Charon's landing m-2

by Jack Du Brul

  The inner hatch finally released, a slight hiss escaping as the circular door was pushed against its internal stops. Lyle Hauser had tucked himself back under the blankets so only the open mouth of the flare gun gave away his presence. It wasn’t until the outer door was opened that he became aware of how stale the air in the lifeboat had become. The cold, tangy breeze that enveloped the terrorist as he leaned into the lifeboat was like a moist caress, intimate and loving and just as fleeting.

  The guard was dressed in black, an Uzi draped around his broad shoulders and a Colt.45 automatic pistol gripped in one fist. He pushed himself halfway through the boat’s tight entrance. His flashlight, a mini Maglite, was clamped between his teeth like a cigar. In its erratic glow, Hauser was nothing more than a dark lump. The terrorist held a walkie-talkie in his left hand, his thumb resting lightly on the transmit button. Hauser didn’t know that the guard hadn’t recognized him as a person until he unintentionally shifted on the tough rubber floor mats, the blankets on his body moving like a wave.

  “I think I’ve found somebody,” the guard shouted into his radio.

  In that instant, Hauser was more alive, more perceptive than he’d ever been. The guard’s eyes went wide and white at the sight of the flare pistol, and he barely managed to open his mouth to scream before Hauser pulled the trigger.

  The ignition of the flare gun was a concussive thump that sucked all the oxygen from the lifeboat. The molten ball of red phosphorous shot from the gun and hit the guard square in the chest. His heavy parka burst instantly into flames. Hauser saw that the burning body blocked his only escape from the lifeboat and knew his death was not far away.

  Joann Riggs was feeling the strain of her new command; it etched her face and darkened the circles under her eyes. She was exhausted, her mind dulled. The brief respite she’d had an hour ago, when Wolf had shown her how to fire one of the Uzis, was all but forgotten. Firing rounds off the flying bridge had delighted her; holding the weapon as it spat fire and shook in her arms was intoxicating. But now she was back on the bridge, ever vigilant, watching her captive crew.

  Wolf, the commando leader hired by Ivan Kerikov, whose real name was Wolfgang Schmidt, stood behind her as she sat in the Master’s chair. The flap of his holster was undone and tucked back so that he could reach his automatic in just a fraction of a second. A helmsman held onto the dual controls of the ship’s wheel while a navigation officer stooped over the plotting table, trying hard to ignore the terrorists. George Patroni knelt into an open access panel under the bridge’s main console, his buttocks half exposed like a suburban plumber as he traced a wiring fault. The ship’s electrician was bent down next to him. Another of Wolf’s men watched them closely, his eyes squinting in the vermilion gloom of the vessel’s night lights. His Uzi dangled at his hip.

  The Southern Cross’ throttle controls were still out. However, Patroni and his men had been able to jury-rig a tank monitoring system, scavenging components from equipment that Riggs had deemed unimportant. Their work had been nothing short of miraculous considering the time constraints put upon them and the constant threat of death if they failed. Getting the throttles back in order was their last task, and it was one that Patroni was going to take his time completing. With the help of the electrician, he’d already delayed the system’s restoration by several hours, intentionally shorting it out so that a wave of white smoke billowed from under the console. He’d warned a wary Riggs that it might not be repairable, so she was not too concerned by the delays.

  Patroni was on the bridge for another, more important reason; to launch Captain Hauser’s lifeboat. But the indicator lights and alarms for the boats were on the other side of the bridge from where he worked. He could fake it for only so long before Riggs became suspicious. She knew just how long Patroni would need to either fix the throttles or determine that the system was a write-off.

  “Well, Patroni?” she rasped around a cigarette between her pursed lips.

  “I’m sorry, but it may be a total loss. The main power bus is shot to hell, voltmeter’s showing zip through the whole system. This isn’t like the tank control unit that I could patch together; the throttles require specific replacement parts we don’t have.” Patroni stood, massaging his back and resettling his heavy testicles under his overalls in a deliberate taunt to Riggs.

  “You will fix it,” Wolf said from the back of the bridge, menace sharpening every word.

  George Patroni was reaching his limit with Wolf and Riggs and the rest of the terrorists. “You want this thing fixed?”

  As he spoke, Patroni moved along the main console, opening up the cabinet doors to reveal the tangled mass of electronics within. To anyone other than him and the electrician, the wires, circuit boards, and other equipment were just an impenetrable forest without any indication of their function. “Well, come on over here and give it a try yourself. Have at it, you son of a bitch. No? Don’t think you can? Then get off my fucking back.”

  Wolf gave no reaction, but the other commando rushed forward, gouging Patroni’s ribs with the barrel of his machine pistol. He looked to be only an instant away from pulling the trigger and tearing Patroni in two.

  “Nein!” Wolf shouted.

  Patroni hadn’t moved, seemingly oblivious to the gun held against him, a lazy smile still on his face. He stood before the open access door of the launch detection board. His hand was inches from the breaker that fed power to the panel.

  The guard pulled back, tucking his Uzi against his side, arcing the weapon to cover the other crewmen. His eyes didn’t rest on one spot for more than a moment before flicking on. Everything he saw was a potential target.

  JoAnn Riggs exploded off her chair, rushing across the bridge in just three quick strides, her right hand raised to strike Patroni. Although she hadn’t known the Chief Engineer long, she knew that this outburst wasn’t consistent with his personality. There was something odd going on. Wolf stepped forward just as the black radio clipped to his waist crackled.

  “I think I’ve found somebody,” said a disembodied voice.

  The electrician was the first to move; he spun up from his position on the floor, a heavy torque wrench in his fist. He let the tool fly. The shining chrome flashed as it sailed across the space between him and the trigger-happy guard. Wolf yanked his pistol from its holster and fired even before he was sure of his aim, but the nine-millimeter slug caught the electrician under his right arm, tearing through the pad of muscle, puncturing both lungs, and tearing his wildly beating heart into shreds.

  Patroni’s reaction had been a fraction of a second quicker.

  Hauser’s own life meant nothing. It was forfeit the moment his ship was seized, and in his final seconds he realized that and accepted it. The flare burned brightly as it bored its way into the man’s chest, blistering and bubbling his flesh as it ate him.

  He was sickened by the sight of the dying terrorist, and nothing could have prepared him for the man’s unholy scream. The gunman couldn’t clutch at the burning wound in his chest. Even in his agony, his nervous system knew enough to keep his hands away from such intense heat. The temperature in the lifeboat skyrocketed from thirty degrees to one hundred and twenty degrees in a just a few seconds, hissing smoke filling the enclosed space with a noxious combination of charcoaled flesh and burned phosphorus.

  From outside, the craft looked like a Japanese lantern, its toughened support struts standing out starkly against the crimson fire burning within. Smoke coiled from it only to be swept away by the stiff breeze created by the tanker’s forward momentum.

  The terrorist had dropped his Colt.45 when the flare had tunneled into his chest, but unbelievably he began reaching for the Uzi slung around his neck, the molded plastic grip of the Israeli weapon fitting neatly to his hand. Even as he burned, even as his life boiled away, he raised the machine pistol, leaning forward so he was half in and half out of the life raft. His last act on earth would be to send a fusillade into his killer. The Uzi’s stubby bar
rel came up, his finger squeezing slowly, ready to send Lyle Hauser to oblivion.

  The torque wrench hit the guard in the throat and his gun dipped before he could pull the trigger. Bullets raked across the bridge, shattering glass, chewing through the control panel, and destroying more of the delicate electronics within. Four holes appeared in the electrician’s chest and his already lifeless body was launched through the bullet-weakened main windscreen.

  George Patroni was already in motion, oblivious to the destruction around him. He barreled into JoAnn Riggs, shouldering her aside even as she swung at him. Her hand connected with the back of his head and would have stunned a normal man, but Patroni was a man possessed. Even as nine-millimeter rounds sprayed the bridge, Patroni was tearing at the guts below the launch detection panel, pulling at wires and circuit boards, overriding the manual system and launching all three boats simultaneously. Frigid air blasted into the bridge, whipping away the smell of the discharged shots. Patroni’s shoulder block had dropped Riggs to the deck in an untidy tangle, where she frantically clutched his legs.

  Wolf’s H amp;K spat once, then again, the second round no more than an afterthought as Patroni pitched forward, arms outstretched as he fell against the helmsman’s station, ragged holes blooming on his drab overalls like summer flowers. The helmsman was already dead, a chunk of his skull having vanished during the first seconds of the melee.

  Patroni had planned to launch Hauser without anyone noticing. He could have done it so surreptitiously that it would have gone undetected until the next day or possibly never at all. He’d discussed it with the electrician, convincing the frightened man that the risk was worth it. JoAnn Riggs and her followers, he’d said, would never have suspected anything.

  How many more of his crew would die tonight in reprisal, Patroni thought as he died.

  AT the last possible second, even as the barrel of the Uzi was facing Hauser, George Patroni succeeded. Heedless of the terrorist standing at the entrance of the lifeboat, the mechanical davits swung outward, yanking him off his feet and fouling his aim. Machine gun fire ripped through the roof of the lifeboat as the dying terrorist hung in the hatchway, his feet dangling high above the tanker’s frothing wake.

  Lyle Hauser was too stunned to react. The flare’s noxious smoke had created such a dense cloud that he couldn’t clearly see what was happening. The automatic launch sequence continued, dropping the lifeboat so quickly it felt as if gravity had found new strength.

  At the full extension, there was only a two-foot gap between the lifeboat and the flat stern of the Southern Cross. When the winches released the boat, the terrorist was caught in this narrow chasm. His legs fouled against the ship’s railing while his upper body was still in the lifeboat. The drop sheared him neatly in two, his still-burning torso spilling into the lifeboat and his disembodied legs pinwheeling into the turgid North Pacific.

  Hauser screamed maniacally as the larger section of the body fell into the boat with him, sizzling like a steak on a summer barbecue. The lifeboat hit the ocean with a bone-jarring crash, a cascade of water spilling in through the open hatch. An instant later an arc of electricity flashed through the lines securing the lifeboat to the Southern Cross, cutting the cables as easily as threads, and suddenly the boat was free, tossing on the tanker’s wake.

  The two lifeboats stowed port and starboard hit the water at the same time as Hauser’s, but the supertanker’s forward momentum caused both to capsize and sink only moments after being released. Because it was located in the stern of the tanker, Hauser’s craft remained upright, though the ride was rough until it slipped from the ship’s wake.

  Nearly overcome by the chemical smoke of the phosphorus flare, Hauser kicked at what was left of the terrorist, forcing the charred member out of the hatch and into the water. Despite his revulsion at the burned and blistered hunks of flesh that coated the bottom of the hatch, Hauser forced himself to close the aperture.

  It was two minutes past midnight.

  Not knowing what had transpired on the bridge to allow him to escape, Hauser wanted to make certain he made the best use of what providence had given him. With the radar still out, he knew that Riggs would never be able to find the lifeboat in the empty expanse of the North Pacific. But it was possible that she could triangulate his position if he made his distress call too early. The lifeboat’s radio was small, with only a limited range in the best of conditions. To make it work properly, and to protect himself, Hauser had to get far away from the ship and much closer to shore and hope that someone was listening this dark night. He was two hundred and thirty miles from the coast and, unknown to him, the nearest receiving post was an eleven-year-old boy charged with monitoring the radio aboard his father’s fishing trawler.

  The boy was fast asleep.

  Miami, Florida

  Widowed for so many years that getting to work at ungodly hours was the norm, David Saulman moved through the maze-like warrens of his office like a lord, turning on lights and grabbing express mail envelopes from the desks of his associates as he made his way to his personal suite. A coffeemaker slaved to the light switch in the reception area had started making a potent brew as soon as he’d entered the offices that took up an entire floor of a Miami bank building.

  By the time Saulman got to his desk, there was a full pot of coffee waiting. Filling a mug the size of an oil can, he ignored the first salmon hint of daylight peeking over the watery horizon. Twenty-seven floors below, the city slumbered, eking out its last moments of quiet before the day seized it in another scorching session of existence.

  The first thing associates learned when they joined Berkowitz, Saulman amp; Little was that there was no Berkowitz or Little, never had been. The names were figments of Dave Saulman’s imagination, weighty names to give his firm a solid feel when he’d first started out three decades ago. The second thing they learned was that no matter how early they arrived at the law firm, their boss would be there before them — and he’d be going through their mail.

  Dave Saulman was a benevolent dictator who was once quoted as saying, “If it’s delivered to my office, it’s mine.” During the mideighties, when bicycle messengers routinely delivered drugs to some of the younger lawyers, he came to possess almost as much cocaine as Metro Dade Police. He never chastised those lawyers who used it, knowing that normal people couldn’t put in the hundred-hour workweeks lawyering demanded. Saulman figured there were some very happy fish in Biscayne Harbor because of him.

  Only a dozen red, white, and blue priority envelopes had been delivered last night, distributed through the offices by the firm’s utility service. He opened and read them all in just a few minutes, categorizing most as hyped-up client anxiety. It was amazing how a few million dollars, when it was hanging out in the open, could panic a client.

  Saulman wore a dark suit, faint chalk lines accenting his spreading figure. His silk tie had not been fully knotted, its juncture hanging an inch below the unbuttoned top of his starched shirt. Because he had a meeting at eight-thirty, he wore a prosthetic limb to compensate for his missing arm. Given his choice, he kept his empty sleeve hanging limply, but the sight seemed to bother many of the clients. The straps holding the plastic arm in place were already chafing.

  Only a half dozen inches above five feet and starting to paunch, Saulman appeared taller because of the tremendous amount of nervous energy his body demanded he expend. He was never still. His right leg bounced constantly, whether he was seated or standing, his one good arm and his stump always in motion. Even his eyebrows, dark intimidating slashes, leaped and danced as he spoke. There was no deliberation to his movements, only an innate sense to move, and it served him well. He could intimidate almost everyone he met despite his stature.

  Seated behind the broad expanse of his ash desk, his leg juddering like a palsy victim, he finished with the letters sent to his associates and turned his mind to the new London office he’d opened. It was midmorning there and they should be doing a brisk business
. Most of the London people were involved with a leveraged buyout of a Dutch tug firm by a group of Germans, but there were enough lawyers left over to pursue more mundane if less lucrative ventures.

  He was just reaching for the phone to put the fear of God into them when an apparition staggered into his office. Saulman recognized him immediately, but the man’s tattered appearance shocked him more than he cared to admit. Bud Finley slumped into one of the high-backed oxblood chairs facing Saulman’s desk. He was a private investigator.

  Finley looked like a waste of space, his suit cheaply put together, his haircut not much better, a few greasy strands combed over a red, weeping scalp. He was heavily built, his shoulders like the crossarms of a gallows, his arms as menacing as an executioner’s rope. His gut, though ponderous and straining against his discount store shirt, was solid. Finley’s face was florid, widened by the years and pummeled by the experience, but his eyes were quick and intelligent. He had the look of a sewer rat and twice the cunning.

  Although he’d expected Finley, the lack of self-respect the man showed himself still dumbfounded Saulman. Finley, never a neat man, looked like he’d just come from an industrial accident. “You’re early,” Saulman said to cover himself. He distinctly remembered relocking the outer office doors, a fact that seemed not to have slowed Finley.

  Finley flared a match off his thumbnail, and as it burned toward his fingers, he calmly pulled a pack of generic cigarettes from a suit coat pocket and torched one before speaking. His voice was pure Deep South, garbled by a family tree without enough branches. “Ah donnit think you’d a wanted ta wait ta hear what Ah got to say.”

  Ever since Mercer had called him requesting information about tankers in the Gulf of Alaska and most specifically Petromax Oil vessels, Dave Saulman had been hooked, sensing one of those challenges that Mercer was famous for stumbling into. At his own expense, Saulman sent his best investigator, Bud Finley, to Petromax’s main offices in Delaware and then to Louisiana, where Southern Coasting and Lightering had established their headquarters.