Donovan smiled inwardly at how William slowly and succinctly pronounced the word evidence, as if it were a sharp stick used to prod Agent Hudson. From past experience, Donovan could have easily predicted that both sides would stake out their territory early. At least that part was out of the way.
“A press release to that effect is in the works and will be released from FBI Headquarters within the hour.”
“I’d like to go out to where the ship ran aground,” Donovan asked. “Is that possible?”
“As far as the FBI is concerned, we’re done processing the scene. The salvage team is on site preparing to pull the boat off the beach at high tide so I’m not sure how much you’ll actually see.”
“Just the same,” William said, “it’s where I’d like to go as well.”
“It’ll be good to have eyes on what’s going on out there,” Buck said and motioned for the helicopter pilot to spool up the engine. “Agent Hudson, are there still police out at the Triton?”
“Yes, they were going to maintain a presence until the ship is off the beach and back out to sea.”
“Good, can you let them know that Mr. Nash and Mr. VanGelder are en route via helicopter and ask them if they’d provide security for my people?”
“I can do that, but the beach is pretty secluded. I wouldn’t think there’s any risk,” Hudson replied.
“I’ll help Michael finish up here and then he and I will go to the hotel so he can get some rest,” Buck said. “You two call me when you’re coming back in, and I’ll pick you up.”
Donovan nodded, and then he and William headed toward the helicopter. With William leading the way, Donovan put his head down against the rotor wash as they walked toward the idling machine. The Hughes 500D was a compact machine, sleek and fast, the single distinguishing feature of this particular helicopter was the fact that all of its doors had been removed. The pilot introduced himself as Glen, handed them each a headset, and asked them to take their seats. Donovan and William strapped in behind the pilot. The helicopter lifted off, flying low toward the west.
Donovan wasn’t particularly fond of helicopters, too many moving parts for his taste. The lack of doors only added to his dislike. At least the Triton wasn’t out at sea. It was a poorly kept secret that the director of operations of Eco-Watch was terrified of being in the ocean. When he was fourteen years old, he’d been involved in a boating disaster. The sights and sounds of that day as the boat sank were imprinted into his brain, and anytime he was even close to being on a ship, the flashbacks would begin, the fear would grip him, and he couldn’t convince himself that the sea, if given a second chance, would not finish the job it started all those years ago.
As they passed over the group of protesters, Donovan saw the smattering of signs, all condemning Eco-Watch for the coldblooded murder of helpless fisherman. As they swept past, he also spotted a biblical reference: Thou shall not kill. Donovan momentarily contemplated the commandment, but it did nothing to alter his intentions toward the people who’d threatened him.
CHAPTER FIVE
As the helicopter topped the lush hills and banked out over the water, Donovan could see the rakish dark-blue hull and the white superstructure of the Triton. The yacht looked distinctly forlorn perched on the white sand beach that seemed to stretch endlessly in both directions.
“Dead ahead is Polihale State Park,” Glen said over the intercom. “It’s one of the most remote beaches on this side of the island. Only four-wheel-drive vehicles will get you in and out.”
Donovan spotted the road, set well back from the high-tide mark. As low as they were flying, he couldn’t see a single structure along the entire beach. Rising above the sand, the Triton was tilted twenty degrees to port. The sleek, pristine, one-hundred-sixty-foot megayacht soared above the official vehicles parked nearby in the sand. Including its mast, which held numerous antennas and radar domes, the Triton reached nearly six stories into the air and dwarfed the small collection of boats that had gathered offshore to take in the scene. Donovan had been on the vessel once, several years ago when it was moored in San Diego. He remembered John explaining that he could invite a maximum of twelve guests with a staff-to-guest ratio of one-to-one. A huge salon with a full bar, a library, hot tub, a gym, a theatre, elevators to take passengers from below decks up to the flybridge where one could enjoy all the creature comforts. The vessel was powered by twin one-thousand-horsepower Caterpillar diesel engines. She held over 16,000 gallons of fuel and could generate up to sixteen knots and had a range of 6,000 nautical miles. Donovan was happy the ship was intact; a fuel spill in these waters would be catastrophic to the fragile ecosystem.
They passed over the Triton, slowed, and circled in preparation to land.
“Hudson didn’t mention John’s helicopter?” Donovan said as he twisted in his seat and found the light gray H within a circle painted on the aft quarterdeck. “Where’d it go?”
“Good question,” William replied.
“Mr. Nash,” Glen’s voice sounded over the intercom, “I’m listening to a report that a fishing vessel has been spotted about twenty-five miles west of here by a Coast Guard C-130 transport. The ship nearly collided with a sightseeing boat. So far, they haven’t responded to any transmissions or altered course.”
“Can we get out there and take a look?” Donovan said without hesitation.
William shot Donovan a worried glance as the chopper abruptly climbed away from the beach to race out over the water.
“It’s only three miles offshore of Niihau,” Glen said. “The C-130 crew reports the ship’s speed is at least ten knots with no sign of slowing.”
“That means we’ve got less than twenty minutes before it comes ashore,” Donovan said as the ocean flashed past at 175 mph. They crossed the seventeen-mile strait between Kauai and the far smaller island of Niihau, then skirted the north side of Niihau between the main archipelago and a small island. Once clear of the rocky cliffs, they raced out over open ocean, and Donovan saw that the waves below had grown considerably bigger. A minute later, Glen spotted the ship.
Donovan found the vessel. His first thought was that the ship had once been white, that heavy use was evident by the dark streaks that trailed from her scuppers and the reddish tinge of rust on the superstructure. The hull was patched and faded, in need of more than fresh paint. The vessel was slightly longer than the Triton but nowhere near as modern. Her aft deck bristled with masts and lines used to haul in the miles of long cables. As the bow rose and fell in the swells, each downward plunge displaced tons of water and exploded it upward, drenching the forward deck. Donovan figured it was going faster than ten knots.
“I’m talking to the Coast Guard C-130,” Glen reported. “They’ve initially identified the ship as the Japanese registered vessel Kaiyo Maru #7. Repeated hails have gone unanswered.”
Several minutes later, the helicopter made a steep turn over the Japanese vessel, and Donovan got a look at the ship, immediately recognizing the deck setup. “I guarantee you that’s the ship from the video.”
The helicopter began a gradual descent and hovered above the white superstructure of the Kaiyo Maru #7. To Donovan, it felt as if the helicopter was hanging motionless in space, which was a most uncomfortable aspect for an airplane pilot. Locked into position level with the bridge, it was obvious there was no one at the helm, and the shoreline of Niihau was alarmingly close. The Kaiyo Maru #7 wasn’t headed for a soft sandy beach, but massive reefs that jutted up from the surface of the ocean.
“Damn it!” Donovan said. “We’re going to lose any evidence that might be onboard.”
“There’s nothing anyone can do,” William replied.
Donovan knew if he thought about it any longer, he’d do nothing. His every rational thought screamed for him to sit down and shut up, to think about getting solid ground beneath his feet. “Glen, can you bring us down close enough for me to get onboard?”
“What are you thinking?” William asked.
&nbs
p; “Glen, is there a spot that would work?”
“Yeah,” Glen replied. “The bow area is clear enough. I can’t land, you’d have to drop maybe four, five feet, but it’ll work. It’s a one-way trip—I don’t see any way to get you back aboard the chopper.”
“Get me as close as you can.” Donovan said.
“Even if you make it down to the deck, do you know what to do?” William asked.
“Turn the ship—how hard can it be?”
“I’m moving in,” Glen said. “Unbuckle and sit on the ledge, ease your legs down to the skids, but hang on to something. Once you go, if you’ve ever skydived, try and land the same way, knees flexed, and plan to go down and roll with the impact as soon as you hit.”
Donovan had, in fact, skydived once, years before. He removed his headset, slid out of his seat, gave William a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, and then carefully perched himself on the edge of the cabin, his legs dangling out into the rotor wash. Glen matched the rising and falling of the ship’s bow with the helicopter as he eased closer. When Glen gave him the nod, Donovan pushed himself off into space. He favored his good leg as he hit the deck, rolled to his side to dissipate the impact, then lay there for a moment to make sure he’d survived the jump unscathed.
Above him, the helicopter climbed and pulled away. Donovan was instantly aware of the pitching deck beneath him, and there was nothing he could do to quell the fear that rose up inside him. He hated ships, petrified they would sink. For once his fear was based in truth, this one was definitely going to sink unless he acted fast.
Galvanized by adrenaline, he climbed down the foredeck and ran across the open deck toward a covered passageway where he hoped stairs would lead him up to the bridge. As he ran, he saw a steel stairway and took the steps two at a time, his wounded thigh burning, but he ignored the pain and burst onto the empty bridge.
Donovan went to the wheel and began spinning it all the way starboard. The beach was close, and the ship was responding far too slow to avert running aground. Everything was written in Japanese, but he yanked back on two levers that had to be the throttles. He pulled the starboard lever to the center detent, waited a beat, and then eased it all the way back into reverse. Somewhere below his feet he felt a subtle clank of machinery that told him something had happened. He could hear the growl and feel the vibration of a diesel engine begin to roar from the bowels of the ship. He grabbed the port throttle and pushed it all the way forward. Differential thrust from the props would help increase the rate of turn. It was an old trick from flying twin-engine propeller airplanes. Dead ahead, the water went from azure blue to greenish brown. A reef was directly in their path, and he had no way of knowing the draft of the ship or the depth of the water.
He scanned the panel and found a much-used lever with arrows pointing left and right. Underneath was a rocker switch. Donovan threw the switch and then held the lever all the way to the right. Below the waterline, the bow thruster powered to life and began to swing the ship even faster to starboard.
Donovan gripped the wheel and waited as the bow merged with the far shallower water. He held his breath at the sound of steel scraping rock. The jolt rocked the ship, and the vessel shuddered and groaned. The shriek of rock grinding metal sounded cataclysmic, but the ship kept moving, its momentum never wavering. Gradually, the horrible sounds of the collision eased. The ship, now paralleling the shore, moved once again toward blue water. Straight ahead was another reef. He stood and measured the distance to the rocks against the turning radius of the hull. His eyes darted back and forth, processing each degree of movement until he decided he might actually make it into deeper water.
He kept the wheel hard in the turn until he was pointed forty-five degrees away from the shore. He eased both engines into forward and set the throttles slightly above idle. They wouldn’t go very fast, but with the props turning they’d stay headed away from the beach. When the ship was out of immediate danger, he grabbed a flashlight and headed below. He had no idea if the ship was taking on water.
He went through a rusty hatch, down a flight of stairs badly in need of a paint job, and came out into what he thought looked like a processing room. The stench of rotted fish mixed with something else, something sweeter, hit him like a solid wave. Even breathing through his mouth, it was hard not to gag. The room was fairly dark, but he could see gray plastic tubs used to hold fish and what appeared to be conveyer belts, that while silent, seemed to lead into the bowels of the ship. It took him a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimmer light before he realized that they weren’t holding fish.
Donovan’s stomach lurched. He fought the urge to be violently sick as he recognized human arms and hands, all cleanly severed and arranged within the dimensions of the tubs as though about to be frozen and packed for market. Judging by the number of tubs, there were body parts that would account for at least a dozen of the ship’s crew, maybe more. He pictured the video and what they’d done to that poor soul, then he understood, they’d butchered the entire crew the same way.
He clicked on the flashlight and continued deeper into the ship. The metal deck was dirty and faded, rust eating away at the edges. He searched several rooms, finding the sleeping quarters, a mess hall, a couple of mechanical rooms, and, finally, he threw open the hatch for the engine room. The noise from the two diesels was deafening, but he needed to search for anyone left alive and for any water coming in through a breach in the hull. Donovan found no water, no sign that the hull had been compromised. More than anything, he yearned to be back up in the sunshine.
He burst out onto the main deck and hurried up the stairs toward the bridge. The ship had put more distance from the beach. Glen was orbiting overhead, and in the distance, he spotted a second helicopter off the stern and coming fast.
Donovan returned to the bridge and looked around the cluttered compartment. An ashtray overflowing with filterless cigarette butts was affixed to the edge of the captain’s chair. The chart table was strewn with papers. The windows were filthy, spotted, and streaked with salt spray on the outside and years of cigarette smoke on the inside. Everything looked tired and weathered, but Donovan’s eye caught something that seemed out of place. Near the top of the console was a single photograph thumbtacked to the faded wooden trim, a girl. As Donovan leaned in, he realized she wasn’t Asian, but Caucasian. He pulled the photograph from under the tack to get a closer look. After several seconds, the reality of the image clicked into place, and when it did, he closed his eyes as memories of Meredith began to pound at his internal armor. In the photograph, Meredith couldn’t have been much older than eighteen, her first year in college. The long, auburn hair and impossibly green eyes were the same as he remembered, as was her smile. She had more freckles in this picture than when he’d met her years later. An immense sadness began to well up from inside. Any rekindled memory of her was always the same, the flashbacks always ended the same. They were both in a muddy field in Costa Rica. He was alive and she wasn’t. Her pale, broken body splayed on the ground, her sightless eyes pleading at him to save her, but the bullet hole in her forehead clear evidence that he’d been too late.
Donovan’s thoughts were broken by the sound of a helicopter. He closed himself down and the image dissolved, but he knew he would pay later for indulging in the memory. He carefully slid the photo into his pocket and moved closer to the window. Looking up, he saw the second helicopter hovering overhead, a red-and-white Coast Guard HH-65. A crewman was being lowered to the deck. Donovan confirmed that the ship was still on a course for the open ocean and then left the bridge. He’d been in such a rush to get to the bridge when he’d first arrived, he didn’t notice the details, the main working deck with wood deeply stained from years of fishing and exposed to the elements. Turning, he looked up at the bridge, then out at the ocean. He realized he was standing in the exact place where the man’s arms were severed in the video. Upon closer inspection, Donovan spotted dozens of spent shell casings scattered amongst the equipm
ent. He hoped for the crew’s sake they were shot before being cut apart.
“Are you injured?” The Coast Guard crewman yelled as he came closer.
“No, I’m fine.” Donovan said.
“Sir, follow me. Let’s get you off this boat.”
CHAPTER SIX
The Coast Guard helicopter gently touched down near the da Vinci at the Lihue airport. Donovan was relieved to see that the media horde and protesters were gone. The Eco-Watch Gulfstream was buttoned up and under guard. Buck was waiting for him. The chartered helicopter was nowhere in sight, which meant William was already at the hotel.
Donovan shook hands with the flight crew, then stepped out and moved clear. The pilot lifted back up into the sky, tilting east toward their base on Oahu.
Buck held the passenger door open for Donovan. “Welcome back,” he said before wrinkling his nose and powering down his side window. “What’s that smell?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“William filled me in on today’s events. You are not trained to be part of a boarding party. What in the hell were you thinking?”
“Thinking about saving evidence.” Donovan knew Buck was angry, as he should be, but what happened couldn’t be undone. “We also know the Triton’s helicopter is missing.”
“I’ve already spoken with Special Agent Hudson about John’s helicopter. They’re searching. What kind of range does his chopper have?” Buck asked.
“With full tanks it could easily fly three hundred miles.”
“So if they waited until they were, say, fifty miles off the coast of Kauai, they could have flown off of the Triton and made it to any one of the islands.”
“Yeah,” Donovan said. “And land anywhere. What have I missed at this end?”
Deadly Echoes Page 4
