by Neil Russell
Since the dawn of shipbuilding, there has been one constant. Military, merchant or some other working vessel, except for the captain’s quarters, creature comforts are the last consideration. On the water, every cubic inch is either productive or deadweight, sucking energy and money out of the trip. In the early days, a lot of captains got heaved overboard for no other reason than anger at the inequity.
The most likely place to find my quarry was the common area where off-duty deckhands congregate. Every operator blueprints it differently, and some divide the space into several smaller rooms, but it’s almost always in the windowless interior of the vessel near the galley. That’s where I headed.
Five stories up, I stepped into a tiny linoleum-floored space where a pair of institutional picnic tables grew out of the floor. The smell of fuel hadn’t reached here yet. I tried three doors before I found one that opened. It was a dimly lighted exercise room where a rack of free weights sat against one wall, flanked by two treadmills that had seen better days. The rest of the equipment was overturned or broken or both. A good-sized rat was chewing on something green, and he glanced at me, then resumed his meal.
I crossed the space and stood in a dark corner. I heard a voice on the other side of the wall. I couldn’t make out what was being said before it stopped. I waited and listened. When it came again, it was emphatic. “No, I’m not going up for a look. Weiss and Boudreaux can see what’s going on, and if they’re not concerned, neither am I. Besides, it’s quiet out there now.”
“You’ll go, or you’ll wish you had. We don’t vote, you take orders.” The accent was Australian, but through the wall, I couldn’t tell if it was Holden or not. There was, however, no mistaking its anger.
“Fuck you. You couldn’t work for me for ten minutes.”
“We’re not building houses here, Capelli. Do as I tell you. Now.”
There was murmuring and the sound of a chair being pushed back. “Two weeks sitting in this sweatbox eating shit food, and ...”
“Go.”
I heard footsteps coming in my direction, and I melted against the wall. The man who came through the door was overweight and breathing hard, but his bush clothes looked like they’d been custom-made. As he passed, I stepped behind him, put my forearm around his neck and jerked him hard. He let out a little gasp, struggled, then became deadweight.
I dragged him back to the stairwell and waited until he got enough blood to his brain to revive. He couldn’t see me, but he could sense that I was much bigger than he was, and he began whimpering.
“Please, whoever you are, don’t hurt me. I didn’t want to come. Really, I didn’t.”
I grabbed him by the balls and twisted them, simultaneously shoving my Colt down his throat to stifle his cries. He gagged and made a sound like a terrified kitten. “How many?” I spit. “Show me with your fingers.”
He managed to hold up five fingers, and I twisted his nut sack again. “Counting you?”
He nodded emphatically.
“Okay, two on deck. Probably in containers. Which ones?”
He couldn’t talk around five inches of steel, so I pulled the .45 out halfway. His words were garbled but intelligible. “The ones partly open in the back for ventilation.”
“Are the other two in the room where you were?”
He nodded again.
“My best to Rennie.” And I smashed the Colt into his temple. He was out immediately.
I retraced my steps, but as I entered the exercise room, something was wrong. The door Capelli had come through was standing wide open. I went through it low, my .45 ready. It was a lounge. Some tattered La-Z-Boys, two TVs, an ancient Pac-Man console and a long table with ten chairs. There were two cups of steaming coffee on the table. Other than that, the place was empty.
But it was the long wall opposite the table that got my attention. I counted sixteen thirty-six-by-thirty-six color drawings of Asian men, each extremely detailed, down to the pattern on each man’s shirt. Some had names under them, others didn’t.
Northcutt had been right. Milt O’Keefe’s work was way beyond that of any police artist I’d ever seen. The girls returning from Hong Kong had brought back the only photographs they could take—the ones in their mind’s eye—and O’Keefe had coaxed their memories to life.
I saw the several neat folds in each one, which confirmed that these were what Lucille had been shipping to Parkinson-Lowe every month. And what Rennie Holden and his shooting team had studied in preparation for the hunt.
“The Animal Kingdom’s Most Wanted. All except the boss, but then we all know what he looks like,” a voice said.
I turned and saw Holden and another older man standing in the doorway, leveling a pair of .30-06s at me. I’d violated the first rule of special ops. I’d gotten distracted.
“You must be Foster Smithson,” I said to the older gentleman.
“Very good. Rennie said you were the wild card. I’m just sorry we had to meet like this. You would have made a welcome addition to the team. Please place your weapon on the table.”
From his tone and ease, I now knew who Rennie took orders from. I also knew that, depending on how the rounds in their rifles were jacketed, I was looking at an exit wound the size of a saucer or a Michelin. Either way, most of my insides would be racing the slug to the wall. I very carefully did what I was told.
I wasn’t sure I was right, but I didn’t have many cards to play. I looked at Smithson. “Does Rennie know he’s sitting on top of Hiroshima? He doesn’t smoke, does he?”
I’d caught him off guard, but he recovered nicely. “No, none of us do. One of the prerequisites.”
Holden had no idea what I meant, but he now knew there was a loop out there he wasn’t in. “What the fuck is he talking about?”
I decided to go all the way. “Weiss and Boudreaux are dead too, right?”
Smithson didn’t like that, which meant it was true. “Too much talk. What did you do with our chubby friend?” he asked.
“He couldn’t keep his eyes open, but that’s just fine too, isn’t it? You didn’t ever intend to kill Kingdom. Why would you? You’re in this with him.”
Without warning, Smithson suddenly jerked the butt of his rifle up and jammed Rennie Holden in the jaw, hard. Holden reeled backward, dropping his weapon and going to his knees. I started for my Colt, but Smithson recovered quickly, and I thought better of it.
Smithson kicked the second rifle under the table, and Holden got up, shakily. The cool Aussie looked at me with interest. “When did you know?”
“Not until a few minutes ago. Your reaction when Ms. Rollins told you Zhang had survived the sinking of the Richer Seas should have been my first indication, but I completely missed it. Even when it came back to me a little while ago, I still put it down as your wanting to get him yourself. Then I met Capelli. You don’t set out to kill a man who has his own army with an out-of-shape, wheezy deputy. Weiss and Boudreaux were probably second-stringers too, am I right?”
“They were competent, but they’d never hunted men before.”
I nodded. “You had to bring Rennie, but he was so blinded by rage, he was easy to manipulate.”
“He’s also a fool. A useful one, but a fool nonetheless. He would have wiped out half the power structure in Asia because his wife got knocked up back before time began. Can you imagine anything so ridiculous?”
Holden was finally getting to the party. “You mean to tell me you’re in business with Kingdom?”
Smithson scoffed. “Wake up, Rennie. I’m money, Kingdom is money, and our business is more money. Black understands, he’s money too. Guys like you are useful to us, then you’re not.”
While I was pondering Foster Smithson’s insight to our moneyed souls, I heard a helicopter approaching. I knew that sound. It was a Chinook.
“No longer any reason for silence,” Smithson said, and he turned and shot Rennie Holden in the face. If you haven’t seen a high-powered-rifle bullet hit a head, it’s not like a ha
ndgun wound. Actually, there’s no wound at all. The velocity of the round coupled with the slightly pressurized, part liquid, part pulp of the brain causes the head to explode. Literally.
Holden took two steps forward before his body figured out there wasn’t anybody calling the shots, and he pitched forward. I didn’t waste the opportunity. I lunged at Smith-son, but he Lee Harveyed the bolt action and got off another shot while I was still in the air. I heard the crack of the bullet break the sound barrier as it went past my ear.
I got one hand on his shoulder, but all it did was spin him around. He racked another shell and fired again. But this time, he was just taking pot luck, and he came up with borscht. I rolled into his legs, and he went down, but not before he caught me in the forehead with the rifle’s stock. While I was trying to find a handhold on him, he slithered away and ran toward the deck.
It was still dark outside, and Smithson had disappeared into the three football fields of containers. I checked until I found an open one. Inside was another .30-06 next to either Boudreaux’s or Weiss’s body. I didn’t think he’d miss it.
Fifty yards across the water, the helipad floodlights were on, and a civilian Chinook in Kingdom Starr colors was dropping onto the deck of the Samudra, its twin rotors rippling the harbor halfway to where I stood. I saw a pair of elevator doors open in the deck and a large covered cage ascend. The Chinook was loud, but the blood-chilling scream of the tiger was louder. It penetrated me to the bone.
Before the rotors came to a full stop, the chopper’s door opened, and Markus Kingdom stepped out, followed by Zhang. A moment later, Crimson, back in her red and black leather, appeared. The three descended to the deck where they were met by Perry Duke and a man in uniform, who I assumed was the Samudra’s captain.
After them came the bidders. I looked carefully at each, recognizing one or two, then I saw Quan. He had the same surly walk as his attitude, and he ignored the offered hand of the captain.
Suddenly, one of the floodlights turned toward the Bay, illuminating a section near the stern. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought I saw a man’s arms waving down there. On the Samudra, Kingdom pointed and said something to Duke. It wouldn’t be long before a Zodiac arrived, perhaps several. I checked my watch. Eddie and the others would be just rounding the tip of the island, but all that meant was that they were going to be dead before they knew what hit them.
I don’t possess the Zen qualities of a professional sniper, but I am very respectful of those who do. Their willingness to operate unsung and far from any support has saved countless lives, mine included. I have no compunction about longdistance killing, but I haven’t had to do much. This time, I was looking forward to it..
I lay on the deck, concealed by containers, and looked through the scope. It was a magnificent weapon, probably ten grand worth of expert craftsmanship supporting another two grand of Zeiss. All to push a two-dollar slug on a oneway trajectory to destiny.
I didn’t even have to think about it. I centered the crosshairs . . . slowly let out my breath . . . and squeezed the trigger. The bullet caught Crimson under her sternum, lifted her off her feet and threw her backward. When she landed, she looked like all the bones in her body were broken. They weren’t, of course, but the rag-doll finale added to the satisfaction.
Zhang was a little more difficult. He was the son of a soldier and used to living outside the law. His instincts took over, and he ran, crouching behind the tiger cage. But he didn’t know where the shot had come from, which is never good, and the top of his head was visible. And then he didn’t have a top of his head to be concerned with.
I wanted Kingdom next, but he was caught in the scramble to get back on the Chinook, and though most of the Asians probably deserved to die, they weren’t my call. Instead, I shot Perry Duke. I hoped his late partner was watching.
The chopper began revving its engines long before everyone was aboard, and I waited for the scrum at the foot of the stairway to clear so I could get a good look at Kingdom. Suddenly, I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye, and a bullet slammed into the container next to me. Wherever Smithson was, he could see me, and that wasn’t good.
I rolled until I found new cover and waited for him to show himself. When he didn’t, and there were no more shots, I suspected that he was on his way to the outside stairway. If so, he wasn’t my problem right now.
Kingdom had finally gotten on the helicopter stairs, and the earlier terror among the bidders had grown to a full panic. I had just placed the crosshairs on his chest when several pairs of hands reached up and dragged him down. As he fell, his foot caught in the metal steps, and he slammed back first onto the deck, his leg twisted at a gruesome angle. I watched through the scope as several men began kicking him, then, suddenly, the crowd’s fury grew, and more joined in. The pilot was gesturing frantically out the window that he wanted to go, but the mob wouldn’t or couldn’t stop. Markus Kingdom was unrecognizable now, and as he gasped for breath, red spray flew out of his mouth.
Finally, the Asians scrambled over him, and, when the last was inside, the chopper began to lift off with the stairway still down. Kingdom’s head banged along the deck, until the Chinook was finally airborne. The Baron of Victorville hung upside down, his arms flailing, until the aircraft reached a few hundred feet. Suddenly, several men appeared in the doorway and began pulling at the stairs. A moment later, the man who most deserved to die, obliged us all and dropped slowly through the air until he splashed heavily into the sea.
I ran to the Bay’s outside stairway. This side of the ship was bathed only in moonlight, but it was enough to see Foster Smithson trying to start the outboard on a small inflatable he must have had hidden on deck. I made sure I had a clear path to the opposite side railing, then aimed and put a round through the tiny gas tank.
I expected the whoosh. What I hadn’t thought about was that it would travel under the ship and lift thousands of tons of Norwegian steel skyward, breaking it in half as it ascended. I sprinted across the wildly tilting deck, hit the top of the railing with my right foot and launched myself as far as possible up and out as shrapnel raced flames toward the moon.
It wasn’t the prettiest dive I’d ever done, but it was a lot prettier than the one I’d done off Victoria Peak.
* * * *
46
The Uncontacted
As it turned out, it wasn’t difficult to convince the Samudra’s captain that sailing with us wasn’t an act of piracy. Like most ships, she was insured by Lloyds, and as a syndicate member, I could purchase a share of her risk. With Kingdom at the bottom of the harbor, his death duly witnessed and attested to by three parties, I had myself declared acting agent for the insurer and took legal possession to protect all interests.
She was such a magnificently built vessel, I immediately put my London office to work to acquire her. We didn’t do oceanic research ourselves, but we do lease to those who do. I had no doubt the Samudra would quickly pay her way.
We sailed northwest out of Vuku, staying outside the major shipping lanes and well off the coast of the Solomons. The last thing I wanted to run into were pirates with bigger balls than brains. With the heavy firepower Kingdom kept aboard, we had enough artillery and the willingness to use it to thwart any attack, but I didn’t need some Third World pussy who’d read too many UN human rights press releases to send out an SOS in hopes of a lawsuit.
At the tip of the hump of Western New Guinea, the Mamberamo River empties at Point D’Urville. Like the Nile, the river flows north, carrying sediment from the Van Rees Mountains of the interior into the Bismarck Sea and turning the water white for miles. Just south of this churning of fresh and salt waters is one of the last great unexplored rain forests of the world, where trees grow so closely together one cannot find space to walk, and where not even my beloved Amazon can match what is unknown about it.
The Samudra had no difficulty handling the current, but the river’s sandbars ebb and flow daily, making them unchartable—even
if there were someone around to notice. Several times the captain was required to perform magic to unground us, often at the expense of hours. I couldn’t have cared less. Seeing what God made the way He made it suspends time. And for those who don’t believe in God, He suspends time for you too.
Fat Cat, Coggan, Wal-Mart, Eddie and I sat on the bow watching the endless green, the crocodiles, parrots and dinner-plate-sized butterflies and rarely saying anything to one another. That’s when you know you’re truly among friends. When you don’t have to speak to share.
I’d planned go fifty miles, but at the forty-two mark, the river suddenly narrowed into a deep valley of towering trees and hundreds of tiny inlets. Monkeys chattered at us, and we were dive-bombed by a green-and-white bird with the wing-span of a vulture who seemed to be saying, “Far enough.”
I told the captain to secure the ship, and we went down into the hold. The tigers had become animated and were prowling their cages with an almost manic energy. I’d slept down here each night, and now I sensed I was no longer welcome. I pressed the buttons to open the wide aft bay, and the door slid back. Another series of controls sent a ramp down into the water, and Wal-Mart and Fat Cat pushed the first cage to the edge. It contained a large female who had seemed to be the most restless in captivity.