by Michael Howe
Despite his injured arm, it was the work of a second or two for the SEAL to break the thug’s neck as his victim virtually dove into what he’d hoped would be safety. Without saying a word Ted then grabbed the dead thug’s weapon and opened fire on the remaining assailant, dashing as he did across the space between the two piles.
The third gunman didn’t stand a chance.
“Okay, ditch that gun,” hissed Ray, staring at the small but impossible-to-conceal machine gun, “and let’s get the hell out of here. You have the map?”
Ted reached into his left pocket and pulled it out.
“To the car?”
“Yes, but by side streets.”
Ted studied the map in the barely adequate light. “Down this alley then right for . . . three blocks then left and we should come out opposite it.”
“Shit! I didn’t think the alley had another end.”
“One of us is damn lucky.”
“You lead.”
The pair sprinted down the alley and turned right onto a virtually unlit street, bordered on either side by low, dark concrete block buildings—each hiding behind its own barbed wire-capped fence. Partway down the first block they shrank back into the shadows and crouched, listening for pursuit.
“If somebody is chasing us,” whispered Ray, “they know the neighborhood better than we do. They may be ahead of us.”
“Roger.”
Making as little noise as they could and keeping in the shadows, they worked their way tensely down the street. At one point, Ray backed up against a fence, only to jump halfway across the street when a dog snarled and tried to bite him through the mesh. Frustrated, the dog—which sounded very big—started barking furiously. It was a tune taken up by a number of other four-legged watchmen along the way. Moving a little faster now, the pair reached the third corner, turned right and reentered the street they’d originally left.
“Damn it.” Ted groaned at the sight that greeted them. The rental car was right where they’d expected it. But it had been totally stripped. No tires. No wheels. No doors. And undoubtedly very little left inside.
“Somebody must have offered the little bastards more than two bucks each for it,” grumbled Ted.
“We’re going to find a cab.”
“What about this pile of scrap?”
“That’s why we’ve got the Good Witch on our team. She’ll just have to wave her magic wand and get us out of town before they find it and trace it to us.”
“What if the cabbie doesn’t want blood in his car?”
“In this part of town I think they have to put up with that sort of thing. Anyway, I’ve still got this sidearm.”
“The way things are around here he’s undoubtedly got one too.”
“Then we’ll just have to try money. That works sometimes.”
“I don’t think we’ll find one here,” observed Ted after scanning the street.
Then they heard the first siren. “We don’t want to be here at all,” said Ray. “There’s a main street about eight blocks to the east as I remember. Let’s get the hell out of here and see what we can find there.”
“Roger.”
“And remember, at the moment, the police are not our friends.”
“Roger.”
It was barely six in the morning when Mamoud al Hussein’s home phone rang. The engineer was already up, preparing for the day ahead.
“I apologize for calling so early, Mamoud,” said Roberto Palmeira, “but our two ‘insurance investigators’ seem to have been involved in a shoot-out a few hours ago between what the federal police believe are two rival drug groups.”
“Are they injured?”
“They’re back at their hotel and Anglo-Swiss says they’re to fly out on a chartered jet in a few hours.”
“What more is known?” asked Mamoud, struggling to avoid showing—even to himself—his irritation that Omar’s efforts had been so messily unsuccessful. While he still had total confidence in the project, this sort of thing could not be permitted to happen again.
“There was some sort of shoot-out between two groups of drug dealers. Several witnesses mentioned that two foreigners were involved somehow. Knowing how the police feel about these drug wars, I doubt they will make much of an effort to investigate unless we pressure them to.”
That’s something, thought al Hussein. At least everybody believes it was drug-centered.
“Is it possible they are U.S. DEA agents?”
“That seems very likely to me, but I doubt anybody would ever tell us if we asked.”
“Yes, I doubt so too. Of perhaps greatest importance, has Anglo-Swiss indicated they’re reviewing or reconsidering our desirability as an insured?”
“They’ve indicated nothing yet.”
“Do you think these two discovered anything that might help us cure our drug problem? As I have said on several occasions, before Tecmar can make it to the next level, we will have to get drugs under control.”
“It’s possible, but they told me nothing. It’s too bad you couldn’t meet them.”
“Yes, it is. I shouldn’t have taken the afternoon off. I might have learned more.”
“Mamoud! You can’t blame yourself for this.”
“It appears there’s nothing we can do at the moment, so I would like to move on to all the magical things we told those people in Houston we can do for their LNG carriers. I will see you at the office at nine.”
“At nine.”
8
The South Atlantic / Drake Passage
Wearing navy blue trousers and a matching sweater, Arthur Covington stood on the port wing of Aurora’s bridge and observed the first glimmer of day, a narrow yellow strip that lay briefly on the horizon, only to be swallowed up almost immediately by the low, solid clouds. Beyond the horizon, about a hundred miles to the east, lay the dark, unseen mass of the Falkland Islands—the Malvinas if you favor the Argentine side of the long-standing dispute with Britain. The wind, predictably, was blowing a half gale, and the South Atlantic was responding by heaving itself into seething, hostile masses the size of a two-story building.
The trip so far had been almost a vacation for Covington, but now they were returning to the heartlessly deceptive waters for which he and the rest of the crew were paid extra. Once Aurora edged around Cape Horn and started across the Drake Passage, the temperature would continue to drop rapidly. At the same time they would be exposed to the full fury of the Westerlies, monstrous winds that blow continuously, nonstop, round and round the world, with no land to civilize them in the slightest. These were the waters—with their screaming winds and bitterly cold temperatures—that had destroyed countless adventurers and killed a high percentage of the ships that were brave, or foolish, enough to dare them.
Covington was tempted to turn into Ushuaia and hide there for a day or two, but as always, the schedule was tight and the weather people seemed to feel the low-pressure pulse that was working its way from the Pacific to the Atlantic would have blown past by the time they reached the South Shetland Islands, just off the Antarctic Peninsula. The awful truth was that the damn things seemed to come and go with no warning, not even in the satellite age. He grabbed his night glasses and surveyed the angry gray waters. Every summer vast quantities of ice broke loose and drifted north. This year, more ice had been reported farther north than usual. Some was in the form of icebergs, which could be detected by radar. Some was flat pack ice, which radar could easily miss but which could still slice a ship open.
Concluding the time had come to add a coat to his outfit, Covington walked into the pilothouse. The mate of the watch was pacing slowly back and forth, looking out the windows. The helmsman and lee helm were seated behind their long console, keeping their eyes on the hundreds of gauges and lights. The joystick twitched occasionally, obedient to the commands of the automatic pilot. Resisting the temptation to remind the mate to keep a lookout for ice, the captain retired to his sea cabin to rest up for the night.
&n
bsp; “So much for those stabilizer things,” remarked Brad to Chrissie Clark as they entered the half-empty dining room. As he spoke, Brad self-consciously fingered the big gold ring in his ear. “Just one more example of this half-assed boat not quite cutting it.”
“I guess there’s only so much they can do,” replied Chrissie as the ship rolled slowly to port, forcing her to grab a table to steady herself. “You should have taken those pills.”
“I did.”
Then you shouldn’t have had so many chocolate martinis, she thought.
In fact, the singer was barely listening to her current, very public boyfriend—an actor who hadn’t quite made it yet, despite his PR people’s best efforts. Rather, she was studying the little girl sitting at a table off to one side with her parents. The faces she was making as she explained something to them were a riot. She’d seen several kids aboard the ship, but this one had to be the funniest.
“Isn’t that guy over there, waving at us, a senator or something?” demanded Brad, breaking in on Chrissie’s thoughts.
“He’s a congressman, I think. The senator’s the old guy.” Chrissie had never heard of this particular congressman before boarding Aurora and still didn’t know to which party he belonged.
“He’s waving us over. Should we? It could be a good photo op.”
“I suppose so,” said Chrissie. “He may need us more than we need him, though. We’re a way to prove he’s cool and with-it.”
“Ms. Clark, I’m Peter Evans,” said the congressman, holding his hand out as the singer and her friend approached his otherwise unoccupied table. “And this is my wife, Penny.” From the look of it, the politician and his wife were just finishing up a breakfast of bran cereal and fruit.
Penny’s got a few years on the congressman, thought the singer as she took his hand. On top of that she’s kind of frumpy. A little too much makeup and something’s not right about her hair. It’s hard to imagine her climbing Mt. Everest, unlike some of the chicks aboard. “Chrissie, please, Congressman, and this is Brad.”
“Brad,” said Evans, “and let’s immediately move on to first names. We’re all friends here. Coffee?”
“Sure,” said Brad, who was already reaching for one of the cups at an unoccupied setting.
“No, thank you,” said Chrissie.
“So what do you think of this voyage so far?” continued Evans as Chrissie and Brad took their seats. “The ship seems very well equipped, although I understand that this nice weather may not last.”
“I’m enjoying it,” replied Chrissie.
“Have you attended any of the seminars?”
“No, not yet. But we’re looking forward to seeing the real thing in a day or two.”
“I’ve attended four,” announced Penny Evans, “and they were utterly fascinating.” As she spoke, the door to the galley must have swung open to let a waiter through, because the smell of something greasy being prepared drifted across the room. Brad curled his lip but said nothing.
“Penny,” said Chrissie, looking directly at the congressman’s wife while also looking over her shoulder at Katie Sanders, “everybody knows, or thinks they know, that I live a glamorous life, but to be honest your life seems to me so much more glamorous. I mean you’re there, in Washington, where all the important things happen and you know the people who make them happen. All I do is amuse people when they have nothing better to do than listen to me.”
“I do love every minute of it, Chrissie,” said Penny with practiced brightness, “but you know as well as I do that it’s not all fun and games. Being in the public eye so much can be a little stressful. It’s worth it, though, to be there with Pete while he serves the people. But you underestimate your own influence. Half the country hangs on your every word. In the end, I’m just Mrs. Evans, while you’re the one and only Chrissie Clark.”
While Chrissie and Penny chatted, nibbling on the remains of a bowl of fruit as they did, Brad looked bored and uncomfortable and Congressman Evans listened with a polite smile fixed on his face. Suddenly Evans started waving toward the door, in a discreet manner. A media team was just entering the dining room, their eyes roving in search of action. The tall blond reporter spotted the politician immediately and, dragging the video guy with her, headed toward the table.
As the media advanced, Wendell Gardner appeared from nowhere. “Good morning, Pete,” he said as he sat down. “Morning, Penny. Did you catch Rod Johnson’s seminar yesterday afternoon? Now that was real science! None of that paid commercial propaganda that some people continue to put out.”
Before anybody could reply, Jessica, the blond reporter, was there.
“Congressman, Chrissie Clark. What a catch! Do you mind if I get your impressions of the trip so far?”
As the ship rolled, Chrissie sat there, saying all the right things, answering every question the way Jessica made clear she wanted them answered. All the while she was thinking about Penny Evans and Katie Sanders. Penny was very good at sounding happy, but there was a faint, dark aura about her, as if something was missing. She had obviously chosen her role in life, but was it the right one?
Just then, Brad decided to open his mouth—which was generally a mistake. He turned toward the video camera and announced something about mounting a personal expedition to the Amazon to show his support for both the environment and the peoples who lifestyles were being endangered. He added that he planned to start organizing, and fund-raising, as soon as they got back from this expedition, and would Congressman Evans care to be a sponsor? As he spoke, he fingered the earring and smiled, clearly pleased with himself.
With Jessica there, Evans had no choice but to promise to consider it. He then turned the conversation back onto topics which revolved around him, especially his almost single-handed efforts to get a bill passed to regulate the fuel consumption of jetliners.
Chrissie half listened to Evans while she decided she’d had it with Brad. Not only was he making up roles for himself—everybody in the business did that—but he was starting to believe them. He was, without doubt, sexy—the tabloid editors loved to put him on their front pages with headlines suggesting he was, or wasn’t, the father of somebody’s baby—but he was also a moron. And that ring was driving her nuts. She had no objection to rings, although the only ones she wore were on her fingers, but Brad’s was absurd. It was much too big, and then there was the stupid line he kept repeating over and over about it. That it was from a tribe of Amazonian Indians who had died out four hundred years ago. The closest Brad had been to Amazonia was when they flew over a corner of it a few days before. As for the ring itself, she’d been with him when he’d bought it at a tag sale on Martha’s Vineyard the preceding summer.
Brad was history! As she made the decision, the cynical side of her moved to the fore. From what everybody told her, romantic breakups made even better copy than did budding romances. And the media, by the dozens, were right here, on Aurora. How convenient! But should she do it during the voyage or wait until their return to somewhere? And should it be noisy and messy from the start or should it start as little more than whispered rumors and grow from there? It might all be too confusing now, aboard the ship. She might find herself fighting with the congressman—not to mention that goat of a senator or even the snow, ice and penguins—for attention. She’d have to think about it for a day or two, although she did feel certain that there was an empty stateroom available somewhere in the ship.
“Captain Covington, this has been fascinating,” said Tim Sanders just as the ship lurched to port. “We’ve all enjoyed it more than I can tell you.”
“Yes, Captain,” said Katie while she held on and stared at the GPS plot showing the ship’s track across the Southern Ocean. “Dad had a little trouble with the idea you don’t have a big wooden wheel, but I convinced him the joystick is just as good. I have one on my computer in my room and it works just great for video games.”
“I’m very glad you all enjoyed it,” said Covington as he guided th
e three of them across the pilothouse to the door leading down to the public areas. “Tell me, Katie, from what you now know, would you consider being a sailor, like Mr. Winters and me?”
“I think that would be great fun. How do we start?”
“You start by finishing school,” replied Covington, caught flat-footed by his own queston.
“You do think the weather’s going to improve, don’t you?” asked Dana. “We’re all looking forward to going ashore tomorrow.”
“This particular mess is blowing past. We’re well into the Drake Passage and the weather’s gotten no worse—which means that it’s getting better.”
As Covington spoke, he mentally crossed his fingers. Everything he’d said was true, but the reality remained that they were scheduled to land on the Antarctic Peninsula’s western side, the side most exposed to the monster winds.
“What about the snow?” asked Katie, never one to let the obvious go unexplained.
Covington glanced out the pilothouse windows. Despite the spinning window wipers, it was impossible to see anything through the dense, gray-white air. “That will clear up before midnight.”
“That little girl is certainly getting her money’s worth,” remarked the chief mate after the captain’s guests had disappeared.
“You think I’m overdoing it? Perhaps I am. I admit she’s a borderline smart-ass, but I find her amusing. She reminds me of one of my two when she was that age. She’s an intense finance person now, but back then she was a Katie—all over the place. Are we ready for the Crossing the Line Ceremony?”
“Yes, sir. The boatswain’s going to be King Neptune and some of the saner deckhands will be his court of Blue Noses.”
