Protopopov looked at the boarding teams, both now fully assembled on the deck of his vessel. They each had nine-millimeter sidearms strapped to their waists, and half of them carried shotguns. He raised his head and opened his mouth. His eyes looked past Sara and his sullen expression lightened.
She turned to see what he was looking at, and found that while they’d been talking the three other Russian vessels had arrived on scene and were now circling the Sojourner Truth and the Pheodora about three hundred yards off.
“One boat it’s a Sunday sail, two boats it’s a race, three boats it’s a bloody regatta,” Ryan said.
Nobody laughed. Protopopov looked back at Sara with an expression that couldn’t be called anything other than triumphant. “Maybe you leave now.”
“I don’t think so, sir,” Sara said, who had been monitoring the activities on the deck of the Sojourner Truth out of the corner of her eye.
“Oh, yeah,” Katelnikof said approvingly, following her gaze, and Protopopov turned to look as one of his men let out a warning shout.
Lowe had closed to within a hundred yards of the Pheodora’s port bow without slowing down. The.50-caliber gun now mounted to starboard was manned, with a belt of ammunition already threaded into the magazine. In addition, Lowe had manned the starboardside 25-millimeter cannon, which Sara happened to know was the one that worked. The portside cannon had been waiting on parts for months. They were U.S. Navy guns, and the navy had never liked the idea of giving weaponry they’d bought and paid for to another service.
Lowe gave the Russians a good long look as the Truth flashed by, to cut neatly across the Pheodora’s bow with what felt like inches to spare.
Somebody screamed. Sara hoped it wasn’t one of hers. Captain Lowe was doing the thing in style, and she had to repress a chuckle.
Ryan didn’t bother repressing anything. “Flame on, Captain Lowe!”
They all staggered as the Pheodora’s helmsman panicked and spun the wheel and the processor lurched abruptly to starboard. Protopopov let out a stream of Russian, face going from red to white to purple. He could have been yelling at his helmsman, but then he turned on Sara and pushed right up into her face, still shouting.
“I’m so sorry, Captain,” she said blandly, ignoring the spray of spittle, “I’m afraid I don’t speak Russian.”
“But I do,” Katelnikof said to Protopopov, or so he translated for Sara when they were back on board the Sojourner Truth. “Don’t let this broad’s lack of balls fool you, Captain. Given half a chance she’ll order our ship to run right over the top of this paddle wheeler of yours.”
Aghast and agape, Protopopov stared at Katelnikof, whose grin was wide and not at all friendly. The Russian captain rounded on Sara again. “Your captain crazy! What you do, ram us, sink us! Russian government will not stand for this! I lodge complaint!”
The combination of speed and the show of weapons, in addition, Sara believed, to the display of extremely able seamanship, was enough to cause the other vessels to veer off and make best speed for the horizon.
Besides, they all had catch quotas, which if not met might relieve the skippers of their commands.
And it wasn’t like there wouldn’t be another opportunity to yank the Coast Guard’s tail on the Maritime Boundary Line. Job security, she thought, for all of us, and turned to Protopopov, whose face had yet to regain any semblance of normal color.
“Captain Protopopov, I relieve you of command of the Pheodora. Chief,” she said to Katelnikof, “have Captain Protopopov identify the rest of his crew and place them under guard. Ensign,” she said to Ryan, “go below and tell the working folks that they’ve got an all-expenses-paid trip to beautiful downtown Dutch Harbor.”
An hour later they were under way, following the wake of the Sojourner Truth as she headed south-southwest in pursuit of the Agafia.
The Pheodora’s bridge was in a little better shape than the rest of her, but not much. A large spoked wooden wheel reinforced with tarnished brass stood at the center, ranged about with a fathometer and radar and radios and a GPS. The GPS had been trashed, but that was to be expected, the crew covering their asses. All Sara really cared about was that at an ambient temperature right around fifty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, it was warmer than the bridge of the last foreign vessel she’d had to board.
Ryan entered the bridge through the port wing hatch. “Ship’s crew all secure in the galley, XO, and the workers are getting out their party clothes. I put Katelnikof on watch in the engine room. Not that the Russian engineers want to miss out on a shopping trip in Dutch Harbor, either.”
Everyone laughed, a little giddy at the success of their mission. Their mood was hardly dampened when they saw the helo return and land on the Truth, which meant that the Agafia had slipped back over the line before they could arrive on the scene. Bagging the Pheodora was enough of a prize, and besides, they were headed back for Dutch Harbor riding on a white horse, in distinct contrast to their recent exit.
Sara couldn’t keep the smile from tugging at the corners of her mouth. Looking around, she saw that same suspicion of a smile on the faces of the rest of the other two boarding teams.
It was hard sometimes for her to believe her luck, that she got to whup bad guy ass on her nation’s territorial frontier. “Just another day at the office,” she told Ryan, a big fat lie if there ever was one.
“We are the defenders of the homeland,” Ryan said, dropping his voice to his best basso profundo.
“We are the shield of freedom!” Sara said, and the bridge exploded into laughter, in part triumphant because they were the prize crew of a seized vessel and because at heart every Coastie was part pirate, and in part relieved because no shots had been fired and everyone was going home alive.
JANUARY
ANCHORAGE
HUGH COULD BARELY WALK when the Federal Express DC-10 rolled to a stop at Stevens International in Anchorage. It had taken eight hours and change en route from Tokyo, crammed into the cargo net seat the crew had hung from the fuselage. The ambience of the airplane, one enormous cavern crammed with pallets and igloos lashed down with a spaghetti-like construction of webbing and belts, was not enhanced by what seemed a preponderance of crates of chickens. Every time the airplane hit an air pocket the chickens clucked and shrieked and little feathers floated out through the cracks of the crates. Hugh would inhale one of the feathers and wake up in the middle of a sneezing fit. Why the hell anyone would air-freight chickens to America was beyond him. He would have thought there were already plenty in residence.
He was cold, too, having only the lightweight jacket he started out with in Washington three days before. Four days? Or was it five, with the delay in finding a plane going in the right direction? He’d lost track, and besides he was going back over the date line again. Even if he was right about how long he’d been on the road, he was going to be wrong about what day it was when he got there.
This wasn’t what he’d signed up for. He’d signed up for a silver Aston Martin, a Walther PPK and a vodka martini, shaken, not stirred. Not to mention Halle Berry in a bikini. Not barely endurable trips in flying warehouses. Not making end runs around a boss too motivated by politics and patronage to be effective. And most especially not duct-taping people to chairs and beating on them with claw hammers.
He stumbled down the stairs the ground crew brought to the forward door and almost ran into Frank Clifton, captain of the aircraft.
“Whoa there,” Frank said, steadying him.
“Sorry, Frank,” Hugh said. Frank looked cheerful and well rested. Hugh hated him. He mustered up what shreds of civility he had left and managed a smile. “I appreciate the ride.”
Frank shrugged. “My pleasure. Lucky I was on my way back from Manila when you called the office.”
“I know.”
Hugh had inherited Frank from the previous holder of his job. Frank Clifton had flown cargo for Flying Tigers and now flew DC-10s for FedEx. Agents and case managers became very ad
ept at finding pilots who would turn a blind eye at an extra body riding in the back of their jets. It was a useful option in intelligence gathering in that cargo jets went everywhere, including places passenger jets would never dream of landing, and it was very cost effective, usually entailing a bottle of Glen-morangie, paid for out of petty cash. Management probably knew all about it but turned a blind eye, because you never knew when helping out your government was going to translate into another federal subsidy, which couldn’t hurt the golden parachute waiting for the CEO to don and bail.
The pilot regarded him quizzically. “So, what’s the big emergency, buddy boy?” He reflected. “Well, not that a ride in last class on a commercial liner is much better these days.”
“I can’t say,” Hugh said. “Not yet, anyway. It’s important though, Frank. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.” He managed another smile. “I gotta go.”
“Need a ride?”
Hugh blinked at him, and then around at the spread-out, much-added -to package-sorting warehouse, the huge hangar built to annual DC-10s, the seven-he counted-other DC-10s lined up in a proud row on the tarmac outside. It was dark, with stars and a hint of pale green aurora on the northern horizon. The cold seared the insides of his nostrils and he hunched his shoulders inside his sport jacket and tried not to let his teeth chatter. January in Alaska. He’d forgotten. “What time is it, anyway?”
Frank consulted an enormous silver watch the size of a horse’s hoof, bristling with accessory rings and function knobs. It looked like it could jam the Internet all by itself. “Five thirty-seven.”
“What day is it here?”
Frank looked at him with a sapient eye. “January ninth. Do you need a ride or not? I’ve got my truck in the lot.”
Hugh forced his tired mind to think. “Let me make a phone call first, okay?” He fumbled for his cell phone.
“Sure, but no point in making it in the cold.” Frank led the way to a door leading into a small room in the main office building. It was furnished with some shabby couches and a couple of beat-up coffee tables. A counter held a sink and a coffeepot and a miniature refrigerator, and copies of Northern Pilot and Aviation Week and Penthouse littered every available surface. It was warm, that was the main thing, and the warmth made Hugh realize just how cold he had been. His hands shook as he punched in an autodial number on his cell phone, and it was only by clenching his teeth together that he kept them from chattering.
The number answered on the third ring. A warm contralto voice said drowsily, “Hello?”
“Lilah? It’s Hugh.”
“Hugh? What are you- What time is it?” There were rustling sounds. “Hugh Rincon, it’s not even six a.m.!”
“I know, I’m sorry. Is Kyle there?”
“Who is it, honey?” he heard Kyle’s voice say.
“It’s Hugh,” she told him.
“Hugh?” Kyle said into the phone. “Where the hell are you? And what the hell are you doing calling at the crack of dawn?” Kyle’s voice sharpened. “What’s wrong? Sara? Your folks?”
“No, nothing like that. I have to talk to you, Kyle, right away.”
“Are you in Anchorage?”
“Yes. I’ll meet you at your office.”
“For crissake, just come to the house.”
“No,” Hugh said. “The office. I’m grabbing a ride, I’ll meet you there.”
“Hugh-”
“Fifteen minutes.” Hugh hung up, and followed Frank outside to a brand-new Dodge Ram Power Wagon. Frank was believer in conspicuous consumption. The truck seemed to ride at least ten feet above the ground. Hugh struggled in, muttered, “FBI headquarters, Sixth and A,” and passed out before the truck had warmed up enough for Frank to judge it safe to be put into drive.
Hugh had spent the hours prior to departure from Tokyo on the phone with the director in Langley, who stubbornly refused to connect the dots, the same dots Hugh had spent the last two months painstakingly tracing in a trail that led from the bombing in Pattaya Beach, the sighting of Fang and Noortman there, to Peter the Wolf in Odessa, to Harvey Mott’s report, to Hugh’s shakedown of Noortman in Hong Kong, who in his terror had confirmed much of this continuing story and who had added a whole new chapter that Hugh had utterly failed to sell to his boss. At this point Hugh was frantic to find a true believer.
“If it was Egypt, Hugh, my boy, or Iran,” the director had said in benevolent tones, “why, that kind of rumor I could see, that I could generate interest in.”
In the White House, Hugh correctly deduced, but by then he was angry enough to be indiscreet. “Sir, this isn’t a rumor. We have confirmed reports of Korean terrorists training in al-Qaida camps-”
“Do you have proof of al-Qaida involvement in this particular operation?” the director said sharply.
Hugh set his teeth. “No, sir.”
The director lost interest. “Hugh, I think it’s time for you to come home. Let us debrief you, get all the facts laid out on the table-”
“With respect, sir,” Hugh had said, “there isn’t time. According to my informant, their plan is already in motion. We have to act. We must act. Now.”
There was a momentary silence. The director was probably surprised that the worm had finally turned. “Hugh, my boy,” he had said slowly, “I understand your concerns, and I appreciate the hard work you’ve put into this operation, but like I said, you come on home now. I’m not even going to slap your wrist for hightailing it out of here without permission. I tell you what, we’ll put some people on it, some good people, we’ll investigate these reports and track this celium of yours down.”
“Cesium, sir,” Hugh said, biting off the words. “Cesium-137. I’ve got a lead on its whereabouts and I want to pursue that lead. Sir.”
The director’s voice cooled. “You said you were in Tokyo, did you not? There is a Northwest flight out of Narita that’ll put you into Dulles at eight-oh-five tomorrow evening.” There was a forced chuckle. “Seems odd to think of flying almost seventeen hours and getting in the same day you leave, don’t it?” He became very brisk. “I’ll have a ticket waiting for you at the counter, Hugh. We’ll see you in the shop tomorrow. Good night, my boy.”
“Yes, sir,” Hugh said, hung up, and started calling all the pilots listed on his cell phone directory. His fifth try produced Frank, who himself happened to be on the ground in Manila, loading a shipment of semiconductors just prior to taking off for Tokyo to pick up a shipment of Sony digital cameras, en route to Memphis with a stop in Anchorage for refueling and crew change, a piece of luck second only to being able to pick up Noortman in the restaurant. Well. Maybe third, after recruiting Arlene.
Arlene, to whom he had said before going through Hong Kong security to the gate to board his plane, “This never happened. You were never here. Write no reports, no memos, submit travel expenses only by hand and only to me. If I’m fired before you make it into the office, you might get stuck with them.”
She shrugged. “I was there. I heard him talk. You had to do this.”
He nodded, grateful that here at least was one person he didn’t have to convince of anything. “I’ll handle the charge for the Hong Kong ticket on your credit card. Leave. Now.”
She had nodded, asking no questions, and the last he’d seen of her was the bottle-green back of her blazer as she left the terminal. Watching the sliding electric door whisk out of her way, he thought that he was going to have to find some way to show his appreciation of her professionalism. Always supposing his own head wasn’t served up on a platter when he got back to Langley.
Frank’s 747 wouldn’t be in for hours, so he hunted up a cybercafe that served coffee and checked his e-mail, hoping Peter would have been sighted, Fang apprehended, the two Koreans identified, anything he could take to the director as proof. There was nothing. Nor had Sara replied to the e-mail he had sent from DC before he left. When his cell phone rang and it was Frank, wanting to know where the hell he was, he’d been genuinely surprise
d at the passage of time.
“Hugh,” Frank said.
“Huh?”
“Wake up.” Frank shook his arm. “We’re here.”
Hugh blinked blearily through the windshield and saw the immense brown brick shoebox squatting ten feet away. A figure stood on the corner, huddled into a parka. It stepped forward into range of the streetlight and Hugh saw Kyle’s face peering out from the wolf ruff around the hood. “Thanks, Frank,” he said, opening the door and stepping gingerly onto the ice.
“You’re gonna tell me what this was all about someday, right?” Frank said.
“If I can,” Hugh said, and shut the truck’s door firmly behind him. Frank demonstrated his displeasure by kicking up a little snow when he pulled out of the parking lot, but Hugh wasn’t paying attention.
“Hugh,” Kyle said, pulling Hugh into a bear hug and whacking him on the back hard enough to make him slip and almost fall. Icy parking lots. Something else he didn’t miss about home. “What the hell’s going on?” Hugh’s teeth had begun to chatter again and Kyle said, “never mind. Come on, let’s get in out of the cold.”
KYLE CHASE’S OFFICE WAS on the third floor, a square box with a desk, a chair, and a couple of bookshelves. Every horizontal space was piled high with paperwork, magazines, and books. Kyle removed a stack of newspapers and a box of nine-millimeter ammunition from what was revealed as a second chair. “Sit down before you fall down.” He busied himself at a coffeepot on a table.
He was almost as tall as Hugh and had almost as much hair, although his was black. His eyes were blue and his smile was quick and wicked. He was almost as smart as he thought he was, and he, like Sara and Hugh, was a rabid overachiever, which meant he was a rising star with the FBI. He’d had to ask to be posted to Alaska, but he’d always wanted to come home, and in spite of much headshaking on the part of his superiors, who freely prophesied that he was killing his career, he had prevailed. “There must have been something in the water in Seldovia,” Hugh said.
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