Never Forget

by Richard Davis

  After a long minute, I heard the three taps that signified Ellen was ready to go.

  ‘Okay buddy, pull out, and head for US-101.’

  He didn’t reply. He did one better: he did what I said.

  I took a deep breath. The rain was coming down hard now. Real damn hard.

  * * *

  At 8:37, we hit Harbor City – the district of LA just north of the Port.

  The past hour and a quarter with Slack Jaw – real name, Callum Jones, according to his driver’s license – had been fairly seamless. And in fact, Jones had cooled down a good deal as the journey wore on. But while conversation had been near non-existent, now that we were approaching our destination, I decided to squeeze what information I could out of him.

  ‘So am I right in saying, Callum, that when we get over the bridge, the security checks are at the main entrance?’ I said, abruptly breaking the silence.

  He blinked twice. ‘That’s right.’

  ‘How long do they usually take?’

  ‘Not long. This time of day, maybe ten minutes.’

  Given that the ship was due to be leaving at 9:25 p.m., that was still a long time. But there was little I could do about it.

  ‘Can you get me to the West Basin Container Terminal, Berth 102?’

  He nodded.

  ‘And nobody’s likely to notice us heading in the wrong direction?’

  His eyebrows twitched. ‘Thirty thousand crates come through this port, daily. That’s a lot of trucks. If somebody notices, it’ll be bad luck.’

  ‘Alright. And the ships themselves, do you know anything about the boarding procedure? In particular, do you know how long the gangway stairs are left in place before the ship sets off?’

  ‘Right up until the last moment: they’re affixed to the side of the ships. Or, at least, that’s usually the case.’ He looked at me out the corner of his eye. ‘I can’t promise you; but since you’re heading for West Basin, you’re dealing with a China Shipping boat, right? If so, then yeah, the ship’s got stairs affixed to its side.’

  I turned to him. Suddenly it occurred to me that maybe I’d underestimated him; that maybe he knew more than I’d assumed. And this could potentially be useful.

  ‘You ever been on one of these China Shipping cargo carriers?’

  His bottom lip trembled. He was reticent to share with someone he thought could be a terrorist. But I didn’t have time to fuck around.

  ‘Don’t make this difficult,’ I said harshly, poking the Walther into his side.

  Jones’s face purpled; then he said softly: ‘Alright. What do you wanna know?’

  ‘These Chinese Shipping cargo boats – what do they look like?’

  He nodded. ‘I’ve only been on one, and have no clue if they’re all alike. But basically, we’re talking a 700 foot long structure – similar in length to the Titanic – and able to hold 2,600 containers. When you hit the top of the gangway stairs, you arrive on deck, maybe 200 feet from the back of the boat. That’s where the entrance to the deckhouse is: a slim six-story tower in which a crew of maybe twenty lives. The engine room’s beneath the deckhouse.’

  He looked at me. I nodded encouragement.

  ‘The rest of ship’s full of twenty-foot shipping crates – both in front and behind the deckhouse – and these occupy the majority of the space above and below deck. But they’re not stacked to form one continuous block: they’re stacked in such a way that there are spaces between columns of containers so that, if need be, the crew can navigate the main container holds below-decks to deal with problems.’

  I nodded. ‘So they almost form corridors?’

  ‘Right. And at the back of the ship’s the main escape boat. A little orange pod. Contains enough seats, all tightly packed, for the whole crew. Looks more like a submarine, and is designed to eject straight into the water.’ He paused. ‘That’s all I can remember.’

  I nodded, and I let him get on with driving. We were now rumbling towards the bridge, and the rain was hitting the truck so hard that no amount of noise Ellen could possibly have made would have been detectable.

  She was no doubt soaking wet and uncomfortable. But so long as she’d folded the fiberglass back in place, she’d be fine.

  Next thing, the truck was in a line passing over the bridge to Terminal Island – the artificial land-mass on which the Port of Los Angeles’s situated – and I took that as a cue to put the gun behind my jacket, so I could keep it aimed at Jones yet concealed. I could tell Jones was getting nervous again, but I felt confident that so long as he kept it together, we’d get through fine. And sure enough, as we then passed through a number of checkpoints, we got through every time without a hitch: Jones presented his paperwork, they waved us through. Only at the very last check did a guy – a security guard, not a cop – ask to see my ID; and just like the journalist, I flashed a driver’s license, and it did the trick.

  Within ten minutes, just as Jones had predicted, we were through, and had begun navigating the port’s internal road system. There were signs clearly demarcating the way to West Basin Terminal. As we did so, I watched the procession of cargo ships – each towering two hundred feet above the water, many with cranes heaving and bowing nearby, all bathed in strategically placed lights – go past one window. Out the other, expanses of tarmac, interpolated by the occasional warehouses.

  I watched the dashboard clock nervously as we continued through the seemingly interminable complex – it was fast approaching 9:05 – until we finally approached Berths 100 to 102. They were the last three at the end of this portion of Terminal Island, all side by side, with a large, squat warehouse opposite, clearly there to cater to all three. And while 100 and 101 were empty, 102 had a large green ship, full of containers, moored side-on to it, with the words China Shipping in white letters along the side. It was bathed in a strategically placed light that looked like one you might find by a football field and looked just as Jones had said.

  And I was encouraged by what I was seeing. Because though the ship and gangway stairs were illuminated, the road was lined with only intermittent lights, and everything else was shrouded in darkness, meaning that getting close to the boat on foot would be simple.

  What’s more, the warehouse offered a good place to stow the truck. Yes, there were further berths opposite, plus a further warehouse, which, unlike this one, had its lights on. But they were a good two miles off, and I was primarily concerned about concealing the truck from the occupants of the ship.

  My biggest worry was that someone would notice the truck approaching as there were no other trucks along this portion. But I decided that if someone had spotted us, that turning off the headlights before we parked would only arouse further suspicions. So we just had to try our luck. As it was, I could see nobody on the ship watching on.

  ‘Pull in behind this warehouse,’ I told Jones. ‘Then kill the engine and headlights.’

  My gun was now on show again, and Jones gave a sharp nod. A few moments later, he’d parked up.

  I opened my door, climbed out backwards into rain which hit me with enormous force and, while keeping my gun trained on Jones, walked round to his door, and opened it.

  ‘Out. Then unlock the back of the truck.’

  He climbed out, and led the way to the back of the truck. Took out his keys, undid the hefty locks, and opened the doors. Water that’d undoubtedly gotten in via the roof washed out. And though there was, of course, a shipping container inside, there was a bit of space between the door and the cargo. Space enough to fit Jones.

  ‘Get in,’ I said.

  ‘You ain’t gonna shoot me?’

  ‘If I wanted to just shoot you, I would’ve done so. Get in.’

  He did. I produced the handcuffs I’d taken from the police back in Fresno, attached one end to his right wrist, and the other to the interior door handle.

  ‘I’m sorry about putting you through all this, but you’re in the clear now.’

  Jones said nothing, but his eyes
were full of relief. He knew that, though he would be left in the truck, he’d escaped with his life.

  I shut the door and locked it, just to be sure.

  Then I walked to the side of the truck, bashed it twice as hard as I could – to make it felt over the thudding rain – and shouted: ‘All clear.’

  A pause; then Ellen appeared out of the roof, wet and disheveled. She clambered down and arrived at my side.

  ‘Let’s roll,’ she said.

  Chapter 45

  As Ellen and I moved quickly around the side of the warehouse, I filled her in on the ship’s geography. And by the time we were crossing the road, she’d got the picture.

  ‘So right now, we need to find someone to take us to the crate?’ she said.

  ‘Right.’

  In no time, we arrived at the foot of gangway stairs, which were bathed in light.

  I looked up at the deckhouse. Its lights were on, and on the third floor, I could discern movement behind a window. But, so far as I could see, nobody was looking out.

  I darted up the stairs, and Ellen followed. A few moments later, we arrived on deck. And though it was easy enough to avoid the light emitted by the halogens on board, they did a good job of illuminating our surroundings. To the right, the expanse of containers that occupied the space between the deckhouse and the front of ship – though the front was concealed behind a thick blanket of rain – and a door that seemed to lead below-deck. To the left, the deck house’s entrance.

  We’d made it on board with fifteen minutes to spare. That in itself was a big relief.

  And yet, there was still so much to do.

  I knew the captain’s deck was likely at the top of the deckhouse. What we wanted, though, was the crew’s quarters. And these would be lower down.

  I cracked open the deckhouse entrance. There was an empty, square hallway beyond, and Ellen and I entered. I shut the door, and the roar of rain was muted to a remote patter.

  There were a couple of doors off the corridor, and they were conveniently labeled: Canteen; Games Room. However, both were useless to us: whereas the canteen door appeared to be locked, the games room sounded as though it was occupied by at least four or five men – too many to take on.

  So instead, I led the way to the spiral metal staircase straight ahead, and started climbing. Next instant, we were on the second floor, and there were four doors, all closed. But while the three to our right (labeled: 1, 2, 3) gave no sign that the rooms beyond were occupied – the cracks under the doors indicated no lights were on, and there was not a sound emanating from inside – the room beyond the fourth door, which was to our left, and labeled First Mate, had its lights on, and what sounded like a radio playing within.

  I moved towards the door, put my ear to it. Definitely a radio. And since I could discern no conversation, there was a strong chance there was only one guy inside.

  I turned to Ellen who was also now clutching her Walther and whispered:

  ‘If someone’s inside, you cover him, while I frisk him.’

  ‘And if there’s two?’

  ‘We’ll cover one each, and work it out from there.’

  She nodded. I turned to the door, paused a second, then burst through, Walther raised.

  I was three steps into the sizeable bedroom, and Ellen had already shut the door, by the time the solitary guy – Caucasian, grizzled, easily over sixty – sitting on the bed with his back to us glanced over his shoulder. His mouth dropped, and he raised his hand in surrender.

  I said authoritatively: ‘Stand up. Keep your hands raised, mouth shut.’

  He did what I said. He was shaking slightly – adrenaline more than nerves, I reckoned. Ellen appeared at my side, put a bead on the guy, and I moved forward and frisked him. No weapon. Then I rounded the rest of the comfortable room. Nothing doing.

  I said: ‘Crate 2025. You know where that is?’

  First Mate nodded, cleared his throat. ‘Below-decks. Container Hold 3.’

  His voice was American. Little surprise. The crew on a ship that went routinely between American and China was likely to be drawn from both nations.

  I looked around the room again – it was large, with windows that looked out not only on the back of the ship and the orange escape boat, but also on the area just at the top of the gangway stairs. In fact, we were very lucky this guy hadn’t been standing at the window.

  Then I made a decision.

  I turned to Ellen. ‘I think you should stay here. That way, if I’m spotted, you have a chance of getting to the captain before he can make contact with anyone – he’s almost certainly on the top floor.’

  I looked at the First Mate. He nodded that this was correct. I added:

  ‘We can stay in contact via our walkie-talkies, on the friendly frequency.’

  Ellen nodded. ‘Fine.’ She extracted her walkie-talkie, switched it on. I turned again to the First Mate. ‘You’re gonna lead me to the crate. Any wrong move, and I’ll shoot you in the head, plain and simple.’

  I considered a moment, then added: ‘I’m with US national security. There’s a Chinese fugitive on board, and I’ve reason to believe he’s got a hostage. There’s an enormous amount at stake, but we have to be stealthy, because your captain’s in on it, and if he realizes I’m here, all will be lost. I’m telling you this because it’ll be easier if I’ve got you on side. But either way, I’ll be keeping a gun on you at all time, and won’t hesitate to shoot if you fuck me around. Okay?’

  The First Mate nodded contemplatively. ‘I’ll cooperate.’

  I reckoned he meant it.

  He walked towards the door, and I followed him into the still empty hallway. Then we headed downstairs, and soon we were exiting into the roaring rain, thankfully undetected.

  The guy moved to the door opposite, took out a keychain, and started unlocking the bolts. I glanced back at the deckhouse. Ellen was watching us out of the window.

  I took out my walkie-talkie, switched it on, and put it back in my pocket.

  Next thing, I was following First Mate down the stairs, and into a grey, austere hallway, lighted by intermittent halogens.

  We walked quickly, our steps echoing off the walls. After 150 yards, we arrived at three doors: on the left, Container Hold 1; on the right, Container Hold 2; straight ahead, a partitioning door. First Mate opened the door ahead, and passed into a second hallway.

  ‘How many container holds in all?’ I probed, as I followed him through, the door closing behind me.

  ‘Six this side of the boat. Two behind the deckhouse.’

  We continued. Then, just as I’d expected, 150 yards later, we arrived at another set of three doors. On our left, Container Hold 3. Our right, Container Hold 4. And another partitioning door straight ahead.

  First Mate opened the door to our left.

  Chapter 46

  As we descended another set of stairs, I could see in the dim halogen light that we were entering a labyrinth constructed out of twenty foot containers stacked in long lines.

  When we got halfway down the stairs, I stopped First Mate, and whispered:

  ‘We’ve got to be silent as we approach. He’s inside, and can’t know we’re here.’

  He nodded seriously, and continued. Then we were on the hold floor, progressing silently between stacks of containers. I studied the ones at the bottom of the pile, and could see that each had a number printed on the top right-hand corner of the front façade, and a heavy-duty plastic seal, with a matching number. First Mate came to an intersection – forward, left, or right – studied a few containers, then took a right. After twenty seconds, he stopped, and pointed to a crate five away, on the left-hand side.

  Crate 2025. And unsurprisingly, it was at the bottom of the stack and missing its seal.

  My heart lurched. It was go time.

  Ideally, I wanted to put a bullet in the nationalist’s head. But it almost certainly wouldn’t be so simple: the hostage may be too close to the nationalist, and the confined space m
eant a ricocheting bullet that could hit any three of us was a very real possibility.

  I motioned to First Mate to move to the other side of the crate – I felt he was unlikely to give me trouble, but I wanted him that side of me just in case – and once he’d moved, I crept to the container door.

  One wrong move, and an innocent life could be lost. My life could be lost….

  All at once, I threw open the door, and leapt over the threshold.

  In a split second, I took in the scene. Maybe ten yards away, there was a man, bound, gagged, and gut-wrenchingly mutilated around the eyes – Xi Chen, the hostage. Just beyond, with provisions in between (sleeping bag; tinned food; flasks), was a huge, muscular Chinese man, sitting at such an angle that it was near impossible to get a clear shot.

  For a second, we just looked at each other, his mouth open in astonishment. Then he was patting his pockets for his gun.

  I had to act.

  I charged into the container, and as the nationalist was just tugging the weapon out of his pocket, and just finding his feet, I leapt past Chen, and threw myself at him.

  But when I made contact, I got a surprise. Because though he dropped his gun as his hands went up to defend himself and it went off, the bullet hit a wall, and ricocheted god-knows-where, he wasn’t overwhelmed by the force of my body. He caught me, albeit clumsily, then tightened his grip, rammed my back into the wall of the container, and knocked the wind out of me. I tried to struggle free, but couldn’t – he was strong as an ox– and he rammed me again, and my head started spinning.

  He was stronger than I’d expected. More capable. And, with a twang of panic, I registered that if I didn’t do something quick, it’d be over.

  I again made an effort to struggle out of his grip. But though this time I managed to momentarily loosen his grip, it was only momentary – and all I managed to do was turn my back to him. The next instant, he capitalized on this new position: he fell on his own back, put a forearm over my throat, and put pressure on my carotid artery, stifling the blood flow to my brain. Instantly, my vision went watery at the edges, and my head started pounding. I drove my heels into his legs, but it was no good. It was like kicking a wall.