The Target

by Roger Weston

  Cold wind pounded on the frozen top layer of snow. He watched his feet. Jake clung to rocks as he scaled the sloped ice. Climbing up a wind-swept gully, he lost traction and went into a slide. Just as his life was flashing before his eyes, he took a brutal body shot in the chest and gut. Like a corpse he lay next to a protruding rock, but pain told him that he was still alive. He was also conscious enough to guess at whether or not he’d sustained internal injuries. He didn’t move for a couple of minutes.

  When an animal was wounded and hurting in a situation like this, it would burrow down into the snow to rest for a couple of days to fast and recover, to rebuild strength and heal. Or maybe it would drag itself to a nook or a cave for shelter. Man was a different kind of beast. Conceived in the fires of passion and born to eternal struggle, man pursued goals in spite of pain and fought on in spite of injury. Man was a wave of the sea. You could beat it with a club, but it would just keep on coming. Just as a wave could change its form from a roller to a breaker as it approached the shore, man could change his appearance or strategy for greater advantage. A man was a beast that fought until his last grasping breath and who often seized victory from the chaos of doom.

  Jake slowly forced himself back up and resumed his hard slog. As he climbed the gully, he thought of nothing at all but his next step and the sound of his pulse in his ears. When he got back up into the snow, he toiled wearily for altitude gain, glad to be past the bare ice.

  Either way, it was a conflict. There was the internal battle. The weary flesh fought against a man’s beliefs and convictions when he strove for noble deeds and did not flee from adversity but hunted out its hidden gems.

  Half way up the mountain, his leg throbbed with pain. As he climbed the mountain, weakness saturated every cell in his body, but the spirit ruled over the flesh just as years ago Stuart had driven him in the mountains—driven him beyond exhaustion in spite of hunger and sleep deprivation. He felt light headed. His pulse raced. It had to be the blood loss, he thought. He was thankful to make progress and gain altitude—even at a turtle’s pace, even in pain. He was thankful just to put one foot in front of the other. As he toiled up the mountain side, each step took concentration and maximum effort. Inner exhaustion cried out to him, but he only listened to the overcoming voice.

  Carrying his skis over his shoulder, he slogged up the hill with all the speed of a sea turtle on land.

  When he came to the high ridge, the gusts pounded him, and he sunk down in the snow. He was looking down into a bay northwest of the bay where the whaling station was located. The landscape struck him as slightly unnatural, but he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. The Neumayer Glacier was clear enough as it filled a valley and ended with an ice cliff where it met the sea. Up the coast a little ways was another story. A steep, snow-covered mountain sloped right down into the bay. Just east of an avalanche chute, there appeared to be a massive patchwork of connected white tarps against the cliffside, stretching over two hundred feet. At first, he thought he must have been seeing things and that it was just the side of a cliff covered in snow and ice. After watching it for a minute, he was confident that the cliffside of the mountain was a fake. White tarps, the size of Olympic pool covers, were strung together and covering something. Battered by the wind, the tarp moved and gyrated. A plane flying high overhead would be fooled, but not a man down on the ground.

  He sat there for over twenty minutes, barely moving an inch. He just watched and listened. At times he tried not to look directly at the tarp, but sort of gazed across the whole area allowing his subconscious to form impressions. He wondered what could possibly be hidden there. Occasionally, above the sounds of the waves crashing on the beach far below, he heard a male voice bellow out an order. Jake decided that there was some kind of work taking place, perhaps an illegal mining operation. He wondered if the missing scientists from the research station might be down there.

  “With his binoculars, he saw something that made his blood run cold. A sniper was perched on the hillside west of the massive tarp. He hadn’t noticed him before because he had been so entranced with studying the optical illusion of the white tarp with the snow background. The sniper hadn’t stood out because he was west of the fake mountainside and because he was also dressed in white. It was only his face that had stood out against the snow, and Jake had panned across the area several times before he noticed the man. Jake figured the sniper was a mile away, which meant Jake was within shooting range if the shooter was highly skilled and had an excellent rifle. Fortunately, the man was distracted by a killer whale that was surfacing in the bay near various icebergs.

  Jake considered the situation. They’d been attacked by a gunboat. Now a massive camo tarp that must have cost tens of thousands of dollars was hiding some kind of operation in one of the most remote and wild locations on the planet. A sniper watched over the operation—and there were probably more gunmen that Jake couldn’t see. He ruled out this being any kind of military operation because he couldn’t believe a peacetime military patrol in the Southern Ocean would conduct a hit and run on a group of unarmed sailors and passengers. There was only one way to find out what was going on.

  As he was skiing back down to the whaling station, he flew off a series of mounds catching up to fifteen feet of air before making what would normally be soft landings. Now, however, the nerves in his thigh flared up from the jolts, the pain became excruciating, and he was having a hard time turning as a result. His leg badly needed a couple of weeks of rest. When he was most of the way down the ridge, he planted his poles, skidded to a stop, and watched a shocking and awe-inspiring sight. Unfortunately, it was not a long-lost shipwreck.

  The sight far below frightened him. Seal colonies inhabited not only the beach in front of the whaling station, but also the beaches to the north. Many seals lay around at the water’s edge. Near one of these, Jake saw the water surge up as if a mega torpedo was rushing below the waves. Then a killer whale broke the surface and slid up onto the sand where its teeth clamped down on a seal. With the helpless seal flailing between the crushing jaws, the killer whale flipped back and forth until it worked its way back into the water. Then it sunk beneath the waves with its prey.

  Jake stood there in awe in a cold rising wind. He shook. For him, this was no sightseeing excursion, and the whales were no passing curiosity. The only way he could approach the hidden operation in the next bay was underwater with his new scuba gear. The killer whales made sharks seem like gold fish in comparison. Jake was glad that the whale had gotten his seal. Maybe that would satiate his hunger for a while and he’d move on. Either way, Jake decided to wait around the whaling station for a while before he went diving.

  CHAPTER 9

  One hour turned into two as Jake found himself procrastinating. Usually, he could hardly wait to get in the water, but today, for some reason he found land more comforting. He took his time while he changed his blood-soaked bandages, but didn’t tell Talia how he was doing. She would have tried to tell him to rest, and the way he felt, he might listen. Gale force winds didn’t help either. No doubt they would stir up the water and reduce visibility. Any excuse to waste time would do.

  The gale whistled around buildings and clattered loose sections of metal siding.

  Talia cornered him in the blacksmith’s shop and said she was worried over his blood loss. Jake thanked her for her concern. “How the others doing?” he said.

  She shook her head and looked away. “The two scientists are overdue. They should have been back by now.”

  Jake sighed. “What about Efron?”

  “He’s doing fine. Dale Pace disappeared, but one of the sailors found him hobbling with his cane only a half mile to the south.

  “What about Len Jackson?”

  “He’s still gone. Listen, Jake. I’m worried about you. Ava’s been telling everyone that you probably sabotaged the ship and that’s why you’re always in such a hurry to leave and avoid them. A few of the sailors were saying you can’t be
trusted anymore.”

  “Who said that?”

  “Your two watch dogs—Braulio and José.”

  Jake frowned. “What is it with Ava? Why is she so determined to blame me for a bomb?”

  “I don’t know. She’s very stressed out. I think she’s panicked.”

  “Look, you need to be careful, Talia, and alert. Get the pistol from the blacksmith’s shop and use it for protection. I have to go. I can do more good on the move.”

  She shook her head and looked at him like he was out of it. “Haven’t you heard? The pistol is gone.”

  Jake was silent for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I shouldn’t have left it there. That was a mistake. Just be careful, alright.”

  Finally, it was getting dark, and it was definitely time to go. Putting off priorities for another day was not an option. He needed to find out what they were up against before the gunboat returned.

  As Jake was leaving, he was confronted by Braulio, José, and a third sailor, as Ava disappeared around a corner.

  Braulio looked a Jake like at piece of meat he was thinking of tenderizing. “Why you in such a hurry to leave all the time? What are you so afraid of?”

  “I’m scouting out the enemy. I’m also looking for the missing scientists and workers from the research station. I understand that Ava’s been telling lies about me. I didn’t think you would listen to that kind of trash.”

  Braulio shook his head. “I don’t know what’s going on, Sands, but one thing is clear. You’re right in the middle of it. You’re armed, you’re chasing divers, and you sneak away every chance you get. It don’t look good.”

  “I told you I’m innocent.”

  Braulio shook his head. “Whatever you’re up to, Sands, I’ll be watching. If I find proof, I’ll hunt you like wild game.”

  “First, get your facts straight because I don’t want you to learn any hard lessons.”

  Jake got his gear and carried it down the beach past a hundred barking seals and hopefully well clear of the riptide. His heart was pounding like a footrace. Way he saw it, Braulio and Jose were good men who’d been lied to and led astray. He hoped they cooled down, but one thing was clear: Braulio had Jake tagged as an evildoer. Finally, Jake put on his outfit and waded out into four-foot breaking waves. On his first attempt, he was knocked onto his back. On his second try, he went underneath the wave and had no trouble.

  Once he was past the breakers, he swam along the coast for half a mile before he entered the next bay to the north, which was Cumberland West Bay. Thanks to his fins, he slid quickly through the water. His flashlight beam illuminated icebergs, big and small, many of which had probably calved off of the glacier nearby. Currents pulled at him, but with fins he stayed on course. The wind blew hard and waves tossed him like a cork. He felt like he was making more vertical distance than horizontal. Up-down, up down. Fortunately, the currents worked in his favor, but he’d have a tough fight swimming back. Once inside the bay to the north, he stopped and treaded water for a moment, expecting to see the tarp all lit up for the night crew to continue operations, but the whole area was dark. Jake was puzzled. What kind of mining operation only worked during the day and had a total blackout at night? What else could it be in this remote location?

  Jake didn’t know if the sniper was still on the hillside, but if he was, he probably had a night scope (or a thermal imager), so Jake shoved his regulator into his mouth and went underwater. He had more than half a mile to go. He swam for a long time underwater in total darkness. Once he felt the tentacles of fear wrap around him like the arms of an octopus. Thoughts of darkness, riptides, predators, and killer whales swam through his mind. He practically hyperventilated into his breathing regulator. Even though he had a compass, a couple of times he popped his head up above the surface to gauge his position and be sure he was on course. After using up a year’s worth of adrenaline, he approached what looked like a ship’s hull.

  Jake surfaced. He got out his waterproof pin light and switched it on. He turned around and verified that he was beneath the massive camouflage effort. On the underside, the white tarp was attached to and weighted down by an equally huge net of one-inch rope and twelve-inch squares. Actually, it looked like dozens of huge nets had been tied together under a patchwork of adjoined white tarps. The net itself was anchored at twenty-foot intervals by ten-pound sandbags that hung by two-foot tethers. Was the ship part of the mining operation? Jake figured his mining theory was getting thinner by the moment. Somebody was hiding a cruise ship here, but he had no idea why? He did recall that a small, three-hundred foot cruise ship had disappeared recently near the Falkland Islands. He reached down underwater and tied his scuba gear to the net beneath the camo tarp. He then began climbing up the net’s rungs. His head throbbed, and he felt warm blood in the leg of his dry suit. The wound was on fire due to constant work and also some exposure to salt.

  The air was fresh and crisp, and it carried the sounds of the rumbling, crashing wind. Awesome gusts flung themselves against the huge canvas tarp. It sounded like ten runaway freight trains. Pain warmed his gunshot wound like a hot iron, but he took his suffering as a gift. Life often delivered a boot in the mouth, but to accept pain and yet fight on in full confidence when there was no reason for hope—that was how even weakness could bring wings and the thrill of victory. He’d climbed maybe half way up the hull when he let go of the net and stepped off onto a suspended platform.

  He performed a quick inspection with his pin light and found that the platform was for painting the ship’s hull. Jake was amazed. Who would choose a place like this to paint a ship? Why was it so secretive? Why had they sent the gunboat? Jake had to find out. He sat there and rested for a moment in the dark, listening to the crashing wind.

  During a lull in the wind noise, a loud hissing sound made him jerk around. He almost fell backwards and thirty feet down into the water, but grabbed an edge, causing the plank platform to swing on its ropes. As the gale eased off and the tarp fell back a little, he looked over and now dim purple light glowed on another platform forty yards away. Dark lights also ignited above two other platforms. The hiss was a pressure painter. A man with no protective painter’s clothes was doing the work. Jake sunk down low and watched. Other painters were also working without protection.

  One of the painters cried out, “I need a break.”

  A voice from up above answered, “Work or you sleep permanently.”

  There wasn’t much light at all, but even the faint glow from the dim purple lights reflected off the inside of the camo tarp enough for Jake to verify that this was a cruise ship. The fact that gunmen were forcing laborers to paint the ship in such a remote location told Jake that the ship had probably been hijacked, and the passengers had been forced to work. For a certain time period after a hijacking, he guessed, during which a major search would be under way, the criminals would keep the ship hidden beneath the tarp. If a plane flew over, all that the spotters would see was a snow-covered mountainside. After a week, the search would be called off, and the cruise ship, painted a new color and probably disguised in other ways too, would be sailed west through the Drake Passage, far from the regular shipping lanes. It would be sailed to somewhere in Asia and sold on the black market.

  Wind attacked the tarp with a vengeance, thundering all around him, and Jake lost his balance. To save himself, he grabbed one of the ropes holding up the platform.

  Acting quickly, he stripped off his drysuit, reached up, and stuffed it between some of the tarp and the thick netting that the tarp was attached to. He slung his rope over his shoulder. With his hunting knife, he pried the lid off of a five-gallon paint can that had been left on his platform. He dipped his hand into the paint and splattered paint all over himself. Climbing the tarp up to the main deck, he finally got his feet on solid ground and looked around. The ship was nudged up against a steep, snow-covered mountainside that rose above the far side of the ship like a white wall. Jake shoved his Glock 9mm into the holste
r at the small of his back.

  His body stiffened like drying cement when he heard the barking of ferocious dogs.

  “What are you doing out of your cabin?” a man said. He was a black shape in the darkness.

  “They told us our shift was beginning.” It was a woman’s voice that was soaked with fear.

  “Go that way. There’s paint crew up around the corner.”

  Jake went the opposite direction. He thought about the fear in the woman’s voice, but also her accent. She’d sounded like she was from France, so Jake doubted that she was one of the missing people from the science facility at King Edward Point. That was a British station.

  He wandered silently toward the main superstructure. When he got there, he walked past several people who were painting in dim purple light. He wanted to ask them what was going on, but if they weren’t all passengers, he’d probably get himself killed. There was something very creepy about these laborers, but he wasn’t sure exactly what.

  He passed two dozen people in a darksome purple haze. Some worked with brushes, others with paint guns. They toiled at the superstructure, the rails, and the lifeboats.

  Jake went around toward the stern and saw an empty helicopter pad. He also found another two dozen painters. Then it occurred to him why these people were giving him the creeps.

  None of them was saying a word. They were as silent as ghosts.

  The only sound was the wind pounding the tarps.

  Below a dim purple lamp, Jake saw a couple of scuba tanks next to a pile of five-gallon paint cans. He unslung the rope that was across his chest and stashed it behind the cans. As soon as he was around the corner, he ascended a flight of stairs and opened a door. He was about to go in when he heard the high-pitched, whining sound of a helicopter, which sounded like it was a couple hundred yards away from the ship. Where they could be going in heavy winds at this time of night he didn’t know. Maybe they had another ship offshore someplace with a landing pad.