by Gregg Loomis
THE INTRUDERS
Jason could simply flee, disappear into the night. But where? Anyone who had tracked him this far was not going to be discouraged by not finding him at home and the islands presented few hiding places. No, he was going to have to terminate this venture here and now.
Jason sighed. His fight had been from the first very, very personal. He had taken satisfaction from the expression on the faces of men who knew they would be dead within the next second. Satisfaction and a small degree of revenge, a minute reprisal for his loss. Tonight there would only be impersonal killing from which he would derive little vindication.
Well, with one exception.
Jason crept forward on his knees and elbows, the plastic device between his teeth and the shotgun held in both hands. When he was close enough to see the sentry against the sky, he stood.
"Welcome to North Caicos," Jason said softly....
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The common misconception is that writing is a lonely craft. This might have been true when Dickens dipped his quill into an inkwell or even when Mark Twain was the first to use a typewriter to create a novel. Today, with e-mail, phone and fax connections, I'm not only not alone, I have immediate assistance and advice from my ever-patient agent, Mary Jack Wald, and my editor, Don D'Auria, who is both quick and tactful in separating the good ideas from the not-so-good. Without either of these professionals, this book would not have happened.
Thanks also to Suzanne my wife, who loves to poke into the dimmer corners of history.
The scenes and much of the history of the ancient underworld come from my interpretation of Robert Temple's Netherworld, a photographically illustrated account of an actual descent into and exploration of the Oracle of the Dead, or Hades, at Baia in 2001. As stated in the book, the site was sealed again after Temple's exploration.
The cave of the Sybil of Cumae, though perhaps requiring a seeress to find, is open to the public.
DISCOVERY OF HADES AT BAIA
In the 1960s, Robert Padget, an amateur archeologist, had retired from his job in England and was living in the Naples area. For unclear reasons, he suspected there was a historical basis for parts of the epics of Homer and Virgil, particularly those dealing with the Sibyl of Cumae and, nearby, Hades.
When a cave that fit the classical description of the Sibyl's was discovered, Padget was certain that Hades must also exist.
In 1962, he found a series of man-made caverns at the ancient resort town of Baia that included sacrificial altars and tunnels that would have allowed the seemingly mystical appearance and disappearance of priests (as described in the classics). And there was a shallow underground river, the Styx. The series of caves had been methodically filled with dirt, rocks and rubble, the latter dated to the last years of Augustus Caesar (27 B.C. - 14 A.D.). There were traces of sulfur gases but none of the potentially poisonous vapors associated with volcanic regions.
Padget scheduled a press conference in London to announce his discovery, but the timing could not have been worse: November 22,1963 at 6:00 p.m., or early afternoon in Dallas, Texas. Apparently, the conference was never rescheduled and the caves were decreed a hazard by the Italian government and ordered to be sealed.
In 1992, Robert Temple convinced the Italian authorities to let him follow Padget's path. He and his crew took photographs this time, which were reproduced in his book, Netherworld.
Again, the Italians sealed the cave, citing the possibilities of poison gases, unstable earth, etc.
Prologue
55 o, 47', 21"' N
173 o,40', 14" W
North of Atka, Andrean of Islands, Bering Sea
June 12, 0618 Hours
The Russian fishing trawler had to have been the source of the SOS. As big as a WWII aircraft carrier, it was designed to catch, process, and freeze tons of North Pacific cod without leaving the fishing grounds. That was why a number of countries had banned these superships: two or three of them could wipe out a breeding ground in days.
But fishing wasn't what it was doing now.
Captain Edward "Easy" Rumpmiller stood on the small bridge of the U.S. Coast Guard cutter Reynolds and studied the massive craft through binoculars. Even in the glare of the subarctic spring sun, he could see there were no nets out. The open hatches to the huge holds were covered in a white cloud of gulls feasting on a catch left available to them. The craft was wallowing in the swell, not under power.
That was the reason for the distress signal, of course.
He grimaced. Damn Russians. Fishing illegally within the two-hundred-mile area claimed by the United States, they had the balls to call the U.S. Coast Guard when something happened to their engines. If the world were a sane place, he'd have authority to at least confiscate their catch to cover the taxpayers' expense in rescuing the bastards.
But it wasn't and he didn't.
So, what good was a territorial limit when it only meant you had to help somebody trespassing in it?
"No response, Cap'n."
Rumpmiller's thoughts on political complexities scattered like a covey of frightened birds as he put down the glasses and nodded to his radioman, Third Class O. D. Peschky. He'd never asked what the initials stood for.
"Try again, all international frequencies."
He wasn't surprised when that didn't work, either.
He sighed deeply, a man put to useless effort. "Blast the siren a couple of times. That should wake 'em up."
Just like the Russians: lose both engines, call for help, and get tanked up on vodka while they waited.
He made a minute adjustment to the binoculars as the shrill clarion echoed across the gray water. Nobody stirring. Bastards must have all passed out. Nothing to do but board, a problematic task since the trawler's deck towered a good thirty feet above his head.
Then he saw it: a rope boarding ladder dangled from just behind the trawler's bow, like the Russkies had anticipated the problem and left it before drinking themselves into a stupor.
"All ahead, prepare boarding party."
Rumpmiller buckled on the webbed gun belt required for boarding operations. He didn't like this one bit. Climbing up a ladder onto a ship in distress should be all in a day's work, but there was something sinister about the trawler, something he could not have explained.
For the first time in years, he slid back the action of his navy-issue Beretta, making sure he had a full load.
On board, the Russian craft appeared as deserted as it had from the bridge of the Reynolds. Huge hatches yawned open, and the smell of fish about to go bad filled the air, along with the raucous protests of birds frightened away from what was probably the only free meal the Northern Pacific would ever yield them. There was no one on deck, nor could he see anyone through the glass of the bridge above his head.
Rumpmiller could not have explained why he used hand motions rather than verbal orders to direct his armed five-man party to split up and search the ship.
Minutes later, Chief Petty Officer Wilson was back, his face white. "Sir, you'd better see this."
"What..."
But Wilson had already turned his back to lead the way, and the light breeze snatched the words into the emptiness of the Pacific.
At first, Rumpmiller thought his original hypothesis about vodka had been correct; in dealing with Russian seamen, it usually was. The men lying in a lake of drying blood, all eight of them, seemed to have two mouths, the lower one set in a grin.
Acid bile rose in his throat as he realized each man had had his throat cut.
For an instant, Rumpmiller thought he was going to be sick. Somehow he managed to swallow, hoping he was keeping his composure in front of the petty officer. "Chief, gather the boarding party and search every inch of the ship. Shoot a
nyone who even looks unfriendly."
The petty officer started to turn, stopped, and asked, "Even the holds, sir?"
Rumpmiller wasn't about to have his men smelling like overripe fish if he could avoid it. "No, secure the holds. Nothing gets in or out. They can be searched when the ship is towed to port."
Rumpmiller could hear feet running across the steel deck as Wilson's foghorn voice bellowed orders. He swallowed again and felt a little better as he looked around the room. A mess area, he surmised, since a small galley was adjacent. The plastic tabletop was pocked with cigarette burns from overflowing ashtrays. A number of glasses rolled across the floor as the ship rocked back and forth. He had no idea what the ship's full complement would be, but he knew these trawlers were built for a maximum of mechanization and a minimum of manpower. It was possible the whole crew was right here, lying in sticky puddles of their own life fluids.
He shook his head.
Impossible.
If all the crew were here, then who had manned the ship while its crew was being slaughtered like so much beef? Who had sent the SOS; who had put down the boarding ladder?
He stepped over the coaming into the galley. Eight plates were stacked in the stainless-steel sink. A nearly empty bottle stood nearby. He didn't need to read the Cyrillic label to tell him at least part of his original premise was true.
For the first time, he noted the smell of something burned, an odor over the metallic smell of drying blood. Not marijuana. He'd smelled enough of that during his stint on the East Coast, where years ago it had not been uncommon to encounter armadas of bales of cannabis either jettisoned by a pursued dope runner or waiting to be picked up by one. The coast guard had burned enough of the contraband that he would never forget the scent.
Which this wasn't.
More like sulfur, maybe struck matches. Although it was unlikely, the smell was strongest near what looked like a small rock garden in one corner, round white stones surrounded by a pair of very ugly plants. Why would a fishing trawler carry rocks and spindly plants? Maybe the captain wanted it there. Whatever, the stones and plants were not the problem at hand.
Nothing else caught his attention, nothing that might indicate how or why these men were dead and the ship left abandoned.
The question brought on a queasiness worse than he had felt when he saw the bodies. It was as if the killer or killers had wanted the ship and its macabre cargo to be found, wanted to make sure the world noted his or their handiwork.
A message of some sort?
If so, sending the distress signal and leaving the boarding ladder made a certain sick sense.
Very sick.
Even so, that didn't answer other questions, like how had eight seamen been overcome with not even a struggle? He saw no defensive wounds.
Any way he looked at it, the problem would not be Rumpmiller's for long—no longer than it took to radio Dutch Harbor.
Atlanta Journal Constitution,
August 16
MEN STABBED IN NATIONAL FOREST
Chattahoochee National Park, Tallulah Falls, GA:
The bodies of six employees of the Georgia Timber Company were found stabbed to death at a logging site near this mountain resort area yesterday. Police have not released names pending notification of family.
The exact cause of death has not yet been formally determined by the Raburn County Medical Examiner, Dr. Charles Walker, but he speculates some sort ofchemical inhalation played a part, although the actual cause of death appeared to be stab wounds.
"There was no sign of a struggle," Dr. Walker was quoted as saying, "and I can't imagine six healthy lumberjacks standing by while being attacked. Something disabled them."
Georgia Timber has come under criticism from a number of environmental groups in the last year for its cutting of trees in national forests. Company spokespersons declined comment but referred to a previous statement: "Georgia Timber won the bidding competition with the federal government for limited cutting in the Chattahoochee National Forest, and the taxpayers will benefit from careful and responsible removal of replaceable hardwoods."
PART I
Chapter One
Princess Juliana International Airport
Philipsburg, St. Maarten, Netherlands Antilles
December 20
Williford Watkins liked Americans. Were it not for Americans, he would have to live solely on what he got for working in the tower at the island's airport, a salary that never would have paid for the used twenty-eight-foot sport fisherman in which he took American tourists diving, snorkeling, and fishing for as much as a thousand dollars a day. His job, the one in the tower, consisted of eight tedious hours five days a week, doing little more than making sure the runway was clear of aircraft and telling the Air France or Lufthansa pilots, "Cleared to land."
The boring nature of his job was why he let his curiosity take hold when that particular Gulfstream IV landed. According to the routing slip Williford picked up from the rack, the plane was Swiss, but the numbers painted on the tail were unlike any Swiss registration he had ever seen.
Since his shift was over, or near enough by island standards, he walked downstairs and over to the customs and immigration section of the terminal. He had a charter at
the dock at Marigot, over on the French side of the island, but the fish weren't going anywhere and the anglers could wait. This was, after all, the Caribbean, where time was approximate at best.
The two pilots from the Gulfstream were filing their general declarations, the papers every country of entry required that listed passengers, cargo, and point of departure. His curiosity stirred once again when he noted there was only one passenger, a swarthy man with angry eyes. The dark man glared at Williford's dreadlocks and Bob Marley T-shirt. Williford smiled at him, just the way the tourism bureau said to do to all white folks. The dark man turned away.
That was unusual, too. Most mon come to St. Maarten, they be happy, not angry. The charter could wait a little longer.
Williford went outside into the brilliant sunshine of another day in paradise. His sunglasses, cooled by the aggressive air-conditioning inside, fogged over in the humid heat. The parking lot where he had left the Samurai he had bought with the money from his American charter customers was to his right. He turned left toward the flight operations building.
After exchanging some good-natured insults with the men in the single room, he found a copy of World Aircraft Registrations, thumbed through the country-by-country directory, and turned to Switzerland. He had been right: the Gulfstream's registration was not listed. Putting the heavy volume on a table, he tried the directory by registration letters. Fortunately, the United States was the only nation that had so many aircraft it used numbers instead of letters.
It took him only a few minutes to find out that the Gulfstream, or at least its numbers, were Syrian.
Williford checked his watch. His charter customers weren't going to be happy, but he couldn't quit now. Crossing the room, he picked up a telephone connected to the small air-traffic control center located in the base of the tower he had just left.
"Freddy," he said when a familiar voice came on the line, "th' Gulfstream you mons worked a few minutes ago; where it come from?"
What he heard made his curiosity sit up and take notice. The plane had been handed off from San Juan Center, the air-traffic control facility for high-altitude traffic in this part of the Caribbean, but it had not been handed off in sequence from London to Greenland to New York to Miami centers, the normal sequence for flights from Europe. Instead, it had commenced, the transatlantic part of its journey with Tenerife Center in the Canary Islands. Williford wasn't sure what part of the Caribbean those islands occupied, but he did know something was crazy as a marlin with its bill stuck in a boat hull.
There was something he had read in the men's room while he was taking a break a few weeks ago, something about the Americans wanting to know about suspicious flights. He supposed they wanted to further the
ir endless (and, in Williford's opinion, hopeless) effort against the drugs that journeyed northbound in volumes unequaled by tropical fruit. Maybe if he called the Americans, they could somehow send him charter business six months from now, in the summer, when things got slack.
He dialed the number of Miami Center.
The next morning, Williford figured the Americans had sent at least one charter, lack of summer notwithstanding. Except the four men who knocked on his door at sunup were already sweating in suits and ties.
"Can't go now, mon," Williford said. "Can't go till afta work."
One of the men gave him a smile with no humor in it. "We'll only be a minute, Mr. Watkins. You'll be on your way in no time. We need your help."
From the looks of them, four large men whose wilting suits did little to conceal muscle, they didn't need help from anyone. They also didn't look like the kind who would go away just to make sure a man got to work on time.
Williford really hadn't intended for them to come into his two-room cottage, not till his wife, Caroline, could get the place cleaned up a little, but they pushed right past him into the half of the house that served as a living room.
One of the men was carrying a book of photos. He sat in Williford's easy chair, the only upholstered one in the house, and opened the book. "We'd like you to take a look...."
Caroline emerged from behind the sheet that divided off the bedroom and gave Williford a look that could have burned a hole in the linen before she left without a word on her way to her job at Mullet Bay, one of the resorts along the beach. She didn't like to have company in the house before she was dressed.
The four men in suits seemed not to notice as the one with the book continued. "See if any of these men are the passenger on that Gulfstream."
And he was. An unmistakable likeness was on the second page. Williford pointed, and all four of his visitors nodded as though sharing a secret.
