The Butcher's Bill (The Linus Schag, NCIS, Thrillers Book 2)

by Martin Roy Hill

  "When I was looking through the micro-disk you gave me, I saw Gordias had some holdings in the maritime industry. If I remember right, one of them was a shipping firm."

  "Shipping?" Butcher asked. "Like cargo ships?"

  Schag nodded. "And here it is," he said.

  The company's name was Trans-Oceanic Transport. There was little information on the activities of the company, only that Gordias owned the firm's controlling stock. Schag copied the Trans-Oceanic's name and opened the web browser.

  "No good," Butcher said, leaning over his shoulder. "This place doesn't provide clean towels let alone Internet access."

  Schag cursed, thought a moment, and pulled out his Blackberry. Using its small browser, Schag found a website for Trans-Oceanic that promoted its reputation for safe and reliable bulk transportation.

  "Bulk," Schag explained to Butcher, "means uncontained liquid and dry goods."

  "Liquids? Like oil?" Butcher asked.

  Schag nodded but said nothing. He was too busy typing in a web address he knew from memory.

  "This website provides the position of nearly every ship in the world," he told Butcher. "Well, every ship that's not hiding something."

  Dozens of small, colorful dots cluttered a map of the world's oceans. Maneuvering around the map, he located the U.S. West Coast, the California coastline, then San Diego. He zoomed in on the coast off San Diego Harbor. The colorful dots emerged as ship-like icons heading in all directions. As he touched each icon, a small window opened and provided the vessel's name, latitude and longitude, and speed. When he found one that showed zero knots, he clicked on it. A new window opened with a photograph of an extremely large oil tanker. Above the photo was the name Mars Venture followed by a Liberian flag indicating the ship's registry. Below the flag, it showed the vessel's status: Anchored.

  "That's got to be the tanker I can see from my hotel window," Schag said. "It should have the name of her owner, too." He scrolled down further until he found it. He grinned at Butcher. "Trans-Oceanic," he said.

  "That's got to be where they have Yolanda," Butcher added.

  Schag nodded, but raised a finger in warning.

  "Hold on," he said. "We need more intel."

  Using his phone's browser, Schag looked up the phone number for the U.S. Coast Guard base he knew sat on the harbor's edge across from Lindbergh Field.

  "The Coast Guard's got to have information on the ship," he told Butcher. "People don't just anchor a jumbo tanker off your coast without drawing attention."

  Schag dialed the number for the Coast Guard's Marine Safety Office. The office was closed, but a recording provided another number to call in case of an emergency, such as an oil spill or maritime accident. Schag called that number.

  "Coast Guard Sector San Diego," a man answered. "Operations center. Senior Chief Dalton speaking. May I help you?"

  "Senior chief," Schag said. "This is Special Agent Schag of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service. I have a question for you."

  "Of course, sir," the senior chief said. "Fire away."

  "There's an oil tanker anchored offshore. What can you tell me about it?"

  "She's the petroleum tanker Mars Venture," Dalton said without missing a beat. "She's classified as a VLCC—a very large crude carrier. Liberian registry, but out of Bahrain. She had an engine casualty and had to drop her hook in the stream. Too big to get into this harbor. She's bigger than an aircraft carrier. Most of her crew was off loaded and sent home until parts can be flown in and repairs completed. She has a skeleton crew aboard as a live watch."

  "How big a skeleton crew?" Schag asked. "Do you know?"

  "Despite her size, sir, she has a pretty small crew. Only about 25 when they're underway. Ships like that are highly computerized. I guess only two or three, maybe fewer, left onboard to watch the computer screens, make sure she doesn't drag anchor. May I ask, sir, is this part of an official investigation? I mean something our own law enforcement people should know about?"

  "No, no, senior chief," Schag answered. "I can see her out of my window at the Gateway on the sub base, and I was curious. You don't see many VLCCs sitting around on a hook. I'm sorry to have bothered you, senior chief."

  "Not at all, sir," the petty officer replied. "But I do have a question for you."

  "What's that?" asked Schag, eager to hang up.

  "Do you know David McCallum?" Dalton asked. "You know, the guy who plays Ducky on that show?"

  The senior chief was laughing as Schag hung up.

  ☼

  "How do we get out to the ship, Lin?" Butcher asked. He reached into the only closet in the room and pulled out a rucksack. "We're going to need a boat."

  Schag nodded as he watched Butcher pull the Colt 1911 .45 auto he took off the Gideon assassin and stick it in his waistband. Butcher also jammed two loaded magazines in his pocket.

  “I thought you always carried that little Glock in an ankle holster,” Schag said.

  “I do,” Butcher said. “But I left it in the cabin, remember?”

  Schag nodded. The Glock was the weapon Butcher used to kill his Gideon doppelganger, and stage the phony suicide.

  "That port services company you checked out," Schag said. "Did they have boats?"

  Butcher pulled soft body armor from the bag and looked it over. "Yeah," he said. "Three that I saw. Could be more underway that I didn't see. All of them painted some god-awful shade of orange." He glanced at Schag. "What do you have in mind, Lin?"

  "With all that high-speed stuff you learned in the SEALs," Schag said, "did they ever teach you to how to steal a boat?"

  Butcher grinned.

  CHAPTER 26

  SATURDAY

  San Diego Port Services Company

  National City, California

  0315 Hours

  THE MATCH FLARED, ITS FLAME cutting through the dark shadow of the warehouse. Bill Butcher, wearing the red wig and beard again, studied the flame a moment, mesmerized by its dancing colors. He touched the match to the cigarette in his mouth and inhaled. Butcher didn't smoke, never had. In fact, the cigarette wasn't even his. On their way south to National City, he and Schag stopped at a liquor store, where Schag bought the pack of filtered Marlboros and picked up two books of matches. Sitting among the garbage dumpsters outside the warehouse, Butcher puffed clumsily on the cigarette until its tip was a fierce red. He placed the cigarette inside a matchbook, with the last of the tobacco touching the match heads, and wrapped the cover around it.

  It was an old trick for improvising a time-delayed fuse. The cigarette would about take five minutes to burn down to the matchbook. Once the smoldering embers of tobacco touched the matches, they would flare into life, igniting anything flammable around them. Butcher made sure there was plenty of flammable of material to burn, scraping together a pile of waste paper, cardboard, oil-soaked rags, and pieces of creosote-treated wood from the boat docks.

  Butcher laid the makeshift detonator on the pile of debris, and made his way back to where Schag parked the sedan. Schag was at the opened trunk, checking the gear in his go-bag. Both men wore dark clothing—Butcher the same dark pants and sweater he did for his raid on the Gideon compound, and Schag a pair of black BDU trousers and his leather jacket. Over his jacket, he wore a black Kevlar raid vest, the reflective four-inch tall NCIS letters taped over with black duct tape Schag kept in his bag for that purpose. Sometimes it was safer not to announce your presence to the enemy with glowing letters.

  Schag closed the trunk and slung the go-bag ruck over his shoulder as Butcher trotted up. "Get it set up?"

  Butcher nodded. "Should make a nice bonfire," he said, looking at his watch, "in about two more minutes."

  Leaning against the sedan, they waited. Two minutes passed, then three. Butcher looked at his watch, and Schag looked at him questioningly. Butcher nodded and gestured for Schag to be patient. Another minute passed, and they detected a whiff of smoke. A thin tendril of it twisted into the sky behind the warehouse, illumi
nated by the building's high-power work lights. Excited voices rose above the din of engine sounds and backup warning beeps from forklifts working inside the warehouse. A fire alarm screeched. Workers from around the compound stopped what they were doing and trotted toward the parking lot near the street, obviously a predetermined rally point in case of a fire.

  Butcher straightened and whispered to Schag. "Time to go."

  They wended their way along the fence line until they reached the docks. Six port services boats painted a dark orange lined the docks.

  "You're right," Schag said. "That is a ghastly shade of orange."

  "Any one in particular you want me to steal?" Butcher asked.

  "The one at the outboard end of the dock," Schag said. "We can make a faster get-away from there."

  Butcher nodded. "Let's go."

  Boots thudded dully as they trotted down the dock to the last berth. It was a typical work boat, the type Schag had seen in a dozen ports around the world, somewhere between thirty and forty feet long, beamy, all engine and cargo space, with a small opened wheelhouse and smaller compartment below decks, and nothing left over for the comfort of the crew. The single throttle to the right of the wheel showed it was a single-screw monster, difficult to back down, steer on a straight course, or dock. Butcher removed an access panel below the wheel while Schag began to take in the mooring lines. By the time Schag returned to the wheelhouse, Butcher was standing next to a tangle of wires smiling broadly.

  "It's all yours, Lin," he said.

  Schag opened the engine cover, located the seacock that let in water to cool the diesel engine, and opened it. Back in the wheelhouse, he punched the starter button and the diesel engine roared to life. Schag glanced nervously over his shoulder towards the warehouse. No one seemed to notice the noise. At the stern, Butcher glanced over the transom, saw the overboard discharge of the cooling seawater, and turned to Schag with a raised thumb. Schag cranked the wheel inboard and engaged the engine just enough to kick the stern away from the dock, then backed down. Once clear of the dock, he swung the rudder over, gunned the engine, and circled around toward the harbor channel.

  It was a good forty-five-minute run from National City to the harbor's mouth. A full moon peeking through scattered clouds bathed the dark water ahead. Schag kept a wary eye on the boat's radar screen, looking for any sign of the Coast Guard or harbor police. It was one thing for agent to explain why he commandeered a private vessel, a very different thing to explain why he was in the company of a wanted murder suspect.

  "Any idea how we're going to board the ship?" Schag asked, leaning toward Butcher's ear, and shouting over the throb of the diesel.

  Butcher mulled the questioned. "Climb the anchor chain?" he answered, making a hand-over-hand gesture.

  "You've got to be kidding," Schag said. "You have any idea how tall a supertanker is? It's like a high-rise building sitting if it isn't fully laden with cargo." Schag made an exaggerated roll of this shoulder. "Besides, with this shoulder, I could barely get dressed this morning."

  "You got any better idea then?"

  Schag thought about it a moment, but nothing came to mind. He glanced at Butcher, about to concede that fact when he noticed Bill was still wearing the red wig and beard.

  "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, I think I do."

  ☼

  Once past the Zuniga Light, they entered open water. The sea was what sailors called DFC—dead flat calm. Schag was glad for that. Docking a single screw boat in mild to moderate weather was no mean feat; in rough water, it could be impossible for someone out of practice as he was. He set a course for the Mars Venture. The ship had dropped its hook at one of the southern-most anchorages, meaning another good twenty minutes before they reached her. Schag had already explained his plan for getting aboard the tanker, so Butcher laid out their gear as Schag steered. Neither said anything for several minutes.

  At first, all Schag could make out of the Mars Venture were the deck lights that glowed brighter than the shore lights behind her. After a few minutes, moonlight revealed her shape and size. Even from a distance, she looked bigger than anything Schag knew from his personal experience, even larger than the Halsey, the aircraft carrier he once called home. So taken up by the massive ship's size, Schag didn't notice Butcher step up beside him until he spoke.

  "Lin?"

  Schag turned. The lights from the instruments shone on Butcher's face. Despite the phony beard, Schag could see something was plaguing him.

  "What is it, Bill?"

  "Um, look," Butcher stammered. "You've been a good friend all these years, you know? And, I . . . I know it hasn't been easy on you."

  Schag understood what Butcher was talking about, and his breath caught in mid-intake. He looked away, making a show of watching the rising hull of the tanker.

  "I don't know what you're talking about, Bill."

  "I know you're in love with Yolanda, Lin," Bill said as gently as he could over the growl of the diesel. "I've seen it in your eyes when you look at her . . . at us together. And I know you've never done anything about it, never tried. And I know you're doing this more for her than for me."

  Schag pretended not to hear. He stared ahead, not acknowledging his friend. His chest felt tight, as if it might burst. He wondered if Bill was right. Was he about to storm a ship—a ship guarded by armed men—because of his love for Yolanda and not out of friendship for Bill?

  "If I don't make it out of this mess," Butcher continued, "I want you to promise to look after her." Butcher's voice thickened, and he struggled with his words. "I mean, you know, it would be okay with me if you two, um, got together."

  Schag turned and faced Butcher. The man's mouth was twisting nervously.

  "You're a god damn idiot, Bill, you know that?" Schag said. "You think I could ever compete with you in Yolanda's eyes? She loves you, no one else. Your kids love you. That's what you saw in my eyes. Wishing I had something like what you two have instead of the marriage I had. That's all."

  Schag thought the lie sounded reasonable. Maybe even a little truthful.

  Butcher smiled sadly, unconvinced. "Promise me, bro. Take care of her."

  Schag looked back at the tanker, made a course correction to come along her leeward side, where a companionway clung to the side of the ship.

  "You'll take care of her yourself, Bill," he said. "We'll rescue Yolanda, and then we'll get you the medical care you need to be well again and get that music out of your head. Look, we're almost there. Get ready to do your act."

  Butcher hesitated, then nodded. Forcing a grin, he turned and headed toward the stern.

  ☼

  The hull of the massive tanker loomed over the approaching small boat. Schag tapped Butcher on the arm and pointed up to a symbol painted in white high on the black hull. It was a circle with a horizontal line through the middle.

  "That's the load line," Schag said. "If fully loaded, that would sit at the water line."

  "So she's empty?"

  "Dry as a bone," Schag said, nodding.

  "At least we don't have to worry about her blowing up," Butcher said.

  "Wrong," Schag said flatly. "An oil tanker is most dangerous when its cargo tanks are empty. Oil itself isn't that dangerous, but its fumes are explosive. They usually fill the empty tanks with an inert gas that replaces the oxygen. Without O2, the fumes can't explode."

  "Then she should be safe, right?"

  "Theoretically," Schag said. "But let's try not to shoot up the place, okay?"

  Butcher frowned and nodded.

  In the glare of the deck lights, they both saw the silhouette of a guard watching them approach. From the way the guard held his arms across his chest, he appeared to be carrying an automatic weapon on a three-point sling.

  "There's your audience," Schag said, throttling back the diesel. "Go break a leg."

  Stepping out of the wheelhouse, Butcher stood at the stern and waved his arm in a slow, elongated sweep of greeting. The man on the tanker raised
his arm in acknowledgement, turned and walked aft toward the entry port at the top of the companionway.

  Schag sighed with relief. He had guessed Gideon used Gordias's port services firm to run people and supplies out to the tanker—may have even used one of the boats to transport Yolanda to the ship. From the guard's casual response to Butcher's wave, Schag had guessed right. He aimed the bow of the boat at an acute angle to the mooring dock tied to the bottom of the ladder. Waiting until the boat was only a few feet from the dock, Schag put the rudder hard to port and gave the engine a kick. The boat's stern swung parallel to the dock, and Schag backed down on the engine to stop his forward motion. Butcher jumped onto the platform with two mooring lines in hand, and made them fast to the cleats. He turned and looked up to the top of the gangway, and saw the guard standing in the entry port.

  "Back again?" yelled the guard.

  "Aye," Butcher answered in his lilt. "We've got you a bloody heavy package this time. Lend us a hand, will ye?"

  The guard looked around and shrugged.

  "Sure," he said, as he started down the rungs.

  Butcher met the man at the bottom of the companionway and held out this hand in greeting. "Surely, I'm indebted to ye, mate" he said.

  The guard reached out his hand. Instead of shaking it, though, Butcher grabbed the man's thumb and, twisting outward and downward, drove the guard to the ground. Butcher followed the guard, landing on his chest, his knee trapping the guard's weapon while he wrapped one of his muscular arms around the man's neck and squeezed. The flow of blood to his brain cut off, the guard went limp.

  Schag was already on the dock, standing over Butcher and the guard with two sets of handcuffs and the roll of black duct tape in his hands. Butcher used the cuffs to hog-tie the guard's arms and legs behind his back, and sealed his mouth with the tape. Together, Schag and Butcher lugged the guard onto the boat and laid him in the small forward compartment, closed the compartment hatch, and returned to the dock. Butcher picked up the rifle he had removed from the guard and checked it. It was an AK-47, cheap, ancient, and effective. He offered it to Schag. The agent shook his head.