River of Ruin m-5

by Jack Du Brul

  “Probably just before she comes out of the lock. Say twenty minutes.”

  They watched in silence as small locomotive engines drew the ship into the massive chamber. Once the doors were closed behind her, she would begin her thirty-foot vertical journey to the level of the Gaillard Cut and Lake Gatun. Another of the freighters trailing the Mario diCastorelli entered the nearer lock chamber, partially blocking their view of the bomb ship on its far side. She was an old tramp steamer laid out somewhat like a World War II Liberty Ship with a centrally located superstructure and a raised forecastle. The booms on her two cranes were like skeletal fingers.

  “Which ship is that?” Harry asked.

  With the truck at a slight angle in the deserted visitors’ parking lot Mercer had the better view. “The Robert T. Change.” He could see her flying a white triangular flag speared by a red dot. It was the Pilot On Board pennant. He couldn’t see her national flag so he didn’t know where she was registered.

  “Angel, Heaven, this is Devil One.” Lauren had pulled out the earpiece from her radio so they all heard the voice from the tiny receiver.

  “Go ahead, Devil. This is Heaven,” answered the comm officer aboard the McCampbell.

  “We’re deployed. Estimate zero minus four minutes.”

  “Roger,” Lauren and the destroyer responded simultaneously.

  Looking at the lock complex less than two hundred yards away, it appeared that the Robert T. Change would leave her chamber before the Mario diCastorelli. They could see the bows of the small tramp steamer just peeking out as the chamber doors swung open on their hydraulic rams. Behind her, the much larger diCastorelli was still firmly held in the middle of the lock.

  “That is not how it usually happens,” Lauren said with concern. “It’s always first ship in, first ship out. They never let vessels pass in the locks unless there’s some kind of snag.”

  “Well, the wind’s kicking up,” Harry remarked, looking up to the leaden sky. “The Mario could be having trouble. I’ve been through here a few times myself back in the early 1950s. I’ve actually seen a mule locomotive pulled off her tracks and get dumped in the lock when a gust slammed against a freighter.”

  Lauren suddenly struggled to replace her earpiece, her voice tight. “Devil One, this is Angel, over.”

  “Go ahead, Angel.”

  “Target may be held in place for a few more minutes. I just remembered they’ll need the time for divers to prepare the hull for when they attach the submersible.” She’d recalled a detail the others had all but forgotten and her quick thinking prevented Captain Patke from launching his assault too early.

  “Affirmative, Angel. Thanks. Out.”

  Lauren let out a relieved sigh.

  “Good job,” Mercer said and laid his hand on hers. She let it linger.

  “I can’t believe I’d forgotten that.”

  They could no longer see the Mario diCastorelli as the Robert T. Change blocked their entire view. The small silver train engines straining to haul the vessel from the lock looked like circus workers trying to lead a stubborn elephant. Mercer craned around. Blocking his view down the canal were warehouses, machine shops, and other structures needed to run the complex. Even if the sprawling facility hadn’t obstructed his view, the distance was too great to see the next ship patiently waiting below the lock for its turn to climb the water ladder. Because of where they were parked, the downstream end of the lock was nearly a half mile behind him.

  No matter how large the ships that used the waterway, he thought, it seemed nothing could dwarf the scale of this century-old marvel.

  A sharp rap on Mercer’s window made them all jump.

  Standing in the rain wearing a camouflage poncho was a Chinese soldier. The rubberized cloth ran with water and barely hid the barrel of his machine pistol. He’d tapped the glass with its barrel. Swallowing a ball of fear, Mercer cranked down his window.

  “What you do here?” the soldier asked in angry broken English.

  “Watching the ships with my wife and her grandfather. He helped build the canal.” Harry hadn’t even been born when the construction was completed but Mercer needed a reasonable excuse to be sightseeing on such a miserable morning.

  “It rain. You no see. You go ’way.”

  “We’ll leave in a few minutes.” He gave the man his friendliest smile. “As soon as the next big cruise ship goes by.”

  “You leave now!” The soldier pushed aside a fold of his poncho. The bullpup design of his type 87 was unmistakable.

  Mercer opened his mouth to protest once more when the gunman’s expression inexplicably changed from anger to confusion to pain. And then suddenly he vanished from view. Mercer pushed open his door in time to see a corner of the poncho and a bloodless hand disappear under the truck. He whipped his head around. Lieutenant Foch was just getting to his feet on Harry’s side of the truck. With a defiant gesture that needed no further explanation Foch rammed a fighting knife back into the sheath hanging from his web belt.

  No one had felt him getting out of the truck or heard him crawl under the vehicle. A moment later he was back at the partition. “I saw him coming across the parking lot,” Foch explained. “I think the next time you complained he’d call his friends, yes?”

  “Oui, oui, oui,” said Harry, “all the way home.”

  Lauren disagreed. “More than likely his squad leader is waiting for a report right now.”

  “Devil One to Heaven. Zero minute in two.” Patke’s voice sounded like it came from inside her head.

  “They’re going in two minutes,” she told the others.

  “Foch, give me your best guess,” Mercer asked over his shoulder without looking at the Legionnaire. He kept his attention on the chain-link fence separating the tourist parking lot from the one used by canal employees. “How long do you think it’ll take them to neutralize the ship?”

  “If Liu took off most of her crew like we think, and with the element of surprise, it shouldn’t take more then seven to ten minutes. Figure two men to the bridge, two to the crew’s spaces and two to engineering.”

  Mercer started the truck’s engine. “All right.”

  “What are you doing?” Lauren asked.

  “You are right. That Chinese soldier’s gonna be missed. No way we can wait here for ten or fifteen minutes. Might as well get to the pilot boats early.”

  “Should you tell Patke?” Rene asked.

  Lauren said no. “He’s got enough on his mind.”

  The fence was a hundred yards away, a diaphanous wall of wire mesh that stretched from the water all the way to the Gamboa Highway. Mercer left the big truck in low gear, trying not to appear suspicious. As they rolled across the wet asphalt, his view back to the lock chambers changed and he could see the great doors had parted before the Mario diCastorelli. She was being pulled free by heavy lines running from the towing engines through her fairleads.

  When they were twenty yards from the fence, he knew that nothing he did now wouldn’t look unusual to the guards Liu had stationed here during this critical transit. He mashed the accelerator. The truck hummed and the wheels turned shallow puddles into a cloud of mist that rose in their wake like smoke.

  All at once, the air around them seemed to explode, a sharp report that pounded on their eardrums painfully.

  For a frantic second they all thought the Mario diCastorelli had detonated. A moment later they saw a flash of lightning and another deafening clap of thunder assaulted them. It was just the storm.

  “Hold on!” Mercer called as they reached the fence.

  He steered for one of the support poles. The truck barely paused as the steel bent under the bumper and a section of fencing sagged and then fell under the wheels. They drove over it and Mercer accelerated again, racing across the large employee parking lot, weaving along rows of workers’ cars.

  At the far end of the lot was a dirt road that ran behind a series of low structures. Mercer tore down this road, shielded from the canal
by the corrugated metal buildings, slowing only when they reached a boat ramp. Next to the access ramp lay a small inlet with a cement pier where four of the Canal Authority’s utility boats were moored. They were sturdy little craft with black hulls and white upperworks broken up by numerous windows for easy visibility on the busy waterway. Each boat was festooned with orange flotation rings and other safety gear.

  Mercer braked hard at the base of the quay. He felt more than heard the Legionnaires pile from the rear. He pulled the.45 from his waistband and jacked a round into the chamber, not that he thought any hapless employee would resist the French soldiers and their wicked-looking FAMAS assault rifles.

  “This is Devil One. We are on the target undetected. Switch to channel two.”

  Lauren guessed Captain Patke and his men had simply jumped aboard from the seawall and were now hiding somewhere on the deck of the Mario diCastorelli. She changed channels on her small radio as the commando leader continued his report. “Target is being held in position after clearing the lock, possibly for submersible attachment. Ship that just exited the second lock has also stopped while a third vessel is in the chamber about to be raised. Also, be advised the seawalls around the locks are crawling with heavily armed Chinese.”

  “Roger, Devil One. Don’t forget that the Canal Authority has stationed two Panamanian guards on all transiting ships. Over.”

  “Haven’t forgotten, Angel. Out.”

  With Lieutenant Foch leading them, they reached one of the pilot boats without being seen. The door lock was a puny affair that the Frenchman kicked apart with one blow. Sergeant Rabidoux, their electronics and arms expert, went straight to the cockpit to get at the ignition wires under the automobile-like dashboard. Never one to do more work than necessary, Harry followed him and found the keys in a cup holder.

  He jingled them near his waist and the young trooper slithered back to his feet, mildly embarrassed.

  “Don’t start the engine yet,” Mercer cautioned. “We’ve got a good enough view of the boatyard to see anyone coming. No sense drawing attention to ourselves.”

  “Now what?” Bruneseau asked.

  “We wait to hear from Devil One,” Lauren said. She moved next to Mercer and kept an eye on the rain-lashed marina. “And when they succeed we all go home.”

  Out the stern window and across the small aft deck the canal ran green and turgid. On the far bank, the earth had been recently sculpted into a gentle slope to slow the remorseless landslides that continuously threatened to re-bury the canal. Where open grassland gave way to the concrete locks, the Mario diCastorelli sat motionless between the seawall extensions, presumably awaiting word from the divers that the diverter submarine was in place. Next to her, the Robert T. Change waited a few lengths from the lock. Behind her floated the Englander Rose, an almost exact copy of the tramp freighter preceding her through the canal.

  Lightning danced in jagged tributaries that came dangerously close to the ground. Thunder pealed across the hills in crashing blasts that would certainly mask the sound of gunfire.

  “Angel!” The cry came in Lauren’s headset so loudly that she winced. “This is. . Oh, screw it. Lauren, it’s Roddy. Put Mercer on fast.”

  She gave him the earpiece and attached throat mike. “Something’s wrong. It’s Roddy.” Her hands were no longer so steady.

  “Go ahead.”

  “Mercer, I’m on the diCastorelli’s bridge. There’s no one on the ship. I mean no Chinese agents. The crew are all Greeks and Filipinos. The pilot’s a Panamanian friend of mine. Patke’s down in the hold right now. Just like the manifest says she’s carrying scrap steel and cement powder.”

  Oh Jesus! “Could the explosives be hidden in the cement?”

  “There isn’t that much of it for one thing,” Roddy shouted, on the edge of panic. “Patke says he’s already had his men tear into a few of the pallets. It really is just bags of Portland. I’m telling you, this isn’t the ship!”

  Mercer looked around the crowded pilot boat. “We’ve got the wrong freighter.”

  Rene Bruneseau was the first to react. His face turned crimson and he lunged for Harry, pinning the old man against a bulkhead. “You senile fool,” he screamed. “This is your fault.”

  Foch launched himself at the spy, prying his hands from Harry’s collar and tossing the Frenchman onto the deck. “Touch him again and you’re dead,” he snarled.

  “What do we do?” Roddy cried over the radio.

  “How about it, Harry?” Mercer’s voice was grave, laden with frustration.

  Harry White made no apologies for being wrong. He’d made his best guess and the others had readily agreed. Castor was one of the Gemini twins and there were no other vessels with such a name or anything containing Pollux, the other brother. His assumption that Liu Yousheng chose the code word Gemini based on the name of the vessel had been dead wrong. Without a reference point, there was no way he could deduce the right ship.

  For all he knew the bomb ship had already passed the lock and was in position in the Gaillard Cut, ready to take down the massive Contractor’s and Gold Hill in an explosion that wouldn’t be much smaller than an atomic bomb.

  Or the incendiaries were on one of the ships still to come; maybe on the Robert T. Change, which was just passing the pilot boat, or the Englander Rose steaming in her wake. Hell, it could be on the cruise ship for all he knew or any one of the tankers, container ships, or bulk carriers still crossing Miraflores Lake.

  Harry had given it his best and failed. No, he had nothing to apologize for except letting Liu get away with destroying the Panama Canal and opening the way for nuclear missiles to threaten the United States. Fucking Chinese. The thought was so bitter that the inspiration springing from it took a second to hit. Chinese, damnit. He’s been thinking like a Westerner. Liu had been clever but not clever enough.

  He looked at Mercer, stung by the reproach in his friend’s gray eyes. “We’ve got a serious problem.”

  “We know that.” The voice cut even deeper than the eyes.

  “There isn’t one bomb ship. There are two. The Mario diCastorelli is only supposed to block the canal so Liu can get the crews off of them before detonation.”

  “Why are we listening to this idiot?!” Bruneseau raged.

  “Tell us,” Lauren invited softly, for her faith in Mercer and Harry, though weakened by what was happening, was still with her.

  “Gemini. Twins. But not the ones from our mythology. Robert T. Change. Englander Rose. Change and Englander. Chang and Eng-the famous conjoined brothers commonly referred to as Siamese Twins. They were actually Chinese.”

  Harry had just cracked the unconscious mistake Liu had made when choosing a code name. The name diCastorelli had put in his mind the idea of the Gemini twins, although at the time he didn’t fully recall they were called Castor and Pollux. Yet when he saw the names of the two fabled Siamese twins hidden in the names of the two bomb ships and chose Gemini, he’d unknowingly tipped his hand to a man who loved to play word games.

  No sooner had Harry finished his explanation than Mercer knew his friend was right. He keyed the radio. “Roddy, the two ships behind you. They’re both floating bombs.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “No doubt about it.” Iron-hard, Mercer’s conviction carried across the airwaves. “Your ship was held up for the submarine, meaning the Mario is supposed to choke off the canal to give the next two ships a legitimate reason to stop. Once they’re in place, Liu will use the sub to pull off the crews and let them blow.”

  “Angel, this is Devil One.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Can you come get us? We’ll try an assault from your boat.”

  “Ah, negative.” Mercer thought furiously, trying to come up with a plan that would minimize damage. That at least one of those ships would explode wasn’t in doubt. He turned to Harry. “Fire up the engine and ease us into the canal.”

  Harry moved with the speed of a man half his age. “Which ship?�
��

  The Robert T. Change had already passed their position while the Englander Rose was almost directly abeam. “The Rose.”

  Captain Patke and Roddy had heard the exchange over the comm link. “What are you doing?” the commando asked.

  Mercer ignored him. “Roddy, you’ve got to stop your ship from being deflected by the submersible. Get some crewmen on the deck so they’ll see its propwash and give a warning the instant she fires her motor.”

  “Okay. Then what?”

  “Liu must need both ships to explode either simultaneously or in a pre-timed sequence, like what they do when blowing up a building. Carefully placed charges are more effective than one big blast. Get away from the Robert T.

  Change, even if you have to swim to shore and run like hell. We can’t stop that one from going up, but maybe we can get the Englander Rose far enough away so that when she goes she doesn’t complete her job.”

  Roddy’s voice became strident. “Even if you separate the boats by a mile or more, you’re still stuck next to the lock. The explosion will blow it into a million pieces. Liu still wins.”

  “Can you think of a way to get her back through the lock?”

  “Not quickly,” the pilot admitted, thinking about the dozens of Chinese soldiers they’d slipped past to board the ship.

  “I can.” It was the female officer aboard Heaven, the USS McCampbell. She went on to outline her idea. With the pilot boat fast approaching the scaly side of the Englander Rose, there wasn’t time to debate the merits of her plan, only its chance for success. Roddy, who was the most disturbed by her suggestion, agreed that it would work, adding, “Do you have any idea what this is going to cost to repair?”

  “Less than if Liu blows the lock entirely,” Mercer said. “Don’t forget I happen to know where your country can get the money to fix it.”

  “The Twice-Stolen Treasure,” the Panamanian breathed.

  “A fitting use.” Mercer had moved to look through the windscreen as they neared the lumbering freighter. A wash of disturbed water undulated along her Plimsoll mark as she picked up speed after coming out of the lock. Because pilot boats were so common on this stretch of the canal, none of the men standing around her superstructure paid them much attention.