Charon's landing m-2

by Jack Du Brul

  “I don’t get it.” Hauser looked at Mercer with a blank expression.

  “Somehow Kerikov was the money behind Southern Coasting and Lightering, and he planned to double-cross Max Johnston all along. He needed Max’s equipment, the tanker and an offshore oil rig, but didn’t want him as a full partner. There’s still something else at stake that Kerikov didn’t want Johnston a part of. Kerikov kidnapped Johnston’s daughter to ensure that he never revealed his part in this plot. Max would be stuck with the cleanup and couldn’t utter a word about his own complicity,” Mercer replied, then fell silent.

  With a hand braced against one of the cabin’s tubular support stanchions, Mercer needed to take time to prepare himself for the attack. If things went according to plan, the SEALs would have little trouble seizing the escape boat and then using it as cover to take the supertanker. Hauser had said there was only a handful of terrorists holding the ship, and SEALs were known to be the best special forces troops in the world. Like their name implied, they were equally comfortable on land as in the water. Taking over a ship, according to Krutchfield, was their stock-in-trade.

  On the other hand, Mercer was in no condition to be part of their assault. In fact, he shouldn’t even be breathing right now considering what he’d been through. He was spent. His body was one large aching bruise, and his shoulders, legs, and chest were beaten to the point where he felt light-headed. He had no illusions of himself in a firefight. His reactions were slow, his reflexes dulled by exhaustion. It took him a few moments to notice Krutchfield tapping on his arm.

  “Message from Devil Fish,” Krutchfield shouted into Mercer’s ear. “Their sonar says we’re about five miles behind our target and about seven from the tanker. Like you said, this is going to be tight.”

  “What’s your plan?”

  “Basically, come up next to them, and when we’re abeam, open fire at the same time two of my men jump from this boat to theirs.”

  “And if you miss everyone with the first barrage and they manage to radio a warning to the Arctica?”

  Krutchfield grinned his boyish smile. He was really loving this. “On my command, the Tallahassee is going to jam every radio transmission within a fifty-mile radius. There’re going to be some pissed off disc jockeys in a few minutes.”

  The Juan de Fuca Strait here was wide, more like a broad lake than a strait, forests and cliffs towering on both sides but so far away they appeared to be held at bay by the surging water of the channel. In a different time, under different circumstances, Mercer would have enjoyed the ride. He grimly held on and watched the narrows before them, hoping to spot the telltale wake of the terrorists’ boat. Mercer used the last few moments before contact to borrow some 9mm ammunition from one of the SEALs and transfer it into the clip of Kerikov’s pistol.

  “There!” Hauser shouted, his trained eyes finding the distant rescue boat much quicker than those of the younger men. He had a much stronger vested interest in saving the Petromax Arctica /Southern Cross. To the SEALs, this was another hot op, but to him it was personal. She was his ship, his command.

  From this distance, the boat was just a white dot on the gray water, its wake like a ghost image behind it. The tanker was still beyond visual range. It was impossible for those on the fleeing craft to see them. The black hull of the SEAL boat was all but lost amid the swells, its unusual silhouette making it all but invisible from beyond five hundred yards. But Krutchfield wasn’t taking any chances. He lifted the radio to his lips as soon as he spotted the boat.

  “Devil Fish, this is Mud Skipper. It’s lights-out time. Repeat, it’s lights-out time. Give us seven minutes, monitor, and if there is no contact, jam again until you hear that tanker breaking up. At that point, go to condition Bravo.”

  “What’s condition Bravo?” Mercer asked.

  “The Tallahassee surfaces, targets the tanker with an MK48 torpedo, and finds out if these assholes are willing to die for their cause.”

  Mercer didn’t feel like pointing out that torpedoing the tanker would accomplish the terrorists’ goals for them. But he could not remain silent. “Don’t tell me if you have a condition Charley. I don’t want to know.” He fingered the pistol in his hands, absently clicking the safety.

  “Lieutenant, I have an idea,” Hauser said just before they were spotted by the pickup boat. It took only an instant for him to explain and everyone to agree.

  They came up to the hurtling craft. She was a fat-hulled pleasure boat, her white freeboards badly discolored by years in the murky waters of the North Pacific, her upper works weathered by the region’s notorious summer rains. She looked tired, and it was no surprise that at twenty knots, her engines were grinding out as much speed as she could muster. Because the terrorist team hadn’t had enough time to make proper arrangements since being shifted from San Francisco, the owner of the vessel was stuffed into a fore storage locker, the contents of his skull adhering his corpse to the fiberglass walls. The men who’d stolen the boat, the crew spirited to Vancouver on Southern Coasting and Lightering’s executive jet to assist JoAnn Riggs, were taking no chances that they would ever be connected to the destruction of the supertanker.

  The SEALs’ boat closed the gap between itself and the cabin cruiser so quickly that the navy commandos had to scramble to get themselves into position. Crouching behind the gunwale didn’t offer them any protection if they encountered return fire, but they were invisible as the boat cut into the wake of the cruiser, sluing around until the two vessels were running parallel. Captain Lyle Hauser stood at the helm of the assault boat with Mercer, each looking relaxed in their civilian clothes. Hauser lazily throttled back the twin outboards until both boats were traveling at the same speed, only a few feet separating them, as if to say to the men on the white cruiser, “Hey, look at my new toy.”

  On the cruiser, the three men huddled in the flying bridge looked startled when they saw the sleek craft pull up next to them. To allay their fears, Mercer and Hauser waved enthusiastically, smiling as if this were nothing more than a pleasurable afternoon jaunt. Krutchfield and his SEALs were still out of sight.

  “What’s the layout?” Krutchfield was crouched behind Mercer, a machine pistol in his hands.

  Mercer kept his smile in place as he spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I see three men on the bridge. Arabs, I’d guess. No visible weapons, but all of them are wearing windbreakers that could conceal just about anything. It looks like there is at least one more in the cabin below. I see movement in one of the small windows. I can’t tell if he has a gun.”

  “SEALs, we go in thirty seconds,” Krutchfield called quietly to his team. “Captain Hauser, ease us forward by about twenty feet, and when I yell out, bring us back abeam and put us right against her side.”

  Hauser acknowledged the order by grabbing the throttles. Instantly, the attack boat pulled ahead of the cruiser, cutting through the wedge of water that peeled off her bow. Mercer waved again but got no response.

  The timing of the SEAL commandos was uncanny. Krutchfield hadn’t even shouted when the boat’s regular helmsman bumped Hauser from the conn and burped the engines, bringing them back alongside the weathered cabin cruiser. The three men on the pleasure boat’s deck turned in unison as they started to overtake the odd-looking craft that had just passed them. But by the time they suspected anything was amiss, three of the SEALs had appeared over the gunwale and opened fire while Krutchfield and another commando leaped the narrow gap between the two speeding craft.

  The H amp;K MP-5s the SEALs carried whined like buzz saws, pouring a hundred rounds into the cruiser in just a few seconds, blowing off pieces of fiberglass and worn woodwork, dicing the three men at the controls. There was a steady pulse of return fire from the boat’s lower cabin, the distinctive chattering crash of an AK-47. Krutchfield’s partner was caught halfway through his leap to the cruiser, the Russian-manufactured weapon stitching across his Kevlar body armor. None of the bullets pierced the vest’s ballistic material, but
the hydrostatic shock tossed him into the empty space between the boats, his body vanishing in the clouds of cordite smoke that fouled the air. He hit the water with a bone-breaking splash, but his scream went unheard as the running battle continued.

  Another burst from the SEALs tore a jagged hole in the hull around the porthole where the shots had originated. There was a brief scream piercing the sounds of automatic fire, and suddenly it was over. Krutchfield was at the controls of the cruiser, standing proud in an ankle-deep mire of blood and shattered bodies. He cut the engines at the same time as his helmsman slowed the assault boat, both craft hissing to a slow crawl, the echoing sounds of the battle dying away.

  Mercer was the first from the SEAL boat onto the cabin cruiser, whose name he saw was Happyhour, with Hauser only a breath behind him. Krutchfield’s other two SEALs swarmed over next, like extras in a pirate movie, their eyes bright with battle lust, their gun barrels hot from the fray. The helmsman arced the assault boat away from the Happyhour, carving a tight crescent in the Strait to pick up their fallen comrade, the powerful motors bellowing like caged animals as he gave them their head. While Krutchfield heaved bodies over the side of the captured boat, his two teammates ducked down the narrow steps to the belowdeck cabin. By the time Krutchfield had finished, they were back on the bridge. One of them, a compact Hispanic with a gap where one of his teeth had been, was wiping his knife against a napkin he’d taken from the galley. Red smears bloomed from the blade’s passage.

  “There were two of them, jefe,” he remarked casually, slipping the blade back into its inverted scabbard on his combat harness.

  “Shit,” Krutchfield exclaimed. He turned to look over his shoulder at the distant wake of his boat.

  There had been five terrorists on the boat. With one SEAL down in the water and the other out to get him, there were only three commandos on the Happyhour.

  Mercer knew what the navy lieutenant was thinking and spoke before Krutchfield did something rash. “We don’t have time to wait for them,” he said. “JoAnn Riggs is expecting this boat in a couple of minutes. We don’t need to make her any more suspicious by being late. There were five men sent to pick her up. There are five of us, including Hauser and me.”

  “Dr. Mercer, we’ve been trained for this type of sortie; it’s what we get paid for. I understand why you and Captain Hauser are here, but I can’t authorize you to board the Arctica until we have her secured.”

  “We don’t have time to argue about this, Lieutenant. Let’s get going. We’ll discuss it on the way, but no matter what, we can’t wait here for your other men.” Mercer knew that Krutchfield would have no choice but to allow him to come along. They were going to need the extra firepower.

  “Mercer, JoAnn Riggs would recognize me right away. I’d be more of a liability than an asset,” Hauser pointed out.

  “I know. I just thought about that. How about if you follow us about five minutes after we board? We should have the area around the boarding ladder secured by then. Believe me, we’re going to need you if Riggs has already started to scuttle the ship. I don’t know anything about tankers.”

  “I thought you said you worked for Alyeska?”

  “No, I don’t. I’m here as a favor to Andy Lindstrom, the Chief of Operations. Kind of filling in, so to speak.”

  “Oh, shit, we’re in trouble,” Hauser breathed.

  “Tell me about it.” Mercer was staring over the bow of the racing cabin cruiser. A half mile ahead, the VLCC Petromax Arctica appeared, her one-hundred-sixty-foot-wide beam making her head-on profile look like a solid wall of preformed steel tucked against the north bank of the ten-mile-wide Juan de Fuca Strait.

  While the sight of her unimaginable size was awe inspiring, Mercer couldn’t help but think she looked like a ghost ship.

  Aboard the Petromax Arctica Juan de Fuca Strait, British Columbia

  As the cities of Seattle and Vancouver expanded during the ’80s and ’90s, fueled by immigration from Asia and the technology companies that seemingly grew out of every garage and basement, great pains were taken to ensure that the pristine Pacific Northwest was left as virgin as possible. Unlike the megalopolis that stretches from Boston to Washington, DC, that’s been spoiled forever by two hundred years of sprawl, the environs of Puget Sound were still beautiful rugged forests and mountains and clear cold waters that supported both commercial fishermen and the needs of the avid sportsmen. Wildlife flourished, especially in the Sound itself, where marine creatures from majestic whales to playful otters abounded. The crab beds around Seattle were legendary, teeming with the delicious crustaceans even after years of harvesting, and the national forests were perfect habitats for deer, beaver, and dozens of other woodland species. To all but the most vehement environmentalists, the area was the model of ecology and industry working together in productive harmony.

  Where the sea rushes between Victoria Island and the mainland, a few miles from the city of Port Angeles, the VLCC Petromax Arctica hulked low in the water, her belly swollen by 200,000 tons of oil so her rails seemed only a few feet above the waves sliding against her. While tankers were not an uncommon sight in the Strait, one of the Arctica’s dimensions was. But more disturbing than her presence was the feathery tail of smoke leaking from her square funnel. Her engines were turning only enough for station’s keeping against the tide flowing into the Sound.

  While the past quarter century is full of stories of supertanker accidents, the Exxon Valdez, the Amaco Cadiz, and the Torrey Canyon being the most famous, many of the giant vessels have been lost through storm or accident or mechanical fault. During a single month in 1969, three tankers of over two hundred thousand tons were lost or severely damaged, and few outside of the oil industry ever knew of these incidents. While the causes of disasters vary, it’s rare that a single fault can sink one of these behemoths. Many factors, from weather to a simple human mistake to a complete design flaw, are necessary to pull a supertanker under the waves. Not until the space shuttle has a single device possessed so many backup systems and fail-safes — all designed to prevent the type of disaster about to unfold in the waters leading to Puget Sound.

  In Ivan Kerikov’s plan, the destruction of the tanker was to occur shortly after the cancellation of her sale to Southern Coasting and Lightering. Since the crippled ship could not make it as far south as San Francisco Bay, the plug had been pulled on the deal a few days early, a minor detail that only slightly altered the intended outcome of the operation. Captain Hauser’s valiant actions merely shifted the target city to Seattle. While not as sentimental as San Francisco, it was an equally fragile ecosystem that would suffer just as cruelly when the crude washed up on its coastlines.

  JoAnn Riggs’ job now was to ensure that as much oil as possible was dumped into the sea, while making her actions appear accidental rather than intentional. With the ship’s crew shortly to be killed and the extraction boat on the way, there would be no witnesses and no physical evidence that the largest oil spill in history was an act of sabotage. The most conservative estimate predicted oil spreading from Bellingham to Everett, and the best-case scenario saw a slick covering a 174-mile stretch of coast from Vancouver to Tacoma, an area that included thousands of miles of irregular shoreline and numerous inlets, islands, and bays.

  Giving the order to kill the remaining crewmen was a decision that gave JoAnn Riggs pause. It was an order that should have fallen to Captain Albrecht but now was her responsibility. While the million dollars that was to be her share for this operation would go a long way to assuaging her guilt, she was still reluctant to give Wolf the nod to do it.

  Sensing her unease as they stood on the port side bridge wing, Wolf knew he would have to kill them without getting the direct order. There were so many murders in his past that a few more didn’t cause him undue concern. However, he did lose some respect for the woman who had executed the takeover of the tanker as if born to terrorism. As he turned to go, he took Riggs’ silence as a tacit approval. While Wol
f would be doing the actual killing, the responsibility was still hers. Riggs gathered herself to finish what she had been paid to accomplish.

  Max Johnston had made certain when the Petromax Arctica was built that she incorporated every automatic and systematic safety device to prevent her from ever spilling even a drop of her cargo. Therefore, to intentionally sink the vessel and make sure that crude poured from the hull in such volume that nothing could prevent it took the concerted effort of the entire terrorist cadre except for Wolf and one man he kept to assist him, each of them assigned a specific task and timed with military precision.

  The great hull of the Arctica was segmented into eighteen separate tanks, a system used not only to prevent the entire cargo from being lost if she were ever holed but also to make the vessel much more stable in rough water. A complex system of valves and pumps connected the tanks, used mostly to keep an even keel when part of the cargo had been pumped off the ship. The computer that monitored the level of oil in each of the cavernous tanks prevented the ship from ever becoming unbalanced in even the roughest storms, compensating automatically to the conditions of the vessel and of the sea.

  Riggs and her team had to take the computer off-line and manually operate the pumps, valves, and float cocks that controlled oil movement. The computer could not produce the conditions necessary for dumping her cargo — there were mechanical checks as well as those programmed into the system. Human hands, driven by greed or madness, would have to run many of the controls, opening them wide even as the computer was demanding they close. The machine’s binary morality put that of humans to shame.

  The first part of their plan to dump the Arctica’s cargo was the sea suction inlet located at the stern of the vessel. This thirty-inch-diameter pipe, in conjunction with the Arctica’s three cargo pumps, was used to draw seawater into the tanks during cleaning and ballasting operations. To allow the cargo to drain from the hull out through the inlet, eight different valves of the double-segregated system had to be opened. Then, gravity would force the two hundred thousand tons of crude into the open sea. Perversely, the ship would rise in the water as its cargo discharged, increasing the pressure through the outlet and spraying oil in a two-hundred-foot jet when it cleared the waterline. Unless a salvage diver explored the tank control room after the ship had been scuttled and checked each of the valves, there would be no evidence of sabotage.