Trident Force

by Michael Howe

  He looked down at the ship below and the chaos that surrounded it, and the bitterness of the stack gas, and of his whole past life, blew away in the gale. He was above it all now. He was a god.

  He reached out and grabbed a long, soot-stained, plastic-wrapped package that had been secured about two feet from the hatch. Using his pocketknife, he cut the lashings that held the heavy package and pulled it toward him. On one end it had a rope loop, which he put his arm through. He stepped back down the ladder, closed the hatch and continued down, back to the blower flat. There he opened the package and checked the AK-47 that it contained. All looked in order. As did the two hundred rounds of ammunition.

  After stuffing the waterproof plastic wrappings in a space behind the blower and laying the gun on it, Cagayan opened the door in the side of the funnel and stepped out onto the weather deck. At the moment the weapon would be a hindrance.

  When Mike made it back to his command center in Captain Covington’s conference room, he found Alex still propped in a chair in the corner, holding herself in position with her feet jammed against a bulkhead and a bookcase while she tapped furiously on her laptop.

  “That the sort of thing you guys do in the real navy?” she asked with a brightness that contradicted the worried expression on her face.

  “Captain Covington did a good job. I don’t think I could have done it. Maybe we should try to recruit him.”

  “How many casualties?”

  “Three or four broken legs, a mild concussion and a lot of bruises. And Congressman Evans.”

  “Did he die?”

  “A few minutes ago.”

  “Alan wants to talk to you. He called a few minutes ago and got pissed when I told him now was not the time for anybody here to be accepting phone calls. He said call back pronto—or else!”

  Mike returned the call.

  “You got the situation under control yet?” demanded Parker.

  “Nothing’s changed, Alan, except that the captain succeeded in turning the ship and now we’re headed directly for Ushuaia.”

  “That means what, another thousand miles?”

  “More or less.”

  “Another two days?”

  “More like three if the weather stays like it is.”

  “Now listen very carefully, Mike. Thanks to the media this whole thing has become highly politicized. The other side has attached itself to this like a flea to a dog. We have to be seen to be doing something! It’s obvious that somebody aboard that ship knows something! You’re going to have to detain those people—the ones on your list—and sweat them. And make sure the media’s there when you take them into custody. Cuffs and all.”

  Mike wiped his hand across his face. He was fully prepared to admit he hadn’t succeeded in his mission, but he was certain Alan’s demand would contribute nothing to the well-being of Aurora and her passengers and crew.

  “Okay, Alan. We’ll work on it. I’ve got to run now—somebody said Senator Bergstrom wants to meet with me,” lied Mike.

  “Calm him. Reassure him. He’s bound to have something to say to the media afterward. How’s Evans, by the way? It was on the news along with the other injuries.”

  “He died a couple minutes ago.”

  There was no denying that Alan was close to SECDEF and that the media had identified him as one of the DOD’s top naval experts, but Mike found it extraordinarily easy to not listen to his advice at times. Alan had never actually served in uniform, as he assured everybody he would have liked to do. His manly libido had driven him to an early fatherhood, and everybody who did wear a uniform was damn well aware of it. He was, however, an avid hunter of small game.

  “Boss, it’s Jerry. He has to speak to you.” As she spoke, Alex shook Mike’s shoulder.

  “What? Oh, yes.” Mike woke up, but not as immediately as he prided himself in doing normally. He’d fallen asleep in one of the conference chairs. He’d fallen asleep while both Alex and Ray, who’d been even more beaten up than he was, were still hard at work. He stuck out his hand, not wanting to look Alex in the eyes.

  “It’s okay, Boss. I’ve been sneaking catnaps when nobody’s looking, and Ray landed in Chrissie Clark’s lap during that turn and is now so in love he could stay awake forever.”

  “He’s got a wife and daughter . . .”

  “Who he loves dearly, but he’s a very impressionable guy.”

  “Captain?”

  “Yes, Chief?”

  “We’ve found the missing engineman.”

  “Where?”

  “In a void next to the number two fuel tank.”

  “Dead?”

  “Yes, sir. We haven’t touched a thing, but it looks like somebody did something to his head.”

  “Anything else obvious?”

  “A lot of Baggies, some with various colored pills, then some with white stuff and some with brown.”

  “No indication that he might also be in the bomb business?”

  “Nothing obvious.”

  “Very well. Don’t touch a thing and keep everybody away. Especially the media. I’ll call Captain Covington and have Dave Ellison and Dr. Savage join you. Where’s Ted?”

  “He’s on his way from the forward storerooms.”

  “Good. Alex and I are on our way.”

  “Roger.”

  “Sounds like we’ve solved one mystery without solving the big one.”

  “Sounds that way. Bring the camera. We did bring one, didn’t we?”

  “Boss!”

  16

  The Drake Passage

  The scene of Hensen’s death was at the end of a narrow passageway that led to the Main Engine Room. Mike and Alex arrived to find Captain Covington, Dr. Savage, Dave Ellison and Mr. Acosta, the second engineer, all standing talking quietly. Off to one side stood a very young oiler named Rodriguez. From the expression on his face he knew that whatever he’d gotten himself involved in was not good for him and wished he could just disappear into the bulkhead.

  Mike went immediately to the opened void and looked in. The body was lying on its side, almost in a fetal position. There was blood smeared around near the head and a bloody rag lying next to it.

  “Who found it?” asked Mike.

  “Rodriguez, here,” answered Covington.

  Mike turned to the young oiler. “Is this how you found it?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “But,” spoke up Patti Savage, the ship’s doctor, “I moved the head an inch or two to examine the wound.”

  “Your conclusions?”

  “That he was stabbed repeatedly in the temple and the ear with something sharp. There appears to be a little bit of gray matter mixed with the blood.”

  “A marlinspike? A screwdriver? An ice pick?”

  “A small marlinspike, maybe. Or a screwdriver.”

  “Must have been bloody, yet I don’t see any blood around.”

  “Must have cleaned up after himself. Makes sense.”

  “How long’s he been dead?”

  “A couple days . . . That’s really little more than a guess.”

  “Since he was reported missing?”

  “That seems very likely.”

  “What’s on the other side of the voids?”

  “The number two diesel tank, sir,” replied Acosta.

  “What was Rodriguez doing here?”

  “Reinspecting, sir. On my orders.”

  “Who inspected it originally?”

  “I can check, sir.” Acosta raised his walkie-talkie and asked Main Control to check the inspection records.

  “It looks to me like Rounding was our man,” offered Dave Ellison. “This would explain why he ran.”

  “But why did he do it?”

  “Hensen must have seen him doing something or maybe he knew something.”

  “Jake Rounding didn’t do this,” said Patti Savage with a sigh. “He was a troubled man, but I’m certain he wasn’t this troubled.”

  Ellison gave her the sort of look cops
give you when you suggest they might be wrong.

  “Damn!” mumbled Acosta as he listened to his walkie-talkie. “The original inspection was done by an oiler named Cagayan. M. Cagayan. I sent him myself, now that I think about it. He’s small enough to get into some of the smaller voids and the bilges.”

  Savage looked slightly sick. “Cagayan came to me the day Hensen seems to have died with a very bloody arm injury. His shirt was soaked, but the injury really wasn’t that serious. I bandaged him up and sent him back to his duty station.”

  “That’s right.” Acosta nodded, a look of distress on his face. “I sent him to Dr. Savage. He was on sound and security patrol and came back bleeding. Said he’d hurt himself in the same damn bilge we’re standing over now.”

  “Is Cagayan on watch or searching now?” asked Mike, tension in his voice.

  The second engineer again called Main Control. “No, sir,” he finally replied. “He’s due to report in fifteen minutes.”

  “Rodriguez, do you know Cagayan?”

  “I’ve spoken to him, sir. I don’t really know him. I don’t think anybody does.”

  “Do you know where his quarters are?”

  “Yes, sir. They’re next to mine.”

  Mike raised his walkie-talkie to his mouth. “Ted, where are you?”

  “About forty feet from you, sir.”

  “Stop right where you are. It looks like an oiler named Cagayan may have killed Hensen. He’s due to report at Main Control in about fifteen minutes. I want him alive! Is Jerry still at Main Control?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “Join him there.”

  “What does he look like?”

  Mike looked at Acosta and Patti Savage.

  “He’s remarkably small and thin,” said Patti. “Filipino.”

  “Very small and thin,” repeated Mike to Ted. “He’s a Filipino.”

  “Roger.”

  “And I Roger that, Boss,” said Jerry’s voice. “I’m at Main Control.”

  “Art,” Mike then said, turning to Covington, “please seal the ship the best you can from the main deck down and post men at any scuttles or hatches that must remain open. They’re not to try to stop this guy. If they see him they’re to get out of the way and report to us.”

  “Roger.”

  “Dave, secure the site. Are you equipped to lift fingerprints?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then see if you can find any . . . Also see if you can find any blood that might not be Hensen’s”

  “Okay.”

  “Alex, we’re going to pay a visit to Cagayan’s quarters. Rodriguez is going to be our guide.”

  Alex nodded. Rodriguez looked far from happy.

  “Captain,” said Dr. Savage, “if you’re done with me, I’d like to get back to my patients. I seem to have quite a number at the moment.”

  Covington looked at her.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  Covington then glanced at Mike.

  “Of course,” said Mike. “And we all hope like hell there won’t be any more customers for you this voyage.”

  “What about Ray, Boss?”

  “Let him sleep for now. I don’t see how he’s gotten around the past few days on that ankle.”

  “Pills,” said Dr. Savage over her shoulder. “My pills, but they won’t keep him going forever.”

  A few minutes later, for the second time in twenty-four hours, Covington passed the word that the fire and flood doors would be closing, and thirty seconds later bells started ringing and red lights flashing as the heavy steel barriers slid into position.

  His mind and heart racing, Cagayan worked his way aft along the fourth deck, hanging on to the rail every step of the way. When he reached the aft end, he stepped carefully onto the ladder and climbed down even more carefully, his feet slipping on the treads and his hands on the rail as the ship did its best to throw him overboard. He repeated the process on the next ladder.

  Once on the boat deck he paused to look around and catch his breath.

  There wasn’t a soul in sight and he was certain there wouldn’t be. There was no way the boatswain was going to send anybody on deck in this weather without a very good reason, and even the stupidest passenger wasn’t that stupid. Satisfied, he moved rapidly to a large metal chest. He opened the chest and withdrew a pair of bolt cutters. He then trotted forward to the aftmost boat.

  Shit! There was somebody besides him on deck. Somebody—probably some half-assed passenger out for a thrill—was standing next to the boat looking out into the storm. He slipped into the shadows, his hands tightening on the cutter handle, uncertain whether to attack or to wait. Waiting, at least for a minute or two, seemed the least disruptive. Within a few seconds, the figure turned and, hastened by the howling wind, hurried through one of the doors, leaving Cagayan all alone again.

  Confident he had no further company, Cagayan tripped the pelican hooks that secured the boat’s two wire gripes. Now only the boat’s weight was holding it in its cradle. He then used the bolt cutter to cut the forward falls, the wires by which the bow of the boat was raised or lowered. He finished his preparations by setting the controls on the winch he’d so carefully greased a few days before, to pay out when the strain of the boat’s weight pulled on them. After preparing the three boats on the port side, he hurried around to the starboard side and repeated the process.

  When he’d reached the aftmost boat on the starboard side, he paused a second to gently massage the cell phone. Then, with the closest thing possible to a song in his heart, he started forward again, tripping the gravity davits holding each boat.

  Their sidearms drawn, Mike and Alex followed Rodriguez through a maze of narrow, almost dingy passageways leading to the crew’s quarters. Except for asking the two or three people they encountered if they’d seen Cagayan recently—none had—they maintained silence.

  Rodriguez stopped and turned toward them. He pointed ahead and to the right, toward a door. Mike nodded, then motioned for the young engineer to stand back. After nodding at Alex, he tiptoed past the door and stood a moment, his face pressed up against the bulkhead on the far side.

  This was the bad part, he thought as he took a deep breath. What was waiting for him? A shotgun? A pistol?

  He reached out with his right hand and tried the knob. It was locked. He stepped back from the bulkhead and, after another nod to Alex, charged into the door, using his left shoulder.

  Fortunately, the lock was far from substantial.

  With Alex two steps behind, Mike allowed his momentum to carry him into the room. It proved to be a small dormitory with six built-in racks and chests of drawers, a table and several chairs. The compartment smelled strongly of people crammed into a small, poorly ventilated space for long periods of time. It was empty.

  “Jerry,” he said into the walkie-talkie, “he’s not in his quarters, so you be alert. We’re on our way.”

  “Roger.”

  Once released, each lifeboat started to slide down two inclined ramps leading over the side of the ship, groaning and squealing slightly as it went. As each boat moved toward the edge of the deck, its davits—the upper arms of its cradle—pivoted out, morphing into the cranes from which the boat was supposed to hang.

  With a thump, each of the davits stopped rotating out. Normally, the boat would then hang suspended fore and aft by its falls. But with one set of falls cut, the bow of each boat toppled down toward the pounding waves, while its stern falls paid out slowly. The ten-ton steel boats were now hanging—bows down—over the side. The sharp-tongued waves immediately attacked them, lunging and snapping. The boats began to pound with thunderous fury against the side of the ship, doing who-knew-what damage to the Aurora and shattering themselves.

  Cagayan would have liked to stay and enjoy the spectacle close up, but he might be spotted. Anyway, he told himself, he had to warm up again before he continued. He threw the bolt cutters over the side and dashed up two outside la
dders in the howling wind. All the way, until he slipped back into the funnel where the engine room’s roars and groans out-shouted everything, he could hear the boats pounding themselves into scrap. This, he thought, should really scare the shit out of them.

  “Ms. Smith,” called out the helmsman, a look of shock mixed with suspicion on his face.

  The mate of the watch turned and walked over to the console and looked where the helmsman was pointing. Six red lights in a row were blinking, indicating that all six of the ship’s lifeboats were being launched. “There must be an electrical problem,” she shouted over her shoulder as she headed out the pilothouse door onto the port wing.

  Oh my God, she thought as she looked aft and down, cringing from the wind as she did. There was no electrical problem. There was a very big, very real problem. All three boats were grinding their way outboard; she could now feel it through the deck. Then, to her utter horror, one of the boats reached the end and toppled out, its bow plunging down toward the breaking waves. She turned and ran back into the pilothouse, where she immediately paged the boatswain.

  “MacNeal,” squawked the walkie-talkie. Fortunately, thought the mate, he’s one of those guys who’s wide awake the second he wakes up.

  “Listen up, Boatswain, because this is hard to believe. Somebody has launched all six lifeboats and it looks as if the forward falls have been cut. Get up there with some men pronto.”

  “Shit!” replied the boatswain. “I’m on my way.”

  The mate then stepped into Captain Covington’s sea cabin to notify him of the inexplicable disaster. “Do you want me to stop, Captain?”

  “No. Not with these monsters chasing us.” He paused, deep in thought. “Try reducing speed to six knots and see how the ship reacts. If she becomes hard to handle, we’re going to have to put some more turns on again.”

  “It must be Cagayan,” said Mike into the walkie-talkie when Covington advised him of the lifeboat disaster. “We’re going to have to reverse our strategy—instead of trying to trap him belowdecks, we’re going to trap him above. How’s Ellison doing at closing the gaps?”