The Shipkiller

by Justin Scott

  The doctor nodded. “Hypothetically.”

  “Thank you. Now let us assume that Dr. Akanke stumbled into matters she can neither appreciate nor comprehend. Can we assume that?”

  “For the moment.”

  “Thank you. Let us finally assume that you will understand those matters when a disinterested third party explains them. Can we assume that?”

  The psychiatrist shook his head. “We have no disinterested third party.”

  “One telephone call.”

  “Hypothetical?” the psychiatrist asked with a smile.

  Donner smiled back. “Not if you want a real third party.”

  The psychiatrist spread his hands on his desk and made a triangle with his thumbs and forefingers. Staring into the triangle, he asked, “Am I supposed to think that you are clever?”

  “Not especially,” said Donner, “but just a trifle more clever than a man who publicly threatens the leaders of a country he is visiting— one telephone call will settle your doubts.”

  “All right.” The doctor dialed the telephone and held the receiver to Donner’s ear. When the ringing stopped, Donner spoke the names of the hospital and the doctor. Then he said, “You can ring off now.”

  “Is that all?”

  “You may as well put me in a cell now. But if you go out, sir, I strongly advise you leave word where you can be reached.”

  The land seemed to shift under his feet as Hardin took his first tentative steps around the narrow shelf. Shells and soft sand at the edge of the gray, uninviting water quickly gave way to a barren stretch of dust and rocks behind which rose the almost sheer face of the island’s cliffs. A steep path, cut like the straining folds of a tied drape, ascended the yellow stone to the light tower on the brink. It was hot, much hotter than on the water, as if the rocks stored the sun’s heat and fired it back in concentrated bursts.

  Hardin confirmed that he was alone, then searched the brown, dry base of the cliff for a spring to replenish his dwindling water supply. Finding nothing but dust, sparse blackened shrubs, and insects, he started up the cliff path.

  It was a slow, laborious climb, complicated by his sea-attuned sense of balance, though rusty iron handholds and railings were imbedded in the stone wherever it was particularly steep or dangerous. As the fittings were old and the path seemed untrodden recently, Hardin supposed that repairs and maintenance of the navigational aids were effected from helicopters instead of boats.

  He reached the summit, where a hot wind swirled dust devils around the masonry base of a steel tower. As expected, he found a helicopter landing pad—a white circle cleared among rocks—and other signs of modernity—a generator shed protected by steel shutters and massive padlocks, and a heap of motor-oil cans—indicating regular visitations by the keepers of the light. Atop the tower, which was guyed with steel cables, was the light—its mirrored reflectors blazing in the pale sun—and above it the quiet arm of a radiobeacon antenna.

  A ladder clung to one side of the steel tower. Hardin climbed fifty feet—halfway to the top—and looked down at the misty cloud cover that had hidden him from the helicopter. It was thinning and he could make out the Musandam Peninsula that separated the Gulf of Oman from the Persian Gulf, and some of the nearby islands. The rest he knew from the charts.

  Iran lay forty miles across the inverted-U-shaped strait to the east, north, and west. The United Arab Emirates were south. The Gulf of Oman narrowed at the foot of this island and turned west into the landlocked Persian Gulf. The Gulf was the monster’s home and the Strait of Hormuz was its only door.

  It was a perfect trap. LEVIATHAN had to pass Hardin in the narrow sea-lane. He even had an escape route. Southwest, out through the broad Gulf of Oman, and beyond the Arabian Sea to the limitless Indian Ocean.

  He climbed down the tower and the path to the base of the cliff and made a second inspection for signs of human activity. Again he found none.

  Satisfied that the island was safe, he returned to the Swan and celebrated his landfall with a canned cinnamon cake and some evaporated milk.

  After eating, he swept the close horizons with his glasses to check that no boats were approaching. Then he lay sweating on his bunk and tried to sleep. The boat was steady for the first time since he was becalmed. Accustomed to compensating for pitch and roll, Hardin tossed and turned in restless anticipation of movement that did not come and, tired as he was, he could not sleep. He waited an hour, got up, and again scanned the water.

  The haze was lifting, as it had every evening he had been in Arabian waters, but the heat was just as bad. Six or seven miles to the south crouched the faint outline of Jazirat Musandam, the island at the tip of the Musandam Peninsula which marked the south side of the narrow entrance to the Strait.

  He watched the double procession of oil tankers and conjured a vivid scene in his mind. In two or three days LEVIATHAN would bloat the inbound procession. Twice as wide as the others, higher, longer, it would lumber toward the Strait, filling the narrow passage like a rogue elephant roaming the single path in a village of flimsy huts. He saw himself in the middle of the channel, the bow of the monster quartered in his weapon’s cross hairs, waiting until it was very close. Darkness fell. Curtaining the ports and the transparent hatch covers, he lighted an oil lamp and went out on deck to be sure that no light showed. He returned to the sweltering cabin, pulled up the floorboards, heaved out the Dragon, and went over it carefully, checking the electrical circuitry. Miles’s people had cleaned the weapon and pronounced it operational. The battery tested low, and he replaced it with a spare mercury cell.

  “I’m not political,” said the psychiatrist.

  “Sensible.”

  Perspiration beaded the black man’s upper lip. He helped Donner into his jacket, which the Israeli had draped neatly on the cot in the barred room where he had waited, and watched anxiously while he buttoned his collar, replaced his belt, and knotted his tie.

  “I’ve been told to take you to the airport.”

  “Do you know Dr. Akanke personally?”

  “No sir. . . . We’ve met.”

  “As far as I am concerned, this matter is closed. You will hear nothing more of it and neither will she.”

  “What about the person who telephoned me?” asked the psychiatrist.

  “He will say nothing. He is her father’s colleague, not his friend.”

  Hardin pumped the bilges, as he had done four hours earlier, and discovered that the Swan had leaked as much sitting at her mooring as she had underway. Then he started the engine to power the radio. The exhaust echoed loudly off the stone pier.

  It was ten minutes before eleven—eight o’clock GMT. The lights of the tankers passed solemnly to the south. Green lights on the empty inbound ships and red on those heavily laden and heading home.

  Miles came through via the long-range station at Kuwait. Apparently he had guessed the Gulf. Or maybe he was trying the Mozambique Channel at the same time.

  “Golf-Mike-Hotel-November,” said Hardin. “Golf-Mike-Hotel-November.”

  “Thank you, GMHN,” said the Kuwait operator. “Go ahead, please, NHMG.”

  “Kilo-Uniform-Xray.”

  “What?” yelled Hardin. Stop instantly, standing into danger, stop your intention. The same message Miles had sent two months ago off the Liberian coast.

  Miles repeated over and over until Hardin broke in. For a moment, as each transmitted, neither heard the other. Then Hardin broke through.

  “Why?”

  “Zulu returned to Capetown.”

  “What?”

  He had heard, but couldn’t believe.

  “Repeat,” said Miles. “Zulu returned to Capetown. Repeat. Zulu returned to Capetown.”

  “When?” It didn’t seem possible. It couldn’t be.

  “Over a week ago. I tried to tell you, but you haven’t received my signals.”

  “What happened?”

  Once Miles had radioed that LEVIATHAN was sailing from Capetown bound for H
ll Island in the Persian Gulf, Hardin had stopped using the radio.

  “The bow gave way again,” replied Miles. “Off Durban.”

  “Why didn’t they go into Durban?”

  “I don’t know.”

  That didn’t make sense. Why Capetown when Durban had bigger drydocks? “How badly is it damaged?” he asked.

  “They say it will be months before she sails,” replied Miles. “Where are you?”

  Hardin’s mind was spinning. Months? Where could he hide for months? Where could he get the boat repaired? Where would it be safe to get food and water? He quailed from the prospect of so much more time alone on the boat. The radio hissed in his ears; he barely noticed that every few moments the static was interrupted by faint bursts of a staccato tapping sound. The fear of solitude came as a surprise. He thought of Carolyn.

  “Where are you?” Miles repeated insistently.

  Maybe the Israeli could help again. “I need a place to lay over and refit. I’m exhausted and the boat is sinking under me.”

  “Of course you can’t stay. Are you safe for the moment?”

  “For the moment.”

  “Where exactly are you?”

  “On an island.”

  “In the Strait?”

  “Where can I go?” asked Hardin.

  After a short pause, Miles said, “Perhaps I could help you in India.”

  “That’s a long way from here.”

  The signal was weak, but it carried the smile in the Israeli’s voice. “We haven’t too many friends in Arabia.”

  “How about a ship in the Indian Ocean?”

  “No.”

  “What about one of those fruit carriers?”

  “Would you please be less specific? Just give me your position and I’ll get back to you.”

  “Are you positive that Zulu’s going to be laid up so long?” Hardin asked doggedly.

  “Yes! She’s a frightful mess. I saw her myself this afternoon. She looks worse than before.”

  “You’re in Capetown?” He had assumed Miles was in England.

  “I flew here as soon as I heard. Give me your exact position and I’ll make contact tomorrow on a secure channel with our usual code.”

  Hardin’s hand had begun trembling. His body filled with an aching weariness. Bitterly, he thought of the weeks he had driven the Swan, racing to reach the Strait ahead of LEVIATHAN. He couldn’t believe that the ship had faltered again. What was getting in the way each time he tried to kill it?

  “Okay,” he rumbled into the microphone. “Call tomorrow. I’ll wait here.”

  “Give me your position so I can use the secure channel.”

  “Hold on.”

  Overwhelmed with disappointment, he felt the corners of his mouth commence the crumbling breakup of his face. He sagged over the chart table like a drunken man. Tears filled his eyes. He hated the radio, hated Miles. He had to be alone with his grief. Shaking his head violently and taking a deep, temporarily steadying breath, he spoke into the microphone.

  “Okay . . . longitude—”

  The earphones rattled softly.

  “Yes?” prompted Miles. “Go on. There was interference. It’s over.”

  The faint tapping sound was gone, but it echoed in Hardin’s ears like clanging bells. He snapped off the transmitter and stared at the radio. The Russian radar tests.

  Miles had lied. He was in England.

  Slowly, in a trance, Hardin removed the headset. His mind picked up speed as the alarm bells grew louder. What had he said to him? Did he give away his position? Did he name the island? Was his signal being traced?

  He rose from the chart table and started up the companionway, moving faster and faster with each step. Miles had lied; and he had asked for his position. His exact position, as if he were setting him up.

  A hot breeze riffled the water and stirred the thick night air. He retrieved his stern line, and hauled up the anchor.

  The first patrols raced into the Strait moments after he fled Little Quoin. Thinking they were helicopters, he scanned the dark and overcast sky while the whine of their jet turbines drew rapidly closer. No lights flashed overhead, but the sound grew louder. The whine deepened to a howl, then a thunderous roar.

  Hovercraft.

  A pair of the high-speed air-cushion attack boats closed swiftly from the north. Searchlight beams bristled from their sleek, low hulls, darting over the wave tops, slicing the night. In their backlight, Hardin saw heavy machine guns, rocket launchers, and spinning radars.

  They came straight for him—a hundred feet long and lightning fast—skimming the water on air-cushion squalls of froth and spray like a band of desert horsemen riding clouds of billowing dust. His diesel was shuddering at full throttle, but the Swan was turning six knots to their fifty. A searchlight skipped the waves like a flat stone, seeking the sloop’s white hull.

  Miles had screwed him beautifully and he’d done everything to help but hold his coat. He’d let the Israeli keep him on the air, milking his grief and fear until the Iranian radio operators had homed in on his signal. The Hovercraft closed. A quarter mile, three hundred yards, two hundred yards.

  They broke formation and veered apart. Hardin waited for the flat hulls to settle to the water as they slowed, but they came swiftly, their speed undiminished, and he felt a new fear. They were going to strafe him. He spotted the machine gunners hunched over their weapons, the backwash of the spotlights gleaming on their helmets.

  His mind screamed to go over the side, but he was paralyzed by fear and disbelief, frozen to the wheel. They were on him with a whoosh and a roar; he’d be dead before he heard the guns. Then they were past, one on either side, and howling toward the island behind him.

  The Swan tossed in their wakes. Hardin gaped at them, trying to blink their white glare from his eyes, realizing gradually why they had missed him. It wasn’t luck. With a wooden mast and her reflector dismounted, the fiberglass Swan was a negligible radar target. The Hovercraft crews, trained more in technology than reality, depended primarily on their radar and had miscalculated the blinding effect of their own searchlights. Had they charged blacked out, the gunners and lookouts would have spotted the white Swan at the range they passed.

  He looked astern with his binoculars as he fled. Lights blazing, the Hovercraft circled widely in opposite directions, then converged upon the high dark shape of Little Quoin Island, executing a pincer movement that closed on the stone wharf where he had tied the Swan. Whatever their other deficiencies, the Iranians were impressively good at signal tracking. Their lights danced over the wharf, the beach, and the backdrop of the cliffs. A harsh chorus of electronic bullhorns crackled across the Strait as uniformed sailors leaped ashore with rifles and machine pistols.

  Hardin steered for the middle of the shipping channel, altering course again and again to dodge a number of boats whose lights were converging on the island behind him and the oil tankers which steamed past, oblivious to the hunt.

  At any moment someone would take charge of the chaotic operation and conclude the obvious. When that happened, the flotilla would fan out on a sector-by-sector search from the Musandam Peninsula to the coast of Iran. Already lights were circling around Little Quoin as if the naval craft were clustering, awaiting assignment.

  Hardin drove the Swan as fast as it would go. The northern tip of the Musandam Peninsula was a maze of islets and coves. Jazirat Musandam, the island at its tip, was less than four miles away. If he could make it there, he would have a good chance of weaving back down the crenelated coast and out to the safety of the Arabian Sea. He steered south-southwest, toward the lower end of the island.

  The night resonated with the throaty rumblings of marine engines, the whine of the Hovercraft, and the buzz of helicopters. The sound of his own diesel would never be heard in the searchers’ cacophony. He neared the Peninsula. Two more miles. But in the next mile, lights began to appear ahead—beads of light strung together on the beams of searchlights—as the hunters
anticipated his break for the rugged coast.

  Hardin swung left, back toward the shipping channel, pointing the Swan’s bow toward the empty blackness east of the lanes. Then he cut his engine and drifted, reluctant to commit to the new course. There was no concealment but the night on those broad open waters, no place to hide from the Iranian Navy which patrolled the east coast all the way to Pakistan.

  At daybreak, the morning haze and the desert dust clouds might hide him, but would they hold? The barometer had climbed steadily all day and was still rising last he looked. High-pressure systems were common here late in September, and if one did move into the Gulfs, the clear winds would blow his cover away like the wispy smoke of a snuffed-out candle.

  A minesweeper knifed through the water close enough for Hardin to see its silhouette against the sky. It veered across his bow, its searchlights just missing him, and raced to fill a gap in a string of lights that guarded the Peninsula. Halfway there, it disappeared behind the blackness of an outbound ship.

  He hesitated in the midst of the traffic lane, torn between the temporal safety to the east and the immediate danger to the west. Then the outbound ship began to pass him, several hundred feet away, slowly blocking his view of the hunters. Hardin stared at it, trying to make out its dark form. It was moving very slowly. He accelerated the engine and steered toward the ship, an idea flickering in his mind.

  She was an oil tanker, but much smaller than the behemoth VLCCs and ULCCs that ruled these waters, no more than thirty thousand tons. And she was old. Very old. Her gracefully raked funnel and her midships bridge blotted handsomely proportioned dark shapes out of the night sky. But it was her languorous pace that drew Hardin to her side. Her engine worked with a tired thumping wheeze as she started her long journey home at less than six knots.

  He steered into her gentle lee and crept forward until the Swan was riding comfortably just inside the dark ship’s low bow wake. Then he eased back his throttle. The Swan slowed to the same speed as the throbbing tanker, pointing directly into the wind which scraped the curling crest off her bow wave and played it over Hardin’s face in a cool spray.