Critical Mass

by Steve Martini

  Fifteen minutes after leaving the freeway, she rolled down the main drag of Anacortes, took a left at the light, and drove toward the headlands. Sleep now began to tug at her sleeve. She passed through the residential area of town and hugged the bluffs above the water. She could see the lights of Guemes across the narrow inlet. Occasionally, through a break in the trees, she could see the glow of the bright vapor lights from the ferry terminal as they bounced off the underside of a few wispy clouds floating overhead.

  One of the ferries, with its cavernous open car deck lit up, its portholes and windows aglow like a Christmas tree on the water, was making a wide turn as it approached the dock a half mile out. Joselyn hoped it was the ferry to Friday Harbor.

  She wound down the steep grade toward the terminal and saw that the parking lot was nearly empty. Two truck and trailer rigs and a handful of cars waited in line. Whatever rush hour existed for the islands was over for the day, and the tourist season was still months away.

  She paid for a ticket at the tollgate.

  “What time’s the next ferry to San Juan Island?”

  “That’s it coming in.”

  A pickup with a camper on the back pulled up behind her, its bright lights beaming through the back window of her rented car. There was another big truck behind him. The last-minute rush. People in the islands lived and died by the ferry schedule. At night trucks often made their deliveries to avoid the heavier ferry traffic of the day.

  The woman in the booth gave Joselyn the cash register ticket and her change and glanced back at the parking lot.

  “Take lane four. They’ll be boarding in just a couple of minutes.”

  By this time in the evening the ferries were usually late, losing time on every run during the day. Joselyn knew they wouldn’t waste any time at the dock. She pulled into lane four and went all the way to the front, turned off her lights and engine, and waited. There were a few cars in the lane next to her, no more than a dozen in all. The ferry would be nearly empty.

  She watched as the vehicles, their headlights gleaming, streamed off the boat and passed her on the exit road heading up the hill. Traffic from the islands was mostly one-way this time of day, some late stragglers headed for home.

  Five minutes later, they were waved onto the ferry. Joselyn drove her small rented car directly into the main bay and up to the bow. She could hear the wind whistling through the open car deck. When they landed she would be the first one off. She couldn’t wait to hit the soft flannel sheets of her bed and pull the covers over herself, a refuge from the nightmare that had been her day. Sleep was fast overtaking her.

  The few other passengers left their cars and headed to the upper decks, the cafeteria, and the lounge. Joselyn pushed the toggle switch on the door that said “lock” and the buttons on both doors snapped down. She pulled the lever on the side of the driver’s seat and reclined until it wedged against the backseat. She close her eyes and wished she had a blanket.

  She drifted into another world, only vaguely aware of the boat’s movement. The vibration of the massive diesel engines stirred her only a little. The gentle swaying in the troughs as the vessel glided out away from the dock acted as a sedative.

  The wind picked up and whistled past the closed windows, causing the small car to shudder, as the ferry turned and headed out through the Guemes Channel and into Rosario Strait. Four miles of open water until they reached the narrows of Thatcher Pass. Wind wiped froth off the crest of small whitecaps. Occasional small waves crested and crashed against the steel bow of the ferry, sending droplets of seawater splattering against the windshield of Joselyn’s car.

  The noise caused her to open her eyes halfway, to gaze up through the tinted windshield. It was a clear, brilliant night, the kind that brings the heavens to life with flickering stars, pinholes of light against the black backdrop of space. Joselyn drifted in that netherworld between sleep and consciousness. She gazed up through the opening between the wings of the passenger deck one level above. Tonight the two wings that projected out over the bow of the ship were empty. It was too cold. The few passengers onboard were huddled inside, warming their hands around cups of hot coffee or sprawled out sleeping on the benches beneath the windows.

  Somewhere in Rosario Strait, Joselyn drifted into deep sleep, swayed by the gentle rocking of the great vessel and the occasional gust of wind that shook her small car as it swept through the car deck like a giant ghost.

  She was lost in the rumble of the engines and dreamed of Belden and the small plane, the flash of brilliant light, and the explosive force that followed an instant later. Luminous, blazing lights, piercing the shield of her closed lids. Her eyes began to ache, and slowly Joselyn opened them to realize that she was not dreaming at all. Someone behind her in a vehicle had switched on their headlights, bright, piercing high beams. They filled the rear window of her car with a painful luminance like the sun. The reflection from her rearview mirror was blinding.

  Joselyn shielded her eyes. “Turn them off,” she muttered to herself, half asleep. Then she heard the rumble of the engine, deep and guttural, a heavy diesel starting up. Maybe he needed to charge a battery or refrigerate a load. She couldn’t see a thing in the rearview mirror, the bright lights blinding her. She would wait a second and see if he turned them off and shut down. If not, she would go topside to escape the noise and the lights.

  Then she heard the grind of gears and an instant later the hiss of compressed air. The driver had released his brakes. Joselyn looked into the rearview mirror in stark terror as the headlights behind her began to move, closing in on the rear of her car. Suddenly the bright beams were no longer in her mirror. They flashed over the top of her roof, and all she could see was the massive grill and the huge steel bumper, with its metal studs. It made contact with her car at the level of the trunk and instantly there was the grinding sound of metal crushing metal. The trunk folded up like paper.

  Before Joselyn could think, the truck driver gunned it. The car began to crumple like a crushed soda can. Joselyn went for the handle of her door. It wouldn’t open. The frame of the car had bent. The door was jammed. She lunged for the door on the other side. Same story.

  She heard the crunch of glass as the rear window exploded, shooting pellets of safety glass into her hair and over the front seat. The small car began to move relentlessly forward, its tires sliding on the ferry’s smooth steel deck. The webbed safety net that spanned the ship in front of her car began to stretch, then rip as the diesel truck and trailer rig pushed her car like a steam-powered piston into the net. She could hear the driver double-clutching. This was no accident. Whoever was in the truck was trying to kill her.

  Joselyn frantically looked up through the driver’s-side window for help, her fingers pressed against glass. The ship’s two passenger wings from the upper deck were nearly behind her now. They were both empty. No one could see her. She pressed the electric button trying to open the driver’s window. It didn’t work. She pounded on the glass to no avail. Desperate, she swung her legs around the steering column and pressed her feet against the windshield. With her back wedged against the seat she pressed with all of her might trying to break the windshield out. It didn’t work. She was entombed in metal and glass, being crushed and pushed toward a watery grave.

  Even with the brake set and the transmission in “park” Joselyn’s car was no match for the huge truck. The small Chevy moved toward the open bow, and the deep, green water was now rushing toward her. She pressed on the brake pedal to no avail. The wheels continued to skid across metal. She leaned on the horn. Finally, something worked. At least it made noise. Someone should hear it.

  The safety net shredded, and the single steel cable across the top rode up over the hood of Joselyn’s car, slid up across the glass of the windshield and onto the roof. Now there was nothing between her and the cold, deep water of the sound.

  She reached for the door handle one more time and laid her shoulder into the door as hard as she could, but it
wouldn’t open. She tried the electric opener on the window one more time, then suddenly realized. She turned the key in the ignition, pressed the button, and the window began to come down. Wind rushed in through the opening.

  Joselyn reached out with both hands for the roof of the car and turned her body sideways to pull herself out. The front wheels of the car went over the edge. The vehicle tilted forward, gravity taking hold, bumper down; the small car teetered toward the onrushing water, white foam boiling off of the ferry’s massive steel hull.

  “STOP ALL ENGINES.” The captain of the Tillicum laid his hand on the red button on the console in front of him and leaned on it. The huge airhorn on the deck above the bridge pierced the cold night air like a knife.

  The movement on the bridge was frantic. The first mate grabbed four levers on the console and pulled them back until they were straight up in the neutral position. The vibration of the engines stopped, but the ship continued gliding forward, cutting through the water, propelled by its own momentum.

  “Hard to starboard.”

  The crewman brought the wheel over hard, but without the propulsion of the engines forcing water over the control surfaces of the rudder, the ship turned but very slowly.

  The captain watched helplessly as the massive weight of the diesel truck pushed the small car over the edge.

  “Engines full back.”

  WITH HER LAST ounce of strength, Joselyn reached out, her body halfway through the open car window. The grip of one hand filled with nylon mesh, a piece of shredded safety net. The car tilted forward. A hundred tons of white water hit the hood, snapping the little car down into the sea. The violent force ripped Joselyn through the open window and left her dangling in space, her feet running along on air, just inches above the lapping bow wave.

  She could hear the wail of the ferry’s horn, and she twisted by a single hand from the frayed remnants of the nylon net. The joint of her shoulder was racked with pain. She couldn’t hold much longer. Joselyn reached with the other hand, trying desperately to control her spinning body. She lashed out and felt the net with her other hand. She grabbed it and held for her life. Looking down, she saw the rush of white water under the bow and felt the momentum of the ship as it began to slow. It seemed to take forever. She got a single foothold and clung to the net, spinning in the wind, the icy sea lapping at her feet.

  ORDINARILY HE WOULD have reversed the engines to bring the vessel to a stop in the water, but he couldn’t. The captain of the Tillicum knew that if he did, the small car would pass under the hull only to be shredded by the massive bronze propellers.

  He prayed that there was no one inside the vehicle. He could hear it bouncing, metal against metal, under the hull as the ship passed over it. Air trapped in the vehicle would keep it near the surface, at least for a few seconds. The two men ran to the wing of the bridge and watched as the dark green water glided past the ship.

  The captain grabbed the swivel light mounted on the railing, swung it around toward the water, and flipped it on. A powerful beam of light penetrated the darkness, reflecting off the rippled surface of the sea.

  The first mate ran back inside, grabbed the microphone for the hailing system. “Man overboard. All crew to the railing. Man over.” He could hear the powerful speakers overhead echoing his voice. He repeated it two or three times, then hung up the mike. He’d barely returned to the wing of the bridge when one of the crewmen hollered from below. “There off the stern quarter.”

  The captain swung the light out, searched the water. Someone flung a life ring on a line as far out as it would reach. The captain followed it with his light until it hit the water, then kept moving the beam of light outward over the dark shimmering surface of the sea.

  “There.” He steadied the light, though the continuous movement of the ship made it difficult.

  Barely recognizable, the pulverized vehicle bobbed a few inches above the surface. It was the twisted and battered roof of the small car, held up by a bubble of air under its dome. The mangled metal danced just a few inches above the surface of the sea as water lapped greedily around the edges. A small ripple swept the water driven by a gust of wind, and from the open driver’s window, there was a gush of bubbles. Suddenly the car was gone.

  They swept the water with lights. Now three of them, powerful spots operated by the crew. There was no sign of anyone in the water.

  THE TORN AND tattered nylon mesh of the safety net hung over the front edge of the ferry like a broken spiderweb, and Joselyn hung from it. She looked up, wondering if the net would slip and drop her into the sea. The ship had slowed, but still it moved fast enough to take her under the massive hull if she fell. There were tons of water and cold steel, giving her little chance of being found in the dark water.

  The wind whistled through her clothing, sending a chill through her body. Her hands were numb. Joselyn’s grip on the netting was beginning to slip. In shock, she hung like a rag doll. She tried to clear her mind, to focus. Using her legs she tried to twist her body so that she would be facing the bow of the ship. She tried to reach with her feet for the steel plates at the ship’s bow to get leverage. But the plates curved back and under the overhanging deck forming a prow, before plunging straight down into the water below. It was like trying to climb under an overhanging ledge on a sheer mountainside.

  With one desperate grab, she reached up for another piece of netting with her right hand and snagged it. Now she hung as if on a cross, her arms spread. Somehow she managed to hook her other foot through a piece of the open webbing. She clung there, waiting for help, but no one came. It dawned on her that they couldn’t see her. The crew and passengers were focused on the stern, looking for the car. No one paid attention to the ripped safety net. They were looking for survivors.

  Joselyn could see reflections off the water, beams of light as they made a wide arc over the water and disappeared toward the stern. She could hear voices shouting. The onrushing water at the bow began to slack, as its momentum over the water slowed. The bow wave disappeared, and the rush of white water against steel slowly evaporated. The wind against her back slacked.

  With her foot wedged firmly in the webbing of the net, Joselyn pushed with one leg and climbed hand over hand up the netting. A few passengers were now out on the wing over the car deck. She could hear their voices, asking each other if they could see anything. But no one looked down onto the car deck.

  They were leaning over the railing looking to the starboard side of the ferry as Joselyn clawed her way onto the deck.

  She lay prostrate and exhausted a few feet from the edge of the bow, her face turned sideways, her cheek against the cold steel deck. It took a moment to focus. Then the object she was staring at registered. What filled her line of vision was black rubber, the massive front tire of the diesel truck and trailer rig that had pushed her car into the sea. It was less than six feet away. She scrambled to her knees and looked up at the driver’s door that loomed open, above her. Slowly she stood, eyes fixed on the open cab of the truck six feet up. There was no one inside, behind the wheel or on the passenger side. Whoever had tried to kill her had vanished and now mingled with the other passengers. As Joselyn stood gaping through the open door, she heard footsteps approaching on the deck.

  She quickly moved to the other side of the truck and ducked down between two cars in the next lane.

  Two crewmen started to examine what was left of the safety net. One of the other crewmen climbed up into the seat of the truck. “No key.” He looked under the dash and pulled some loose wires down. Somebody had hot-wired the starter.

  “Don’t mess with it. Let’s get the driver down here and see if he can back it up to balance the load. Did anybody call the Coast Guard?”

  “They called from the bridge.” Several crew members now mingled and talked among themselves, taking charge. No one seemed to notice Joselyn.

  She quietly started to walk up the car ramp to the staircase that led to the passenger deck. The concrete dec
k felt icy. Joss looked down and discovered she had lost her second pair of shoes while struggling to climb back up the safety net. Her purse and her briefcase were still in the car, sinking down to the bottom of the sound. Her clothes were torn where she had been peppered with the splinters from the explosion.

  She opened the door at the top of the staircase and saw the women’s restroom right across the corridor. She slipped into a stall and locked the door.

  Whoever drove the truck into the back of her car thought Joselyn was dead. Her mind was confused. She was still in a state of shock, but her better judgment told her that at least for the moment, it was safer if she remained dead.

  SIXTEEN

  WASHINGTON, DC

  It was now after midnight. The Capitol dome was lit up. Bowlyn could actually see it from the office window that belonged to Sy Hirshberg in the White House’s West Wing. Hirshberg was the national security adviser to the president. He had bags under his eyes and was wearing a black bow tie and a tux as he slouched in his chair behind the big cherry wood desk.

  Bowlyn had snagged him as he headed home from a party at the Kennedy Center following a performance. He had thought better of discussing his problem with other members of the Working Group before giving his boss a heads-up. No doubt what Bowlyn was about to tell him was going to ruin Hirshberg’s day.

  “Can we make this quick? I’ve got a seven-thirty meeting tomorrow morning and a flight out to New York at ten.” Hirshberg was on his way to meet with some of his counterparts from Europe at the U.N. to discuss Bosnia and the Middle East.

  Bowlyn took a long, deep breath, then spoke: “We have information that Russian arms merchants may have shipped a nuclear device to clients in the U.S.”

  Hirshberg sat on the other side of his desk, his gaze fixed on his assistant as if he were in a trance. The only sign that he was conscious was the deepening furrows over his brow that set like concrete. Before his boss could speak, Bowlyn anticipated his first question.