Zavala understood exactly what Austin was getting at. “How many guys are on the oil rig?”
“Captain says two hundred plus, in addition to those on the ship.”
“The math seems pretty simple. The risk is high but not insurmountable, and we might be able to save more than two hundred lives.”
“That’s the way I look at it,” Austin said. He slipped on a flotation vest and tossed another to Zavala. They sealed the deal with a firm handshake. Austin gave a thumbs-up to the captain, who’d been watching their discussion from the bridge.
UNDER CAPTAIN DAWE’S tight command, the ship came around and stopped at an angle to the wind that would allow Austin and Zavala to launch the bright red, sixteen-foot inflatable boat on the lee side of the ship. The ship cut the full impact of the wind, but the boat still tossed on the mounding seas like a rubber duck in a bathtub.
Austin was fitted out with a pocket radio attached to a hands-free microphone and earpiece. Captain Dawe would keep him up to date on the progress of the oil rig’s anchor-hauling crews. If the platform got all its anchors up in time to move out of the way of the oncoming ship, or if there were any deviation in the ship’s course, he would call Austin, who could then abort his plan. If the ship–platform collision seemed imminent, Austin could go from there.
Austin hung from the ladder with the wave crests splashing at his feet, then stepped off and landed square-footed in the boat. It was like jumping onto a wet trampoline. He would have been bounced out, but he grabbed the safety grips on the pontoons and hung on to the violently pitching boat.
When the inflatable had stabilized under his weight, Austin started the seventy-five-horsepower motor. With the outboard grumbling and snorting in the waves, Austin gripped the ship’s ladder and steadied the boat so Zavala could join him. Zavala stepped into the bouncy inflatable with his usual catlike grace, cast off the bow and stern lines, and shoved the boat away from the ship.
Austin turned the tiller over to Zavala, who goosed the throttle and pointed the blunt bow on a course to intercept the Ocean Adventure.
Chapter 10
FROM THE SIX-STORY-HIGHBRIDGE of the Ocean Adventure, Captain Irwin Lange had a gull’s-eye view of almost the entire length of the ship under his command. He had been at his lofty post when the helicopters had dropped out of the sky and landed on top of the container stacks. His initial reaction had been one of astonishment. That quickly changed to anger as he gazed through the big windows that overlooked the long deck.
The captain took pride in his Teutonic imperturbability. His stolid character was mirrored in firmly set facial features that almost never changed from their expression of genial self-competence. This was different. His lantern-jawed frown deepened. The helicopters had landed without his permission. His logical mind quickly dismissed the possibility that the helicopters were in trouble. One helicopter, maybe. But not two.
This was not right. Not proper. Peering through his binoculars, the captain became even more incensed as a dozen or so figures jumped from the helicopters and fanned out under the whirling rotors. All were dressed in black. He only caught a glimpse of the interlopers before they disappeared over the edge of the stack. But in that brief instant he saw that they were carrying weapons. His anger turned to dismay.
Pirates!
Lange took a hard swallow. Impossible. Pirates operated in far-off places like Sumatra and the China Sea. There had been pirate attacks off the coast of Brazil and West Africa. But he found it inconceivable that sea marauders would operate in a frigid, fogbound area like the Grand Banks.
In his many years of sailing the Europe-to-America route, the captain’s only brush with pirates had been a video produced by an insurance-trade group. The shipping company that owned the ship under his command had distributed the video to its captains with instructions to watch it with their officers. The video showed fierce-eyed Asian pirates attacking a tanker in small, fast boats.
Lange desperately tried to recall the lessons the video tried to instill.
Vigilance is the best defense against piracy. No one warned about pirates dropping from the sky!
Turn the ship into a citadel. Too late to lock all the doors.
Don’t fight the pirates. Not a chance. There was nothing more lethal than flare guns on board. None of the German officers or largely Filipino crew was trained in weapons use.
Stay calm. Well, that was one thing he was good at.
He turned to the bridge crew, which had been equally as startled at the sudden arrival of the helicopters.
“I believe the ship is being attacked by pirates,” he said with the same unemotional tone he might have used to announce that a squall was imminent.
The stricken face of his first officer suggested that the younger man had none of his captain’s composure. “Pirates! What should we do?”
“Do not offer resistance under any circumstances. I’ll call for help.”
He picked up the radio microphone but the ship’s radio speaker crackled as he was about to make a distress call.
“Calling the captain of the Ocean Adventure,” a voice said. “Do you hear me?”
Lange said, “This is the captain speaking. Who is this?”
The speaker ignored Lange’s question. “We are rounding up your crew. We are monitoring your radio transmissions and advise you not to call a Mayday. Do you understand me, Captain Lange?”
How did they know his name?
The captain gulped out the words. “Yes, I understand you.”
“Good. Wait where you are.”
The captain’s immediate thought was for the welfare of his twenty-man crew. Maybe if he warned his men they could hide. He picked up the ship’s telephone and called the engine room. No answer. He tried the ship’s mess hall. Silence. He fought back a growing sense of panic and tried the officers’ lounge. Again no answer.
Heavy footsteps pounded on the bridge wing. A gang of armed men burst into the cabin. Four men wore identical black uniforms, caps, and masks hiding their faces except for their hard eyes. The fifth man was dressed in jeans and a foul weather jacket, and his face was uncovered. The captain recognized him as a Filipino named Juan who worked in the engine room.
The captain assumed Juan was a captive until he noticed the pistol in the crewman’s hand. The Filipino saw the consternation in the captain’s face, and his mouth widened in a gap-toothed grin. The captain realized that Juan was working with the pirates. That’s how they managed to take control so quickly. That’s how they knew his name. Juan must have guided the attackers directly to the engine room and other parts of the ship.
One man went over to the control panel and pushed the helmsman aside.
“What are you doing?” Captain Lange said.
The man punched coordinates into the ship’s computer, using numbers printed on a piece of paper. The captain saw that he had put the ship on autopilot. The man finished his task and barked a command.
“You and others. Down to the deck.”
Lange stuck his prominent jaw out in defiance, but he did what he was told and ordered the rest of crew to do the same. The cold breeze sweeping the open deck easily penetrated the captain’s light jacket. He would have been chilled in any case by the sight that greeted him. The rest of his crew was being herded along by armed men. A second Filipino crewman, like Juan, seemed to be working with the pirates.
Prodding the crew with their weapons, the pirates marched the frightened group to the aft deck. More pirates were gathered there around an object about as tall as a man. It was wrapped in canvas and was being trussed with several lengths of heavy rope.
Lange’s eyes went to the pirate who was examining the knots in the rope. He was tall, several inches over six feet, dwarfing the other hijackers, and he had arms that seemed too long even for his powerful body. The man turned around and Lange saw that his face was uncovered. He gazed at the captain with angelic eyes.
“You did well to follow my orders, Captain,” the
man said. Lange recognized the voice that had warned him against calling a Mayday. The tone was surreal in its jovial warmth.
“Who are you?” the captain said. “Why are you on my ship?”
“Questions, questions,” the man said with a shake of his head. “It would take much longer to explain than we have.”
The captain tried another tack. “I will cooperate with you, only, please, do not harm my crew.”
The mouth that was almost feminine in its softness widened in a smile. “Don’t worry. We intend to leave you and this ship much as we found it.”
Lange was no dummy. The fact that the man had chosen to bare his face meant he wasn’t worried about witnesses identifying him later. At a nod from the gang’s leader, a hijacker jabbed the captain with his gun and told him to lie facedown on the deck with his crewmen. His hands and feet were tightly bound with tape.
“What about the woman?” Juan asked the baby-faced man. “What should we do with her?”
“Whatever you’d like,” the lead hijacker said. “She has caused us a great deal of trouble. Just make it fast.” He seemed to lose interest in the subject and turned his attention back to the canvas-wrapped object.
Juan stroked the handle of a knife hanging from his belt and strode off along the deck on his dark errand. He walked quickly in anticipation of his task. For days, he had watched Carina with lustful eyes, trying to imagine what she looked like under her layers of clothing. He licked his lips as he recalled the soft warmth of the supple female body that he had lifted into the container. He would only have a few minutes, but it would be long enough for her to experience a real man before he killed her.
As he broke into a trot, he glanced out to sea and was startled to see that a vessel had emerged from the fog and was pacing the containership. An inflatable boat with two men in it was bouncing over the waves toward the Ocean Adventure.
The Filipino thought about calling for help, but that would not leave him enough time with the woman. Lust won out over good sense. He would handle this himself.
He crouched low and made his way along the deck. The boat seemed to be headed to a point amidships. The Filipino got there ahead of it. He drew his knife, flattened himself belly down on the deck like a crocodile waiting for its prey, and watched the boat as it drew nearer.
This was going to be a special day.
Chapter 11
THE FLAT-BOTTOMED RUBBER BOAT bounced across the corrugated surface of the sea in a series of teeth-clacking belly flops. Zavala could have cut short the spastic flying fish leaps by reducing speed, but he had to keep the boat moving to stay with the containership.
“This thing feels like it’s got four flat tires,” Austin yelled over the high-pitched whine of the outboard motor.
Zavala’s reply was drowned out by a detached wave top that hit him full in the face. He blinked the water from his eyes and spit out a mouthful. “Damn potholes!”
He expertly steered the boat closer, jogging the tiller to counter the artificial surf stirred up by the huge hull. His steering arm felt as if it was being wrenched from its socket. The boat lost way with each turn. Within minutes, it had dropped back, until it was almost halfway down the length of the ship. But Zavala’s quick hand and steady eye had drastically cut the distance to the vessel.
The containership seemed like the legendary unstoppable force as it plowed through the seas that crashed against the high, flared bow. The flow of water against the hull created a barrier of white water that stood between Austin and his goal: the pilot ladder hanging down from the deck almost to the waterline. The Adventure’s deck was high above the water. The rope ladder was meant to provide access from a harbor pilot’s boat to a fixed gangway that slanted down the ship’s side.
From the deck of the Leif Eriksson, the task Austin had set for himself had looked difficult but not impossible. But the Ocean Adventure was as long as a skyscraper placed on its side. Even worse, this skyscraper was moving. As Austin looked up at the fortress-steep ramparts he hoped to scale, he wondered whether he had bitten off a bigger mouthful than he could chew.
He pushed the dangerously distracting thought from his mind, crawled up to the boat’s prow, and dug his fingers into the slippery-wet surface of the rubber pontoons. When he was ready, Austin lifted one arm and signaled Zavala to make his move. Zavala angled the inflatable in toward the ladder. The rolling white water knocked the boat back like a cow brushing away a fly. Zavala had to play catch-up again.
Austin clung to the bow as Zavala tried to keep pace without going broadside to a sea that could easily flip the boat over. Cold spray stung his eyes and blurred his vision. The noise created by the rush of water, the outboard motor, and the ship’s engines made communication, and even thought, nearly impossible. Just as well. If Austin thought about what he was about to do, he would not do it.
He was starting to tire from the constant beating. If he didn’t make a move soon, his biggest obstacle would be sheer exhaustion. Pluck and determination would come off second best against the simple laws of physics.
A voice crackled over his walkie-talkie.
“Kurt. Come in.” Captain Dawe was calling him.
“No can do,” Austin shouted into the mouthpiece. “Busy.”
“I know. I’m watching you. Just heard from the rig. The last anchor line is tangled. A collision looks like a sure thing. You’d better move away from the impact area or you could get caught up in a hell of a mess.”
Austin made a snap decision. He pointed at the containership and shouted over his shoulder.
“Oil rig’s stuck, Joe. We’re going in.”
Zavala gave him a thumbs-up and smoothly cranked the tiller to move the boat within yards of the ship. Once more, the small craft was buffeted by artificial surf. Zavala kept the boat riding the roiling hull wash like a Hawaiian surfer until it was slightly ahead of the boarding ladder.
The rope ladder had become entangled in the “man lines,” the safety ropes that hung down from either side. Zavala brought the motor up to full throttle and went in at a shallow angle. The boat tipped on its side like a heeling sailboat. Zavala and Austin threw their body weight on the higher side. The boat rode the rushing water until it was within reach of the ladder slapping against the side of the ship.
Austin felt like a salmon swimming upstream as the boat danced on the churning water. With the ladder finally in reach, he wedged his feet under the pontoon sides of the inflatable, slipped out of his flotation vest, and rose in a semicrouch. He needed full freedom of movement, and the vest would be of little use if he screwed up. He would have only one chance and if he missed he would land in the water, get swept back alongside the ship, and likely be ground to pieces in the ship’s propeller.
He felt the boat falling away and he reached up, his fingers still inches from the bottom of the rope. He was extended out over the bow, clawing for air. The chasm that yawned between his fingers and the ladder was widening beyond the point of no return. Then the rope snapped closer, and he grabbed the bottom rung like an acrobat in flight.
As Austin’s fingers closed on the rung, Zavala swung the boat back away from the ship to avoid flipping over. Austin dangled at the end of the ladder, reached up blindly, and grabbed the next rung. The hard rubber step was slippery with seawater. He almost lost his grip when a wave washed up around his waist and dragged him down, but he held on and pulled himself higher.
The ladder had stabilized slightly with Austin’s body weight on it, but the double rope was still twisting on itself. He almost let go when his hand scraped against the steel hull. His knuckles felt as if they had been dipped in acid. He had no choice but to ignore the pain and keep climbing.
He tilted his head back to see how far he was from the gangway that angled against the hull. He was encouraged by what he saw. He was halfway up the ladder. Only a few more rungs and he’d be able to reach the small platform at the bottom of the metal steps.
He grabbed on to a couple of rungs, pull
ed himself higher, and glanced up again. Someone was peering at him from between two thin metal posts that extended vertically from the deck where those climbing the ladder could use them as handholds. A crown of unruly hair framed the dark-skinned face of a man. His gap-toothed mouth was set in a wide grin.
The face disappeared, and an arm reached over the side. The hand at the end of the arm clutched a knife whose long blade was sawing through the rope ladder.
“Hey!” Austin called out, for want of anything more appropriate.
The knife hesitated, but went back to work and quickly severed the rope. The rope ladder dropped a short distance. Austin was slammed against the hull. The impact almost jolted his hands loose from the ladder. He held on and looked up again. Aw, hell, he muttered. The knife was sawing the second ladder rope.
He reached for a man line that had blown free and was twisting in the wind and got both hands on it as the knife went through the second rope. The severed ladder dropped into the crushing sea and instantly disappeared.
Austin’s head slammed against the side of the ship like a clapper in a bell. Galaxies whirled before his eyes. He clung tenaciously to consciousness aware that a single swipe of the knife blade against the line would send him to his death. He reached over and grabbed the bottom step of the gangplank, then swung under the platform, where he hoped he would be invisible to the happy knifeman.
He stayed there for a few moments. When he could hold on no longer, he pulled his body onto the platform and crawled on his hands and knees up the steps until he was at the opening in the deck rail. He leaped onto the deck in a clumsy defensive stance and was glad to see that no one was waiting in ambush.
Austin waved at Zavala, who was running a parallel course to the containership. Zavala waved back.
The captain’s frantic voice crackled in the walkie-talkie. “You okay, Kurt?”
Austin felt like newly ground hamburger, but he said, “Finest kind, Cap. I’m on the ship. How long do I have?”
“You’re about five miles from the rig. You’ll have to allow time for the ship’s momentum to stop or turn.”
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