“Big ship,” Starke remarked, amazed that a vessel of this size could be operated by such a small crew. No wonder they’d run into trouble.
Resuming his position at the radio, O’Neill switched it over to external loudspeaker and tried his hail again. “M.V. Ossora, this is U.S. Coast Guard vessel approaching on your port beam, responding to distress call. Stand by to receive boarding party. Acknowledge by radio or visual signal now.”
To no one’s surprise, there was no response from the vessel.
“Where the hell is everyone?” Richards asked, clearly unnerved by the lack of communication. “Those floodlights must be visible from ten miles away.”
“Maybe the crew abandoned ship,” Starke suggested, though such an action would make little sense. The Ossora might have been robbed of engine power, but there was no obvious sign that she was listing or taking on water.
O’Neill shook his head. “They’d have to be desperate to bail out in this sea.” He pointed up to the superstructure, where the portside lifeboat was still securely attached to its launching rail. “Anyway, at least one of the lifeboats is still aboard.”
“One hundred yards,” Richards reported.
“Bring us up alongside. Looks like there’s an access ladder amidships,” O’Neill said, indicating a set of steel rungs protruding from the hull. Ascending to the deck in weather like this wasn’t going to be much fun, but with no crew answering their hails it seemed there was little choice.
As Richards altered course to port, O’Neill hit his intercom. “Crew, stand by for boarding duty. Gear up.
“Starke, with me,” O’Neill said, opening the hatch to venture outside. Straight away a chill gust of wind whipped through the bridge, accompanied by a spray of rain and seawater. “Might want to button up.”
Zipping up her waterproof jacket and pulling the hood close, Starke followed the skipper out onto the exposed bridge positioned slightly above and behind them.
The cold hit her straight away, icy blasts of wind howling in from the north and carrying with them a mixture of sleet and rain that chilled any exposed skin within seconds. The towering bulk of the Ossora was now perilously close, looming over them like some ancient behemoth poised to crush them beneath its weight.
“Let’s go!” O’Neill said, moving down to the starboard deck and lowering a couple of fenders over the side to absorb the impact when they made contact.
Starke followed him, clutching the guard rail tight. The MLB was pitching and rolling hard in the rough seas, though fortunately the bulk of the Russian freighter was helping to shield them from the worst of the weather.
Like O’Neill, Starke was wearing a life jacket and thermally insulated wet-weather gear that would provide a degree of warmth even when submerged, but she was under no illusions about their chances if they went overboard. Life expectancy in this frigid water was down to mere minutes.
They were moving roughly parallel to the ship’s hull as Richards inched them cautiously closer. She could see his anxious expression through the bridge windows as he fought with the wheel and throttle controls. Even a collision at low speed could severely damage their boat in such rough conditions.
O’Neill meanwhile was standing by with a grapple hook and line attached to a deck-mounted winch, ready to throw it as the ladder came into range. Starke tensed up as their target edged closer, silently praying he didn’t miss. Such a failure would mean circling around to take another run at it.
With a single deft movement, O’Neill hurled the grappling hook, which bounced off the hull between two rungs and lodged firmly around the lower one. Straight away Starke turned to Richards in the enclosed bridge and drew her fingers across her throat, signaling him to cut engine power.
As the MLB throttled down, O’Neill hit the winch. The line to the grapple hook rose up out of the water, then grew taut as it pulled the Coast Guard boat in towards the Ossora’s hull. A sudden bump told Starke they had made contact and were now firmly anchored against the target vessel.
Turning towards her, O’Neill gave her a nod, then reached for the radio unit fixed to his shoulder. “Rodriguez, Watkins, on deck.”
“Copy that. Should we open up the small arms locker?” Rodriguez asked.
O’Neill hesitated, saying nothing. Starke frowned in surprise, wondering what was troubling him.
“Skipper?” Rodriguez repeated. “Weapons?”
“Very well,” O’Neill said at last. “Bring them up.”
CHAPTER 7
“UGLY OLD BITCH, ain’t she?” Watkins remarked, staring at the rust-streaked hull rising up into the darkness above them. His thinning hair was plastered to his head by the rain and wind, but oddly the cold seemed not to trouble him.
“Let’s just get this done,” O’Neill said, inserting a magazine into the SIG P229 automatic pistol and allowing the slide to move forward, drawing the first round into the breech. The familiar click of the feed mechanism at work sent a chill of foreboding through him that he did his best to ignore.
After checking the safety was engaged, O’Neill slipped the weapon into his hip-mounted holster and made sure the guard flap was locked down. The last thing he wanted was for the weapon to come loose and tumble into the sea during his ascent.
Starke and Watkins were similarly armed with SIG automatics, while Rodriguez was busy loading shells into a Remington pump-action shotgun. Between them, the four-man boarding party had enough firepower to handle just about anything that was likely to be thrown at them. Hopefully it wouldn’t come to that.
Firing up his radio once more, O’Neill spoke into it. “Radio check. Richards, stand by on the MLB and be ready to send out a distress call if we raise the alarm.”
“Copy that, skipper,” came the crackly reply.
“Lucky bastard,” Rodriguez said with a wry grin. “Keep the coffee warm for us, asshole.”
“Remember, weapons are for defense only,” O’Neill added, giving Watkins a warning look. “Do not fire unless fired upon. And watch yourselves during the ascent—move slow and careful. I don’t want anyone falling overboard. Everyone clear?”
He was met with a round of affirmatives.
Venturing across the deck, O’Neill gripped the first rung of the ladder and tested his weight on it. Like the rest of the ship, the ladder was marked by corrosion, especially around the welding points, but seemed solid.
With this thought weighing on his mind, O’Neill began his ascent, moving slowly and deliberately, testing each rung before trusting his weight to it. The rocking movement of the ship constantly changed his angle of ascent, occasionally taking it beyond vertical so that he was left with little choice but to hook his feet in and wait for the vessel to stabilize.
Nonetheless, the ladder remained sound, and he was able to make his ascent without incident. Scrambling up onto the midships deck about thirty seconds later, he drew the SIG automatic and swept the area.
As he’d expected, the place was deserted. Both big cargo doors were closed and locked; apart from a few running lights, the place was in darkness. The only noise coming from the vessel was the clank and rattle of chains high up in the crane winch machinery overhead as they swayed with the motion of the waves.
“US Coast Guard!” he shouted, not expecting a reply. “Anyone on board?”
Rodriguez was up next, quickly followed by Starke and Watkins. Unhooking their flashlights, they scanned the immediate vicinity, their beams illuminating neglected deck fixtures and spots of rain and sleet whipping across the ship.
“Real garden spot,” Rodriguez remarked.
“Fucking ghost ship, man,” Watkins added. “Place is like a tomb.”
Ignoring his grim assessment, O’Neill nodded towards the superstructure. “The bridge is this way. Let’s go.”
Ascending a flight of stairs leading to the portside hatch, the boarding party paused for a moment with weapons ready as Rodriguez gripped the locking mechanism, rain dripping from his wet-weather gear. At a nod from O
’Neill, he spun the wheel over and swung the hatch outward, allowing the team to make entry.
The companionway beyond was barely any better maintained than the ship’s exterior. Cigarette butts and other minor debris littered the floor, and the place was illuminated only by the dim red glow of emergency lights. Clearly the ship’s generators were no longer functioning. Still, at least it was dry and, compared to the freezing winds outside, relatively warm.
“Anybody home?” Watkins called out, his voice echoing eerily down the empty corridor before returning to them a moment later.
O’Neill exchanged a look with Starke but said nothing. Picking his way down the corridor with the rest of the party in tow, he reached an open hatch on his right. Beyond it lay the ship’s mess hall: a narrow compartment with a pair of long tables taking up most of the internal space, and a small kitchen area at the far end. He could still smell the lingering odor of tobacco and greasy food in the air.
The team’s flashlight beams illuminated a couple of coffee cups sitting on the nearest table, as if their owners had stood up and departed mere moments before the team arrived. Removing his glove, O’Neill dipped his finger in one. It was stone cold.
“Nobody’s been here for a while,” he decided.
Starke looked around the abandoned room, frowning. “I don’t get it. If the crew didn’t bail out in a lifeboat, where the hell did they go?”
“Place is a goddamn Mary Celeste. Never seen anything like it,” Rodriguez said, his voice uncharacteristically hushed. “This is some X-Files bullshit here.”
“Pussy,” Watkins taunted him.
“Who are you calling a pussy?”
“Knock it off, both of you,” O’Neill interrupted before their exchange turned into a full-scale argument. “We’re here and we’ve got a job to do. Move on.”
Retreating from the mess hall, they continued down the corridor until they reached what looked like a central stairwell that cut through the core of the ship. Below lay the engine rooms and machine spaces, while up above at the top of the superstructure was the ship’s bridge.
Leaning over the guard rail, O’Neill peered down the poorly lit stairwell to the bottom of the shaft, several decks below. Like everything else they’d seen so far, there was no sign of life down there.
Searching the entire vessel from bow to stern with a four-man boarding party would take hours. Anyway, that wasn’t their only concern. Even if there was currently no explanation for the missing crew, they still had to deal with a ship that was drifting without power or navigation. Something had to be done to bring it under control.
“Okay, we split up,” he decided. “Starke and I will work our way up to the bridge, see if there’s any clues there. Watkins, you and Rodriguez get down below, assess the status of the engines and report back to me. We need those generators back up.”
Without waiting for a response, he clicked the transmit button on his radio. “Richards, what’s your status?”
“Taking a pounding out here,” Richards replied. “This weather’s getting worse. I’m worried we’re going to part our mooring line.”
“Copy that. Hang tight, we’re going to try to get the power back up.”
“Any sign of the crew?”
“Nothing yet,” O’Neill confirmed. “Looks like she’s been abandoned.”
“Roger. Standing by.”
Clicking the radio off, O’Neill turned to the others. “Okay, let’s get this done. Move slow, keep your eyes open and call out anything if you see it. Questions?”
“When can we get off this old tub?” Watkins asked cynically.
“When our job’s done,” O’Neill replied. “Now get going.”
CHAPTER 8
GRIPPING THE SIG automatic tight, O’Neill advanced out of the stairwell and onto the Ossora’s bridge. Like the rest of the ship’s internal spaces, the room was bathed only in the dull red glow of emergency lighting, its navigation consoles blank and its instrument panels powered down. Without mains power, the equipment in this room offered no control over the vessel, and few clues as to its current status. Outside in the darkness, rain continued to lash against the windows.
“Weird seeing a ship’s bridge like this,” Starke said, surveying the deserted room.
O’Neill was about to move deeper into the room, but stopped, alerted by a familiar smell lingering in the air. Not the scent of tobacco or coffee, but something stronger and acrid. He was willing to bet it was the smell of burned cordite.
“Watch yourself, Starke,” he advised, treading carefully as he moved over to the chart table, searching amongst the various maps and navigation documents until he found what he was looking for.
By law, a ship’s logbook had to be carried and maintained by the crew of any large vessel, but there were actually two versions kept aboard for the sake of convenience. The “rough log” was filled out every few hours by the chief officer of the watch, recording the ship’s speed, position, and heading, as well as any notable events. Given that such entries depended on the diligence of the officer on duty, rough logs could vary considerably in detail and quality. Only later was this hastily written information transcribed by the captain into the official logbook, known as the “smooth log.”
In this case, however, the rough log was preferable as it was generally the most up to date. Laying the large notebook down on the chart table, O’Neill flicked through its pages until he found the last entry. Unsurprisingly, given the ship’s port of origin, the notes were in Cyrillic, but he had enough of a working knowledge of the Russian language to make sense of it.
Starke moved in beside him as he scanned the notes that seemed to have been scribbled in a hurry. “Last entry was at 15:00 hours today. Heading was south-southwest at twelve knots. Bad weather and heavy seas reported.”
The young woman glanced up at him. “No mention of engine problems?”
O’Neill shook his head.
“Maybe they never had time to log it?” she suggested, unsure.
“Maybe,” he said, sounding as unconvinced as he felt.
“I’ll see what else I can find.”
As she moved off to survey the rest of the bridge, O’Neill turned his attention to the ship’s helm controls. A glance at the engine telegraph revealed it was set to All Stop, while a check of the gyrocompass (one of the few instruments that didn’t require power) showed they were facing roughly due west, drifting with the current. That was bad news, as any big waves would break against the ship’s broadside, increasing their roll and, in extreme cases, the chance of capsizing.
He was just turning away when his foot touched something, causing it to roll across the floor before pinging against a command console. Reaching down, he picked up the object and held it in the beam of his flashlight. It was a 9mm brass shell casing.
“Sir, you’d better take a look,” Starke said at the same moment, her voice low and urgent. “Got some blood over here.”
Hurrying over, O’Neill found her crouched down on the starboard side of the room. Sure enough, the bright beam of her flashlight had picked up blood streaked across the deck. The red emergency lights had effectively camouflaged the crimson markings until she’d chanced upon them.
The young woman glanced up, her face etched with concern. “Trouble here.”
Following the blood trail with his light, O’Neill could see that it led over to the hatch used to access the starboard bridge wing. The implication was clear—someone had been shot here, and their body dragged outside where it had likely been thrown overboard.
“Shit,” O’Neill said, firing up his radio. “Watkins, Rodriguez, what’s your sitrep?”
It was Rodriguez who replied, his transmission garbled by the storm and the layers of metal decking between the two parties. “Say … your last, skipper. Trans … breaking up.”
“We may have armed hostiles aboard,” he warned. “Hold position and wait for backup. Repeat, hold position.”
CHAPTER 9
DEEP
IN THE bowels of the ship, Rodriguez checked the frequency on his radio before hitting transmit again. “Skipper, negative copy on your last. Say again.”
His only reply was fragments of words interspersed with garbled static.
“God damn it,” he said under his breath. “The hull must be fucking up the signal.”
“Quit screwing around, man,” Watkins said irritably as he tried to open the bulkhead door standing in their way. “Help me with this thing.”
As best they could tell, the ship’s engine room lay on the other side, though the hatch had either seized up or been sealed and locked internally. Either way, a few experimental taps on the metal had confirmed that the room beyond wasn’t flooded.
Shaking his head, Rodriguez turned down the volume on his now useless radio and strode forward, moving the smaller man aside none too gently.
“Jesus, get out of the way and let a real man through,” he said, gripping the wheel lock holding the hatch closed, and applying his considerable strength to the task.
The powerful muscles across his shoulders and arms bunched and strained as he fought to turn the lock. The metal creaked and groaned under the pressure but refused to turn.
Finally conceding defeat, Rodriguez released his grip and backed away a step, sweating and out of breath, and staring at the door like its refusal to open was a personal slight against him. Watkins meanwhile was leaning against the wall, smirking with amusement.
“You were saying?”
Without replying, Rodriguez reached into the satchel he’d slung over his shoulder, opened it and fished out what looked like a block of plastic wrapped in green Mylar film imprinted with the logo CHARGE DEMOLITION M112. Using his knife, he sliced off a small chunk of this material and fixed it to the upper hinge on the hatch, then repeated the process for the lower hinge, pressing and molding the pliable material until it enveloped the metal structure.
“Jesus, you going Rambo on us?” Watkins asked, surprised that his comrade would resort to such extreme measures just to force open a door.
Deadly Cargo: BookShots Page 3
