The Target

by Roger Weston

  Jake went inside and walked down a hallway into the main dining room, which was empty. He climbed a stairwell and cracked a door just enough to see down the corridor. Dim hall lights glowed at intervals. There was no sign of life, which didn’t surprise him on this cruise boat. He allowed the door to close soundlessly and climbed stairs up to the next deck. This time when he cracked the door, he saw a handler with two mean-looking Rottweilers on leashes. Jake silently moved on up the stairs. On each of the next two decks, he saw the same thing—armed guards with pairs of attack dogs. Some were Rottweilers; others were Bullmastiffs. All of them looked starved, abused, and vicious.

  Jake snuck back down the first passenger deck. There were no guards or dogs here, so he took a look around to see if the guards themselves were crashing here. He hoped might steal a few weapons from the rooms of those on duty. He drifted down a dim corridor. At a stateroom door, he palmed his Glock and knocked gently on the teak door panels. If a thug answered, he was going to have a bad night. When nobody opened the door, Jake tried the handle and found it unlocked. Inside, he found duffle bags with clothes and cash, but only one pistol. He kept the gun and forced himself not to take a stack of bills that must been worth thousands in US dollars. Jake wondered what crimes these sharks were up to when they weren’t hijacking cruise ships.

  He moved on but changed his mind about entering more rooms. He decided it was best not to muddy up the waters just yet. As he walked by an open doorway, he glanced in and missed a breath. Here again, low dimming lights glowed like phosphorescence, and the metal clamp-down lids covered the portholes. Dozens of wooden boxes had been stacked high in a passenger lounge. What surprised Jake was that a couple of the boxes had been taken down off the stack. They lay on the floor where they’d been torn open. Curiosity pulled him into the room toward those boxes. What kind of illicit cargo might be on this hell ship?

  He’d taken only two steps into the room when he sensed movement to the left with his peripheral vision. He lunged forward, but still took a glancing blow to the head. He hit the floor hard, jarring his left shoulder. Even in the dim light, he got a clear look at the intruder, but the man was wearing a knit face mask. As the intruder aimed his pistol, Jake rolled fast.

  Two silenced shots missed the moving target, and as Jake rolled over the second time, he swung his Glock 9mm toward the shooter—but the man bolted out the door.

  Jake sprung to his feet and peered out into the passage.

  Nobody there.

  A door opened at the opposite end of the hall, and Jake ducked out of sight. He heard two men talking in Spanish. He heard the sound of a cabin door being opened. In Spanish he heard one of the guards talk about a man called El Gitano. The gypsy. He said the name three times; the second man seemed to refer to the Gitano as Alamar. They were talking about a time crunch. The Gitano wanted the painting to go faster. After a few minutes, they left the way they came.

  Jake still didn’t know what was going on, but he could sense the urgency in the men’s voices. He could sense that things were going to happen fast. He remembered the trouble he’d had with the Satphone. Maybe it was a locational issue. On impulse, he got the Satphone out of his waterproof bag and placed a call to Ashley, his researcher back at the University of Washington. He was happily surprised that the call went through.

  “Jake, how are you? Have you seen any penguins on South Georgia?”

  “Yes,” he said quietly, “but I have an important job for you. I can’t explain now, so don’t ask. I just need you to use our contacts and research a criminal called the Gitano or Alamar. Can you do that for me right away?”

  “Okay, sure.”

  “It’s very important. I’ll need a full report by tomorrow. Call me at 3 p.m., South Georgia time. When I talk to you tomorrow, I’ll give you further instructions.”

  Jake hung up. He went over to the wooden boxes and kneeled down to see what the intruder had been looking at. Inside the boxes were metal bars.

  Thoughts of gold and silver rushed through his mind. His pulse raced like a hydroplane on Lake Washington. He switched on his pin light for a better look. He was breathing hard from his exertions and couldn’t hold the light very still, but he got a good look.

  What he saw was some kind of ore—probably precious—but it didn’t appear to be either gold or silver. Jake was disappointed, but he had about as much chance of taking cargo off this ship as he did catching a ferry to Santiago.

  Who was the other intruder? he wondered.

  There were two logical choices. First, one of these crooks was in the middle of embezzlement when Jake had caught him in the act. Second, one of their passengers had turned out to be more than they could handle. Maybe pirates had taken over the ship unaware that one of the helpless passengers was a former Delta Force commando or something. Either way, the intruder was a killer. That was no surprise. Other than the enslaved painters, Jake doubted there was anyone on the ship who would hesitate to kill him.

  He closed the boxes and returned them to the stack.

  The sound of barking dogs nearby put oil in his knees. He skulked down the companionway, going away from the barking sounds. A door sprung open in front of him and two more dogs lunged out into the hallway, cutting him off.

  A flashlight blinded him.

  The dogs snarled and snapped.

  Jake grunted with shock and jumped backwards.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” A flashlight blinded him. Then the beam lowered and stopped on his paint-splattered chest.

  “I’m working up front,” Jake said. “I need more paint.”

  “That’s a different color, you idiot. Get back up there or you’re dead.” The handler allowed the dogs to lunge at Jake, and he jumped back, truly terrified. Furry muscles rippled and bulged. Jaws snapped and barked with vicious intensity, showing bared teeth. Claws scratched at the rug.

  “Okay. I’m sorry.” Jake hustled forward and understood why the painters didn’t talk. They were utterly terrified of their very sick masters. He arrived quickly. This was a very small adventure cruise ship, barely two hundred feet.

  Back outside, the wind still pummeled the tarps, but not as much as before. Jake joined a group of workers as he saw thugs patrolling the area. He grabbed a brush and started painting the trim along the top of the rail. The guards led two more pairs of vicious dogs down the side rail, and Jake saw a few of the passengers stiffen in fear as the beasts passed them. These animals were clearly menacing, but the passengers reacted even more strongly than he did. A woman gasped and seized the fresh-painted railing to steady herself. For a moment, Jake thought she’d faint.

  After the guards had passed, Jake worked his way aft. He went all the way to the stern to where he’d seen the spare scuba tanks. He grabbed one and retrieved the rope he’d stashed there. At the railing by where he’d boarded, he pushed a button on the rope’s steel end-piece, and the grappling hooks snapped out like an opening umbrella. Tying the rope around his waist and letting the scuba tank swing below him on the hook, he climbed down the underside of the camouflage netting.

  When he dropped down onto the platform that he’d been on before, he found that a painter had also shown up there. The man was spray-painting the hull without any protective clothing or breathing device. He stopped painting and looked at Jake, his face no more than a black outline in the darkness.

  “How many passengers are onboard?” Jake whispered.

  The man must have sensed a trap or something because ignored the question and returned to work.

  Jake climbed down to the water. He was about to get in when he heard a sound that made him gasp in fear. It was a faint sound in the distance, but it was clearly a machine-gun.

  CHAPTER 10

  Grytviken Whaling Station

  Talia was cooking a can of beans over a barrel fire in a dilapidated bunkhouse when she heard the helicopter through the gaping hole in the roof above her. It was probably because of the pounding wind that nobody heard the
helicopter until it was practically on top of the whaling station. Len Jackson was finally back, but he was slower to react than she was. He had been acting all panicky, telling the third scientist that the other two scientists should have been back by now and that he was going to go looking for him.

  “Nothing to worry about,” the bearded scientist assured him. “They brought gear to camp out in the field.”

  When Talia heard the helicopter, she froze for a moment, unsure what this meant. She wasn’t the only one who became suddenly alert. Besides Len Jackson, there were six sailors, a scientist, and two artists—all gathered around the flames to stay warm. It was a good place for that because the cross breeze running between missing wallboards carried the smoke out while the room was small enough to capture a little heat. At the same time, other parts of the bunkhouse gave them shelter from the gale.

  “Thank god,” Braulio said. “We’re finally rescued.”

  The sailors cheered.

  “I worked in war zones for years,” Len Jackson said. “I been rescued by helicopters twice before.”

  The scientists hugged each other and patted each other’s backs. Ava broke down and cried with joy.

  Talia looked out a hole in the wall. “They’re hovering over the blacksmith’s shop. They spotted the light from the campfire over there.” Then she saw the helicopter’s side door slide open, followed by something that looked like a Roman candle—but the noise was unmistakable. “A machine gun!” she cried.

  “They’ll come here next,” Jackson shouted. “Get the hell out of here now.” He finished off practically yelling. His sudden emotion startled Taila. She watched as Len hit the door so hard that it broke off its corroded hinges and rusted screws. Jackson was gone, and everyone else poured out after him. Talia was the last one out. Once, outside, however, she slowed to a cautious jog in the snow. The whole area was full of rusted metal machinery parts, and she had to be careful. They all scattered into the darkness like hunted refugees.

  Talia was hurrying toward one of the tank farms when the helicopter made a couple of passes over the whaling station, swinging a spotlight around the area before it hovered over the bunkhouse.

  A commanding voice on a loudspeaker said, “Throw down your weapons now and walk out onto the beach. Otherwise you will be shot. Surrender and no harm will come to you.”

  Talia’s back pressed up against a dilapidated equipment shack, and she watched as the helicopter wobbled in the wind. She couldn’t see if anyone was stupid enough to surrender to these murderers.

  The helicopter did a couple more passes over the compound. Then it circled the bunkhouse, and a gunner opened fire on the roof. Automatic fire clattered out. Talia was thankful to Len Jackson for the warning because nobody would have survived. Once the gunner ran out of bullets, he reloaded and unleashed another attack. The helicopter circled the station a couple of more times, the gunner firing off what looked like random shots at buildings. The wind started gusting really hard, and Talia’s hopes started to rise that she would see a crash landing. Instead, their tormenter flew off across the water and up the coast.

  Slowly the crew reassembled in the bunkhouse. The barrel fire was still burning, but now the roof had dozens of bullet holes.

  Len Jackson’s face was screwed up like Halloween mask. “It don’t matter where you go,” he said. “Hell will follow. Women and children are routed from the churches. Little arms and little legs are hacked off with machetes and burned in barrels just like this. The Sudan, North Korea, Syria—there’s no place to hide when the dragon flies attack. Mark my words, not one of you will live to tell the tale. I’m looking at you, but I’m looking at dead men and dead women. You’ve seen the whale bones on the beach. Your own bones will soon join them! There’s no law here. There’s nothing but the weak and the strong. Sudan. Venezuela. China. When evil men get too much power, the weak die. Where the hell were our guards? I didn’t hear no return fire.” Len ran out the doorway, which now lacked a door.

  Talia waved smoke away from her eyes as the gusts were blowing smoke all around.

  “That guy is flipped out,” Ava said. “He scares me. He really scares me. It’s now clear who set off the explosion that disabled our ship. It’s Jake Sands, but Len Jackson could be involved, too. Somebody’s got to do something. You heard what they said. They said we either surrender or pay the consequences. We know they’ll be back. I say we surrender.”

  Andres, a sailor with bloodshot eyes shook his head. “Forget it. They’ve already killed too many. What’s to stop them from killing more?”

  “No,” Ava said. Her pale face, spooky in the firelight, showed stress lines like the Arctic icepack during spring melt. Panic crept into her eyes. “They said everyone will be fine as long as we give in. They’re reasonable people. They just want dialogue. Thank god our sentries didn’t shoot back; otherwise, there’s no telling how mad they’d be.”

  “You’re wrong, Ava.” Talia spoke in a quiet voice. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. When you give into a predator, it emboldens them. It only leads to more victims. The attacks get worse.”

  “What the hell do you know about it?” Ava screamed. “You don’t know anything. And what—I’m supposed to sit here and listen to this nonsense? From you?”

  Talia stepped forward into the firelight. “Don’t ever tell me to shut up again, or I’ll break your nose. One more word to me, and I’ll do it right now.”

  Ava gasped in shock. She recoiled from Talia and rushed out.

  Andreas, the sailor with bloodshot eyes, shook his head at Talia. “Forget about that nut. We need to prepare because they’ll be back.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Limping into camp, Jake put his scuba gear in a shack. He was warming himself around the coals of the campfire in the blacksmith’s shop when Ava stepped suddenly into the firelight, staring at him with a wild look in her eye.

  “Where have you been?” she said.

  Something in the tone of her voice made Jake feel judged. “I went to the cove north of here beyond the point. The people who attacked us are painting a ship there. The passengers are held hostage and forced to work. I had to help them paint to blend in with the workers. I was—”

  “That is absurd,” Ava said. “Do you think I’m stupid? You may be able to fool the others, but not me. That paint on your clothes is proof that you are working with the killers.” She stepped back toward the door and pointed at him. “You—you’re the one that sabotaged the ship.”

  “You’re way out of line,” Jake said.

  “No—no I’m not. How convenient that you weren’t around when the helicopter attacked.” She ran out.

  Jake tracked down Taila, and she told him the whole story. Jake now realized that he couldn’t wait until tomorrow to call in outside help. If he waited, more people could die. However, when he tried to call Ashley back, the phone no longer worked.

  Morning brought stiff, cold wind, but it died off to a breeze. Jake awoke to the smell of bacon, which had been salvaged from the shipwreck. Talia was cooking breakfast for the crew. Jake wasn’t hungry, however, so he walked north along the beach. He walked past giant whale bones—giant ribs and spinal bones. He walked past a dozen old whale boat propellers that were big enough to be used as anchors for his fishing boat back in Seattle.

  Coastal penguins, seals, and birds fed among kelp and algae that was teaming with fish and mollusks. Seabirds with yellow heads and hooked beaks filled the sky with their eerie cries. Jake listened to these birds over the sounds of the waves crashing on the beach. He resisted the temptation to stray far from the whaling station, however. He soon wandered back and sat down in the sand by the seals, which lay around by the water’s edge.

  Finally, he drifted over to the church and continued the brutal job of digging graves in the frozen ground for the deceased scientist and the caretaker. The constant shifting weight on his legs was grating on his wound, flaring up the pain and reversing the healing. The bleeding start
ed again. He picked and shoveled for a couple of hours and finally finished the second grave. In the old bunkhouse he said, “I need some help carrying the bodies over to the graves.”

  “I’d help if I could,” Pace said. “I’ve got a bad back.”

  Red Mayo followed Jake outside. The bodies were frozen rock hard, but were easy to carry with two people, one on each end. Once they were both in the grave, Jake filled the holes again.

  They were bleak graves carved out of the bare, wind-swept frozen dirt. There were other graves nearby—crosses held up by piles of rock. Ernest Shackleton’s tombstone stood upright even after hundreds of Antarctic storms. It looked as immovable as an iron spike hammered into cement. Jake thought of the legendary explorer. Shackleton had crossed 800 miles of the storm-raked Antarctic waters in an open boat, finally making landfall on South Georgia Island. The journey was a staggering act of heroism carried out to rescue his crew that was stranded back on Elephant Island on the Antarctic Peninsula. That he and his two friends survived was a miracle of faith, skill, and epic perseverance. Jake felt humbled to be in the presence of the man’s grave.

  "Get the others,” Jake told Mayo. “Tell them to be in the church in five minutes.”

  Everyone showed up, but a couple of the sailors stood a ways off muttering angrily, and Braulio glared at Jake, mouthing a silent threat. Jake ignored him.

  Barren slopes of snow, ice, and rock rose thousands of feet behind the old whaler’s church. The white paint was flaking off in places, but was in remarkably good shape given the brutal weather that the building had endured for decades. The caretaker had evidently done nice work. Smaller than a two-car garage, the church stood solid and straight, which was impressive given that some of the other buildings around were half collapsed. The steep roof had shed all its snow, and a gold-colored cross clung defiantly to the front of the tower after a thousand storms and a second cross crowned the tower’s pointed roof. It was cold inside the church and dim. Most of the light came from a couple of round port holes. The castaways all sat in the pews and said a prayer for the two dead men. A couple of sailors who knew the deceased said a few words about them. Then the crew hustled outside to the graves, which were marked with piles of rocks.