Deepkill

by Michael Kilian

  “Erik?”

  “Cat. Get off the boat. Now! Get ashore!”

  “What?”

  “Hurry! Get off the boat!”

  She heard him coming up the stairs, fast. Perplexed, she stepped toward the rail. He was suddenly beside her.

  “Cat. Please! Now!”

  When, confused, she still remained in place, he took her by the waist and lifted her over the rail. He hit the water not two seconds after she did.

  “Hurry!” he said. “Get ashore!”

  They swam several quick strokes and then, touching bottom, lunged forward on foot. She had just stepped onto the beach when a hissing roar split the silence and a great, bright heat enveloped her. She was flying, propelled through the air as though by magic, then slammed down viciously hard against the sand.

  Chapter 28

  Turko pulled the rental truck over onto the shoulder of the road perhaps half a mile short of the main gate to the power plant. Then, to the Iraqi’s dismay, he got out.

  “Move over,” he said. “You will drive.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, if you do not drive, the truck will stay here and will be of no use.”

  “What about you?”

  “I’m going to go ahead on foot.”

  “Why do that?”

  “To provide suppressing fire so that when you crash through the fence, they will not be able to kill you. I will be killing them.”

  The Iraqi showed no sign of moving. “Why don’t I do that and you drive?”

  Turko had a trump card—the best there was. “Because Pec put me in charge of this and if it fails because you would not cooperate, Pec will be unhappy. Have you had experience with Pec when he is unhappy?”

  “It is not in the plan, what you propose to do.”

  “I have changed the plan.”

  “I do not want to die.”

  “And I do not want to die. That’s why I have changed the plan. The Uzbeks will attract the main fire. They should draw most of the guards to that side of the compound. But there may be others. If they turn to fire on you, I need to be in a position to take them out. That I would not be if I were driving the truck or riding in the truck on the passenger side. I would simply be a target.”

  “So what is the new plan?”

  “It is much like the other, only I will position myself to provide covering fire so that you can break through the fence and set off the explosive without harm coming to you.”

  “Break through the fence where?”

  “Where I showed you. Just to the left of the gate. Drive as fast as you can and hit it as hard as you can. That should get you through both the outer and inner fence. Then you run about two hundred feet to the nearest spent-fuel bunker, pull the lanyard on the satchel, and run back. Then we go through the woods to where we left the car.”

  “If it works, there will be radiation.”

  Turko looked behind him. “The wind’s from the west. We will be driving north. We will be fine.”

  “And the Uzbeks?”

  “I think that they will be killed.”

  “We won’t wait for them?”

  “No. If we do that, we will die.”

  The Iraqi opened his door and got out. Cars were passing but none of their occupants seemed to take any special note of them. Turko kept his face turned away from the flare of their headlights.

  “Pec does not want us to live,” said the Iraqi.

  “He wants this job done. If it works, it won’t matter that we live.”

  “Okay.”

  “You will do this, Hussein?”

  “Yes.”

  Turko consulted his watch. “We have eighteen minutes before the Uzbeks are to start their run. Listen for it, then wait a few minutes for the guard force to engage. When they are fully committed, move. Move fast.”

  “Okay.”

  There was another flare of headlights, which made a sweep, that began to slow. The vehicle stopped, freezing the rental truck in brightness. Turko was unhappy to see that it was a police car.

  Westman had hit the sand hard on his right shoulder, rolling over onto his back and throwing his arm over his eyes to shield them against the writhing curtain of flame flung into the air by the explosion. All manner of debris rained down afterward, including a burning life jacket that landed not three feet from him. When the concussion, heat, and debris subsided, he sat up, hurting in a dozen different places. Brushing the sand from his eyes, he looked about frantically for Cat.

  She was near him, off to the right, lying motionless. He went to her at a crouch, as he had done the previous year aiding a fellow investigator when they had come under fire in Colombia. There’d been no shooting here, just the explosive package, which he had triggered entering the cabin where he’d found Joe Whalleys, putting tension on a cord that pulled the lanyard of a delayed-fuse satchel charge. He was amazed they had both gotten off the boat in time.

  She was very still, but conscious. He lifted her gently and turned her in his arms. Her blue-gray eyes were staring, but not at him.

  “Cat. Cat. Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “Not sure. Are you?”

  “Not really. Can you move?”

  She extended her arm, and then her fingers, and then her other arm. “Yes. I’m fine. Do I still have hair? I had this fear the bomb had burned off my hair.”

  He stroked her head, lifting long strands of her silky hair in front of her eyes. “Your hair is very much intact.”

  She craned her neck, looking for Burt. The old pilot was on his knees, staring at the burning wreckage on the water. He was sobbing and swearing, hurling the words “sons of bitches” at the night sky, his fury aimed at the perpetrators of this atrocity and at every son of a bitch who had had a hand in making a botch of his military career and his life.

  Westman held Cat close. She was shivering, though the night was still warm.

  “I flew seven missions in Iraq,” she said. “They were just high-altitude, dumb patrols, but once I got painted by a Ba’athist Iraqi radar. I followed SOP and dropped a precision-guided GBU on the radar unit that targeted me, but I don’t know what I hit. The bomb-damage assessment credited me with a score. I scrammed. I was scared I might get shot down and I was afraid of what they might do to me if I was. Nothing happened. I made it back to the boat. It was a routine trap. Now, all these years later, here in my home state, the bastards come at me again. They almost killed me. Almost killed you.”

  He kissed her, then got to his feet and helped her up carefully. Burt was still on his knees, ranting at his fate.

  “Now it’s our turn again,” he said.

  Cat turned and looked up the beach. “Someone’s coming.”

  The policeman was a New Jersey state trooper. He got out of his patrol car slowly, a flashlight held high in his left hand, his right hand kept near his holstered automatic.

  Turko was standing by the left rear tire. As the policeman approached, he looked down at it, inserting a finger in the tread. Then he stood erect.

  “Do you have a problem, sir?” said the policeman, who was as large as he was young.

  “This wheel was making a noise,” said Turko. “I think maybe it was just a stone caught in the tread.”

  “What do you have in there?”

  “Nothing yet. We are moving furniture in the morning.”

  The policeman remained in place. “Would you open the rear doors, please?”

  Turko shrugged. The satchel charge they’d prepared for this was in the right front seat. He went to the doors in back and pulled on the handle. They swung open with a slight screech of hinge.

  The cargo area was empty, but for two submachine guns Turko had placed under a tarpaulin. The policeman played the light over it. “What’s under there?”

  “Nothing,” said Turko. “I told you. We’re moving tomorrow.”

  The young cop looked at him with great seriousness, leaning close.
“May I see your license and registration?”

  Turko reached for his wallet. The Iraqi reached for a pistol and shot the policeman twice in the back. The gunfire was loud and carried, but by then the Uzbeks had started their attack.

  The senior ranger on duty at the State Park was an older, gruff man, with close-cropped hair and a weather-beaten face. He stared at Westman’s CGIS identification for a long time after it was handed to him, as though there was something he could not quite make out. Finally, studying Westman just as thoroughly, he returned it.

  “And what brings the Coast Guard to this state park?”

  “These people were helping me with an investigation,” Westman said. “Their boat ran aground and I was trying to help them get it under way again.”

  The ranger turned his attention to the sea. There were still flames flickering on floating debris. “That explosion rattled my windows. What was it, bilge fumes?”

  Schilling was standing up, but looked dead. “Wasn’t bilge fumes, damn it. Someone blew up my boat.”

  “Who did?”

  “Don’t know. But I’m going to find out.”

  The ranger turned back to Westman. “What investigation are you talking about?”

  “The Bay Bridge bombing. This is Burt Schilling, captain of the Roberta June—or what little remains of her.”

  “Goddamn bastards,” said Burt, still staring at the wreckage.

  “You brought these vehicles onto the beach after hours,” said the ranger, nodding at the flatbed. “You want to explain why you disobeyed park regulations?”

  There were three other rangers with the man—two men and a young woman. They appeared to have no idea what to do, except stand there and listen to their leader.

  “We were in a hurry to get the boat afloat,” Westman said. “We were going to haul some heavy equipment off her with the winch and put it on the truck, but she blew up before we could even get a line out.”

  “You could have stopped by my quarters on the way in and asked permission.”

  Westman was wearying of this. “Look. I don’t have time to discuss the matter any further. We have two fatalities—crew members. They were aboard the boat when she went up. I have to report this to the Cape May Coast Guard station and the state police as well. So, if you’ll excuse me …”

  He turned his back on the senior ranger and took out his cell phone. Cat limped over to Schilling to comfort him, ignoring the rangers as well.

  Dewey answered immediately, very businesslike. “This is the Coast Guard cutter Manteo, Lieutenant Dewey speaking.”

  “Tim, it’s Erik. I’ve got a bad situation here. The Roberta June’s been sabotaged, we’ve got two dead. The local park rangers are trying to arrest us for trespassing. I need some assistance on the scene.”

  “Can’t assist anyone,” Dewey replied. “The Farmingdale Nuclear Power Plant’s taking automatic-weapons fire from the river. We’re en route—full speed.”

  “I don’t understand. The power plant’s under attack?”

  “Affirmative. From the water side. We’ve got everything that floats under way.”

  Westman’s place now was up the Delaware at the attack scene. Orders, suspensions, the chain of command, none of that mattered. With the Coast Guard’s limited resources, the first responsibility of any officer or seaman was deciding priorities. This one was obvious.

  But he could be two hours getting to the New Jersey side of the river—if he could ever get free of these park rangers.

  Westman took a step closer to the chief ranger, and used his cell phone again, calling the Delaware State Police.

  “This is Special Agent Erik Westman of the Coast Guard Investigative Service,” he said, loudly enough for all the rangers to hear. “I am in Henlopen State Park, on the beach approximately one and a half miles south of the cape. There has been an explosion aboard a boat that ran aground and homicide is suspected. We have two fatalities. I’m requesting assistance. All available Coast Guard personnel are responding to an incident at the Farmingdale Nuclear Power Plant in New Jersey.”

  “Stand by, please.” The detective was checking him out. She came back on the phone in less than a minute. “You’re the investigator who worked the three drownings with us?”

  “Affirmative. I have orders to proceed to the power plant. The local park rangers are detaining us. Your assistance is requested.”

  “Got a unit on Highway I now. Will divert.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you think your case is connected to Farmingdale?”

  It would be a useful lie. “Affirmative.”

  Concluding his cell phone conversation, Westman returned the instrument to his pocket and went to stand intimidatingly close to the senior park ranger, who was several inches shorter than he.

  “I have alerted the Coast Guard and summoned the state police,” he said. “They should be here shortly. There has been a terrorist attack on the Farmingdale nuclear plant in New Jersey. I’ve been ordered to get up there. I want you to secure this crime scene until the state police arrive.”

  The senior ranger was standing his ground. “Mister, all I know is that you’ve come sneaking in here at night and somehow a big boat gets blown up. You’re not going anywhere until this is straightened out.”

  It was then that Westman noticed that the ranger had a holstered revolver. What law enforcement officer carried those anymore?

  He leaned even closer. “I have identified myself as an agent of the Coast Guard Investigative Service. We have a major emergency. I am taking these people and leaving now. If you interfere with us any further, I am going to file charges against you for obstructing a federal investigation.”

  The ranger took out his pistol. “I’m following SOP, mister. You’re staying here until the state police arrive.”

  Westman shook his head, then called to Cat and Schilling. “We’re leaving now.”

  “What about Amy and Joe?” Schilling asked.

  “They’re dead, Burt,” said Cat. “We saw them.”

  “We can’t just leave them.”

  Cat glanced back at the rangers, who hadn’t moved an inch. “These people will take care of them.”

  Turko considered the situation carefully. The security guards would fire on the truck. They wouldn’t shoot at the police cruiser. He changed the plan again.

  “I will take the police car,” he said. “I can get in much closer with it before they start shooting. It will be better for you.”

  They lifted the policeman’s body inside the rental truck and closed the doors. Turko gripped the Iraqi’s shoulder in encouragement, then got into the police vehicle, searching for the light and siren switches as he waited for his colleague to start the truck. They would have to hurry, as the Uzbeks were probably dead by now.

  The truck lights came on. Turko started his engine and hit the switches. Thumping onto the hard pavement, he held his speed down until the Iraqi was able to attain some momentum with his heavier vehicle. Then he began to accelerate.

  The truck’s headlights were bouncing and sliding back and forth in Turko’s rearview mirror. The Iraqi was following too closely. They needed more of an interval when they reached the gate.

  Turko slammed on his brakes. The rental truck skidded, its headlights growing large. When Turko stomped the accelerator to the floor, they receded.

  The gate was just ahead. He could see men standing by it, looking his way. Keeping his siren whooping, Turko hit the brakes hard again, slewing sideways and then skidding off toward the other side of the road.

  There were only two security guards at the gate. Turko had expected an army of them. They stared at him, but didn’t raise their weapons. Then they did, looking up the road and at the rental truck that was careening toward them along it.

  The Iraqi didn’t hesitate, but aimed straight for the fence.

  The wrenching squeal of snapping, stressed metal took Turko by surprise with the violence of its sound as the truck smashed through
both fence lines almost without pause. The Iraqi swerved from side to side briefly, then caught sight of the spent-fuel bunker and headed for it.

  One of the security guards opened fire with his automatic weapon, but he hadn’t a clear shot at the Iraqi. Turko watched amazed as Hussein leapt out of the truck and ran the short distance to the bunker, satchel in hand. Coming to a stop, he busied himself with the explosive package for a moment, then broke into a mad run back toward the hole he’d made in the fence.

  He was hit several times and twisted as he fell. Slamming the police cruiser into reverse, Turko backed swiftly around and then ground into forward gear, roaring with squealing tires back up the road. A few seconds later, the darkness behind him flashed bright with a tremendous boom.

  Other cars zoomed by in the oncoming lane, including another state police car. The uniformed officer behind the wheel seemed to pay Turko no mind, intent on his destination. It was several miles up the road.

  Reaching the side road where he had hidden another car—a rusty Pontiac two-door sedan he’d stolen the day before—Turko drove the police car well into the bushes before getting out. He soon had the Pontiac heading north, hoping that was not yet the direction of the wind.

  Lieutenant Dewey had stationed lookouts fore and aft, port and starboard, and had assigned a man full time to the radar. He had a searchlight at the bow and another atop the radar mast playing back and forth over the waters to forward.

  It was the lookout to port who first caught sight of the pontoon boat, which was heading downriver with outboard full out, making a large, visible wake off the cutter’s port beam. It had to be the intruder they’d been alerted to. No one else would be out in these waters at this hour, behaving this way. There was always the possibility it was a drunken fisherman, trying to avoid a citation. But Dewey meant to stop the boat, no matter what.

  The Manteo was keeping pace with the smaller craft, but Dewey needed to overtake it, blocking its path. He needed to get close enough to fire a telling shot.

  “Hugo,” said Dewey to DeGroot. “We need to use the inflatable. I’ll slow for the launch, but not for long. Take the .50-caliber sniper rifle and a good man for the helm. Call me on the intercom when you’re ready.”