by Michael Howe
Alex finished securing the anchor line so the boat was held stern-to the breaking seas. She then paused a second, observing the waves just as Jerry would have insisted she do. When one wave had broken and partially retreated, she slipped over the bow with as much grace and balance as she could—only to immediately trip on a loose rock and disappear underwater.
Oh God! She tried to think and found she couldn’t. Her brain had seized up, leaving only the most basic of instincts to drive her. Her body stiffened and a mouthful of icy water threatened to be her last.
Hearing her splash, Ray looked back over his shoulder. “You okay?”
Alex floundered for several seconds—although at the time they seemed like hours to her—and was almost overrun by the HBI as it was driven forward by the next wave. After gasping and stumbling, Alex finally got her footing. “No,” she was able to stutter, “but I’ll make it.”
Both of their words were now clipped, forced, breathless, due to the near impossibility of getting the muscles around their mouths to move the way they wanted them to.
“Good,” cheered Ray as a wave rose to his neck, “because in a few minutes we’ll both be dead.”
Alex forced her way through the violently churning water until she reached what was left of Rounding’s HBI. She quickly realized the boat was firmly anchored by the mass of its two big, and now very dead, engines. Without pausing—because pausing takes time, and neither she nor Ray had any—she forced her near-paralyzed lungs to gulp in a breath of razor-sharp air and felt them burn. She dropped to her knees, then her hands and knees and looked under the wreckage.
Without a mask her view was both fuzzy and confused by the roiling water, and at first she saw nothing of interest. Just as the pain in her lungs became unbearable, she spotted what could be Rounding—wedged between the console and the seat. When her lungs screamed loud enough, she dragged herself out from under, stood up and took several deep breaths, her brain too numb to even curse. The second time under she was able to grab one of Jake’s legs and pull. At first the body moved, then the other leg jammed up against the side of the HBI. Somehow, in a fury, she grabbed the wayward foot and pulled it over beside the other. She then pulled again and the body slipped partway out from under. Standing, she pulled the body the rest of the way out and—pummeled by the waves—headed for their HBI, dragging Rounding by the collar. With every shuddering breath, her lungs felt as if they were being massaged with a lighted blowtorch.
“Well done, Alex.” Ray tried to say it, but it came out an almost incomprehensible jumble of sound.
Alex and her prize reached the HBI just when a wave was ebbing. As the boat dropped and the water roiled around her, Alex shoved the body half over the gunnel, only to collapse herself. She found it amazing how low the HBI’s gunnels appeared when you were in the boat and how high when you were in the water.
Ray turned and, while keeping a strain on the painter, stumbled back to the HBI and gave Alex the biggest shove he could muster. He then did the same to the body, and with Alex pulling, they got Rounding into the half-swamped boat. Then it was Ray’s turn to collapse, barely able to hang on to the line rigged along the gunnel.
Alex grabbed the soggy, frozen marine under his arms and, with a heave so mighty it surprised her, got him over the side and into the boat. They looked at each other a second, oblivious to Mike’s HBI, which was now about two hundred yards away. Alex stepped over to the console and turned the ignition, praying that the electrical system wasn’t soaked, while Ray started to haul on the anchor line. Both were on the verge of completely losing control of their bodies. It was only by the most strenuous acts of will that they succeeded in doing anything other than shudder.
One after the other the engines started with a growl, and Alex lowered them while Ray continued to pull on the anchor line, the breaking waves fighting his every effort. “Okay,” he said finally, tossing the anchor line as far from the boat as he could, “we’re under way.” Alex spun the HBI and headed away from the islet.
“You leaving the anchor?”
“Hell yes. And the wreck too. What do I care if somebody gives SECDEF a ticket for leaving garbage in an environmentally sensitive area?”
Alex had to smile, despite the throbbing numbness that scorched her every nerve.
“You have Rounding?” demanded the radio as they struggled to wrap themselves in the thermal blankets. And to hold them in place.
“Affirmative, Boss,” replied Alex finally. “He’s dead, I’m afraid. Can’t say what killed him and we’re too busy trying to avoid joining him to look carefully,”
“Well done, the two of you. We’ll work out the details when we get back to the ship. I’ll escort you.”
“Roger.”
“So, chica, no matter what the boss says, we have not had such a good day today,” stuttered Ray a few minutes later above the growl of the engines.
Chica! There were few men Alex would allow to get away with that . . . and Ray was one of them. “No, chico, today has not been our best.”
“You think this guy was really a terrorist?”
“Either that or he was utterly insane, and I can’t honestly guess which. So much of this mission doesn’t fit together.”
“If he was, what did he leave for us to find?”
“Let’s leave that to the boss to worry about for now. We’ve still got to get back to the damn ship and warm up. I hurt now more than I ever have in my entire life. I can barely steer this damn boat I’m shaking so hard.”
Ray, his face an unhealthy mixture of blue and pasty white, just nodded as he hung on for dear life and balanced on his one good leg, desperate not to be tossed over the side as the HBI bounced, skidded and slid across the choppy gray waters.
14
The Bellingshausen Sea
“I don’t like doing it one damn bit, but the media has forced our hand. According to the owners, Jen and Jessica and what’s his name have managed to convince the entire world that Captain Chambers’s people identified and killed a terrorist who was an officer of this ship. We’re going to Ushuaia and offload the passengers.”
Covington paused to look around the conference table at Mike; Ernesto Montalba, Aurora’s chief engineer; the purser; the chief mate; and Dave Ellison, the ship’s security officer.
“Arthur,” said Montalba, “I still find it difficult to believe Jake was a terrorist. Strange, yes, but not a terrorist.”
Mike, who had been frowning, looked especially sour when he heard the chief engineer. He didn’t really believe Rounding was a terrorist either, and he was furious that the media was attributing his death directly to Ray and Alex. He was certain Alan had fanned the flames, and he resented it. There was nothing the bastard would like better than a dead terrorist to point at. One who had been identified and neutralized by Mike and his people.
“Is there a plan yet for the passengers?” asked Winters.
“More or less,” replied the purser. “The owners are arranging for several charter flights out of Ushuaia, and we’re going to offer them three choices—a three-day trek through Patagonia, three days more in Buenos Aires or a direct flight home and a modest refund.”
“This is going to cost a fortune,” observed the chief mate.
Yes, it is, thought Covington. And it will probably also cost me my job.
“What about the sponsors . . . Greenpeace?”
“Publicly they’re totally supportive and Rod Johnson seems to agree with the decision. Privately, some of their people have been whispering to the press that the American government has engineered this whole thing to screw them up,” reported Covington. “If all goes well,” continued the captain, “we’ll be safely anchored in Ushuaia in two to three days. In the meantime, Captain Chambers intends to continue searching. Jim,” he nodded at the purser, “will have his hands full and so will you, Dave. In addition to ensuring that nobody steals the passengers’ jewels, you’re going to have considerably more upset passengers than usual.”
“I’ve already noticed an increased level of irritability among them since Hensen disappeared,” Ellison said.
“You haven’t found anything new about that, have you? Something that Captain Chambers’s people may have missed?”
“No.”
Covington sighed. He hated having to abandon his schedule. He hated having people die—even suspected terrorists—and he hated mysteries.
“Well done, Mike, well done to all of you.” Alan’s satisfaction, and even relief, was totally clear, despite the electronic mangling of his voice. “You and your people identified and neutralized the terrorist—before he could act—under the most trying of circumstances. It’s on all the networks, complete with interviews with some very relieved passengers. They’re also suggesting that the man who was lost overboard was killed because he was interfering with the scheme. All we need now is for you to get your stuff together and hold a press conference. You and Alex. Keep it simple; we’ll fill them in later with all the details.”
Mike was standing in the suite he shared with Jerry, dressed in a borrowed bathrobe and drinking a double shot of brandy, hoping it would make him at least feel warm, even if he wasn’t. As he listened to Alan, he wanted to throw the phone on the deck. “Alan,” he finally growled, “you’re so damned worried about your turf war with Homeland Security you’re not thinking straight. We have absolutely no evidence this Rounding was a terrorist. All he did was run—he didn’t attack anybody. And there seems plenty of evidence that he’s been highly unstable for some time, although nobody really paid much attention to it. The five of us, along with Captain Covington and his chief engineer, are still inclined to believe he was just nuts. That he lost it for some reason—possibly the circumstances of his daughter’s death. We’ll probably never know. Furthermore, we didn’t kill him. He killed himself. And the guy who went overboard was the ship’s drug dealer.”
“The media seem to think that Fuentes and Alex killed him.”
“They didn’t.”
“There were no witnesses.”
“They didn’t even fire. The round that killed him came from his own automatic.”
“By the time that’s established nobody will care. None of that disproves my case, which, Captain, is now policy!”
“Roger,” replied Mike, after pouring the rest of the brandy down his throat.
“Keep me posted.”
“There’s more.”
“What?”
“Even though we can’t find a terrorist or anything else, both Covington and I have had enough. We’re going to head northwest for a few hours to get clear of the peninsula then turn northeast and go to Ushuaia. The ship’s owners aren’t happy about it since they agree with you, but they’re making arrangements for the passengers.”
“I have no objection to aborting the voyage at this point. Like I said, keep me posted.”
“And one more thing—the stabilizer system has crapped out, so you may see a lot very unhappy passengers on TV soon.”
“Rounding!”
“No, a gasket on the hydraulic system. They figure it will take four to six hours to repair.”
“Keep me posted.”
As Mike switched the phone off, Jerry stepped out of the bathroom, freshly showered and looking almost alive. “You look pissed, Captain. That must have been Alan Parker.”
“You want to do a press conference—tell the world how we tracked down and killed a dangerous terrorist?”
“Pleased to take care of it, sir, but Parker won’t be happy with the result.”
“I guess we’ll forget about the press conference. Instead, we’ll go back to looking, just in case Rounding or somebody else did leave us a present after all.”
“Okay, Cagayan, take a break,” one of the engine room supervisors shouted down into the bilges. “Get some chow and some rack time and be back in six hours.”
“Okay,” replied Marcello. He worked his way back to a hatch and popped up and out. After using a solvent to clean off much of the oil and other crud that had accumulated on his hands and shoes, he trudged up two ladders to the passageway leading to the crew’s mess. Bilges, he thought. They were his destiny, his whole reason for existing. Up till now.
When he reached the mess, he collected a bowl of stew and bread and sat down to eat while he watched the TV. The stew was good, so he got a second bowl, figuring he would need it that night. Once done, he started to leave, but found he couldn’t take his eyes off the TV. Especially now that the media people had taken over one of the ship’s channels and were providing almost nonstop coverage so the passengers could see what interested them most: themselves.
He knew he should hit the rack and get some rest because he had a very busy night ahead of him—almost certainly his last night—but watching the drama unfold was simply too enthralling to miss. Contrary to Alan Parker’s calculations, the passengers—all eager to be interviewed—were becoming increasingly nervous about who and what Rounding might really have been and seemed angry and frustrated, convinced that somebody was hiding something from them.
Many were certain the culprit was Captain Covington. Others seemed to think it was the United States government. One, some guy named Ivy—or maybe it was Ivory—was shouting he was going to have the captain arrested and sue the owners. Marcello could see the fear behind his threats and enjoyed the theater. The jerk thought he was a “big man.” He had no idea how small he really was in comparison with Marcello Cagayan. Marcello reached into his pocket and stroked the cell phone gently.
“Hey, man, lots of excitement today!” said Vido, the young Ecuadorian deckhand, as he sat down next to Cagayan and put his iPod on the table.
“You’re right there, Vido,” replied Cagayan in Spanish. “It’s the devil’s own work. Makes me wonder sometimes why I signed on.”
“It’s the money, man. And the adventure.”
“Must be.”
“You’re an engineer. You know anything about this Mr. Rounding? I mean, you work for him, don’t you? Did he kill himself or did the American navy guys do it? What’s that all about?”
“Rounding?” said Cagayan as he reached into his right pocket for the cell phone. “I don’t know. He wasn’t a bad guy.” The truth was that Rounding’s behavior had Cagayan dumbfounded.
“You really think there’s a bomb aboard?”
“It worry you?”
“Of course! You’re not worried?”
“Whatever happens, happens.”
“There’s a rumor we’re going to go back early because of him. They think he was a terrorist.”
“Yeah?” Cagayan started paying closer attention.
“At first I thought they were talking about going back to BA, but now I hear its Ushuaia.”
“That’s good for some people.”
“Those that have their families stay there during the summer.”
“I guess I better get some rest before I go back to looking.”
“See ya.” Vido plugged himself into his iPod and was instantly lost to the surrounding world.
Cagayan walked down the passageway to his room, rubbing the cell phone as he went. With every step his sense of personal power grew, until it was about to explode. He was the most powerful man on the ship. More powerful than Covington. More powerful than that navy guy. The lives of over six hundred people were in his hands. They would live as long as he wished for them to live, and they would die when he chose to kill them. It was becoming intoxicating. As so many men have found throughout history—some much more worthy than Marcello Cagayan—it is terribly, terribly difficult to set power aside.
Tonight was to be his night, he told himself again and again as he walked to his quarters. Tonight had to be the night. Everything was ready. He rubbed the bandages on his arm. So much blood, he thought, and so little pain. Tonight would be better. Much better.
Except all the shit about old Rounding worried him a little. Was it possible the guy really had been a terrorist? All the news
casters said he was. So what had he planned and what had he done? Was he going to steal Cagayan’s glory from the grave?
It worried him but he knew it shouldn’t. If it happened, it happened, but his plan was set. Tonight he would prove the “mono” was really a giant. When he reached his room, he took out the cell phone and opened it. He then dialed 1111 and set the device where he could easily reach it.
Cagayan lay in his rack, dozing. When he heard the grating and clanking of the anchor windlass one deck above his head and the thumping and banging of the anchor chain in the hawse pipe, he picked up the phone and pressed call.
The process of raising and housing a ship’s anchor is a mundane necessity of the ship’s operation. Without its being done, a ship cannot perform her function. But that same act has an almost mystical dimension for most seamen. Once the anchor is lifted clear of the bottom, the ship is under way. Once under way, the ship is considered infinitely more at risk than when at anchor, and the rules change. The ship is now at sea, fulfilling her destiny. Adventure beckons, even if the voyage is only from one anchorage to another in the same harbor, and the crew knows it is doing what sailors are meant to do.
Mike Chambers was not overly romantic, but he was sensitive to the mystique of the anchor ritual and made a point to take a break and watch. He would have preferred to be on the bridge, to pretend Aurora was his ship, but he didn’t want to get in Covington’s way, so he settled for the forward rail of the third deck.
On the forecastle, Boatswain MacNeal stood all the way forward in the prow. After looking over the bulwark at the growing seas attacking from ahead, he signaled the man on the windlass control. With a clank the windlass started to turn slowly and the anchor chain, composed of thick, foot-long links, jumped then started to slowly come home. Meanwhile, a deckhand hosed the chain down at the hawse in order to remove any muck and other crud that might foul the boatswain’s carefully tended decks.
A brilliant flash suddenly erupted like a fountain from the windlass motor housing, followed immediately by a tremendous boom and a thick cloud of black smoke. The windlass stopped and the hand on the controls was blown back ten feet.
