Trident Force

by Michael Howe

  Before either could answer, Mike was pulling up the ladder and closing the door behind them and the jets were screaming again as the plane turned and headed back toward the runway. Fifteen minutes later, thanks to Alex’s magic wand, they were airborne again.

  Leaving Ted in peace for a few moments with the doctor, Mike took Ray aft to an empty row of seats. “How’s your head feeling?”

  “Pretty good. We both got some quality sleep.”

  “Okay. Your eyes look normal but we’ll let the doctor decide. Now, about your attackers. Do you think the CIA stringer was in on it?”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, Captain. The way she broke off the contact makes me think she was both scared and surprised. I don’t think she was in on it. In fact, I’m a little worried about her.”

  “Is she cute?”

  “That’s not quite the word, Captain. She’s pretty beat . . . I think she may be sick . . . But you can feel an aura, a sense of life surrounding her.”

  “You let yourself get distracted too easily.

  “Is there a lot of fallout?”

  “Damn well bound to be, but Alex’s got some of her friends busy confusing the issue so nobody can pin it on us. She’s still trying to learn more about Coccoli and Rojas.”

  “Was she able to come up with anything from the crew’s records?”

  “The majority are Latin Americans, the rest from all over. A dozen felons, maybe. Many more with unclear backgrounds, but that’s how it is aboard every merchant ship if you really look closely.”

  “Any seem involved in radical politics?”

  “I’m sure a number are unhappy with their various governments, but none appear to be on the run. All sorts of vaguely possibles,” summed up Mike, “but nothing that sets my alarms ringing. Nothing we can focus on. And, so far, nothing has happened to pin on anybody. Alex is going over the passengers. Criminal records, radical politics and odd connections to foreign governments. Now let’s see how Ted is.”

  Both Ted and Ray were fully fit for duty according to the doctor, who, Mike suspected, had never issued a sick pass in her life. That’s why he’d selected her.

  “These plans are screwed up,” remarked Ted as he studied his copy of the Aurora Australis plans Mike had passed out. “Some of them don’t match.”

  “I’ve noticed that too,” remarked Chambers. “She’s old and she’s been overhauled and altered a number of times. It’s more than likely some of the details on these plans are wrong. The good news is that Alex has also managed to come up with a set of the job orders from the overhaul. In some cases they even indicate who worked on the job or at least signed it off.”

  Ted screwed up a smile. “At least that’s a starting point. Any mention of Coccoli or Rojas?”

  “About a dozen, but we all know that there were undoubtedly some little projects the captain or the chief engineer finagled that didn’t make it into the records. Still, this data should be very useful.”

  “Sir,” said the plane’s copilot as she stepped through the cockpit door and headed toward Mike, “this message just came in for you.”

  “Thanks,” said Mike, taking the message and reading it. He then handed it to Alex.

  “Interesting,” said Alex as she pulled her laptop out of its case and started to open it.

  “According to this message,” explained Mike to the rest of the team, “an engineman named Sven Hensen is missing aboard Aurora. They’re searching the ship and have also turned around to search their track. It may be nothing, of course, or maybe not. If he’s gone overboard, then we might not ever know more.”

  “Boss,” interjected Alex as she looked up from her laptop, “Sven Hensen had a possession of a controlled substance conviction about four years ago.”

  “I’m afraid, sir,” remarked Ray, “that twenty percent of the American electorate would have one of those if they’d only gotten caught.”

  “I’m not sure how much this really helps us.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” mused Alex. “There is a correlation between his sort of record and violent acts, especially if it’s violence for hire.”

  The Southern Ocean is a fickle place. It’s known for having, during the austral summer, the most gentle, although far from warm, weather. It is also known for having the most awful. Weather so terrible that few who haven’t experienced it can even imagine it. Finally, it is known for the blinding speed with which its weather changes. It is a speed that neither the North Atlantic nor the North Pacific can possibly match even on their nimblest, most unpredictable days.

  The Southern Ocean also has a queen city—Ushuaia. Tacked on to the southernmost tip of Argentina, Ushuaia is a city of about fifty thousand, a small, low-profile place at the very end of the world. It is surrounded by snowy mountains and the blue-gray waters of the Beagle Channel, fields more often brown than green and an abundant crop of rocks and lichen. While beaten and abused continuously by the weather, the city is far from humble. Its architecture is clean and varied, its people sturdy, and its traffic jams equal to any in the world. Ushuaia even has its own yacht club, a fact which should not be surprising since, thanks to its winds, it is the best possible location for those hard-core sailors who want to really sail.

  Ironically, despite its lack of glamour, the city’s air terminal was undergoing a modest expansion—in order to better serve the growing numbers of affluent tourists who seemed to yearn for just such ends of the world.

  “Beautiful weather,” remarked Anderson as he climbed out of the jet into the dark, wind-maddened sleet.

  “Isn’t it,” agreed Fuentes, rubbing the bruise on his temple as he did.

  “Listen up,” barked Mike Chambers, “our next ride is that helo over there.” As he spoke, he pointed at a big, twin-rotor civilian supply helicopter parked in the same dimly lit corner of the airport where the jet was. “So grab the gear and let’s get to it!”

  Shouldering their large and very heavy duffel bags—which were filled with clothing, weapons and a variety of sensors—the Tridents hurried quickly through the slush, leaving the doctor and the jet crew gratefully contemplating the first-class meal and warm beds they would soon be enjoying in Ushuaia’s glitzy new tourist hotel. “Whoever the hell they are,” remarked the doctor, “I’m damn glad I’m not one of them.”

  “Welcome aboard.” The middle-aged Argentine pilot grinned as, one after another, the team climbed up and into the helo.

  “How often do you fly in this shit?” asked Jerry.

  “Hell, this is summer. We service some of the Argentine research stations down south—we have half a dozen, you know—and now we even fly in the winter. You should see that.”

  “Going to be like this all the way?”

  “No. It’s a little clearer to the south, but the wind’s beginning to work itself up.”

  “If you’re not worried, we’re not,” said Ray Fuentes.

  “I worry all the time,” replied the pilot, “but don’t let that worry you. We figured you’d be hungry, so we’ve got something for you. We considered sandwiches but then decided to give you a cultural experience, so we’re serving tapas tonight. Who knows, some day we may be a real airline.” With that he opened a large insulated box filled with about fifty smallish plastic containers, each of which contained a snack-sized portion of food—a couple brazed beef ribs in sauce; artichokes stuffed with chicken salad; cooked chicken livers wrapped in bacon. The selection seemed endless, and three or four portions made a good meal.

  “Estupendo!” murmured Ray. The food on the beat-up helo looked better than what the CIA had served on its snappy jet.

  “Here’s some bread,” continued the pilot, “and those thermoses contain coffee, tea and cocoa. Sorry, no wine on this flight. So choose a seat, strap yourself in tight, put on the headphones, sit back and enjoy the flight.

  “Whoever the hell you are,” he added under his breath as he banged twice on the side of the cabin and headed forward to the cockpit.

  E
ven before he reached the door, there was a short whine then a growing shriek as the copilot lit off the forward rotor.

  No rest for the weary, thought Ray as he tried to make himself comfortable in the icy, pounding space. Just then a blast of torchlike air erupted from the heating vent, making him wonder if frying was preferable to freezing.

  10

  The Drake Passage

  “Where the hell’s Hensen?” demanded Mr. Acosta, the second engineer.

  “Don’t know, sir,” replied his assistant. “But he’s not here.”

  The officer looked out the window of the relatively quiet Main Control into the booming, thudding, shaking mad-house that existed in the Main Engine Room. That was where Hensen was supposed to be. But he wasn’t. He couldn’t see him, and none of the men out there could see him. “This isn’t the first time that fucker’s been late. A month or so ago he didn’t even show up at all. Claimed he was sick. I still don’t know where the hell they found him.”

  Shaking his head, Acosta turned and studied the watch bill posted on one of the bulkheads. Just to make sure it hadn’t been changed since the last time he looked at it, twelve hours ago. “Call his quarters.”

  “This is Main Control. Is Hensen there?”

  “No,” replied an electrician named Swaboda, one of Hensen’s two roommates. “He’s supposed to be on watch.”

  “He damn well is, but he’s not here and the second’s pissed.”

  “He may have swapped with somebody,” offered Swaboda. “He’s a little odd. He’s always doing what you don’t expect.” In fact, both Hensen’s roommates knew just how odd their third roommate really was—how he supplemented his income—although neither spoke of it.

  “He didn’t swap with anybody. He’s just not here, so cut the crap. Any ideas where he is?”

  “No. No ideas. Sorry.”

  “What was that all about?” asked Ivan Singh, the other roommate, as Swaboda hung up.

  “The miserable bastard hasn’t shown up for his watch.”

  “Not only is he a miserable bastard, he’s also a stupid bastard,” replied Singh as he rolled over to try to get back to sleep. “Maybe this will be enough to get him canned.”

  “Or even better, maybe the fucker fell overboard.”

  “That’s not very charitable.”

  “You don’t agree?”

  “Of course I agree.”

  Ernesto Montalba, the chief engineer, was informed within ten minutes that one of his men was missing. He immediately reported the situation to Arthur Covington.

  Damn it, thought Covington as he swung his legs over the side of the bunk in his sea cabin and reached for the light switch with his free hand. In all probability the fellow—who the chief assured him was not always totally dependable—was lying drunk and passed out somewhere. Or sleeping with one of the passengers. Or God knew what else! He’d seen it all over the years and so had Montalba. “When was he last seen, Chief?”

  “A little before midnight, Captain. He was in the crew’s lounge.”

  “When he left, did he tell anybody where he was going?”

  “No. He just up and left.”

  “Very well. Keep searching.”

  Covington then called Dave Ellison, the security guy. “Dave, we’ve got a missing engineman named Hensen. He was seen a little before midnight in the crew’s lounge and not since. He hasn’t shown up for his watch.”

  “Yes, Captain?”

  The son of a bitch didn’t sound very alert. Probably hungover, thought Covington. “Unless you already know what he looks like, I want you to look him up in the ship’s records. Then I want you to review your video records for the past eight hours to see if you can spot him.” The surveillance cameras only covered part of the ship, but it was worth a try.

  “You’ve got it, Art,” replied Ellison without enthusiasm.

  Covington hung up without replying. That was the third time he’d addressed him as “Art,” and, stuffy as it might seem, Captain Covington didn’t appreciate it. The slug had been some sort of a cop. Undoubtedly the type that liked donuts by the bag. Ellison’s position was one of the few aboard the ship about which he had no say when it came to hiring. The owners reserved that privilege strictly for themselves.

  With a sigh, he called the bridge and directed the mate of the watch to stop the ship and to pass the word for Engineman Hensen to contact the chief engineer immediately. He then slipped on a shirt, trousers and bedroom slippers and hustled to the bridge, where he temporarily disregarded the mate’s questioning look and leaned over the GPS plot of the ship’s past and future tracks.

  “This isn’t the best night to fall overboard, sir,” observed the mate.

  “No, Mister, it’s not. None are.” The officer was young, thought Covington. Alert, hardworking and reasonably competent. If only he could be cured of the tendency to point out the obvious at the wrong time.

  Despite having had to dodge several large chunks of ice, Aurora had been able to maintain speed and had made excellent progress cutting across the Drake Passage. They were now closing in on the Antarctic circle and the cove scheduled to be the first eco-landing. The temptation, considering the foul nature of the Southern Ocean, was to write the man off and continue on before the weather came up with another nasty trick or two.

  The fellow might well have fallen overboard right after he was last seen, about four hours ago, thought Covington, his fingers tapping on the keyboard. In that case he’d have fallen overboard over a hundred miles ago. Or he might have fallen fifteen minutes ago. Either way, the chances of his surviving without an exposure suit were absolutely nonexistent. Still, he had to try, even if it meant nothing more than going through the motions. He owed it to the crew, and to the owners and to himself. And to all the other seamen, past and future, who had ever run the risk of falling overboard. He continued tapping rapidly on the navsystem keyboard, correcting the ship’s track for the past six hours for prevailing wind and current, thereby generating a course to follow to retrace their path.

  He looked at his watch. Another hour or more to dawn. Should he start north now and run the risk of passing the man in the dark, or should he wait and run the risk of not finding him when he’d gone overboard only a few minutes before?

  “Ah, Mr. Winters,” he said to the shadow that had appeared beside him. “I want you to call all hands and station them along both sides of the ship and turn on the spotlights. Then we will head north.”

  He then sent out a man overboard report.

  “Mr. Rounding,” squawked the walkie-talkie in Jake Rounding’s hand.

  “Yes, Chief,” responded the third engineer.

  “Where are you?”

  “We’ve just finished searching Storeroom Three Alpha. No sign of him.”

  “Okay, Jake. Keep going and keep alert.”

  “Okay, Chief.”

  Jake Rounding barely knew Sven Hensen, but the engineman’s disappearance had the third engineer on edge. He thought of Annie, shot to death by the police in a stupid, meaningless demonstration, and knew that what he had done had to be done. And Hensen had nothing to do with anything. All the same, he felt somehow as if a noose were beginning to tighten around his neck; as if the world were beginning to close in on him.

  “What next, Mr. Rounding?” asked one of the men with him.

  “The Auxiliary Pump Room.”

  “Hensen’s a shit, sir.”

  “I’ve heard that before. We’ve still got to search for him.”

  “This is it, Mister,” said Covington to Winters shortly before noon. “If he’s still alive, he’s someplace behind us so we’re going to turn and run down the reciprocal of the course we’ve been running and zigzag a little as we go.”

  “He can’t possibly be alive, Captain,” said Winters as he watched an Argentine search plane head south along the track they’d just covered.

  “I’m well aware of that, but we have to head south anyway, so we might as well continue looking as we
go.”

  The captain then walked over to the public-address system: “Ladies and gentlemen. Several hours ago I informed you that one of our crew may have fallen overboard and that we were going to retrace our track north in the hope that we might find him. We have now completed our retracing and, unfortunately, have failed to locate him either aboard the ship or in the water. Accordingly, we are about to turn south again and head for our first destination on the Antarctic Peninsula. Along the way we will continue to search, so please keep your eyes open.”

  “What are your thoughts, Chrissie, about this man who’s fallen overboard?” asked the brunette with the microphone in her hand. “Absolutely tragic, wouldn’t you say?”

  Chrissie, wearing her thoughtful smile, looked at the media person a moment, thinking that she was like all the others, almost exclusively interested in interviewing herself. “I’m with you there, Jen. An absolute tragedy.”

  “And whadaya think of the way the captain’s handling it? Some people are saying that he’s wasting everybody’s time by searching as long as he is, while others want him to keep trying. Congressman Evans is in conference with him right now. He’s going to make a statement later.”

  “Fact is,” answered Chrissie, feeling that by even talking to the brunette she was playing a fool’s game with yet another clever fool, “I’m with the captain and I’m looking forward to hearing what the congressman has to contribute.” That, she thought, should end the reporter’s efforts to put words in her mouth.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed the public-address system, which had been set to override so it was audible even where it had been turned off locally, “this is Congressman Pete Evans. As many of you know, I represent the tenth district of Connecticut.”