Abyss km-15

by David Hagberg

  The stakes had simply become too high for them to back away, and he said as much to Otto. “There’s a real possibility that DeCamp won’t try to pull anything off until Schlagel’s flotilla is gone. Too many witnesses.”

  “But you don’t believe it.”

  “To tell the truth, I don’t know what the hell I believe anymore,” McGarvey said, some bitterness welling up. He felt as if he were itching for a fight, wanting it to come, wanting to get it over with. “Gail and I are just along for the ride.”

  “I hear you, Mac,” Otto said. He sounded subdued, as if he’d tried to talk some sense into a friend, but had failed. “But God help the bastards if they do try to hit you.”

  “Yeah,” McGarvey said, and he switched off and laid the phone on the desk. He wanted to hurt someone.

  Even here inside his cabin McGarvey could hear the boat whistles and horns and faintly the music and sounds of singing and laughter down on deck, and truly wondered if he had any other choice, if he’d ever had a choice from the moment he’d helped Eve get away from the power plant.

  He checked the load in his pistol, holstered it at the small of his back, and pocketing a spare magazine he headed down one deck to the galley to get a cup of coffee, expecting to see at least a couple of Defloria’s people, but the place was empty. It struck him as odd. There was always someone here

  “Anyone home?” McGarvey called. He went across to the pass-through and looked inside. Nothing was on the grill and the kitchen was deserted, though a pot of something was steaming on one of the stoves.

  No blood, nothing out of place, no reason whatsoever to be concerned. He turned and looked toward the open door to the corridor. Defloria had given his crew the evening off, and some of them would be up in the rec room, or catching up on sleep in their cabins. Some of them liked to fish from the lower decks during their time off. It was even possible a few of them had joined the party, especially Defloria and his construction foreman.

  McGarvey used the house phone next to the galley door and called the delivery control room, but there was no answer after four rings, and the hairs at the nape of his neck bristled again.

  Hanging up, he stood for several moments listening not only to the sounds of the rig, the distant sounds of the party on deck, and of the boat horns, but to some inner voice that his wife Katy had called his early warning detector. He’d been born with whatever it was that sometimes gave him an almost preternatural sense when something bad was about to happen. And he’d learned over the years to really listen as if his life depended on understanding what he was hearing, because on more than one occasion it had.

  But just now nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary, except for the deserted galley.

  “Goddamnit,” he said, frustrated.

  He had the almost overwhelming feeling that whatever was going to happen had already started.

  He went across to the corridor door where he held up for just a moment, and suddenly he picked out another sound from the other noises, louder now and getting louder, and he realized that he had heard it earlier. A helicopter was incoming. It’s what he’d been missing all along; it was the Jet Ranger on the aftdeck of one of boats in Schlagel’s flotilla. The bastard was involved after all.

  Drawing his pistol he peered around the door frame but the corridor was still empty, and he stepped out and hurried to the companionway where he took the stairs two at a time, mindful to make as little noise as possible.

  The helicopter was much closer now, just about on top of them. But the chopper only carried a pilot plus four passengers, so unless DeCamp had managed to place some of his people aboard at Biloxi the odds weren’t all that bad. But McGarvey had to consider the possibility that one or more of them were here and had already taken out some of the off-duty crew. And maybe any scientist or technician not at the party, maybe taking a break or something.

  At the top McGarvey eased around the corner in time to see a stockily built man dressed in black coming down the corridor, a suppressed MAC-10 in his hand.

  McGarvey ducked back behind the stairwell bulkhead, as the intruder opened fire, bullets ricocheting all over the place.

  The ultracompact Ingram wasn’t very accurate at any range over a few yards, even less accurate because of the long suppressor barrel, but its major disadvantage was its high rate of fire. A thirty-round magazine on full auto lasted less than two seconds.

  McGarvey had this in a split second, and keeping flat against the bulkhead he fired two rounds against the corridor wall, the 9mm bullets ricocheting away with high-pitched whines.

  The shooter sprayed the corridor, but the firing suddenly stopped and McGarvey heard the empty magazine hit the deck. He stepped up around the corner as the man slammed a fresh magazine into the handle.

  “Raise your weapon and you’ll die,” McGarvey said.

  The helicopter had landed, the noise of the rotors fading.

  Gurov stood motionless, his eyes narrowed, and McGarvey thought he recognized the man as one of the new employees who’d been taken on just before the platform had gotten underway.

  “How many of you came aboard at Biloxi?” McGarvey asked. The man looked Eastern European.

  Gurov made no move to raise his weapon. But it was clear he was weighing his options, and just as clear he was willing to waste time here.

  “Only five of your people came over aboard the helicopter, one of them Brian DeCamp. How about the others, Russian pizdecs like you?” At this point McGarvey figured knowledge was more valuable than time.

  Gurov said nothing.

  McGarvey suddenly walked directly toward the Russian, who at the last moment started to raise his weapon, but Mac shot him in the right knee, knocking him down. Before he could recover Mac bent down and jammed the muzzle of his pistol into the side of his head.

  “Talk to me,” McGarvey said.

  “Fuck you,” Gurov grunted. He batted the pistol away from his head with his left hand and raised the MAC with his right.

  McGarvey grabbed the end of the still hot suppressor tube and twisted the muzzle under Gurov’s chin as the weapon went off, completely destroying the man’s head.

  McGarvey took the man’s weapon, removed the magazine, and jammed the suppresser barrel against the deck and, using his foot, bent it a few degrees rendering the submachine gun useless. He found a walkie-talkie that he pocketed as he ran down the corridor to his room. Otto could have an Air Force special ops team here from McDill in Tampa in under an hour. All McGarvey had to do was delay DeCamp and his team, and keep as many of the people aboard Vanessa alive for as long as possible.

  But his sat phone lay in pieces on the floor of his room. One of the contractors had been here.

  The music on deck had stopped but there’d been no shooting, no cries of alarm. It wouldn’t last for long.

  McGarvey took the Franchi twelve-bore shotgun from his equipment pack, quickly loaded it, stuffing a couple dozen shells in his pockets, along with several one hundred-gram packets of Semtex plastic explosives and a number of pencil fuses.

  The equation had definitely changed, and he was going to change it further.

  SIXTY-ONE

  Brian DeCamp and the other three contractors got out of the Bell Ranger as Wyner completed the shutdown. Burt and Mitchell used two of the tie-down points on deck to secure the machine, while Helms ran to the edge of the pad to watch for someone coming up to investigate. It was Kabatov, who’d been waiting for them on the helipad. Like the others, he was dressed all in black, his face blackened, and he was armed with the silenced MP5 SD6.

  Someone laughed below on the main deck but the music had stopped.

  “Where is Boris?” DeCamp asked. The platform didn’t feel right to him. Something was nagging at the back of his head. “Instinct is your best friend on the battlefield,” Colonel Frazer had drummed into his head from day one. “Feed it good intel and then trust it, boyo.”

  “He went to look for McGarvey’s sat phone,” Kabatov said.
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  “How about the other communications equipment?”

  “All of it disabled.”

  “Good,” DeCamp said. Here aboard the rig they would communicate with low-powered Icom walkie-talkies. He pulled his out of his pocket and keyed the push to talk switch. “Boris, status.”

  “Someone’s coming,” Helms called from the dark. “Two men. Shall I take them out?”

  “Help him,” DeCamp told Mitchell. Gurov wasn’t answering. “Status,” DeCamp said again.

  “What do you want me to do?” Helms called urgently.

  DeCamp hesitated a moment, thinking about the situation. Either Gurov was down or he was in a situation where he couldn’t answer. Kirk McGarvey was aboard because he’d suspected this attack, but DeCamp had been assured by his contacts that the U.S. government did not share the view; not the FBI, the CIA, or Homeland Security.

  “Kill one, take the other hostage,” DeCamp told him, and he turned back to the walkie-talkie. “Boris does not answer, so for the moment I have to assume that Mr. McGarvey has somehow gotten involved. Am I correct?”

  Defloria came up the stairs onto the helicopter pad and Helms pointed the MP5 at him. “This way please,” he said, motioning toward Mitchell who also held his weapon pointed at the OIM.

  “Jesus,” Defloria said, rearing back.

  Stefanato came up right behind him, and when he saw the two men and the guns he tried to turn away but Helms tapped him twice in the side of the head at nearly point-blank range and the construction foreman pitched sideways and fell heavily ten feet to the first landing, dead before he’d hit it.

  DeCamp walked over to the three men, and held out the walkie-talkie in front of their hostage. “What is your name, sir?” he asked.

  Defloria had the look of a defeated man. He was large enough to have played professional football at some point in his life, but he wasn’t a fighter. “Justin Defloria,” he said.

  “And your job here is?”DeCamp asked.

  “I’m the Operations Installation Manager.”

  “Did you get that?” DeCamp said into the walkie-talkie.

  “Yes,” McGarvey said. “But I suggest that you get back in your helicopter and get out of here while you still can. Help is on the way from McDill.”

  “Oh, I doubt that seriously,” DeCamp said. “If you want to avoid any further bloodshed this is what you are going to do for us, because my mission here is to destroy this platform and send it to the bottom, but not kill anyone unless absolutely necessary. Lay down your weapon and join the party on the main deck. We’ll have everyone, including you and your assistant, loaded aboard the automatic lifeboats, and once you’re all safely away we’ll go about our business.”

  McGarvey didn’t answer.

  Wyner was finished securing the helicopter and he came over to the edge of the helipad with the other two men. Defloria was impressed.

  “In that case, here is what we will do,” DeCamp said. “We’re going to secure all the personnel aboard this platform including the scientists, especially Dr. Larsen. If you make any overt move against us we will kill them all.”

  The walkie-talkie was silent, and after a couple of seconds DeCamp stuffed it in his pocket. “Mr. McGarvey prefers to make it difficult for us, so let’s keep on our toes.” He prodded Defloria with the muzzle of his MP5. “We’ll join the party on deck. Whoever bags McGarvey will receive a fifty thousand euro bonus.”

  Defloria hesitated at the stairs. “The second your helicopter was spotted the delivery crew called for help.”

  “The radios have been disabled,” DeCamp said. “No calls went out.”

  “You’re forgetting the tug, you bastard.”

  There were parts of every job he’d ever been on that were DeCamp’s favorite. Like these when the target began using up his chips to bargain for his life, never dreaming that he was facing a royal flush.

  Kabatov took the lead because he knew the layout, Mitchell and Helms directly behind him, followed by Defloria, Burt, and Wyner. At the bottom DeCamp held them up behind one of the large pipe storage lockers welded to the main deck.

  “Where is McGarvey’s assistant?” he asked.

  “Last I saw she was at the party on deck,” Kabatov said.

  “As soon as you spot her, kill her.”

  “Will do,” Kabatov said.

  “She and McGarvey are our primary high-priority targets,” DeCamp said. “Same bonus applies to her. Clear, gentlemen?”

  “Yes, sir,” Kabatov and the others replied.

  “Then let’s proceed,” DeCamp said. He prodded Defloria ahead. “After you, Mr. OIM.”

  They came around the corner, and DeCamp fired a sort burst into the air.

  Eve Larsen, standing at one end of the long table that had been set up to hold the drinks and hors d’oeuvres, reared back, and her scientists and techs moved almost protectively around her. Even the musicians laid their instruments aside and moved toward her. It was clear by the looks on their faces, by their scared, nervous postures that they’d been expecting trouble, had probably been waiting for it ever since McGarvey and Gail Newby had shown up.

  DeCamp’s people immediately spread out, taking whatever cover they could behind the various storage lockers and equipment bolted or welded to the deck, their heads on swivels keeping an eye on the science team while searching the shadows above and especially behind them for any sign of McGarvey.

  Eve stepped forward arrogantly, her lip out. “Who are you and what the fuck are you doing on my platform?” she demanded, her voice rock steady.

  DeCamp had to admire her courage, at least a little, and he gave her a pleasant smile. “Oh, I think you know. I think Mr. McGarvey briefed you either before or after Oslo. And, congratulations on your prize, it must be a great vindication for your work.”

  “You’d know nothing about it,” Eve said, her voice rising in anger. “We create, while you do nothing but destroy. And not even for principle, only for pay.”

  Kabatov came to DeCamp’s side. “She’s not here,” he said, his voice low enough that Eve or the others could not have heard him.

  “She’s around someplace, unless she abandoned ship,” DeCamp said. “We’ll find her.”

  “She may be with McGarvey.”

  DeCamp nodded. “Ladies and gentlemen, please pay attention. Contrary to what you may have been told we mean you no personal harm. We have come here this evening merely to destroy the project.”

  “You son of a bitch,” Eve said stepping past her people. She pulled up short when Kabatov pointed his MAC-10 directly at her. “You’re one of the construction crew,” she said, recognizing him. And she turned to Defloria. “He’s one of yours?”

  “I didn’t know until now,” Defloria said. “I’m sorry.”

  “We need to make certain preparations, during which you will have to be secured from causing any interference,” DeCamp said. “Your experience will not be particularly pleasant, but it will last for less than an hour, after which you will be released and we will leave. From that moment you will have an additional thirty minutes to get aboard the lifeboats and abandon ship.”

  “You’re going to kill us!” one of the young women shrieked.

  “I assure you that is not my intention. No one who cooperates will be harmed.”

  Helms had opened one of the larger pipe lockers welded to the deck. About the size of a trailer for a semi; long and narrow, the storage bin was empty, and dark almost like a coffin.

  “I’m not going in there,” one of the techs said, shrinking back.

  Don stepped forward, and before Eve could do or say anything to stop him he walked up to the blond man who obviously was the leader. The terrorists trained their weapons on him.

  “No need for that,” Don said. “I’m the man you know as William Bell, your contact here.”

  The scientists were shocked, and DeCamp suppressed a smile. None of them had suspected they’d had a traitor in their midst, especially not Eve Larsen who, this
man had said, was in love with him. “She’ll do anything I tell her to do,” he had promised.

  “Including not demanding a military escort?” DeCamp had asked several weeks ago.

  “Especially not that. She thinks having that son of a bitch McGarvey aboard is all the protection she’ll need.”

  DeCamp motioned for his men to train their weapons elsewhere, and he lowered his MP5. “You have been of some help, Mr.… Bell.”

  “Dr. Don Price, actually, and I’m glad you’re finally here.”

  “Why?” Eve asked, her voice strangled.

  DeCamp almost laughed out loud. Price was a pompous ass, and the woman was naïve. Smart people with no common sense, and in the case of Price, no moral purpose.

  “This is nothing but a stupid pipe dream with zero chance of success,” Price said, turning to her and the others. “If you’d listened to me in the first place, if you had actually read my papers, studied my mathematics, you’d know that your experiments are dead ends. Failures. You won’t be able to control the climate and you’ll be the laughingstock of the scientific community — a position you’ve already just about hit. They handed you proof of that in Oslo by giving you the stupid Peace Prize, and not physics. Carbon capture is the future. The only future. My methods, my studies, my papers. My Nobel Prize in Physics.”

  “Christ, Don, is this what it’s all about?” Eve asked. “Being famous? Professional jealousy, you dumb bastard?”

  Price turned back to DeCamp. “That’s the arrogant bullshit I’ve had to swallow all this time,” he said.

  “You could have come to me,” Eve said plaintively.

  “So now what can I do to help with the mission?” Don said.

  “Why, die, of course,” DeCamp said, and he raised his MP5 and shot the scientist in the face at point-blank range, driving the man backwards off his feet, and sending a spray of blood across the deck.