Watkins glared at her. “We’re Coast Guard, not EPA. Our first priority is saving lives. They’re not paying us to save the planet.”
“That’s enough,” O’Neill interrupted, beginning to lose patience with Watkins. “We’re not in the habit of letting ships go down without a fight, and we’re certainly not pulling out at the first sign of trouble. You have your orders, Watkins. Now, are you going to follow them, or are we going to have a real problem?”
Watkins stared at him for a long moment as the ship’s frame creaked and groaned around them, straining against the waves lashing its hull. O’Neill was several inches taller than Watkins, and far heavier and stronger—three facts that were not lost on him in that moment.
“No,” he said at last, deciding this was a battle best left unfought for now. “No problem, sir.”
“Then get to it,” O’Neill ordered. “Now.”
Reluctantly Watkins shouldered his pack and turned to the three Russian engineers. “Okay, you three with me,” he snapped. “Show me where the bilge access is on this piece of crap.”
“Where do you want me?” Starke asked as the rest of the group began to break up.
O’Neill kept an eye on Watkins until he was out of the room before turning to her. “You’re with me. I want a look at the ship’s manifest.”
CHAPTER 12
WATKINS STARED AT the rusted, deteriorated steel hatch fixed into the deck beneath him, illuminated by the harsh glow of his flashlight. By the looks of things, it had been quite some time since this part of the ship had been inspected.
“Okay, pull it,” he instructed.
Gripping the hatch cover, Oleg, the largest of the three Russian engineers, pulled upward, arms and shoulders straining as he took the weight. The hatch resisted him for a moment or two, before the rusted hinges finally gave way and the hatch swung back to reveal the darkened space below.
Straight away a noxious smell of decay and corruption filled the compartment, causing Yuri, the youngest of the engineers, to turn aside and retch. The other two had gone distinctly pale as well.
Watkins grinned at him in amusement. Being the place where seawater and all kinds of spillages ultimately pooled and collected and rarely cleaned out, the bilge was often home to some truly foul odors. It wasn’t unknown for ship rats to fall in and die in the fetid water, only adding to the heady aroma.
“Smells worse than an Alabama hooker, doesn’t she?” he taunted them, before approaching the open hatch and shining his flashlight inside to inspect it.
Straight away he knew they were in trouble.
“Well, that ain’t good,” he said, staring at the oily, scum-covered water that had risen to only a couple of feet below the level of the hatch. The movement of the ship was causing it to slosh around like a full bathtub being rocked from side to side.
If the water level continued to rise like this, it would begin to flood the lower compartments. And with no means of pumping the water out, it would only be a matter of time before the ship succumbed.
“Close it up,” he said, having seen enough. He doubted the old, weakened hatch would even contain such flooding, but it was better than nothing. “We’d better get started on that generator.”
O’Neill was back on the bridge, engaged in a so far fruitless search through the ship’s cargo manifest, when the radio call came in from Watkins a minute or two later. “Bilge inspection complete.”
“Give me some good news,” O’Neill said, expecting the opposite.
“I got none for you,” Watkins confirmed. “It’s worse than we thought; almost up to the level of the inspection hatches. If we don’t start pumping within the hour, there’ll be no stopping it.”
Situated high up on the ship, O’Neill could already feel the difference that hundreds of tonnes of water moving uncontrolled were making. The ship seemed to keel over a little more with each wave, and dip a little lower in the water as it passed through each trough.
“Then we’d better get that pump working, hadn’t we, Mr Watkins?”
He could have sworn he heard a muffled curse over the radio net. “We’re on it.”
“Good. Radio when you have an update.”
Watkins said nothing to that, but the sudden wash of static over the net told O’Neill he’d ceased transmitting.
“He doesn’t like you,” Starke warned him, standing over by the ship’s wheel.
O’Neill cocked an eyebrow. “You just figured that out?”
“I mean it. Watch your back around him.”
He frowned. Her warning seemed to extend beyond mere animosity from a work-shy mechanic. “Something I ought to know about?”
The young woman turned away abruptly. “It’s nothing.”
Clearly that was untrue. “Whatever gets said here stays between you and me, okay?”
Starke hesitated for a few moments, then with a sigh turned around to face him again. “I overheard him and Rodriguez talking on the way out here. Watkins was talking trash about you. Nothing but rumors and gossip, I guess.”
O’Neill could feel his heart beating faster. “What kind of rumors?”
“Well, he …” If she hadn’t already been surrounded by the red glow of emergency lighting, he was quite sure he would have seen a deep blush coloring her face. “He said you were involved in some kind of shady operation, that you got one of your team killed and used your connections to avoid a court-martial. That’s why you ended up out here.”
It had come pouring out so fast, as if she wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible, that O’Neill needed a moment or two to process it all. When he did, the familiar sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach, the sense of loss and guilt that had been lingering around him for the past few months returned with a vengeance.
“Like I say, just dumb gossip. All we’ve got out here,” Starke said hastily, seeing his reaction. “Watkins seemed to believe it, though.”
O’Neill took a step toward her. “And you? What do you believe?”
Starke opened her mouth to answer, then hesitated, seeming to think better of it.
The fraught silence was only interrupted when both of their radios sparked up, this time with Rodriguez’ voice.
“Skipper, you copy?”
O’Neill was almost relieved he didn’t have to hear her answer. “Go, Rodriguez.”
“We just opened up Cargo Hold One.”
“How’s it look?” O’Neill asked.
“Well, it’s big,” was Rodriguez’ simple answer as he stared around at the cavernous space stretching out before him.
However, the word big scarcely seemed to do it justice. Nearly two hundred feet in length and spanning the full beam of the ship, Cargo Hold One was one of the largest internal spaces that Rodriguez had seen on any vessel. Bathed in minimal lighting, the impression created was of some great underground world into which the two tiny human explorers had ventured for the first time.
“We’re starting our sweep, but there are a lot of containers in here,” he warned, surveying the maze of steel boxes stretching off before him. “Could take a while. Anything on the manifest?”
“Nothing yet. Let me know what you find. O’Neill out.”
Clicking off his radio, Rodriguez descended the set of steel stairs from the catwalk that encircled the upper level of the hold, with Dmitry following. The Russian however seemed less than sure-footed as the ship continued to pitch and roll, and stumbled for a moment as he lost his balance.
“Lost your sea legs?” Rodriguez asked, surprised.
“It is new to me. This is only my second trip,” Dmitry explained, looking sheepish. “I fix tractor engines before I come here.”
Rodriguez glanced at him, shocked. “And they made you chief engineer?”
The Russian flashed a wry grin. “Captain needs engineer, I need job. Anyway, engines are engines.”
The Coast Guard seaman shook his head in disbelief. No wonder this tub had gotten into trouble so fast. Thinking it best n
ot to question him further, Rodriguez shone his light on the first of many steel shipping containers laid out along both sides of the room. This was a forty-foot unit; one of the largest of its kind that could reasonably fit into most shipping holds.
He moved closer to inspect it, and found it locked and secured with heavy chains and padlocks. Reaching out, he held up the lock, looking for any signs of tampering.
“Be careful,” Dmitry warned him.
Rodriguez frowned. “Something I ought to know, chief?”
“Lock is not the only safety measure,” the engineer explained. “Many shipping contractors in Russia booby-trap containers. Stop people fucking with their cargo.”
“So you’re saying this thing could blow up in my face?”
Dmitry shrugged. “Maybe. You want to test it, be my guest. I will stand back.”
“Fuck that,” Rodriguez decided, allowing the lock to fall back into place with a metallic clang.
A visual inspection of another dozen or so units yielded up nothing of note. All of them looked sound and untouched as far as he could tell, and he suspected it would be a similar story with the others. Certainly none of their doors appeared to be open, and he doubted pirates would take the time to carefully lock up after themselves if they’d come down here to steal something.
“Ever get the feeling this is a wild goose chase?” he asked, his voice echoing down the big compartment.
“No geese here, my friend,” Dmitry replied, clearly misunderstanding.
“Yup, that about covers it.” Rodriguez fired up his radio again. “Skipper, come in.”
“Yeah, Rodriguez?”
“I’m not seeing anything unusual down here. Whatever these pirates were after, I don’t think it was in the cargo hold.”
There was a pause. “Copy that. Get yourselves to the engine room and help Watkins with the generator.”
“With pleasure.” Rodriguez was just turning toward Dmitry when he paused, alerted by an unusual sound.
A thumping noise, soft and muted, coming from nearby.
“You hear that?” he asked.
The Russian stopped, looking perplexed. “What?”
“Shh!” Rodriguez stood still, straining to hear over the creak and groans of the old ship riding out the storm.
There! He heard it again, a soft thump. Something hitting a metal surface.
“Maybe something hit the hull?” Dmitry suggested.
Rodriguez shook his head. “No way, it’s inside the compartment.” His flashlight beam played across the steel boxes lined up around them. “It’s coming from one of the containers.”
Slowly retracing his steps as quietly as possible, he listened intently until he heard it again, closer now. His instincts told him it was coming from the next container along—Number 29.
“Maybe cargo shift inside it,” Dmitry said.
Frowning, Rodriguez reached out and thumped the side of the container twice with his fist. Moments later, the container resounded with the same two thumps, coming from inside.
“Sonofabitch,” he gasped, eyes opening wide in shock. “There’s someone—”
He was just turning toward his Russian counterpart when something slammed hard into the side of his head. There was an explosion of pain and white light, followed by growing darkness as his legs gave way beneath him and he collapsed to the deck.
The Russian looked down on the unconscious man without emotion, then tossed aside the wrench he’d used against Rodriguez and reached for the radio concealed in his overalls.
He spoke a single terse command in Russian. “It’s time.”
CHAPTER 13
“WHAT THE FUCK?” Watkins said, having found the source of the generator problem but refusing to believe it was something so simple. “Tell me you guys remembered to open the coolant feeds when you turned this thing on?”
The generator was equipped with a computerized management system. Without fresh water cycling through to cool it down, it had recorded a dangerous temperature spike and shut itself off to prevent damage. Anyone with half a brain could have seen that.
The Russian engineering team looked away uncomfortably, apparently having no idea what he was talking about. And somehow he doubted it was because of language differences.
“Jesus, who did you screw to get this job anyway?” he mumbled, opening the fresh water valve and clambering out from beneath the unit. He glanced at the young guy with the short blond hair who was standing by the generator control panel. “Okay, fire it up, erm … Yuri,” he said, struggling to remember his name. “If you can manage that, I mean.”
Shooting him an irritated look, Yuri turned the security key, then hit the green start-up button. The unit turned over once, then twice, caught on a little and seemed to fade out. Watkins held his breath, then suddenly the generator rumbled into life as fuel began to flow into its combustion chamber.
Almost immediately the mains lights around them flickered on, replacing the dull red glow of emergency lighting, and ventilation machinery hummed back into activity as the ship returned to life. It was a relief to feel fresh air circulating again.
“There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Watkins grinned, only to be met with a wall of disapproving frowns, as if they resented him doing what they plainly couldn’t. “You’re welcome, by the way.”
Feeling pleased with himself, Watkins made for the nearest wall-mounted intercom and hit the button for the bridge. Restoring power had also rebooted the ship’s internal communications system.
“Bridge, this is your friendly engine room staff calling,” he began sarcastically. “Looks like we’re back in business.”
“Good job, Watkins,” O’Neill said, paying him a rare compliment. “How soon can we start pumping water out?”
“Right now. She should be ready to go, unless these guys have somehow screwed up the bilge pumps too.”
“All right. Fire it up.”
“Copy that.” He turned away from the intercom to bark some orders at the engineering crew—only to freeze at the sight of three automatics trained on him. “What the hell is this?”
“Get down on knees,” the big one, Oleg, commanded.
Watkins hesitated less than a second before suddenly turning and making a run for the intercom. Oleg was faster: grabbing Watkins before he could reach the unit, he hurled him across the room like a rag doll. He landed hard against a set of coolant pipes fixed against the hull, bruising his back and knocking the breath from his lungs.
Springing forward again on instinct, he tried to launch himself at the far larger and stronger opponent but a pair of arms seized him from behind. A kick to the back of his knee dropped him to the deck, and he looked up just as Oleg swung the pistol down on his head.
CHAPTER 14
O’NEILL WAS ON the bridge, where status boards and navigation consoles were now flickering back into action. As they did so, various alarms began to sound, long-neglected systems performing automatic status checks and reporting on the problems that had arisen while the power was off, chief amongst which were the bilge flooding alarms.
“That doesn’t sound good,” Starke observed.
O’Neill glanced at her. “Ever known an alarm that did?”
Disabling the loud, urgent alarm tone, O’Neill scanned the unfamiliar controls until he found the enabling switches for the emergency bilge pump, and turned them on. Time would tell whether it was enough to counteract the flooding, but at the very least, it might buy them time until the Munro arrived with more personnel and equipment.
Crossing to the intercom station, he found the button for the engine room and hit it. “Watkins, come in,” he said, and waited for a response.
When one wasn’t forthcoming, he repeated: “Watkins, any engineering personnel, respond.” Still there was nothing, and an attempt to raise him via his walkie-talkie yielded similar results.
“Comms could be on the fritz again,” Starke suggested.
“Maybe,” he agreed, though he was u
nable to quell the uneasy feeling that had stirred in the pit of his stomach. Hesitating a moment, he nodded as if to himself and turned to his subordinate. “I’m going down there to take a look, find out what’s what. Stay here and keep an eye on things.”
“Be careful, skipper,” the young woman said just as he was leaving.
O’Neill lingered for a moment in the doorway, not sure what to say to her, before heading below, leaving Starke alone on the bridge.
In the Motor Life Boat outside, Wyatt Richards grimaced as the small Coast Guard vessel bumped against the unyielding hull of the Ossora, propelled by another big wave that had come crashing in. He was by now thoroughly sick of enduring these stormy conditions, and eager to cast off.
The MLB was designed to right itself automatically in the event of being capsized, but it was by its nature made of lightweight materials that could endure only so much punishment. If hit hard enough, it would break apart like driftwood against the much larger cargo vessel.
That was not a comforting thought.
Spotting movement above, he glanced up just as a figure swung over the deck railing and descended quickly by a rope harness they’d rigged up. He couldn’t make out much in the spray and darkness, but he did recognize the distinctive Coast Guard wet-weather gear.
Hope surged through him. Perhaps O’Neill had ordered an evacuation. Or maybe he was to head back to base rather than risk the MLB in such dangerous conditions. Either way, it was better than sitting alone on the vessel’s cramped bridge, being thrown around like a toy.
Waiting until the boarding party member had descended to deck level, Richards zipped up his jacket, yanked open the hatch and stepped out to greet them.
“Hey, what’s going on up there?” he asked, having to yell to be heard over the howling wind.
Suddenly the hood slipped back, revealing a face that didn’t belong to any of his teammates.
“Oh, shit!” Richards gasped, immediately going for his sidearm.
Deadly Cargo: BookShots Page 5
