still produce over 36,000 shaft horsepower. Enough to move the oil tanker at a nominal cruising speed of sixteen knots. “All hydraulic pressures are up and stable.”

  “Visual inspection of the steering gear?”

  “Chief says it looks fine.”

  While it was maritime law for the steering gear and engine to be checked by the Chief Engineer twelve hours prior to entering the harbor, Hauser wanted a second inspection to put his mind at ease about his new ship. In 1979 the 220,000-ton supertanker Amoco Cadiz lost hydraulic pressure to her massive rudder and slammed into the coast of France, spilling nearly her entire cargo into the English Channel. Since then, Hauser made sure that his gear was given a personal inspection by the Chief Engineer before he moved any of his charges from her berth. The visual inspection may or may not turn up an internal flaw in a weld or a slight tear in a rubb
er gasket, but it was better than nothing. Yet another of his many superstitions.

  “First Officer?”

  “Here, sir,” JoAnn Riggs squawked through the walkie-talkie.

  Hauser peered toward the twin towers of the manifold system located amidships, nearly six hundred fifty feet away. In the artificial daylight from the dock and at this great distance, Riggs was a tiny figure, visible only because of her bright yellow rain slicker.

  “Give the order to cast off bowlines, Bridge ahead slow, please.”

  He watched as the massive hemp and nylon rope was slipped from the bollard and drawn into the ship by a mechanical windlass. With the last thread to land removed, the Petromax Arctica was free to begin her journey to southern California.

  Belowdecks, the nine-cylinder diesel engine felt the strain of the water as the propeller shaft was engaged and began fighting against the ship’s tremendous inertia. According to Newton’s law, a body at rest tends to stay at rest unless acted upon by another force. Because this particular body weighed 255,000 dead weight tons (dwt), the force needed to move it had to be equally as large. Under her flat stern, the ferro-bronze propeller, a twisted sculpture the size of a commercial aircraft’s wing, ripped at the water, torquing it so that slowly, slowly it began pulling the ship. Though located at the back of a vessel, a ship’s prop works the same as that of an airplane, creating low pressure before the blades and high pressure behind them. They do not push through the water; they pull.

  The pistons, each over a yard in diameter, had the power to send a shiver through a ship even the size of the Petromax Arctica . To Hauser, the slight rattle beneath his booted feet was a comforting feeling.

  Hauser changed frequencies on his walkie-talkie before speaking again. “Alyeska control, this is the Petro—” He corrected himself quickly. “This is the Southern Cross. We are underway at 2:43 A.M., en route to el Segundo.” Damn name change.

  “Roger, Southern Cross. An ERV is standing by for escort duty.”

  The ERVs, or Escort Response Vessels, were one of the latest safety features incorporated at the terminal, one of the many changes following the Exxon Valdez disaster. Each tanker that berthed at Alyeska was shadowed by a specialized ship until it reached the Gulf of Alaska. Designed for an immediate response to oil spills, ERVs were equipped with nearly a mile of oil-absorbent material called boom that could be laid around a slick like a floating dam. They also carried drop mats for small spills and water cannons for moving oil across the surface of the Sound. The crews of the ERVs were all highly trained specialists in the field of oil spill cleanup. The 182-foot-long ship that followed the Petromax Arctica down the length of Valdez Bay, actually a twelve-mile-long fjord, was the newest addition to Alyeska’s fleet.

  The Arctica was on her way. Captain Hauser was the only member of the command crew with a certificate to guide a fully burdened VLCC through these dangerous waters, so he had to remain on the bridge until they cleared Prince William Sound. He moved into the bridge from the port wing and wedged himself into the master’s chair, a cup of coffee at the ready. His first standing order since taking command was that fresh coffee was to be available at all times of the day or night and each pot was to be no more than thirty minutes old. He was good for at least twenty-five cups per day. He’d been able to break himself of his nicotine addiction, but his need for caffeine would never be shaken.

  Already the cruise wasn’t going well. The ship was running flawlessly, but Hauser was having a tough time with his crew, especially JoAnn Riggs. He had spoken to her briefly about the accident that had maimed the former captain but still wasn’t satisfied with her answers. She had been extremely evasive. The remaining officers and the chief engineer appeared competent, but they had not been present when Captain Albrecht had lost his arm and could add nothing to Riggs’ account.

  The hours dragged on without incident. The great tanker powered south, her huge bows forcing the water aside rather than cleaving through it. For a ship this big, the stormy seas of the Sound weren’t even noticeable. They swirled around the hull but couldn’t cause even a slight roll.

  “ERV to Southern Cross.” The radio call was the first voice on the bridge for the past two hours except for Hauser’s quiet course corrections.

  “This is the Cross. Go ahead.”

  “Though we can’t see it, the Loran says we’re at the entrance to the Sound. You’re on your own.” The voice over the radio was tired.

  The storm that had dumped four inches of snow aboard the tanker at Valdez had not abated. A steady white curtain was drawn against the armored windscreen of the bridge, the snow racing in one direction, then another without a moment’s pause. It was impossible to discern a horizon line between the sea and sky; each was dark and angry. The tanker’s bow lights looked like a dim constellation, far removed from the heated comfort of the spacious bridge.

  “Roger that. This is the Southern Cross acknowledging that we have been escorted out of Prince William Sound,” Hauser replied formally. The ship was on her own.

  He waited for another ten minutes before taking his leave from the bridge, making certain that everything was functioning properly. He took a slow circuit of the huge compartment, his weathered hands clasped behind his back as he read the dozens of gauges and dials that indicated the ship’s status. As he’d suspected, the ship was running in perfect order. When he’d finished his brief tour, he paused at the exit to the bridge, near the large plotting table.

  “Helmsman” — Hauser didn’t recall the man’s name from the hasty introduction just before leaving the terminal — “First Officer Riggs is eight minutes late for her watch. When she arrives, tell her this has been noted on my log. If she hasn’t shown in ten minutes, call me in my cabin.” Hauser had to use the bathroom so badly he couldn’t wait for Riggs to replace him on watch.

  Because a modern supertanker operates with just a skeleton crew of thirty, there was a great deal of space for each person aboard. Most rated a private cabin or shared with only one crewmate. The captain, especially, was afforded every luxury. The Master’s Suite was located one level below the bridge and included a large front office, called the Day Room, as well as a sleeping cabin the size of a generous apartment. The carpet was a rich blue pile, thick and soft, and the woodwork around the cabin was of the finest quality, not the cheap commercial paneling found in the other officers’ quarters. There was already a stack of paperwork mounded on his desk that needed his immediate attention. He hated to admit that the job of Master had become one of administrative details rather than saltwater and hard steel. Such was the nature of the business today. Once, captains had been cut from a romantic cloth, heaped with legend and lore. Now they were nothing more than glorified managers buried under bureaucratic paper shuffling.

  He kicked off his boots and shed his black worsted wool uniform jacket. He’d stuffed the tie that went with the uniform into a pocket hours before and vowed he wouldn’t retrieve it until the ship was in sight of Long Beach. He’d never felt that discipline aboard ship was maintained by strict dress code. Let the crew be comfortable and they would work better had always been his style of command.

  Hauser was finishing in the bathroom when the intercom chimed. “Yes, what is it?”

  “Sorry to disturb you, Captain.” It was the helmsman. “First Officer Riggs hasn’t shown yet. I paged her cabin but got no reply.”

  “I’m on my way,” Hauser muttered irritably. Riggs’ actions had gone beyond rude. She was showing a serious dereliction of duty.

  He threw on his shoes and decided against his uniform coat.

  Swinging open his cabin door angrily, he plowed right into Riggs, tossing the smaller woman to the floor in the moment before she knocked. Hauser recovered from his surprise, bending to offer her a hand, a ready apology on his lips. That was when he saw the pistol on the carpeted deck where the collision had knocked it from her grip. Riggs, too, saw the weapon and struggled toward it, her arm outstretched, her fingers crabbin
g furiously.

  He saw a look of murderous rage in her eyes and without conscious thought stepped on her wrist, pinning her hand. Riggs screamed out in startled pain, writhing to twist herself free. He was just about to demand what was happening when a burst of automatic gunfire echoed from the deck above, near or on the bridge. Hauser looked down the hall and saw an armed shadow duck from an emergency exit, dive across the hallway, and fall into the Chief Engineer’s cabin.

  Hauser had only moments to react, his mind churning but his instincts forcing him to flight. He couldn’t risk the seconds to scoop up Riggs’ pistol; he just ran. Smashing through an emergency exit, he dashed up the utilitarian stairs, his chest heaving. He paused at the top landing and pressed his ear to the door that led to a short passageway and the bridge.

  Trained for and seasoned by danger his entire life, an armed conflict aboard his ship went far beyond his experience. Yet Hauser’s first thoughts weren’t about the situation. He thought instead of his wife, white-haired and wrinkled but still the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. Her grave expression as he boarded his flight to Alaska filled his mind and her almost disapproving gaze galvanized him into action. She’d warned him not to take this command, and suddenly he agreed with her.

  Still, he was responsible for the safety of the ship and its crew. The automatic gunfire could mean only one thing. Terrorists were seizing his ship and Riggs was helping them. Thirty seconds had elapsed since he’d first bumped into her, and already he was forming a plan. He had to get to the bridge to send a distress call.

  How many more of the crew were working with them? Hauser couldn’t even guess.

  The door Hauser was hiding behind was halfway down the hallway that connected the bridge to the supertanker’s main elevator. Once he committed himself, there would be no cover until he gained the bridge; the hall would be like a shooting gallery. Gathering the courage he never recognized he possessed, Hauser took a deep breath, threw open the door, and ran faster than he’d ever moved before.