Deadly Echoes

by Philip Donlay

“Really? I remember that initial call being cut off.” Lauren’s feigned puzzlement was the best she had, and Martinson seemed to have bought the lie, at least for the moment.

  “Continue.”

  Lauren hit play, and the two of them watched the entire video in silence.

  “What did your men find when they boarded the ship?” Martinson asked.

  “The bridge controls had been disabled, so there was no way to alter the course of the ship. One man went below in an effort to shut them down. Mr. Nash went back aboard to get to the bow and manually try to drop the anchors. The ship ran aground before either man could make a difference.”

  “Anything else to this story you’d care to pass along?”

  “That’s all there is. We were ordered to leave the area by the military. You know what happened next.”

  “Who was the woman that went into the water?”

  “Her name is Erica. She was assisting us and disappeared last night.”

  “Did you report her disappearance?” Martinson swiveled in her chair to face Lauren.

  “To my knowledge, there wasn’t any evidence of a crime. I understood that she simply didn’t show up for a meeting.”

  “Was she your informant?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss Eco-Watch’s internal matters,” Lauren replied. “You’ll have to take that up with Mr. Nash.”

  “All of this state-of-the-art equipment at your fingertips, how is it you weren’t able to get any clear images of all the people who did this?”

  “As you can see, the aircraft was trying to stay below the ceiling and within the constraints of the terrain.” Lauren smoothly switched into her DIA persona. “It’s like gathering intelligence from a satellite. You can only see what’s in the current field of view, nothing more. I was able to get a partial view of some of the people; the man filming the events had his face blocked completely by his camera. The helicopter itself was in clear view. Hopefully, you can track them down that way.”

  “I’m more interested in the witness. The woman who went overboard, is she alive?”

  “She was flown to a local hospital. I don’t know anything more than that.” Lauren didn’t want to stop to process all the possible implications of her husband, who hated helicopters nearly as much as he hated the ocean, doing what he did to save Erica.

  “If she’s still alive, maybe she can tell us more about what happened. Can you go back to when the perpetrators boarded the helicopter?”

  Lauren backed up the file until she found the correct point in time.

  “Can you slow it down?”

  Lauren adjusted the advance rate and leaned in closer, curious what the FBI agent had seen.

  “Right there, freeze it!”

  Lauren saw what had caught the FBI agent’s attention. The momentary volley of fire from Buck had been on target. Three bullets perforated the thin aluminum skin aft of the door and someone inside the cabin fell over sideways as if struck, which prompted a burst of return gunfire, empty brass spilling onto the deck.

  “I think your man may have hit one of the hijackers. We’ll alert every hospital in southern Alaska. Maybe we’ll get lucky,” Martinson said. “Dr. McKenna, you’ve accomplished what you set out to do. It’s clear, at least for the moment, that Eco-Watch is not directly involved with what took place today. I’ll need a copy of that recording.”

  “What exactly did take place today?” Lauren made no move to extract the requested disc. “How did these people steal a supertanker?”

  “The Coast Guard is still piecing this together, but apparently they gained access to the tanker by way of a small boat or by boarding the assist tugs in Valdez Harbor. Once they were in the shipping lanes, beyond radar, they destroyed both escort vessels. The damage I saw to the tugs indicates they used high explosives, possibly shoulder-fired antitank missiles to effectively eliminate both ships. It happened fast, took place without a single distress call being made. By the time anyone knew something was wrong, the tanker was well on its way to Unakwik Inlet.”

  “Is the North Star leaking any oil?”

  “Not yet. Containment areas are being set up as we speak,” Martinson replied. “Now, if you’ll give me the copy you promised, I’ll be on my way.”

  Lauren handed over the disc. “What about the Eco-Watch personnel still aboard the North Star?”

  “They’re being held for debriefing. I’ll release them as soon as it’s clear they are in no way involved. Dr. McKenna, I also expect you and your crew to remain available for any follow-up interviews that may be necessary.”

  “Agent Martinson,” one of the FBI agents called out from the front of the plane. “There’s a story breaking on CNN you need to see.”

  Martinson turned to Lauren. “Can all of this fancy equipment pull up CNN?”

  “Up front.” Lauren led the way and called Michael to join them. Lauren switched the television on and tuned it to CNN. They were greeted by the grainy image of an oil tanker shot by someone aboard the North Star.

  Martinson’s phone rang and she answered immediately, listened, and replied. “How soon can you arrange transport? I see. Keep me updated.”

  “They’re going to replay this footage from the top,” Lauren said and increased the volume.

  “This just in from Prince William Sound, Alaska. CNN just received exclusive footage of what appears to be another act of terrorism at the hands of the scientific research organization, Eco-Watch. Early this morning, the Huntington Oil tanker North Star was hijacked and ultimately run aground. The clip we’re about to show you is completely unedited.”

  The screen showed a shaky shot of the sky. The muffled sound of the wind could be heard in the background until the noise of an approaching jet dominated the audio. As the aircraft flew past at low altitude, the camera zoomed in until it was clear that it was an Eco-Watch Gulfstream. The jet was then seen to make a steep bank to come back around. The shot stabilized and panned across the expanse of glass that marked the bridge of the North Star. Moments later the entire front section of glass exploded inward by withering automatic gunfire. The next image was of the Eco-Watch helicopter hovering off the starboard side of the ship.

  “Jesus Christ,” Michael said aloud.

  The news anchor once again filled the screen. “Latest reports from the scene confirm the supertanker North Star has run aground on a reef just east of Olsen Island in Prince William Sound. We hope to have a live feed from the scene shortly. It was in 1989 that the tanker Exxon Valdez ran aground not far from this very location, spilling nearly eleven million gallons of oil.”

  Lauren felt sick to her stomach and muted the television. Anyone who saw this clip would have no choice but to come to the conclusion that Eco-Watch had hijacked an oil tanker and caused it to run aground. She suddenly felt like a sitting target. Outside she heard the beating rotors from an approaching helicopter.

  Martinson looked out her window, then back to Lauren. “It’s the Eco-Watch helicopter. I need to ask a favor.”

  Lauren sensed the urgency in her request. “What can I do?”

  “I can’t say anything at this point, but my transportation is delayed. Can we use your helicopter? I need to get out to that ship with two of my crime-scene people and we need to go now.”

  “Of course, Eco-Watch is happy to assist,” Lauren turned to Michael. “Tell Janie we’re going back out to the tanker as soon as possible.”

  “Once she refuels, she’ll be ready to go.”

  “After everything that’s happened today,” Martinson said, “I’d advise all of Eco-Watch’s assets to leave the state of Alaska immediately. I’m not sure you, or your assets, can be protected from what is going to be a very angry public.”

  “I agree,” Michael said to Lauren. “Go out there and get Donovan and Buck off that ship. I’m dead serious. There’s nothing more they can do that the Coast Guard, the State Police, and Huntington Oil can’t. Don’t let them make the North Star their problem. We all need to get t
he hell out of here while we still can.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The screech of twisting, stressed steel rose up from deep inside the North Star. Donovan, his hands bound behind his back, was sitting on the floor leaning against a wall in an interior room on the main deck level of the tanker. Buck had been brought in a few minutes ago and was seated across the room from him. They’d both given their statements to the Alaskan State Police and now a state trooper had been positioned to watch over them. In the last hour, several helicopters had arrived and dropped off more men. Through the open hatchway, Donovan had seen that the newest arrivals were civilians.

  “I felt that vibration in the seat of my pants,” Buck said. “Over-stressed steel just can’t be good.”

  A trooper stuck his head into the room. “Lieutenant says cut ’em loose and get ’em up to the bridge.”

  With their escort bringing up the rear, Donovan and Buck climbed up six flights of stairs to the bridge. They saw that Jason’s body had been covered. From where Donovan stood he could see at least two men working under the massive console on the wiring that Garrick had shredded. Looking toward the bow, a Coast Guard’s HH-60 was on the pad, rotors idling. When he looked aft, Donovan saw a flurry of vessels, three were Coast Guard ships, two, one-hundred-ten-foot Island-class cutters, and a larger, one-hundred-fifty-four-foot Sentinel-class ship. All were positioned outside of larger vessels that were offloading containment booming, a floating barrier that was used to contain oil spills. They were cordoning off the ship in case the inner hull ruptured.

  Three men huddled over a chart table, each man holding a walkie-talkie. One was a Coast Guard officer, the other two civilians.

  “His rank is captain,” Buck told Donovan. “He’ll be the one in charge of the vessel.”

  “Mr. Nash, Mr. Buckley,” I’m Captain Hughes, United States Coast Guard. This is Larry Davis, he’s with Alyeska, and Tim Gunnison, he’s in charge of SERVS, the Ship Escort/Response Vessel System.”

  “Who finally decided we weren’t a threat?” Buck asked.

  “My understanding is the State Police got a call from the FBI,” Hughes replied. “The Alaskan State Police are heading up the criminal aspect until the FBI arrives. We’re trying to assess the ship itself.”

  Donovan was familiar with both Alyeska and SERVS. Alyeska was the group formed by all the oil companies to oversee the construction and continued operation of the Alaskan pipeline system. SERVS answered to Alyeska and was directly in charge of getting the oil safely out of Valdez and into the open ocean. They were also directed with the task of responding to and containing any type of spill. Though each man was old enough to have had dealings with Huntington Oil when he was CEO. Donovan didn’t recognize them.

  “I understand we all lost some men today. You have my condolences,” Donovan said to Gunnison who looked every bit of sixty years old, his weathered skin marked by the lines and wrinkles of a man who lived and worked in the harsh Alaskan elements.

  “It’s a sad day for sure.” Gunnison shook his head. “Troopers found twenty-four of the North Star’s crew locked in the mess hall. They’d all been killed. The bastards shot everyone onboard and killed every crewman aboard both escort tugs when they sank them. It’s been a goddamned bloodbath.”

  The news of the dead crew saddened Donovan. He hadn’t been connected with Huntington Oil for over two decades, but still, the dead men were part of a company he still cared about deeply. Donovan could see all of this was especially hard on the man from Alyeska. Davis stood rigid, hands balled into fists, jaw muscles working beneath his skin, and eyes narrowed into hate-filled slits. He, too, looked as if he was pushing sixty, completely bald and carrying a large gut, but despite being long out of shape, he still carried himself with the demeanor of a man who was used to getting what he wanted.

  “They’ll pay,” Buck said.

  Donovan was about to ask about the blueprints laid out on the chart table when a series of lights on the control console flickered to life accompanied by a shrill warning bell. One of the men working on the console silenced the warning and then began flipping switches and cycling through different screens on one of the monitors

  “What was that?” Donovan asked.

  “Unless I’m wrong,” Buck spoke first, “that was a warning that water has breached the outer hull.”

  “Correct,” Captain Hughes replied. “You sound like you’re familiar with ships?”

  “Yes, sir, U.S. Navy SEAL, retired.”

  “Glad to have your expertise on board.”

  “When we first got here, our number-one priority was to reestablish the power to the vessel monitoring-and-control system. Seems we’ve accomplished part of that task,” Gunnison said. “We already know the outer hull is ruptured. It’s the inner hull we’re concerned about as well as the settling of the ship itself. I’m sure you’ve heard the sounds coming from below.”

  Buck had leaned forward to study the blueprints. He traced the drawing with his finger and then rifled through the charts underneath until he found the one he was looking for, pulled it free, and laid it on top of the stack. When he spun it around to get the view he wanted, his expression turned from curious to understanding and then to alarm. He went to the nearest window and looked outside. “What’s the tidal swing here?”

  “There’s roughly a fourteen-foot difference between high and low tide. Why?” Hughes’s brow furrowed as he spoke.

  “Have you considered what effects the outgoing tide is having on the hull?”

  Before any of the men could process the implications of what Buck had asked, the distinct groan of bending steel once again rose from the bowels of the ship and resonated through the entire structure.

  “How much of the hull is firmly aground?” Buck asked.

  “Roughly a hundred and eighty feet,” Gunnison replied.

  “According to the marine chart of this reef, the first one hundred eighty feet of this ship are aground, no floatation whatsoever.” Buck placed his fingertips on the edge of the table to illustrate his point. “The remaining eight hundred feet of ship is afloat in two hundred forty feet of water. As the tide goes out, the stern of the ship tilts downward. If you look at the blueprints, the fulcrum point where the ship and the edge of the reef come together is between two major supports. I think the sounds we’re hearing is the buckling of steel from that stress. We all know what happens if you bend a piece of metal back and forth enough times—it’ll break into two.”

  “So you’re saying that next low tide, twelve hours from now, this ship could rupture?” Davis asked.

  “That depends,” Buck said. “We’re at low tide right now, so as the tide turns and starts coming in, the situation may stabilize briefly. This is all just a theory, but if it were up to me, I’d get divers down there to examine the hull, see where it’s buckling and how bad. Then talk to your marine architects. They’ll give you what you’re looking for. All I’m doing is guessing.”

  “I already have divers getting into position. I’ve also got two more tugs on the way from Valdez as well as all the spill-response vessels and equipment we own,” Gunnison said. “Two of my other tugs are headed south to escort an empty tanker that was inbound to Valdez. It’s the Huntington Orion, sister ship to the North Star. We’ll have it standing by to take on all the oil from this ship.”

  “How long does it take to pump a million barrels of oil?” Buck asked.

  “Anywhere from sixteen to eighteen hours.”

  “Does all the oil have to be pumped out to get the ship free?” Donovan asked. “What if you pumped off a third of the weight, or only the oil in the forward tanks? Could that buy you time to get the ship floating again before another low tide?”

  “Again, a question for the engineers and architects,” Buck said. “Though, I would suggest that if you’ve got a sister ship to this one within helicopter range, get some of the crew flown from the Orion to the North Star, at least enough to help run this ship.”


  “I’m on it,” Davis replied and began talking into his radio.

  “How far out is the Orion?” Donovan asked. “And how long would it take to get her in position?”

  “She’s still south of the Hinchinbrook entrance, which is every bit of sixty nautical miles, so we’re talking six or seven hours,” Gunnison replied. “That’s just to get here, add another couple of hours to get it into position and get everything hooked up, so we’re talking eight hours, minimum. There’s still the problem of rewiring the damage to the bridge, though hopefully we’ll have those issues resolved by then.”

  “If I looked at the schematics correctly,” Buck said, “there are twelve separate compartments filled with oil. A tear in the inner and outer hulls would compromise no more than four of those containers. How much oil are we talking about if we look at the immediate threat?”

  “Three hundred thousand barrels or about fifty thousand barrels more than the Exxon Valdez spill. At that point, we also have a ship with a ruptured hull that puts the other seven hundred thousand barrels at risk.” Davis turned his attention out the front of the ship as the Coast Guard helicopter lifted from the deck, pivoted ninety degrees, and departed to the south.

  Davis rejoined the group. “I just spoke with Captain Joseph Flemming, the master of the Orion, he’s assembling a small crew to transfer to the North Star and assist. The Coast Guard helicopter is on their way out to get them. Plus, I’ve just learned we’ve got another helicopter inbound, it seems Eco-Watch is bringing out the FBI.”

  Donovan broke away from the group and walked to the section of blown-out windows to look for his helicopter. As he stepped around the glass from the shattered windows, he spotted what looked like a photograph buried face down under a pile of crazed glass. He fought the impulse to reach down and pick it up as Buck and the others were looking directly at him. He had no choice but to wait.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Lauren couldn’t believe how much had changed since she and Michael had departed the inlet in the da Vinci a little less than three hours earlier. The ceiling had lifted a bit, though the weather was still blustery with intermittent rain and snow showers. Amid the whitecaps she spotted three Coast Guard ships, which Janie told her were cordoning off the area to any unauthorized vessels. The entire vicinity had been designated a no-fly zone to restrict air traffic. News helicopters from Anchorage had been moved back five miles. The last thing the salvage operation or the Coast Guard wanted was crowded airspace and a horde of spectators. Lauren knew their arrival was being broadcast live, courtesy of the long lenses mounted on the helicopters. She could only hope that their presence would be depicted in a positive light.