Charon's landing m-2

by Jack Du Brul

  “It was built by the man you killed in California,” Mercer continued as he readied Minnie, checking connections and making sure the cutting wheel was freely turning on its shaft. “He was testing it here just before you murdered him. Unfortunately for you, Alam, we never finished this hole before deciding the test was a success. It ends about five feet from the other side of the mountain.”

  Alam went white.

  Mercer engaged the ram/legs and stepped aside. Like a tired beetle, Minnie started forward, the cutting head spinning at fifteen thousand rpm. Without having to cut through rock, Minnie could travel about twelve feet per minute with its peculiar lurching gait. It would take an hour for it to reach Alam. Mercer couldn’t afford to wait until the end, so he programmed the machine to automatically shut itself down after boring through two additional feet of rock at the shaft’s terminus. He turned away and started back to his Blazer. “Die hard, motherfucker.”

  Abu Alam, Father of Pain, would cower until the last possible second at the end of the shaft, curling himself into a ball against the rough stone before Minnie reached him. His body was liquefied by the cutter head. Days later, when the mini-mole was pulled from the hole, the largest piece of him found could have been squeezed through a toothpaste tube.

  Back at the base of the access road, Mercer took on three of the most seriously injured of the bus passengers, none of whom were in any real danger. He deposited them at the Valdez hospital but left before anyone could detain him with questions about anything other than the crash’s location. It was only after the Blazer was rolling into the terminal facility that he remembered something Ivan Kerikov had said the night before on the Petromax Omega.

  “Shutting down the pipeline is only one tine in a three-pronged attack.”

  Mercer was about to find out that the second prong of Kerikov’s plan was as sharp as, and even deadlier than, the first.

  Alyeska Marine Terminal

  When Mercer got back to the Operations Building, Andy Lindstrom was in his office, one phone clamped to his head and another one lying off its cradle on a pile of papers, a tinny but strident voice calling from it like an irate Lilliputian. Two workers stood in front of the desk, their heavy utility clothes streaked with crude. Andy saw Mercer standing at the threshold and waved him in. He barked an order into the phone, cut the connection, and scooped up the other, launching into a new set of commands before dropping that one too into its receiver. Instantly both started ringing again.

  “Christ, this is nuts,” Andy said, lifting one of the phones. He shouted into the mouthpiece, “Give me a second, will ya?”

  Without waiting for a response from the caller, he set the phone on the desk. Ignoring the other ringing telephone, he took a moment to light a cigarette. His ashtray was overflowing with half-smoked butts. He used the glowing cherry of the cigarette like a finger to point at the two workers. “Introduce an instrument pig from Pump Station 10. I need to know the condition of the line between us and the Tanana River. The on-site guys say there’s no external damage, no sign of tampering, but I need to be sure. If you run into a frozen section, cut the pump immediately and call me. I’ll try to scare up another jet heater from the Air Force.”

  The two men nodded quickly and left.

  “Mercer, I’ve got a problem even bigger than this mess. Go down to the communications room. They’ll fill you in.”

  “Andy, I’m going to bed,” Mercer said flatly.

  “I need you, man. Without Mike Collins, I’ve got no security chief. I heard that someone was shot at the main gates an hour or two ago, the local police are screaming about that PEAL ship exploding in the harbor, and already oil companies are demanding revised delivery schedules. Alyeska’s board is telling me that I will have the line back up in three weeks, and I don’t even know how bad it is yet. Shit, worldwide crude prices are up three dollars since this morning, and it doesn’t look like they’re coming down any time soon. Help me out, will ya?”

  “All right,” Mercer breathed resignedly. He didn’t acknowledge Lindstrom as he strode from the room, his dulled mind thinking that Andy’s new emergency might be another of Kerikov’s fronts.

  The communications center was a small office dominated by a built-in counter with several multiline phones, fax, and teletype machines, plus two powerful marine transceivers. Three people were monitoring the fax, the teletype, and the huge radio sets, while a fourth was deep in conversation at a desk phone. Aggie Johnston was standing over by the desk, a cigarette smoldering between her fingers. She ran to Mercer when she saw him enter, pressing herself tightly to him.

  “What happened?” she said against his chest.

  “Abu Alam is dead. You don’t want to know the details. What’s going on here?”

  “A tanker has been seized by terrorists, but its captain escaped. He’s on the phone right now. He thinks the ship is going to be scuttled somewhere near Seattle.”

  “Is this another PEAL operation?”

  “Mercer, almost the entire active core of PEAL was on the Hope when it exploded,” Aggie said sadly. “All that’s left of the organization are the office workers and the fringe members who used us to be in with the smart European set.”

  “I’m sorry. You’re right,” Mercer replied, shamefaced. Until yesterday she had believed in them and their cause, and this morning she had lost a great number of friends and her ex-lover. Under the circumstances, her response was much milder than it could have been. “This is something Kerikov must have planned with another group. What’s the captain’s name?” He directed the question at the woman on the phone.

  “Hauser, Captain Lyle Hauser.”

  “Has this call been verified? It could be some crackpot.”

  “Authentication protocol has been used. Hauser is the captain of the VLCC.” She didn’t protest when Mercer took the handset from her.

  “Captain Hauser, my name is Mercer. I’m the acting head of security here at Alyeska. I’m sorry, but I need you to run through what happened again.”

  “We don’t have time for this,” Hauser shouted. “Those lunatics are going to sink the ship and cause a slick the size of Lake Superior.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Victoria Island, British Columbia, a little town called Port Alice. I was dropped here by the commercial fishing boat that rescued me.”

  “Was Seattle the destination of your vessel?”

  “No, for Christ’s sake, how many times do I have to go through this with you people? We were headed to Long Beach when my First Officer and a group of terrorists masquerading as workers took over my ship. I managed to sabotage the engines and maybe delay them by a couple of days. The damage I caused forced them to change their plans, so rather than scuttle the Arctica in San Francisco harbor, they chose Seattle instead.”

  “Arctica? Is this the Petromax vessel?” Mercer asked, and Aggie looked at him sharply when she heard the name of her father’s company.

  “Yes. No. Well, it was. The ship was just sold, but that’s not important right now,” Hauser persisted. “We’ve got to stop them.”

  “You’re goddamned right we’ve got to stop them.” Pieces were falling into place, frightful conclusions that Mercer really didn’t want to explore. “Captain, I need to make some calls and then get back to you, but I want you in Seattle as fast as you can make it. Chartering a plane is your best option. But for now, give me your telephone number and stay close by. I’ll be in touch within ten minutes.” Mercer was about to hang up when he remembered something critical. “Captain, the name of the company that bought your ship is SC amp;L, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll call right back.” Mercer cut the connection and dialed Dick Henna’s cellular phone.

  As he waited for the connection to be made, Aggie approached, her face lined with concern. “What’s that about Petromax?”

  “It’s one of your father’s tankers that was hijacked.”

  “But he sold them.”

&nbs
p; “Maybe,” Mercer said, then turned away brusquely as the director of the FBI came on the line. “Dick, it’s Mercer, no time for bullshitting. Get a pen and write this down. I need to know if a company called Southern Coasting and Lightering has filed a flight plan for one of their corporate jets from either Sea-Tac Airport or the one in Vancouver, British Columbia, destination someplace in Louisiana. There’s a tanker in Puget Sound that’s been taken by some of Kerikov’s people, and whoever seized it will be needing a quick getaway after they scuttle her. I also need you to arrange some special forces troops, SEALs preferably, to stand by in Seattle. We’ve got just a few hours at the outside.”

  Henna tried to interrupt, but Mercer cut him off before he managed more than a syllable. “Dick, no questions, just do it. I’m sure you’ve already heard what’s happened up here. Kerikov warned me that the action against the pipeline was just a distraction. Seattle is about to become a toxic waste dump if we don’t get moving. Call me here when you find out about that plane.” Mercer gave the number taped to the phone and hung up.

  “Mercer, what was that all about?” Aggie sank into a chair next to him. He noticed that she had showered and changed into loose-fitting coveralls, the heavy denim cuffed at wrist and ankle and belted tightly around her narrow waist. She looked lost in the baggy outfit.

  “Kerikov is dead, but his plan is still in effect. He told me that destroying the pipeline was only a feint. I have a feeling that sinking a tanker is also another piece of his sleight of hand, misdirection to cover something even worse.”

  “Like what? And what does this have to do with my father?”

  “I don’t know Kerikov’s true aim, nor do I know what your father’s involvement may be, but prepare yourself, because I’m sure he’s part of this in some way.”

  “How can that be? He’s in the oil business. Destroying the pipeline or sinking a tanker is the last thing he would want, especially one of his own.”

  “You may not believe this, but the very ship now in the control of terrorists is the same one that transported the liquid nitrogen used to freeze the Alaska Pipeline. I suspect your father’s involvement may go even deeper than that. Remember, that was your father’s oil rig we were held on last night, and I didn’t see any evidence that Kerikov had taken it by force.”

  She sat silently, her gaze drawing inward as though she did not want to see what Mercer presented. Her body, already appearing fragile in the big coveralls, looked even more delicate, like porcelain.

  He turned away from her again, giving her room to think, to believe what could be true. Mercer dialed Dave Saulman’s office in Miami and was told that the lawyer had gone home for the day. He was about to try Saulman’s home number when the phone shrilled.

  “Yes, Dick, what have you got?”

  “Southern Coasting and Lightering has a charter plane under contract and it filed a flight plan yesterday from Vancouver to Baton Rouge, a Gulfstream IV. The plane is already there, arriving last night from-”

  “San Francisco,” Mercer finished for Henna.

  “How the hell did you know that?”

  “Because that was where Kerikov had intended sinking the tanker, but the captain, who managed to escape, sabotaged the ship. His action forced them to change their plans and target Puget Sound instead of San Francisco Bay. The plane had been on standby in California and was then moved north to Vancouver when the tanker couldn’t make it that far south.”

  “What do you know about the ship itself?”

  “Not much. You’ll have to get her particulars from the Coast Guard, but, Dick, this is the ship that originally transported the liquid nitrogen that I discovered aboard the Jenny IV. According to a friend of mine, she was just sold to a small tanker company called SC amp;L but she had been part of Max Johnston’s fleet. She’s filled to the gunwales with North Slope crude, and if they burst her in Puget Sound, it’s going to make what’s happened to the Alaska Pipeline look like spilled milk. How are you coming with those SEALs?”

  “I haven’t even started yet. I can’t just order them up like eggs, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Don’t get bureaucratic on me. Get hold of Admiral Morrison and tell him you need those men. Lean on the President if you have to — he owes you enough favors.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” Henna replied, suddenly catching on to the urgency of the situation.

  “We’re probably going to have to launch our assault on the tanker from Victoria. You’ll have to clear this with the Canadian government. I know that they’re our neighbors and all, but they get real touchy about sovereignty issues like this.”

  “I’ve already thought about that. You and I need to stay in touch. You’re closest to what’s going on. Are you going to be near this phone for the duration?”

  “No, I’m going down to Puget Sound. It’s about a five-hour flight from here, but if I’m to coordinate this, I need to be right on top of it. As soon as I’ve got communications set up, I’ll get back to you.”

  “All right,” Henna agreed. “Is this the last we’re going to hear from Kerikov?”

  “I wish to God I could say yes, but I doubt it.” Mercer cut Henna off, then dialed Captain Hauser. “Captain, this is Philip Mercer. Have you made arrangements to get to Seattle yet?”

  “Yes, I’ve hired a floatplane. The pilot says he can get me there in about two hours.”

  “Good. But you’ve got to change your destination to the city of Victoria. That’s where the terrorists will have a boat ready to take them off the ship.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “SC amp;L has a jet on standby in Vancouver to take their people back to Louisiana. Once they scuttle the tanker, they’ll want to clear out of the region as fast as possible. I’m looking at the map on the wall in front of me, and the quickest way is a boat from the Arctica to Victoria, then a short helicopter hop from Victoria to Vancouver, and they’re home free.”

  Hauser couldn’t fault Mercer’s logic. “Okay, then what?”

  “I’m leaving Valdez in a minute, but you’ll get to Victoria about three hours before I do. Wait in the airport’s main terminal. I’ll have you paged when I’ve got more for you.” Even as Mercer was talking with Hauser, he mouthed to one of the office workers to go and get Andy Lindstrom. “I’ve already alerted the director of the FBI about what’s happened so far. Wheels are in motion, Captain. Don’t worry. They won’t hurt your ship if I can do anything about it.”

  “Mr. Mercer, it’s not the ship I care about. It’s Puget Sound.”

  Aggie grabbed Mercer’s wrist as he was about to dial again. “What are you doing? You can’t go to Vancouver.”

  “Aggie, I’ve got to,” he said, knowing that she wouldn’t understand.

  “You’re dead on your feet. You’ve done enough already. Let someone else handle this.”

  “Don’t you think I want to? But this is who and what I am; this is what I’ve always done. When people say, ‘Let someone else do it,’ Aggie, I’m that someone else.”

  “The world isn’t your responsibility,” she snorted.

  “You’re right, but that little part I can do something about is.” More than anything in his life, Mercer wanted to walk away from this mess, go someplace far away with Aggie and forget everything. For an instant, he wished he was one of those people who blindly hoped that there were others to fix all those things wrong with our world. He spoke with a tired resignation. “Aggie, I have to go and take care of this, see it through to whatever end there may be.”

  She loved him for his dedication but realized that no matter how much that love might one day be reciprocated, he could never be there for her. There would always be something else in his life, some challenge or crisis that would lure him away the way other men were lured away by affairs. Though she wasn’t the type of woman who wanted to possess the man in her life, she knew she wanted more than Philip Mercer could give. And if he became what she wanted, the change would mean he would no longer be the man she had f
allen in love with. It was a Catch-22 whose only resolution was to end it now before she became more hurt than she was at this moment. The very thought of stopping their relationship before it even began created a void in her chest, a physical ache that felt as though it could never be filled.

  “I understand,” she lied.

  “When this is over, I want to… I mean if you and I…” He stammered to silence. “I think you know what I mean. I’ll get in touch with you.”

  “Of course,” she said, her emotions in such a turmoil that she couldn’t look him in the eye. But she steeled herself, and when she looked up to tell Mercer that she did not want to see him again, he was gone.

  Mercer met Andy Lindstrom just outside of the Operations Director’s office. Without preamble he said, “I need a jet to get me to Victoria, British Columbia, as fast as possible.”

  “What’s happened?”

  “As I figure it, Kerikov planned to destroy the pipeline and then have some more of his people scuttle a supertanker off the coast of San Francisco. The tanker’s captain sabotaged the vessel so she couldn’t make it that far south. The terrorists are now poised to sink her in Puget Sound. This is Kerikov’s second front. All along, his intentions have been to stop the flow of oil from Prudhoe Bay and then make it impossible to transport it along the West Coast. Following the Exxon Valdez accident, the sinking of a tanker in Puget Sound will end crude movement to California forever. The EPA and the environmental groups would never allow it again. Even if you managed to get the pipeline back in operation, your oil would have no place to go. The destruction of the pipe and scuttling a tanker go hand in hand to block America’s newest and potentially largest domestic source of crude oil.”

  Andy nodded. “But what’s the final result? I mean, what is he after?”

  “Was after. Kerikov’s dead, but I have no clue what he wanted to accomplish,” Mercer admitted. “For now, all we can do is head off his tactical attacks and hope the final strategy becomes clear when we’re successful. Do you have a plane?”