by Tony Bulmer
Karyn gave him a dead look. “You ain’t the
Chief of Detectives for nothing are you Mālama? He stared back at her. She could see the
pulse in his neck pounding, he licked his lips and
said quietly, “You cannot kill me—you would never
get away with it.”
“You would be surprised what I can get
away with,” said Karyn. “Now, get this boat into
gear, we are heading, up the coast.” Mālama moved
wordlessly into the Captain’s chair and started the
boats engines. As they roared into life, foaming
water boiled at the stern. Karyn popped her
switchblade and cut the mooring ropes, all the
while keeping her gun carefully trained on Mālama. Released from its moorings, the powerful
boat cut out into the channel, quickly moving
towards the open sea. Karyn stood right behind
Mālama, pressing the hard black barrel of the Sig
into his spine, letting him know who was in charge;
letting him understand that if he tried anything—
anything at all—this was one sailing trip he would
never come back from.
55
The Pacific Buchanan moved up the ladder first, climbing high over the top of the bridge, then moving higher onto the spine of the ship. Kellerman followed after him. Together they began winding their way around the communications antenna and the satellite navigation boxes. There were a dozen bullet holes in the Sat-‐nav boxes; high-‐velocity rounds had torn into the complex electronics leaving a spew of blackened wires shorting into each other. No wonder the electronic systems had been unable to cope, thought Kellerman darkly.
“Hey, would you keep your goddamn head down,” hissed Buchanan. “If they see us dancing along the roof, those slime balls are liable to cut us into bacon strips.”
“I am doing the best I can, you patronizing bastard. I thought I had heard the last of you when that rocket went off earlier, and now here you are again even more of a pain in the ass than you ever were.”
Buchanan turned and gave her a look. “A simple thank you would be nice, but I will let that slide, on account of the fact you are shell-‐shock cranky, and you got more soot on you than a Siamese stoker on full-‐ahead Friday.”
Kellerman rolled her eyes, “What the hell are you talking about Buchanan?”
Buchanan crouched low, held his arm out to quiet her down. He remained motionless for a long
moment his predatory eyes surveying the deck below.
Kellerman hung onto one of the antennas, her feet sliding across the sloping roof towards the precipitous edge. It was a long way down, a very long way and it wouldn’t be an easy fall—there were a lot of things to hit on the way down— protruding gantries, metal rails and steel cabling. Kellerman clung tighter to the antenna. Maybe if she launched her self out, she would clear the hard deck and fall into the ocean, but what then?
The ocean swell played hard against the side of the ship, magnified by the backwash from the Wonsungi. Kellerman took a hard swallow. If the pirates still had their vessel with them, that seemed to indicate they were planning to use it again—and that would mean that the Nautilus would no longer be needed. Clinging to the antenna, Kellerman drew her feet back, away from the edge of the roof. She pressed her knees hard against her chest, feeling the reassuring weight of the AK-‐47 slung around her neck. If they were seen now, there would be no way she could hold on and fire at the same time. She would fall off the roof for sure—either that, or be shot off. Kellerman wanted to close her eyes—the lull in the fighting had given her time to think and she didn’t like the thoughts that were surfacing. She turned to Buchanan and hissed at his back, “So what now genius?”
Buchanan half turned and over his shoulder said, “We get the hell out of here is what—would you quit with the griping? Anyone would think you had something to complain about.”
“How long before they figure out we are not trapped in the bridge?” “Not long, those slippery little bastards will
be on to us before you know it, which is why we
have to play it smart and stay off their radar just as
long as we can.”
“So what are you waiting for? Let’s go. We
camp out up here any longer and I am liable to get a
friggin’ sun-‐tan.” But Buchanan was off again,
bounding across the spine of the ship, like a great
ape swinging through the jungle—Christ, the guy
knew every inch of this ship—it was his domain.
Kellerman sucked up a deep breath and followed
him as best she could. It wasn’t easy, her feet slip-‐
slided about on the sloping surfaces and the
swaying vertigo of the ships motion was magnified
with each faltering step—the sick, stale taste of
adrenaline queezed through her. She tried closing
her eyes, and moving forwards by touch, but it was
no use, with every additional step she took, the
terror pulsed faster, churning through her until she
could bear it no longer. They were on top of the
winch housing now, just a few more steps and they
would be back in the land of safety-‐rail stairways— The shouts came first, from back up the
spine of the ship. Then came the bullets singing so
close Kellerman could feel their passage, as they
zipped past her head. She tried to hurry forward,
but lost her footing. She reached out to save herself,
but gouged her hand. Sharp metal bit deep into her
flesh, a jagged pain flashed through her. The
momentum of the fall sent her spinning
downwards onto a steel lattice gantry. The impact
was so hard she felt the world spin out of focus— Then—gunfire—lots of gunfire—cartridge
cases falling all around her.
The blurred world came back into sharp focus. Kellerman felt strong hands tugging at her arm. “Come on, we have to get out of here right now.”
She felt a question rising to her lips, but her battered consciousness could no longer put words to the feelings, as they rose up within her. She struggled to her feet and staggered forwards—“my gun,” she said at last. “I lost my gun.”
Buchanan’s word came back hard and urgent, “Forget about the gun, we are out of ammo.”
Again, Kellerman felt a question rising within her, but the steel grip that encased her arm pulled her roughly forwards—“Come on, let’s go. We are getting out of here.”
Kellerman liked those words. They were the kind of words she could follow to the ends of the earth. The words conjured up images of a warm Medivac helicopter, followed by a lengthy rest in a bed with cool crisp sheets—maybe she would be able to lay back for a while, get some rest, fall asleep to
the sound of some forties movie on TCM channel—knowing that once she awakened, she would still have a cold-‐cut sandwich and half bottle of lightly chilled Chardonnay waiting for her in the refrigerator.
She stepped out into nothingness. This didn’t seem right—
She hit the water hard and went under.
The ocean. She was in the goddamn ocean.
Panic seized her. She felt her heart beating so hard now it seemed like it was going to pound its way out of her chest. She wanted to take a breath, but couldn’t. She was sinking, the glittering sun kissed surface of the Pacific growing farther and
farther away, with each panic-‐stricken beat of her heart.
She saw the bullets now, a deadly fusillade cutting through the water. Sinking lower, her heavy waterlogged clothes pulling her down. Kellerman remembered how she had fallen overboard once before—on her maiden voyage for Christ’s sake— she should have taken it as an omen. Back then—it seemed so long ago now—she had been wearing a life jacket, she had triggered the emergency inflator, knowing that as she trailed behind in the wake of the ship, she had a better than even chance of being saved. Not now. She had no life jacket, no concerned shipmates fighting to drag her to safety. All she had now was the deep, deep, ocean and a firestorm of hot bullets cutting into the water around her.
This was the end.
She was going to die for sure.
56
Langley, Virginia In the strip light perma gloom of the CIA situation room, the Admiral looked at Jack Senegar and said, “Where is the girl?”
Senegar consulted his laptop, “She is going for a little cruise.”
“A cruise?” roared the Admiral, “You hear that Parker, The girl is going on a cruise.” A look that might have passed for the briefest of smiles flittered across Parker’s face. “Tell me,” said the Admiral, “Just who is that little girl of mine taking on this cruise and where is she headed?”
Senegar pushed buttons on his laptop and a series of global positioning maps flashed up on the big wall screens.
The Admiral studied the wide screen images and nodded thoughtfully. “The Big Island. So, it is just as we thought. She is a smart little button that girl of mine.” The Admiral tapped his fingers on the desk and turned his sharp, analytical gaze to Jack Senegar, “Any further intelligence from our friends in the Bureau?”
“There were more casualties last night, the Oahu office is buzzing wilder than a hornets nest. There is so much signals traffic coming out of there my people can barely keep up,”
“And the upshot is?” asked the Admiral coldly.
“The hostiles are wise to the asset. Our girl is compromised.”
“Then she can be of no further use—or can
she? I am thinking we should let her follow through
with this play Jack, see where she takes it.” Senegar said, “She has taken the game to
the exact point I predicted.”
“You certainly like to shake things up
Laddie, I commend you for that,” said the Admiral.
His eyes had a fiery tinge, shining wild like a tigers. Senegar didn’t react. He looked at the tiny
blip as it tracked slowly out into the Pacific Ocean,
heading towards the Big Island. According to the
Automatic Identification data streaming in from the
Geosat, the girl was riding in a boat called The
Fortune registered to Oahu Chief of Police Donald
Mālama.
The Admiral watched the blip for a long
moment then turned to Senegar and said, “She was
never the same after Afghanistan Jack. When they
dragged her back from that little episode, she was a
whole different person.”
Senegar didn’t look at him, just sat there
staring at the screens on the wall. Finally he said,
“The Beach does that to people—sucks away their
souls, but in your daughters case that wasn’t a bad
thing, it made her stronger, wilder more
resourceful—it is impossible to train people up to
that level. Your daughter is a very unique woman
Admiral, you should be proud.”
“Proud doesn’t even cover it Laddie, but I
lost her—you know that—her mother as well.” Senegar nodded slowly, then said, “You
married your career Admiral same as me—for
some men it is better that way.”
The Admiral thought about this for a long time then said, “Some times very occasionally, I get to wondering.”
Senegar rocked slowly in his chair and said, “The mother is living in Beverly Hills. She retired from the Hospital eighteen months ago.” Senegar paused for a beat and looked at the Admiral. The hard analytical eyes that had been burning so fiercely just a moment before looked somehow softer now. Senegar said, ”Listen Bill, I don’t know how much you have heard, but the mother has cancer—stage four—it has metastasized into the bones. She will die soon, maybe not next month, or even next year, but the time is coming.”
The Admiral looked back at the screen. “The girl knows this?” he said flatly.
Jack Senegar nodded, “ She knows alright. She has been living in one hotel room after the other—for years now. All she does is visit the mother, and obsess about that daughter of hers.”
“Daughter?” said the Admiral turning back towards Senegar now.
“Reed Goodman’s child, the girl is called Carly.” Senegar paused. “I am sorry Bill—I knew there were problems between you—I didn’t realize how bad.”
“My fault Laddie, the years go by so fast. I should have asked sooner.” The Admiral reached inside his jacket and pulled out his hip flask. He uncorked it deftly with his thumb and tipped it back. He took a long swallow, then another. He allowed the whisky three seconds to hit home, then said, “I think it is time we moved in Laddie.”
Senegar nodded. “I concur. Let’s green light
DEVGRU, move the eyes in and give those friends of
ours in Hawaii a fly by they will never forget.” The Admiral gave Parker a look. Parker
nodded and a minute later he pulled his chair back
and said, “All assets in transit, the SEALS are
wheels up and outward bound Admiral.”
Finally, the Admiral allowed himself a
smile, “Good work Laddie, I want this one tight and
clinical—a by the numbers job—you understand
me?”
57
Los Angeles, California When they got to Beverly Hills, Julia still hadn’t gotten out of her meeting. Reed hated visiting his wife’s office, the place gave him the creeps. It seemed like everyone in the whole office had an attitude. First, there were the girl on the front desk, they couldn’t be any snootier, like she had just dropped out of some Swiss finishing-‐school, bounced her way through the pages of English Vogue and crash landed in West Los Angeles, with a migraine headache
and a resentment so deep and sour it tore at her bitter little face. Then, there were the other folks, hurrying around in their designer business clothes, blustering loudly into their cell phones and headsets, like they were running the world. None of them had the time of day for a smile, or even a simple hello.
Reed sat in the reception area with Carly. He wasn’t part of this world and never would be. For him, every day was dress down Friday—he had no meetings to, go to, no clients to glad hand and no diary to fill, unless you counted Carly’s play date calendar that is. Julia liked to keep their daughter “busy”. There was always something to do, an endless succession of friends to be visited, horse riding, music lessons, dance class and Yoga for kids. Carly hated structured classes, especially music lessons—she had tried just about every instrument in the orchestra, and still hadn’t found the one for her. Reed suspected that she never would. The only
thing Carly really loved was the beach and the ocean. She loved to swim and surf; she liked to play beach volleyball and go roller-‐skating along the sea front. As far as Carly was concerned, everything else was boring, and she fought Reed every step of the way, when she had to buckle down and do one of the very many things she wasn’t mad about.
Meanwhile, Julia liked to be involved. The fact that she realistically had no time to be involved was of little concern to her. This meant the household schedule needed to be constantly updated, in ways that dovetailed with Julia’s heavy schedule of corporate real-‐estate investment. The whole arrangement was an ongoing disaster that pleased no one—Carly pulled attitude, Julia got none of the fulfillment she was looking for and Reed—well, he was stuck in the middle, trying to please everyone and getting frustrated. He had tried to explain to Julia how crazy it was to change schedules at the last minute, but she never listened.
