Charon's landing m-2

by Jack Du Brul

  “Yeah, sure. And you’re in luck. It’s here in Valdez. Alyeska usually keeps it in Anchorage.”

  “Call the airport and tell them to get ready for a flight to Victoria International Airport at the best possible speed. Tell them to pick up some food for me too. I haven’t eaten in God knows how long.” He turned to go.

  “What’s your plan?”

  At the doorway, Mercer glanced at Lindstrom. “As soon as I make one up, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Thirty minutes later, Alyeska’s corporate jet, a recently purchased Citation, hurled itself off the runway and turned south for the journey to the greater Seattle/Vancouver area. While heading for the airport, Mercer had managed to grab a change of clothes from his hotel and pack a small bag for himself, including Ivan Kerikov’s pistol. Not knowing how long he would be gone, he’d told the hotel to store the rest of his belongings and check him out of the room. Someone at Alyeska could take care of his rented Blazer.

  Pressed back in the supple leather seat of the aircraft, Mercer worked at something Andy Lindstrom had asked him, something about Kerikov’s final outcome. What could be so big that the Russian would consider destroying the Trans-Alaska Pipeline and sinking a tanker as nothing more than mild diversions. There was something he was after, something related to oil obviously, but something that would require America to stop using her own resources.

  The answer was so evident he cursed himself for not realizing it sooner. He put it off to his own exhaustion and reached for the phone, checking his watch to see what number he should call. It was eleven in the morning Alaska time, which made it just four in the afternoon in Washington, D.C. Taking a quick gamble he dialed his home number and was about to give up after three rings.

  “Hello.” Harry White sounded as though his vocal cords had been filed raw with sandpaper.

  “What the hell are you doing at my place, drinking my booze, when you just stole a couple of cases from the Willard Hotel?”

  “Tiny was charging me four bucks for a glass of ginger ale. Besides, your pretzels are fresher.”

  “I hope you’ve got a huge life insurance policy and I’m the beneficiary, you old bastard.”

  “Funny, I think the same about you,” Harry replied.

  “Are you on the portable phone?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “Go down to my office. I need you to do something for me.” Mercer remembered Dave Saulman saying Petromax had sold two other tankers to Southern Coasting and Lightering, one of them near Japan and the other off the coast of the United Arab Emirates.

  “I’m in your office,” Harry finally said after creaking down the stairs from Mercer’s home bar.

  “Okay, turn on my computer and scroll through the menus until you come to the electronic Rolodex.”

  Mercer waited a few minutes, listening to Harry curse as he fumbled with the powerful computer. The jet engines of the Alyeska plane were a droning whine.

  “Son of a bitch. How do you do it?” Harry finally asked disgustedly.

  “Use the mouse,” Mercer said.

  “No. Not that. How do you turn on the computer?”

  “All right, Harry, today is your first lesson in modern technology. There’s a small button on the back of the machine, to the right of all the wires. Can you feel it?” Oil. Petromax. The Middle East. “Come on, Harry.”

  “Ah, screw this. I’ll dig out the old typewriter you used to keep in the closet. That’s something I can understand.”

  “Not the same thing, Harry. I need the computer.” Mercer had heard on the radio driving back to the terminal from the mini-mole test site that a UAE diplomat had been attacked in London. Connection? Probably.

  “All right, all right, hold on here. There, it’s on. The TV on top of the square box is flashing like the neon sign outside a strip joint.”

  “Great. Do you see the gray pack of cigarettes on the desk? It’s called a mouse. You move that and it moves the little arrow on the TV.”

  “I’ll be goddamned. It does.” Harry was delighted with his accomplishment. “Oh, hey, this is a nice little feature.”

  “What?” Mercer asked with trepidation.

  “The automatic drink coaster that slides out below the TV. Your highball glasses fit in it perfectly.”

  It took a second for Mercer to understand. “No, Harry, that’s the tray for the CD-ROM drive. It’s not a coaster.”

  The United Arab Emirates. Few Americans had ever even heard of it. Would they notice if it were suddenly taken over in a coup? As long as oil prices remained stable, Mercer knew the answer was no.

  It took a further ten minutes of instruction for Mercer to guide Harry White into the electronic Rolodex, Harry responding like a child every time the computer reacted to his commands. “This thing is great. I’ve got to get one,” he kept saying.

  “Now, Harry, I’ve got the Rolodex cross-referenced to geographical locations. Double click the little map of the world, and when the map expands on the screen, double click again near the Middle East.”

  “I’ve got it,” Harry said. “Man, just call me a hacker now.”

  “You only hack in the morning when sixty years of cigarettes come coughing out of your lungs.”

  “Great talking with you, Mercer,” Harry teased. “I’ve got to go now. Tiny’s is open.”

  “Very funny. There’s a name there. I can’t remember what it is, but he’s a petroleum geologist working in the United Arab Emirates. Scroll through the list, reading off any name that has UAE written after it.”

  Harry read through names. Many of them Mercer didn’t recognize and many more he knew no longer worked in the Gulf. He hadn’t updated his Rolodex in over two years, and the oversight was costing him time.

  “Wait. What was that last name again?”

  “Jim Gibson.”

  “That’s him,” Mercer said triumphantly, remembering the big florid Texan and the brass telescope that traveled with him wherever he went. Mercer had met Gibson in Nigeria years before when both men were working to expand the West African nation’s natural resource exports. Gibson was an oil man, while Mercer had been working on a promising diamond field in the center of the country. Being two of only a handful of Americans in Nigeria at the time, they made it a point to have a couple of drinks whenever they were both in Lagos. Gibson used his telescope to spy on young village girls bathing in a stream near where they were drilling test holes. He bragged that he could spot a pretty girl on the moon if he had to. “Give me the number and thanks a lot. I owe you one.”

  “Don’t mention it. I lied to you anyway. Even though I have that Jack Daniel’s at home, I’ve been drinking your Jim Beam.”

  “You’re a true friend, Harry.” Mercer dripped sarcasm.

  It was midnight in the United Arab Emirates so Mercer had to content himself with a message on Gibson’s voice mail at the Petroleum Ministry, leaving his number on the aircraft in case Jim got to his office early but telling the oil man that he would be back in touch in the morning.

  The flight took just under five hours; Mercer allowed himself to sleep only three. He used the rest of the time to organize the counterstrike against the Southern Cross nee Petromax Arctica. The nap had gone a long way to revive him, but he wasn’t even close to working at his peak. In the remaining hours before landing, he placed calls to Washington, D.C.; Victoria, British Columbia, where Captain Hauser was standing by; and to Andy Lindstrom in Valdez, who had wisely turned over the responsibilities of assessing the damaged pipeline to a subordinate. One of his calls, to Dave Saulman in Miami, had taken nearly half an hour, but had been worth every minute. Saulman’s research had cast a shadow over Mercer’s plan, but he had no option but to continue.

  By the time the Alyeska jet touched down in Victoria, everything was in place. Hauser had a rental car ready to take him and Mercer down to the port, where a SEAL team from the naval base at Bremerton, Washington, was standing by. Henna had said that he’d had to pull in every favor ever ow
ed him to get the President to authorize the use of the team.

  “Have the Canadian authorities been notified?” Mercer was still on the phone as the jet taxied to the general aviation hangar.

  “Be thankful I’ve gotten as far as I have with our people. Politicians have the memories of five-year-olds and half the attention span. It’s going to take more time to get the Mounties on line too. The Canadians are in agreement in principle, but they want to get their own special forces in place. So far they’ve agreed that the SEALs can have the actual assault, but their men must be on scene as backup.”

  “Dick, Captain Hauser suspects that the terrorists are waiting until the tide turns. Then they’ll spill the oil into the Juan de Fuca Strait with the rising water. According to a guy Hauser talked to here in Victoria, the tide turns in about thirty minutes. We’re going as soon as I get to the waterfront, with or without the Canadians. It’s one of those situations when you ask for forgiveness, not permission.”

  “Mercer, I can’t allow you to do that. There are international considerations here.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m not asking for your blessing — I’m telling you I’m going.” Mercer hung up on his friend just as the pilot spooled down the engines and a ground worker opened the outer hatch. A customs agent was standing with him.

  “Welcome to Canada, Bienvenu au Canada. Do you have anything to declare?”

  “Yes, an emergency,” Mercer breathed as he dragged himself out of the plane.

  Lyle Hauser was waiting next to a Ford Taurus in the parking lot outside the general aviation building. He wore a pair of fisherman’s overalls and borrowed gumboots. His clothes were clean, but his face was unshaven and drawn. “If I had a mirror, I’d bet I look as bad as you do.”

  “I’m that bad, huh?” Mercer replied, warming to the captain immediately. “Are we set?”

  “Just waiting for you. I’ve been contacted by the naval personnel. They’re standing by in the harbor with one of their assault boats.”

  “Have you briefed them about the people who seized your ship — numbers, types of weapons, that sort of thing?”

  “I did the best I could. Most of what I know I got secondhand from the Chief Engineer before I escaped,” Hauser said, slipping behind the wheel of the rental and gunning the motor. “The SEALs’ commanding officer told me that they’ve practiced this kind of attack before. He said they have it all figured out.”

  “We’ll see about that.” Mercer agreed with Hauser’s less than enthusiastic assessment.

  It was only a ten-mile drive from the airport to Victoria Harbor along Blanshard Street, Mercer and Hauser maintaining a companionable silence. Neither felt the need to discuss the outcome if they failed. The consequences were too horrifying to consider.

  The sky was a clear robin’s-egg blue with only a few smeared clouds high overhead to stain its perfect dome. While there was a bite to the air, the sun was strong enough to warm everything and give the autumn day a springlike feel. If the crude was spilled, the very air would turn to poison, the hydrocarbons so polluting the atmosphere that even a short-term exposure would mean burned lungs and the very real threat of cancer.

  At the docks, the five-man SEAL team was as inconspicuous as a bottle of Scotch at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. They stood on their assault boat in body armor, their black outfits blending in with the boat perfectly but looking ridiculous compared to the L. L. Bean shirts and gaily colored jackets of the crowd that gawked at them like zoo patrons. The boat, an evil-looking deep-hulled craft skirted with a rubber pontoon ring and powered by twin outboard motors, looked like an ugly duckling compared with the sleek pleasure craft around it.

  “Jesus Christ,” Mercer exclaimed. “The fucking circus is in town.”

  He and Hauser moved across the docks as quickly as possible, praying they got to the boat before the Harbor Master spotted the assault craft and decided to investigate. “I can’t believe they haven’t been carted off by the local gendarmerie.”

  “Lieutenant Krutchfield?” Hauser called. “I’m Captain Hauser and this is Dr. Mercer.” They jumped down to the boat, their combined weight having no impact on the stable craft. Mercer took a second to shake the young lieutenant’s hand before ordering him to cast off.

  Krutchfield’s face was baby smooth, with cornflower blue eyes and a nose so sharply upturned his nostrils resembled the muzzles of a double-barreled shotgun. He didn’t have that hard-edged look of the other soldiers in his team. He looked too eager, more like a puppy looking to be petted.

  “Dr. Mercer,” Krutchfield shouted over the throb of the engines. The boat was already rocketing at nearly fifty miles per hour, coming on to plane faster than any high-performance boat Mercer had ever seen. “I heard about what you did last year in Hawaii with another of the Teams, sir. I must say it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  When Mercer didn’t acknowledge the compliment, Krutchfield continued. “It was just our luck that we were in Washington when the call came through.”

  “Lieutenant, only one SEAL survived that attack in Hawaii. I’d hold off on your enthusiasm until this is over,” Mercer said darkly. “How far is the Southern Cross?”

  “Satellite intel shows her holding a position about forty miles up the Strait. We’ll be there in fifty minutes.”

  “Not in this death trap we won’t. They’ll blast us out of the water as soon as they see us coming. Do you guys have any civilian clothing, a disguise of some sort?”

  “No, sir. We were briefed that this was a straightforward assault, no need for that sort of thing.” Krutchfield didn’t like having his tactics questioned.

  “So much for subtlety,” Hauser said.

  Mercer’s entire plan revolved around intercepting the boat meant to pick up JoAnn Riggs and her cadre of terrorists and using it to make their approach to the supertanker. However, even getting close to the pickup boat without tipping their hand would be tricky, considering the conspicuous nature of the SEALs’ assault craft and the fact that they still didn’t know which of the hundreds of vessels in the Strait was the one sent to fetch the terrorists. Without that piece of critical information, they might as well go home and watch the worst environmental disaster in American history on television. “What kind of communications gear do you have aboard?”

  “Just this.” The young commando held up a small portable radio, its antenna no more than a blister at the top of the armored casing.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “Devil Fish, Devil Fish, this is Mud Skipper. Come in, over.” Krutchfield handed the radio to Mercer. “You’re now in contact with the fast attack submarine USS Tallahassee. She’s about forty feet below us and keeping pace all the way to the tanker. You aren’t going to find a better comm center than a hunter-killer nuclear sub, Doctor. Since the alert was put out a few hours ago, they’ve been monitoring marine channels in the area, feeding all contacts into the computer and creating a chart of every ship in Puget Sound. My CO said Admiral Morrison of the Joint Chiefs thought you might appreciate the help. Seems he’s a fan of yours.”

  “Devil Fish standing by,” a voice called from the radio in Mercer’s hand.

  While Mercer was stunned by the presence of the submarine and just how much faith the Chairman of Joint Chiefs placed in him, he didn’t allow it to affect him as he spoke. He was totally focused on what lay ahead. “Devil Fish, we’re looking for a boat that left Victoria within the hour and is en route to the Southern Cross. She would have made at least one contact with the tanker, a brief message. The key word I’m looking for is Arctica. Do you have anything matching that description?”

  “Stand by, Mud Skipper.” A moment later the submariner came back. “Affirmative. A twin screw boat making revolutions for twenty knots left Victoria forty-seven minutes ago, one transmission to the tanker, traffic as follows. ‘Arctica, this is Rescue, en route, ETA 1420 hrs. Confirm?’ The tanker replied, ‘Confirmed.’ That’s all. Active sonar lash shows the target t
o be thirty-six feet long, eleven wide. Our best guess is she’s a fishing boat or a seagoing cabin cruiser. Over.”

  “Roger, Devil Fish. Mud Skipper out.” Mercer handed the radio back to Krutchfield. “It’s going to be tight. We have to take that boat before she’s in visual range of the tanker. Otherwise we don’t stand a snowball’s chance.”

  “How’d you know she’d be called the Arctica again? Her name was Southern Cross when I left her.” Hauser was standing next to Mercer in the tiny cabin of the boat.

  “I have a good lawyer,” Mercer said without elaborating, then turned to Krutchfield. “Is this as fast as this pig can go?”

  “Hell no.” Krutchfield grinned, and the man at the helm dropped the throttles to their stops, the wind on the exposed deck screaming around them now at sixty miles per hour.

  Mercer turned back to Hauser and filled him in on what had happened to the Trans-Alaska Pipeline earlier in the day and about Ivan Kerikov. “This is the second part of his plan, sinking a tanker in American waters, polluting the coastline for a couple of hundred miles. Max Johnston was part of this from the beginning, using one of his ships to transport the liquid nitrogen. He knew the ship was going to be scuttled, and to avoid the few billion dollars for the cleanup, he quietly sold his fleet, including the Arctica. He made certain his key people, like this JoAnn Riggs you told me about, remained on board.”

  “That’s right. The Petromax Pacifica was to be renamed Southern Hospitality, and the Arabia’s new name is Southern Accent,” Hauser stated.

  “You were the wild card, since the Arctica’s former captain, another conspirator I’m sure, was injured and had to be replaced. No offense, but they hired a captain who was at the mandatory retirement age and hadn’t been at sea for a couple years. It would be easy to pin an ‘accident’ on you once you were dead.”

  “It doesn’t add up. If Max Johnston sold his tankers, why is the ship still the Petromax Arctica and not Southern Cross?”

  “Because early this morning, according to Dave Saulman, my lawyer friend, the sale of Petromax’s fleet to SC amp;L was canceled. Their ownership reverted back to Johnston, including the responsibility for the two-hundred-thousand-ton oil spill that’s about to occur.”