Jet 04: Reckoning

by Russell Blake

  Deeper in the ship’s bowels, the steady rumble of the engines was more pronounced. Thirty feet from the stairwell, a set of double doors with a sign over it announced the parking area, and he edged towards them, alert for any signs of life. As far as he could tell, there was nobody on this level other than he.

  The doors were locked, but the bolt was an older model, primitive, and would pose a slim deterrent. The angle of the latch made jimmying it with a credit card a cinch, so he retrieved one from his slim wallet and had the door open within seconds.

  The interior of the vehicle hold was dark, and Alan had to use his cell phone screen for illumination, holding the phone in front of him, looking for the trucks. The distinctive odor of gasoline and motor oil blended with rubber and stale exhaust, creating an oppressive atmosphere he would be happy to escape as soon as he set his mind to rest.

  Near the bow, he saw several distinctive outlines of truck cargo boxes and moved to them with deliberate purpose. A dark blue truck with the logo of a multi-national heavy equipment manufacturer was the closest, but a cursory inspection yielded nothing suspicious. He’d been afraid that he might need to deal with padlocks on the boxes, but there were none – likely some sort of customs requirement.

  The next truck was empty, returning from Argentina without anything inside.

  The third truck’s forty foot cargo box had a lock on it.

  The hair on Alan’s neck prickled, and the sense of mild anxiety in his gut blossomed into a full-blown attack. None of the other trucks had locks. The anomaly was a bad sign.

  He studied the padlock. An industrial model, fairly hard to pick.

  But not impossible.

  The only problem being that he didn’t have a set of picks.

  Alan moved to the cars and scanned the interiors for anything helpful. After rummaging through five vehicles, he started popping the trunks, hoping for a toolkit. The law of averages said that at least one vehicle would have some sort of tools he could use.

  His efforts were rewarded by an older Ford. A red box rested in the trunk with a full set of what looked like plumbing and electrical-related tools. He quickly found several that would serve his purposes, along with some stiff wire, and set about creating a set of primitive picks, bending the heavy-gauge metal with two sets of pliers and snipping off the lengths with wire cutters when he was done.

  Three minutes later he was back at the truck, slipping the crude implements into the lock, hoping to get the tumblers to cooperate. A bead of sweat ran down his forehead and hung off the tip of his nose as he concentrated on the task, and after several false starts the mechanism sprang open with a snap.

  He slid the lock out of the lever’s hasp and placed it to one side of the bumper, then rolled the door up with a heave. The noise sounded like cannon fire in the enclosed space, echoing off the metal walls. Alan cringed, then forgot his caution when a powerful stench hit him. The apprehension in his gut exploded into a supernova of alarm as his inadequate cell phone illuminated the sacks, stacked high. He knew that smell all too well.

  The door to the hold opened with a loud clatter and he ducked below the level of the surrounding cars. The harsh glare of the lights came on with a flicker, and then a voice called out.

  “We know someone’s in here. Show yourself. There’s nowhere to go – only one way out,” a man’s voice warned.

  He peered up at the cargo box. It was just a matter of time until they spotted the open truck door and the cars with their trunks open. He debated doing as instructed and explaining what he was doing, but quickly rejected it. He had to figure out a compelling way to warn the crew without being personally involved and drawing attention to himself. Which meant that he needed to get to the other side of the bay. If he could slip by the crew when they were occupied with the truck, he had a chance.

  “Come on. It’s no good. Show yourself,” another voice urged. So there were at least two.

  Footsteps rang out from the metal floor, approaching cautiously. Hoping he wouldn’t be heard over the din, Alan inched away from the truck and moved to the nearest wall, then slid behind a sedan, using the vehicles as cover. He would have to time it perfectly to get to the door as they reached the truck, and it was a lot of ground to travel – at least a hundred yards.

  The only positive was that the crewmen were not trying to conceal their approach. The sound of their boots on the deck rang out like drumbeats, even over the engine noise. Alan slipped along the wall on the opposite end of the bay, crouching behind the cars, peering through the windshields to see where they were.

  “Hey. Sergio. Look at this,” one of the men whispered from ten yards away, and then two more sets of footsteps moved towards him. They’d seen the open trunks. It was time to make his move.

  He scurried in the direction of the doors, and was three quarters of the way there when his bag bumped against one of the vehicles with an audible thump. His breath caught in his throat as he froze, waiting for an indication that they’d heard, and then after a few seconds he relaxed. He’d have to be more careful – the fatigue was making him careless.

  The exit in sight, Alan picked up his pace. He was almost there when a voice called out from behind him.

  “Freeze.”

  Alan weighed running, but stifled the impulse. He slowly set his bag down by his side, then raised his hands over his head. Boots approached, and he listened intently, trying to time his turn – it would be child’s play to disarm the crew member, assuming he had a gun, which was a good bet based on the shouted order.

  His body tensed, ready to spin and knock the crewman’s legs from under him, and then everything went black, the distinctive thunk of a wooden nightstick on the already brutalized back of his injured head Alan’s last impression before he lost consciousness.

  ~ ~ ~

  Alan came to lying on the floor of a small room with metal walls and a tall, rectangular window. The entire chamber was painted a dingy gray and reeked of mildew. Three men stood near the steel door, their arms crossed, watching him warily. He reached around to his head and gingerly probed the new bump, then looked at his fingers. There was a small amount of blood, but it could have been worse.

  “He’s conscious,” the smallest of the crew members said, his hatchet face cruel in the dim light.

  “Doesn’t look so good, does he?” the man next to him asked, shaking his head, and then addressed Alan. “You’re under arrest. You’ll be taken into police custody once we dock in Montevideo, in…” – the speaker checked his watch – “one and a half hours.”

  The room swam as Alan tried to sit up. He waited a few seconds and tried again, this time successfully. He didn’t say anything, remaining silent while he gathered his wits.

  The third crew member tossed him a white towel. “Hold that against your head. It’s not too bad, but you’ll want to clot the blood.”

  Alan reached for where it had landed on the floor, and his entire being radiated pain. He balled the towel up and held it against the bump, then studied the men with bloodshot eyes before speaking.

  “This isn’t what you think,” he began.

  “Sure it isn’t. I mean, maybe we need to call Sherlock Holmes, or something. Let’s see, we have a bunch of cars broken into, a truck broken into, a lock picked…no, it’s a tough one to figure out, all right,” the smaller crew member spat. His companions chuckled.

  “The cars were all open. I didn’t break in.”

  “Save it for the police. Maybe they’ll care about the technical distinction. I don’t.”

  “You don’t understand. We’re in danger. Everyone on the boat. The truck–”

  “Danger? What the hell are you going on about?” the middle man interrupted.

  “The truck. It’s filled with fertilizer. It’s a bomb.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “I’m serious. The ammonium nitrate in the fertilizer acts as an explosive if the right combination of ingredients are used. That truck has a bunch of fertilizer in it.
I’d bet anything there’s a detonator and a shitload of fuel or maybe Semtex stored inside. If I’m right, then it would be a big enough blast to destroy this ship.”

  The men exchanged glances.

  “Ah, so you’re not a thief at all. You’re actually saving mankind from…from what, again? A shit truck? Please.”

  “It’s true.”

  “Work on your story for the cops.”

  Alan shook his head in frustration. A bad idea – nausea reminded him why.

  “Then how did I know to look in the truck?” Alan countered.

  “Gee, that’s a tough one. We’ve been asking everyone whether they were the driver of a truck in the hold. So let’s see. You concocted a story, on the fly, using this preposterous scenario as a cover for being a thief? Works for me.” The men laughed again.

  “You need to listen.”

  “No, I think you need to realize the game is over. We caught you red-handed breaking into cars. You had picks. And you have three passports in different names. If that doesn’t sound like a criminal, nothing does. So save the cock and bull story. Nobody’s buying.”

  “This is a huge mistake. Everyone’s in danger.”

  “I know. I feel it. The world is going to end soon. It’s the Mayans.” More laughter.

  Alan’s voice strengthened. “Let me talk to the captain.”

  “Why, sure. We’ll escort you to him shortly. Meanwhile, can I get you anything? Some sorbet? Champagne, perhaps?”

  “Listen–”

  “Enough of this. I’ll go down and look at the truck, just to confirm you’re full of shit. But don’t bore me with these fantasies any longer.”

  “No…if you don’t know what you’re doing, you could set off any device–”

  “Oh, right. Because the truck’s a bomb. Someone wants to bomb the ferry to Uruguay. For what reason, exactly?”

  Alan turned his head too quickly and winced from pain. “I…I don’t know…” he confessed. Even to his own ears it sounded weak.

  “Riiiiight. Just because.” The shorter man looked at his companions. “We’re done here. Lock him in,” he said, then turned and opened the door. The other men followed him out.

  “You’re making a mistake–” His protestation was cut short by the clank of the steel hatch slamming shut, followed by the scrape of the deadbolt locking.

  Alan knew he was right. The fertilizer, the lock, the missing driver… And the fools were going to let it happen, killing everyone.

  He had to get out of there. He’d done his best and tried to warn them. Alan had no doubt the truck was a bomb, and if these idiots wanted to wind up murdering everyone on board with their recklessness, he might not be able to stop them, but he certainly wasn’t going to be one of the statistics.

  Rising unsteadily to his feet, he moved to the large rectangular window and studied the glass and the surrounding seal, then was overcome by a dizzy spell and had to sit again. Judging by the distance of the wake and the engine noise, he was near the waterline towards the stern. What he could do with that information remained to be seen, but one way or another, he would have to do something.

  Chapter 3

  “He’s right – it’s fertilizer,” Gustavo, the crew chief, muttered to his subordinates. The two hapless crew members exchanged troubled glances.

  “So it’s possible that this is a bomb?” one of them asked.

  “I don’t believe that for a second. I think he just made up a story with whatever was at hand, so he didn’t look like he was doing exactly what he was doing,” Gustavo said. “Didn’t you ever see that movie? Keyser Söze,” he groaned the name in a hoarse voice. “A pathological liar.”

  “But why? It’ll all fall apart when the cops interrogate him. What happens when they confirm it’s not a bomb once we get to port?”

  “He can use that as his defense – he thought it was, and was afraid it was, but turned out to be wrong. That way he can claim he was being a hero; only a misguided one.”

  “Why don’t we just go through the truck now and show it to be false?”

  “It’s not our truck. We don’t have authorization to go through it – it’s someone else’s property. We have no probable cause. And most of all, because I don’t feel like trying to dig through twenty thousand pounds of poop.” Gustavo shook his head. “Speaking of which, have we found the driver yet?”

  Both crew members shook their heads. “No. We sort of got sidetracked by this.”

  “That’s the only troubling piece. Find the driver, and I’ll stop being even slightly worried,” Gustavo instructed.

  “We’ll get back to it.” The first crewman hesitated. “What should we do now?”

  “I’ll tell the captain and we’ll radio ahead to port so they have a couple of police there to take him into custody. The multiple passports in different names has to be illegal. Whatever he’s doing, he’s up to no good. That’s undeniable. He got into the auto hold in the first place, which means he picked that lock too. No, this is a bad guy. I just wish we’d found the damned truck driver…”

  “Should we close this back up?” one of the men asked, motioning at the truck cargo door with his head.

  “Might as well. The stink isn’t doing anything for my appetite.”

  ~ ~ ~

  After forty-five minutes of stripping it away, sliver by sliver, the window seal was almost entirely removed. Alan’s hands were cramping from the effort, but he kept at it, keenly aware that he could be blown into another galaxy at any moment. The amount of fertilizer in that forty-foot cargo container was enough to vaporize even a ship of this size. The thought spurred him on. His headache was still bad but the dizziness and disorientation had passed, and he felt stronger than when he’d regained consciousness.

  Ten minutes later the glass gave, and he was able to kick the heavy inch-thick pane into the sea. He stuck his head out and immediately realized that the ferry was still at least twenty miles from shore and moving at a tremendous clip. It would be suicide to jump into the water from the side of the ship – he’d be sucked into the props and chewed into hamburger if he couldn’t get far enough away from the boat.

  If he was lucky enough to avoid the propellers, the water temperature was probably too cold to stay in for the dozen hours it would take to swim to shore. He knew from prior experience that if it was fifty degrees Fahrenheit, the best he could expect absent a flotation device would be to stay alive for five to six hours – and he’d be virtually useless for the last three, even though he was in peak physical condition.

  That didn’t leave him many options.

  But at least he now had a means to escape the locked room.

  He pulled himself halfway out the window and looked up. There were small cavities in the ship’s hull that would make easy holds, although with a nearly forty-mile-per-hour wind buffeting him, it would be tough. Glancing out one last time, the wind lashing his face, he reached overhead, grabbed the first hold, pulled himself up. All he had to do was make it twelve feet and he would be just below the main deck level, where there appeared to be a small ledge he could traverse to get to the rear of the ship.

  Salt crusted the exterior of the hull from where sea spray had dried, leaving a slippery film. It was all he could do to maintain his grip as he pulled himself higher, and then his feet found an indentation and he was able to use his legs. He realized that he was completely exposed, a flyspeck on the side of the mammoth ship, and that the slightest miscalculation could end in disaster.

  When his fingers finally curled around the edge of the main deck ledge, he felt a return of the dizziness, and it required every bit of his strength to haul himself the last few feet. The slim lip he found himself clenching led back thirty feet to an exterior deck on the stern, where he could just see a lifeboat on a crane, as well as other emergency equipment. Inch by inch he crept back until he was crouched under the lifeboat. His watch told him that he was twenty-five minutes from port, which meant he was probably still fifteen miles fro
m shore, but he didn’t want to risk being on the ferry for another second.

  Alan groped at the lifejackets and hurriedly pulled one on, grabbed a second vest for additional buoyancy, and climbed over the railing. With a final look behind him at the ship, he faced the wake trailing the big boat and threw himself into space.

  The icy cold hit him just after the shock of striking the surface feet first jarred his spine. Water rushed over him, and then he was bobbing in the four-foot swells, batted around in the white froth that trailed the ferry cutting its way through the seas. The extra life vest was floating twenty feet away. He pulled himself towards it with measured strokes, eyes following the boat as it continued to Montevideo.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Man overboard! We have a man overboard,” the crew chief shouted at the captain on the bridge.

  “How is that possible? We’re completely enclosed.”

  “One of the passengers saw a man fall in from the stern platform and reported it just now.”

  “Shit. All right. I’m going to put the drives in neutral, let her come to a stop, then circle around. Prepare to launch one of the lifeboats,” the captain ordered, and then pulled the two transmissions from their forward position and disengaged them, allowing the momentum to slow.

  ~ ~ ~

  Alan watched as the ferry seemed to lose power, the wake from the stern stopping as it continued to move forward, and then the ship began to slowly turn, perhaps a half mile ahead of him. He realized that his escape must have been noticed, and registered the change of course even as he weighed his options. He could jettison the life vest and start swimming – a lousy choice, but one that would ensure he was far enough from the bright red vests so he couldn’t be seen. The problem would be surviving while he stayed afloat – the clock was already ticking on hypothermia.