The Shipkiller

by Justin Scott

  There was no shortage of crude floating around the Swan. For every mopful that Hardin lathered onto the hull, another flowed close to replace it, as if the abandoned rig were oozing the stuff at a steady rate. He finished the port side, climbed back onto the Swan, and coated the white work—the cockpit coaming, the ventilation cowls, and the sides of the cabin trunk—and dabbed oil in the light-reflective Lucite hatch covers and windows. Then he draped a navy blanket over the shiny wheel and steering pedestal and removed the white sails which were furled on the boom and bagged at the foot of the forestay. He smeared oil on the stainless steel safety lines and pulpit and on the aluminum boom.

  He rowed out again on the dinghy and checked the boat from every angle. At fifty yards she looked as dark as the shadows in which she was moored. Except at the stern. There, her transom gleamed as white as if she were docked at the New York Yacht Club, spruced up for a Sunday sail. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to cover Carolyn’s name.

  It was too white. Probably visible at a mile. He rowed back under the rig to the transom. Slowly, reluctantly, he smeared oil on it with his hands, carefully delineating a neat and reverent rectangle around the space where her name resided. He became obsessed with outlining it perfectly and, in a stupor of sleeplessness, painted the transom over and over until the roar of a passing patrol boat snapped him back to consciousness. He waited, immobile, until it had gone.

  Then he stared at the black letters in the little white box that was all that was left of Carolyn. The space he had left her still gleamed in bright contrast to the camouflaged hull and he suddenly heard her speak to him as clearly as if she were sitting in the dinghy, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the crude. Her voice rang in his mind, alive with laughter.

  “Don’t blame me if they see you.”

  A trembling smile ruffled his lips. He blew her a kiss and smeared her name with oil.

  As a final precaution he blackened the orange dinghy. Then he climbed back into the Swan and rested in the cockpit. He needed sleep desperately, but until he heard confirmation of LEVIATHAN’s exact arrival time, he couldn’t turn off the radio.

  It spoke periodically, jerking him from his half doze, startling in the clarity of close-range signal strength. He stayed awake during one long exchange, watching the sky. The master of a Japanese 333,000-tonner was angrily demanding that the island’s ULCC sea berth be opened to him as he had brought his Ultra Large Crude Carrier to the Gulf two days ahead of schedule. The biggest sea berth was reserved for LEVIATHAN, which was due in that night.

  Hardin stared at the sky, waiting for the Japanese master’s reply. LEVIATHAN was coming, but he had to know when. Maybe the angry captain would provoke the information. He did not; the airwaves became silent. Hardin spun the channel selector. Most of the chatter was in Arabic. Several of the higher frequencies were very busy and he guessed it was the Iranian Navy and Arabian Air Force craft he kept seeing in the distance. He was almost too tired to worry, but it looked as though they had laid on a full-scale hunt.

  When he saw movement on the Pearl Bank, he scanned them with his binoculars. Iranian boats were plying the shallow water four or five miles away. He braced the powerful glasses to clear the image. The boats were shallow-draft launches that looked like modified pleasure cruisers. They cut deep wakes. Their decks were lined with uniformed sailors, some holding rifles, others searching the water with binoculars. A curious sight caught his eye.

  On the bow of each boat was a turbaned figure clad in robes that billowed in the slipstream. They were signaling with their arms, and each time they did, the boats changed course. Locals who knew the reefs, was Hardin’s guess. The contrast of their robes and headgear to the sailors’ uniforms reminded him of American cavalry entering hostile territory under the guidance of an Indian scout.

  The radio nudged him awake. A quick exchange in Arabic. It reminded him to return to Channel 16. He did, then lay awake, tense, his mind racing, worrying, wondering if they would stop the ship until they found him. Or would they give up? He had not been sighted, he was sure, since right before the storm. They might suppose he had perished. Then he worried about the laborer in the oil fields. Had he seen him? Had he reported it? He might have, to explain why he wasn’t working when the foreman caught him.

  The sky was the clearest he had seen since he had entered the monsoon weeks before. The shamal, of which the storm had been the vanguard, had brought clear and marginally cooler and drier air. The temperature still hovered around ninety degrees, though, and clarity on the Gulf meant five miles visibility instead of one. The wind, more a sea breeze than the desert airs which had blown from the east and west, was steady at ten knots from the northwest. If it held, he’d run before it and let it blow him straight to LEVIATHAN.

  The sun stretched toward its noon apex and the heat deepened. Strange mirages teased Hardin’s weary eyes. Blurred specters, giant cloud ships, sailed upside down across the sky. The mirages, soft mirror images of tankers invisible ten miles away on the sea-lane, paraded in orderly procession. One after another they budded on the southern skyline, fattened as they neared, flowered above, and dispersed in the north like winter-dead leaves.

  The menacing whine of approaching helicopters intruded on the almost peaceful, lulling mutter of the distant patrol boats. A formation of three—black dots on the horizon—was heading toward him. The dots grew large and bright; Hardin watched apprehensively.

  The helicopters were a hundred feet above the water. They would pass fairly close to the rig. Suddenly they banked in unison, descended on a nearby cluster of sea rigs, split up, and buzzed each rig individually. Then they regrouped and came at his.

  Hardin dived into the cabin; they might be using infrared heat sensors. He crouched by a window, wondering if his camouflage would work.

  Then he remembered the mooring lines—two nylon lines, one at the bow, and one at the stern—gleaming as white and shiny as only synthetics could. He had forgotten to blacken them with oil.

  They descended, squatting in the air, fat bodied and ungainly looking despite their startling speed. At a half mile their bubbles were visible, then their guns and the shadows of the soldiers manning them. They closed to two hundred yards.

  Abruptly, they wheeled and shot away in the direction of a Hovercraft, which had suddenly appeared in the distance speeding toward a group of derricks.

  Hardin stayed in the cabin, his mind swimming, watching the helicopters overtake the Hovercraft and chase past as if it were a race. They buzzed the derricks and continued on before the Hovercraft arrived.

  He waited until they had vanished in the north. Too weary to wonder why they had broken off—merely grateful—he finally left the broiling cabin and lay down in the cockpit and listened to the radio. The sun perched on the center of the steel cross of girders atop the sea rig. It shimmered white, like a ball of molten glass. Slowly it moved west and one of the girders shadowed Hardin’s eyes. When he looked next, it was beyond the frame of the derrick and he knew he had slept for half an hour.

  His mouth was dry. He went below and pumped a cup of water from the pantry sink spigot. He drank it, drew another, and another. On the third, the pump pedal felt loose and air mingled with the water in the spigot. He had reached the end of his supply. Somewhere along the line he had ceased to conserve water, he couldn’t recall when. Rummaging through the cupboards, he found a bottle of Soave and two small bottles of Perrier, which he put in a net bag and hung over the side after clearing the oil with the mop. He would go out in style.

  “Come in Hll. Come in Hll.”

  Hardin recognized the rich voice of LEVIATHAN’s Scottish radio officer. He eased into the chart-table seat and switched to the headset. The Hll operator acknowledged the call.

  “Please arrange berthing pilot at twenty-four hundred.”

  “Berthing pilot twenty-four hundred.”

  Hardin looked at the chronometer. A little less than twelve hours. The monster had rounded the Quoins and w
as in the Gulf: now he could sleep. It was too hot in the cabin so he hauled his foam mattress into the cockpit and closed his eyes and tried to stop thinking.

  29

  Black and massive as the night, LEVIATHAN sped toward the setting sun and loosed a rending whistle blast at an old baggala dhow. The engineless two-masted lansh was struggling to beat westward against the stiff shamal; it surrendered its course and tried to scurry away from the overtaking tanker.

  LEVIATHAN steamed on, ramming a broad wake through the gentle swell. A plume of black smoke trailed from each funnel and mingled over the froth astern like thick and lethal flukes. The smoke dispersed in the wind, but long after the ship had passed, its bow wave caught the running dhow. The sailors saw it curling after them and clung to their cargo and rigging. The wave rolled the Arab boat brutally, shifting crates, threatening her ancient wooden yards, her creaking masts and hemp lines, and shaking the wind out of her patched sails.

  Captain Ogilvy stared ahead, heedless of the consternation in LEVIATHAN’s wake. He stood on the bridge wing, watching the glow on the horizon, scanning the water. He had two lookouts on the masthead, two on the bow, and a man glued to the radar. The bridge phone rang. Ogilvy answered.

  The Saudis were on the radio. They reported that it would soon be too dark for effective air surveillance. As Hardin had not been found, they suggested that LEVIATHAN heave to until morning. Ogilvy replied, curtly, that he much preferred to be a moving target, and hung up. Then he called the second officer, whose watch it was, and asked him to send the bosun.

  The bosun was a short, wiry Irishman with the glint of pride in his eye that made a seaman a leader.

  “Evenin’, Captain.”

  “Bosun. I want all the furniture from the wardroom and the crew’s mess stacked on the helipads.”

  “Sir?”

  “Make a real mess out there, and do it quickly.”

  The bosun tossed a salute and left the bridge wing at a fast trot. Minutes later, Ogilvy saw him urging a pair of deck gangs toward the helicopter landing pads with tables and chairs.

  After several trips back and forth, they had cluttered the pads. Ogilvy picked up the wing phone and switched to the public address system. His voice echoed across the vast decks. “Bosun! Strew those hoses about. Muck up those open spaces.” The men darted to do his bidding. Minutes after they had finished, and while the fading light was still strong enough for him to see the bows, a big helicopter appeared in the west and closed quickly with the ship.

  “Floodlights,” Ogilvy ordered on the phone.

  They flared on, bright white, illuminating the green decks like a lighted ball field. Ogilvy watched the helicopter circle, lower, then stop abruptly in midair. He reached for the bridge phone. “Connect me to the helicopter.”

  It was the Iranian Navy commander. James Bruce had reported earlier that the man was in charge of the search for Hardin.

  “Yes, Commander?” said Ogilvy.

  The reply was patient. “Apparently, Captain Ogilvy, you don’t wish me to land.”

  “I’ve had a bellyful of comings and goings for the last two days,” said Ogilvy. “LEVIATHAN will board her berthing pilot at twenty-four hundred hours.”

  “Unfortunately, sir, we haven’t found Hardin yet and we can’t permit you to go any farther until we do.”

  “I’m not permitting my ship to sit like a duckpin because your navy can’t locate a lunatic on a sailboat.”

  “I have orders to stop you from proceeding,” said the Iranian. The helicopter moved aft and hovered beside the bridge. Ogilvy could make out the vague shape of the pilot and the man he was talking to.

  “I want protection!” he thundered. “Not interference!”

  “You’ll get your protection when you stop.”

  “Are you telling me that Iran can’t guarantee safe passage in the Persian Gulf?” Ogilvy taunted.

  “How do you propose we do that under these circumstances?” the Iranian replied silkily.

  “In the same manner that any decent navy protects merchant shipping when it is threatened. Surely, Commander, I don’t have to tell you how to do that.”

  The Iranian waited, then asked reluctantly, “Are you suggesting a convoy?”

  “Cover my ship. Give me escorts fore and aft. Sweep the area ahead. That damned rocket of Hardin’s has a half-mile range. Create a perimeter and don’t let him inside it.”

  Again there was a pause before the Iranian spoke. “All right, Captain Ogilvy. But I will set the course LEVIATHAN will follow.”

  Ogilvy hung up the phone and stalked into the bridge, a smile playing over his face. It was eight o’clock—2,000 hours—and the watch was changing. Since they were preparing to berth at Hll, formal mess was abandoned tonight. The third officer was just marking the satellite-course readout against the chart.

  “Stand easy,” said Ogilvy, as the young man stiffened when he saw him. “Better tell your helmsman to keep an eye peeled for wogs. They’ll be all over us tonight.” He beckoned his steward, who was waiting in the shadows by the chart-room door, and told him to bring his meal out to the port wing. Then he walked back out of the air conditioning and watched the Iranians move to battle stations.

  A frigate appeared from the north and took up a position directly ahead of LEVIATHAN. Less than a mile separated the two vessels. Hovercraft stood off LEVIATHAN’s bows, to port and starboard. A pair of minesweepers took the beam, and two more Hovercraft covered his stern. Ogilvy smiled again. He was reminded of the war when he was bucketing around on a corvette, shepherding a ragtag lot of rusty freighters and petrol carriers.

  The sun slipped stealthily below the horizon as if afraid to compete with the blaze of the gas flares, and Ogilvy’s steward appeared with his supper. He laid it out next to the phone console and hurried back with a stool. Ogilvy ordered him to return the stool to the bridge house where it belonged. He ate standing, enjoying the sight of the escort, savoring the food. He was proud of LEVIATHAN and proud of the warships that embraced her. And he was content that he was where he was and not skulking about the oil fields on a sailboat.

  Behind him, an icy sliver of moon rose in the dark eastern sky. It hung as distinct as a slice of crystal, seated in blackness, aloof from the lurid glow of the gas flares in the west. Then the heat from LEVIATHAN’s funnels shimmied across it. It softened like melting butter and was lost in the ship’s oily smoke.

  The wing phone rang.

  “Yes, Number Two.”

  “The Iranians ordered two degrees starboard.”

  “Well?”

  “What should I do, sir?”

  “Tell them to get stuffed.”

  The steward cleared the dinner tray and brought a trifle.

  “Take that away,” said Ogilvy. “Bring me a brandy.”

  He sipped it slowly as the night grew red.

  Hardin left the shelter of the abandoned oil rig. He set a course for the sea-lane, the single shipping channel down which LEVIATHAN had to steam to reach the Hll sea berth. The wind was out of the northwest—the shamal had strengthened all day and appeared to be holding the night as well. He took it on a beam reach, steering by the fireballs and the moving lights of the outbound tankers.

  He felt very calm. He had slept well, logging six uninterrupted hours before the sun went down, and he had eaten several cans of tuna fish and asparagus spears, topped off with a glass of wine and a bottle of Perrier.

  The Dragon was on the cabin floor, lying in a sling at the foot of the companionway, ready to be hoisted to the cockpit. He would keep the weapon below until the last minute, because it would be a radar target on deck.

  The radio was on, tuned to Channel 16. LEVIATHAN’s arrival was stirring considerable chatter on the air. Most of the talk was Arabic and Persian, but even in the desert and mountain tongues the ship’s Semitic name sounded clearly, an ancient word for sea monster, a giant crocodile once seen in this gulf.

  Helicopter engines sounded overhead and their busy
lights flickered through the ruddy sky. He heard the high whine of Hovercraft and the lower growl of conventional patrol launches. The search effort seemed to be intensifying the closer he got to the shipping lane.

  He looked at his sails. Their white sheen reflected the gas flare’s red glow. His fiberglass hull was virtually immune to radar, as was the wooden mast, but ironically he might be seen by the naked eye in these conditions. He furled the mainsail and led the jib halyard back to the cockpit as he had the night before so he could douse the headsail quickly.

  He sighted a big can buoy, a marker for the sea-lane. Two or three more miles to the inbound side of the channel and he would turn east to line up his attack.

  Suddenly he strained toward the open hatch to hear the radio. He’d been listening with half an ear to an American Aramco helicopter pilot who’d been talking in a western twang to a buddy on Hll Island. The pilot was flying east and shortly after he had passed the Sassan oil field, which was about forty miles east of Hardin’s position, he spotted LEVIATHAN.

  “They got a whole fuckin’ navy down there!” he exclaimed. “Goddam! That’s a frigate out front. Hovercraft on the flanks—Oooop! gotta go. I got a Irani bird on my ass and I think he sayin’ go ‘way. I goin’, I goin’.”

  Hardin was glad he had slept. If he had heard that as tired as he had been yesterday, it would have crippled him. He continued sailing across the sea-lane, pondering what to do. New radio chatter confirmed that LEVIATHAN was virtually surrounded by Navy escort vessels. Their decks would be lined with sailors with low-light glasses and God knew what other gadgetry.

  LEVIATHAN was three hours away. The wind was dropping slightly and the air felt heavier. With luck, he might slip between two escort vessels. The Swan’s hull was still oily black. He could lower the jib and power close enough to fire before they saw him in the red haze. With luck. He shook his head. He’d come too far to depend on luck.