Charon's Landing - v4

by Jack Du Brul

  “If the oil froze, thermal expansion wouldn’t be enough to crack the pipe casings, and we could have the pipe cleaned out in just a few months,” Lindstrom retorted. Mercer could see that Lindstrom was ready to tear his idea apart. “And you’re also forgetting some other prime targets in Alaska like Elmendorf Air Force Base, or the string of radar-tracking stations along the north coast. And what about the new production facilities in the Refuge? A couple of them are already up and running, piping crude to Prudhoe Bay for transshipment here on the TAPline.” Lindstrom lit another cigarette while a new idea struck him. “The only place Alyeska could be targeted is up at our equipment depot in Fairbanks where we’ve got about half a billion dollars’ worth of drill string, cutter heads, and other equipment.”

  “They spray a bundle of drill string, the sections of pipe used to bore into the ground, then smack them with a hammer.” Collins hadn’t detected the sarcasm in Lindstrom’s voice and was seriously considering the possibility. “The pipe wouldn’t crack — it’s too strong — but there would be microscopic fissures. When those turbines on the pads spool up, the string would shatter, fouling the bore hole for eternity.”

  “What’s security like up there?” If Mercer could convince just one of the men about his fears, it was better than nothing.

  “The expensive stuff, like the diamond cutter heads, are under lock and key, patrolled twenty-four hours a day,” Collins replied. “But the lengths of string are just lying around in big stacks ready to be transported to the North Slope.” Collins rubbed a hand across his balding head, a gold Marine Corps ring catching the final rays of the setting sun through the window.

  “I suggest you beef up your force,” Mercer said mildly.

  “I don’t see it,” Lindstrom remarked, still unconcerned. “If they shipped over two hundred and thirty tons of liquid nitrogen, they’re after something a hell of a lot more important than spare parts sitting in a warehouse.”

  “What’s your estimation?” Mercer tried to draw Lindstrom in again, hoping that the Operations Director would take his warning more seriously.

  “We’re secure here at the terminal, and Prudhoe Bay is so isolated it doesn’t make a logical choice.”

  “Which leaves?”

  “Not much. The pipeline is just too tough for something like you suggest. Alyeska may be a prime target for terrorism, and I’m not ruling us out before this crisis over the Refuge ends, but using liquid nitrogen just doesn’t make any sense.”

  Mercer turned to Collins, hoping he still had the other man intrigued. “Why did you say that the terminal itself is secure? I didn’t have any problems getting in.”

  “You’re still on the guest list; all others are being turned away. We’ve even suspended the regular visitors’ tour bus from town. Besides the access road, there’s no other way into the terminal. Fences, active and passive detectors, and patrols keep everyone from getting within a mile of any vital area.”

  “Mercer, you’ve been focusing on why someone is smuggling liquid nitrogen into Alaska. Have you stopped to ask yourself who?” Though Lindstrom obviously didn’t believe in a threat to his private domain, he acknowledged the possibility of terrorism.

  “Oh, I already know who,” Mercer said sharply.

  “PEAL?” asked Collins.

  “No. This may be their type of operation, but it’s way out of their league.”

  “PEAL?” Lindstrom didn’t immediately recognize the name. “Oh, wait. Aren’t they the environmental group with the big research ship anchored in the bay?”

  “Yeah,” Collins said. “They’ve been here for a couple of weeks, boycotting Petromax gas stations, giving interviews to the army of reporters that follow them around, and generally making everyone around here as edgy as hell.”

  “They don’t have anything to do with this,” Mercer repeated. “They want to stop the drilling in the Arctic Refuge, but this is just too big for them. Boycotting gas stations is one thing, but coordinating an attack against Alyeska is entirely different. Listen, guys, I’m not up here in any official capacity; the Feds are handling the investigation. In fact, I’m in Alaska against the FBI Director’s direct order. But while they’re off looking for clues, I think they’re forgetting to watch over targets. I’m surprised no one from the Bureau has been here to talk to you. That’s what you get for having too many law school graduates and not enough people with brains.”

  “You sound like you know who’s smuggling the liquid nitrogen. Who is it?” Collins asked.

  “A former KGB colonel named Ivan Kerikov. I’ve dealt with him before. He’s utterly ruthless. He would kill without a moment’s hesitation. Oh, shit, that reminds me. Can I use your phone?”

  Lindstrom nodded, and Mercer dialed quickly, the phone number being one of the hundred or so he was able to keep straight in his head.

  “Homer Police, Chief MacLaughlin speaking.”

  “Chief, this is Philip Mercer—”

  MacLaughlin cut Mercer off before he could continue. “How the hell did you know the Jenny IV wouldn’t be there?”

  “Just a hunch.”

  “Bullshit,” MacLaughlin exploded. “No one gets hunches like that. I’ve just changed the deaths of Jerry and John Small from misadventure to murder. Add them to the death of Dave Heller, the guy we found in his beached boat, and it means I’ve got three unsolved killings in a town that hasn’t seen a murder since I became Sheriff. I want some fucking answers.”

  “You’ll have them as soon as I do, Chief. I’m sorry, but that’s all I can say right now. I can tell you that you won’t find the murderers in town; they’re long gone.”

  “No kidding,” MacLaughlin said sarcastically. “Just because I’m a small-town cop doesn’t mean I’m a simpleton.”

  “I’m not saying that, but I think your investigation will be better served if you concentrate on finding where the Jenny IV was sunk the second time.”

  “Fat fucking chance. After my brother-in-law failed to find her by dragging the bottom, I sent out nearly every boat in the harbor. Forty boats, all equipped with fish-finding sonar, failed to find anything. They must have searched a hundred square miles.”

  Mercer could imagine their search. Captains and crews half drunk, thrilled at playing cop for a day, running randomly across the water without any logical search pattern. Mercer guessed that MacLaughlin’s one hundred miles was more like ten. There was no sense in pointing this out. MacLaughlin was so angry right now that any criticism would probably set him off like a volcano. Mercer couldn’t blame MacLaughlin; he was caught up in something so big that he didn’t know which way was up.

  “Really?” Mercer said, trying to sound impressed while thinking that he might call Dick Henna and have him get an antisubmarine vessel into the area. With its side-scanning sonar, it would be able to find the hulk on its first pass. “I appreciate that, Chief, I really do. I’ll let you know if I get anything more on my end.”

  Mercer cut the connection before MacLaughlin could protest.

  “What was that all about?” Collins asked suspiciously.

  “Maybe something, maybe a red herring. But a couple of nights ago, the Jenny IV was moved from where the Coast Guard had sunk her. Whoever did it killed the owner of the boat they used.”

  “You think it was this Kerikov guy?”

  “Either him or someone working for him,” Mercer said, keeping a tight rein on his building anger. “Like I said before, I really don’t have any right being here and talking to you two. But my ass is on the line here. I’m the only living witness to the discovery of the Jenny IV, and I don’t think Kerikov’s going to stop until I’m dead. My only choice is to stop him first. I don’t want to end-run the authorities, but if anything, and I mean anything, out of the ordinary happens here, I’d like to know about it.”

  “Nothing will, but sure, we’ll keep you in the loop,” Lindstrom answered indulgently.

  Mercer gave him the name of the hotel he’d be staying at. He felt he’
d done the best he could with what little information he had and could only hope that his warnings wouldn’t go unheeded.

  Twenty minutes later, he parked the Blazer in front of his hotel, a large clapboard structure that had seen better days. It wasn’t the best place in town, which suited him fine. After settling into his room and taking a quick shower, he enjoyed a salmon dinner in the nearly deserted dining room. The adjacent lounge was almost as empty, so he decided to head out for a while and maybe talk to some of the PEAL activists who might be in town.

  Although he didn’t think PEAL was involved with the smuggling of the liquid nitrogen, he wanted a better handle on the group, partially for his own investigation and partially because he wanted to know more about Aggie Johnston, and PEAL seemed to be a major portion of her life.

  Ever since she had stormed out of his house, thoughts of her weren’t too far away. At first, he’d tried to simply will her from his mind, but he gave that up. Aggie was not the type of woman Mercer could forget. In just a short time, she had worked her way into his head so deeply that he found he could recall the specific scent of her hair and the way her eyes softened when she first saw the bandage on his face from the pistol whip. Mercer had never believed the old adage about opposites attracting, but then he’d never really faced it before. He was both hurt and confused that Aggie hadn’t tried to contact him. But he had too much going on to allow himself to be distracted by thoughts of her, yet he still wanted to find out more about her, a lot more. Everything.

  He walked along North Harbor Drive, paralleling the small boat marina. The sun had set, and the sound of waves slapping against the hundred pleasure craft came out of the darkness like an eerie recording. The few streetlights cast hazy puddles on the sidewalk, their glow barely glinting off the chrome trim of the nearest boats. The air was heavy with the tangy perfume of the ocean. Although the sidewalks were fairly crowded for a town of only three thousand, there was a loneliness here that was found in all of Alaska except for its larger cities. Out in the harbor he could see the running lights of a large vessel he knew must be the Hope.

  Mercer finally came across a bar that looked promising, its advertising neon signs casting garish splashes of color into the night. Country music blared from within as a young couple entered, Mercer following close behind. He nodded his thanks to them and surveyed the room.

  The bar was one step below a hole in the wall but better than a dive. The floor was chewing gum-smeared carpet with a pile so worn it looked like cement. The walls were yellowed by the cigarette smoke that hung in the air like smog. The U-shaped bar could seat about twenty people, and as he approached, he saw that its heavily varnished top was covered with carved initials. Like so many bars, this place relied on a gimmick to attract patrons; in this case, the immortality of etching your name into the bar top. There were about a dozen tables in the room, a tiny dance floor, and an even smaller stage, although the music was now coming from the battered jukebox next to the front door. The establishment was maybe half full.

  Mercer wanted a vodka gimlet, but this was the type of place where you drank either beer or straight whiskey. He ordered a beer from the busty bartender and took a corner stool next to a guy he figured was a fisherman, given his size and the rubber boots he sported. The woman behind the bar bent deeply as she slid a Coors to Mercer, giving him an excellent view of what she kept barely hidden under her plunge-necked blouse. He smiled at her for both the beer and the view. If bars had gimmicks, well, so did bartenders.

  “Are you an Us or a Them?” the man sitting at Mercer’s left asked without preamble.

  “I guess that depends on who we are and who they are.” He couldn’t tell if the man was drunk or crazy.

  “They are that ecology group and the mess of reporters here with them.” He nodded at a group of tables pushed together against one wall, the ten or so people forming an exclusive enclave. “We are just about everyone else.”

  “Trust me, I’m one of us.” Mercer caught the man’s humor. “I’m a mining engineer. You?”

  “I work aboard one of the ERVs, the ships that guide the tankers out of Prince William Sound,” he responded before taking a swallow of his beer. “I tell you, I just don’t understand how these protesters can survive. Do they get paid for screwing around with other people’s lives?”

  “You’d be surprised how well funded most environmental groups are. And at least one member of this group has got more money than God.”

  “Figures, the idle rich feel guilty, so they try to make sure no one else can make any money.”

  “Modern noblesse oblige,” Mercer muttered.

  He took a moment to study the group at their tables. Deciding who was a journalist and who was a member of PEAL was simple. The reporters had a hard-edged cynicism, whether gained through experience or affected, that they all wore like a badge of honor. The environmentalists were usually younger, fresh-faced and eager, with open smiles and easy laughs that made them look like a victorious college football team and their girlfriends. There was a scrubbed innocence to them and a strong sense of camaraderie that bound them much more strongly than simple friendship. They were crusaders, brothers in arms fighting a holy mission.

  “So what do you know about them?” Mercer asked his neighbor, who, like so many Alaskans, was more than willing to talk to a stranger.

  “Not much, other than I want ’em out of my town,” he spat. “They been here a few weeks, them and the reporters. One group getting in everyone’s faces, preaching at us about this and that, treating us like morons.” Then he quipped, “And the protesters are even worse.”

  The ERV crewman had just started telling Mercer about the overturned fuel truck when the door to the bar opened, letting in a blast of cold air. Mercer turned to see a large group of people enter, laughing as they stepped across the threshold. There were nine men and five women, though it was hard to distinguish between the two if one judged by hair length alone.

  When he saw her, he wasn’t surprised. It was logical that she’d be in Alaska. Her organization’s largest protest was happening right here in Valdez, and their flagship was anchored in the bay. There was no reason why she wouldn’t want to be part of it. And this bar was the closest to where Mercer had seen several PEAL Zodiacs tied against the public docks. He wondered, as he looked at her, if his being here was as random as he liked to believe. Or had he come to this particular bar hoping that she would be here too? Even if some part of him had wished for her entrance, he was unprepared for her arrival.

  Aggie Johnston didn’t see him as she was swept into the bar with her friends, her face radiant. They immediately headed for the tables already staked by PEAL and the sycophantic reporters. Like the day he’d first seen her at George Washington University, she wore a shapeless green anorak.

  His eyes tracked her across the room, listening to the joyous cries of her fellows as she joined them. It was obvious that they had not seen her in some time, and her presence was the reason for their celebratory mood. He watched for a few moments longer, then turned away abruptly, angry at himself for acting like a lovelorn teenager suffering through the end of a summertime romance.

  “Jesus,” Mercer’s neighbor breathed, “I’d rather feel that than feel sick.”

  Mercer looked and saw that Aggie had taken off her coat, revealing a tight black turtleneck. He expected that his friend’s taste in women ran toward the bosomy centerfold type, yet he too had felt Aggie Johnston’s allure.

  “I don’t think you can’t have one without the other,” Mercer said darkly.

  Two beers later, Mercer was getting ready to leave. The bar was filled to capacity and the band was just going on its first break, the house lights coming back up. A few of the locals had tried to approach the PEAL table to ask the women to dance, and had all been rebuffed with casually cruel snickers. Aggie had had the most potential suitors, and while her refusals seemed a little kinder, they were no less absolute.

  One of the men at the table, a
black-bearded giant who appeared to be some sort of leader given the deferential quiet he received when he stood, hoisted his glass to make a toast in the silence following the band’s last song. “To Brock Holt, a polluter who paid for his actions.”

  Although the toastmaster spoke to his group, his eyes scanned the crowd, clearly hoping for a response. His eyes were glazed with fervent conviction and several pitchers of beer. No one knew he had been on that lonely stretch of road with Jan Voerhoven. Even the jaded reporters were stunned by his inappropriate words.

  He didn’t have to wait long for a response. A voice from the far side of the bar, ten or so stools from Mercer, bellowed drunkenly, “What did you say, asshole?”

  “I don’t believe I was talking to you,” the environmentalist menaced.

  The air in the room had gotten tight. The bartender was already reaching for the phone to call the police. The club’s three bouncers would be sorely outmatched if things turned ugly.

  “Brock was a friend of mine.” The local stood on drunken legs, his lips rubbery but his emotions as clear as crystal. He wore a blue parka with a Petromax logo over his left breast.

  “Then you should be as relieved as we are that he’s no longer hauling poison across the state,” came the reply with a mocking sneer. Aggie tried to pull her friend back to his seat, but he shook her off, too hyped to think about what he was saying or where he was.

  The antagonists started walking toward each other, and chairs began scraping back from tables as the room galvanized into two camps. This fight between activists and locals had been brewing since PEAL had arrived in Valdez, and after a few more heated insults, the room exploded, each side believing that it was right; the ecologists knowing their struggle was to save a planet, the locals fighting to preserve their livelihoods and families. The reporters ducked behind their tables and watched the melee with ghoulish glee.

  It was apparent that only about thirty of the locals wanted to get involved; the rest made for the door as quickly as possible. Nearly all twenty-five members of PEAL were eager to brawl, including several women. At first, Mercer wanted to join the hurried exodus, but as he moved toward the exit, he realized that he couldn’t leave Aggie until he knew she was safe. He turned and struggled back into the bar, shoving and pushing through the panicked throng.