by Roger Weston
The next cabin was of similar quality. A painting on the wall appeared to be an original Picasso. But no Robert.
When he came to a locked door, he got out his lock-pick set and worked the tumblers until the handle turned. It was an office. A bank of security monitors covered the wall opposite the desk. A few of the screens were off, but the ones that were on gave him the chills. He watched himself climbing over the rail onto the ship, walking down the hallway with his spear gun in his hand, opening and closing doors. Every inch of the upper decks was being video-taped—but why was one monitor playing back the scenes of Chuck’s penetration of the ship? And why was no one on watch?
He left the office, taking a last glance at himself on the monitors. If someone had been here a few minutes ago, watching the security feed …
Feeling very uncomfortable now, Chuck opened one door after another, finding more opulent, but vacant cabins. Unfortunately, he found no sign of Robert…or Lydia. The wheelhouse was empty.
Chuck descended the exterior stairs from the wing bridge deck. A clank of metal made him turn quickly, but he saw no one.
He removed his flashlight from his waist pack and used it to illuminate the darker areas of the aft-house, which held tools and paint. The floor had a round access hatch. Slinging his spear gun over his back, Chuck climbed down a ladder to the shaft tunnel, which was a grated walkway alongside a two-foot thick pipe.
His dart pistol filled his hand like an insurance policy. The adapted Colt .45 launched flash-less darts from the tip of a spigot that extended from the gun’s muzzle. Hearing another sound, he switched on the dissuader flashlight just as a black-clad commando slid down a rope. The killer crouched and went for his machine pistol. When the red beam of Chuck’s flashlight crossed his face, the man was momentarily blinded. He rapidly looked away, but swung his pistol up and opened fire as Chuck stepped behind a stanchion. Bullets ricocheted off the steel pillar.
A brief pause followed. The crack of Chuck’s dart pistol resonated in the enclosed space. The neutralized commando flinched just before a dart entered his throat. With a hissing breath, he twisted backwards, crashing onto the grating.
Chuck jogged down the tunnel. A few minutes later, he muscled open the dog latches of a watertight door and moved into the darkness of ‘tween hold #4, closing the door tightly behind him. The smell of smoke filled his nostrils.
Removing the flashlight from his pocket, he turned it on, flashing the scarlet beam around the expansive, dark compartment. The hold was empty except for three metal shipping containers, which were sitting at odd angles with their doors hanging open. The walls had what looked like sound-proof paneling.
Warily, he moved through the hold and looked into the open doors of the metal containers. Empty. At the forward bulkhead, he found that the metal door into the next hold was locked from the other side. The way out of here was to go back the way he’d come, but he figured they’d be waiting for him there. Going back anyway, Chuck was almost to the door when he saw the dog latch move. Angling to the side, he pressed his back against the wall behind the door. He was glad he did because the door sprung open rapidly. A shotgun blast roared—and an enormous tongue of flame shot toward the forward door. For a moment, Chuck was disoriented, but then he realized his pursuers were using twelve-gauge “flamethrower” shotgun shells, which had a range of 250 feet. The incendiary metal compound in the shells burned at 4000 degrees Fahrenheit when fired.
Although he was not in the line of fire, a withering wall of heat swatted him and caused him to cover his face with his arms. He bit his shirt to keep from screaming and smelled the singe of his own hair. He only opened his eyes because he heard the shooter leap into the hold.
In a rapid movement borne of desperation, Chuck shot the killer with a dart before the man could fire his second shotgun blast. In the same moment that the man dropped his twelve-gauge and covered his wound with his hands, Chuck slammed the door shut, spun the dog latch, and delivered a solid kick to the masked face. The killer in the fire suit landed hard, and a brutal blow to the base of his neck rendered him unconscious. Chuck held his breath against toxic release from the shell.
Suspecting that the man was not working alone, Chuck stripped him of his fire suit and tactical vest. Seconds later, Chuck, standing inside one of the cargo containers, pulled on the man’s suit and gas mask. He breathed deeply into his starved lungs. After removing several of the twelve-gauge flame thrower rounds from the killer’s vest, he hurried to the door at the forward bulkhead where he removed a Blade flexible cutting charge from his own waist pack. He molded the plastic explosives around the dog latch and vertically up the jam, pressing gently on the self-adhesive strip and using his dive knife to cut the explosive strip to length. After attaching his detonator, he ran back to the cargo container and waited a couple of minutes to see if any other RUMAN killers had come to see what was holding up their point man.
The killers arrived a few minutes late, probably because the delay caused one of them to discard his shotgun in favor of a good old fashioned backpack flame thrower. Two of his cohorts kept their twelve-gauges handy and a fourth held a classic Sten Mark II silenced submachine gun.
Watching them through a crack by the cargo container’s hinges, Chuck saw the men in fire suits assume a pincher formation. Evidently guessing that Chuck had somehow got the better of the first attacker, they’d decided to work as a team to overwhelm their quarry with a devastating three-man attack. It was a crude and dangerous plan, but likely to produce a body. A wall of flames cooked the side of the container as one of the men worked his way around. Chuck stepped out, and flames engulfed his fire suit. He shot a dart into the storm. Flames ceased when the man fell. Chuck took cover as a burst of silenced shots raked the corner of the container.
Using his remote, Chuck blew the forward door. The explosion knocked the two shooters to the deck. Fire engulfed the air and sucked up precious oxygen. Chuck lobbed a stun grenade over the door of the shipping container and toward the attackers. The fulminate of mercury exploded and produced a loud bang, igniting magnesium and producing a blinding flash. In the moment that followed, Chuck stepped out into the open and fired his spear gun. The spear entered the face mask of the assassin’s fire suit and laid him out.
Another killer squeezed off a burst from his silenced machine gun, forcing Chuck to withdraw behind the container’s big metal door. After a couple of seconds, Chuck swung his Colt .45 dart pistol back around the corner, but the shooter ducked out of sight around the back side of the shipping container. Chuck brought his gun around the other corner. A moment later, the man popped around the back with his gun out front.
Chuck fired. The steel dart entered the killer’s forehead, and a message must have been sent from the man’s brain to his hand muscles because his fingers dropped the gun.
At the forward bulkhead, Chuck charged through the blown doorway and ran through a couple more holds. In ‘tween hold #1, he shined his flashlight into the ghostly darkness, illuminating a dozen man-made L-shaped walls. He lobbed a stun grenade inside and closed the door. After the explosion, he loaded a flame thrower round into his twelve-gauge and entered boldly into the enclosed space. He went straight for the next door and then counted the holds in his mind, making a guess as to his position within the ship.
He climbed up a ladder to a round hatch. He spun the dog latch and heaved it upward, the hatch slammed down on the steel deck overhead. He popped up and swung his dart pistol toward a waiting thug with broad, crooked lips. As the big man lifted his machine pistol and yelled, a dart entered his mouth. He crashed against the wall, hitting a lever that released several hundred pounds of chain that rained down on the man and buried him.
Clearly the trap had been meant for Chuck, but he didn’t have time to be stunned. Since the thug hadn’t seen any need for a gas mask, Chuck took his own off and the fire suit, too.
He pushed open the door, moved out to the exterior deck, and vaulted into the water eight-feet
below. He came up under the pier, then swam downward, shoved the regulator in his mouth, and pulled on his scuba gear. After swimming 200 yards underwater, he came up next to a speed boat hidden behind the tugboat he’d seen earlier. He climbed in, and Karla helped him with his gear.
As the speed boat soared down the ship canal, cold rain stung Chuck’s face like pellets, and he used his left hand to cover his eyes. Then Jeff zigzagged the boat and poured on the gas. Chuck looked back and ducked down when a shooter in a pursuing boat opened fire on them. Chuck drew his regular .45 and squeezed off a few rounds. The other boat weaved and slowed, but didn’t stop.
Chuck switched his .45 for his flare gun and shot at the pursuing boat. He saw the gunner dive for cover and the boat swerve. His next two flares missed.
As they sped down the canal, more shots came. One slug hummed past his ear. Chuck wondered if he’d be dead within seconds. He watched as Karla fired a rocket-propelled grenade, which struck the pursuing boat. A flash lifted the speeding vessel out of the water. The boat flipped end over end, cart-wheeling into a marina of fishing vessels.
A big cigarette boat sped out from a side channel. Karla fired another rocket grenade, but it detonated too soon in a great flash. The cigarette boat burst through the fireball. The windshield shattered and one of the men collapsed and hung limply over the side, but the boat sped up, and Chuck saw a gunmen shoulder his own rocket launcher and aim the barrel in his direction.
Jeff executed a gentle turn as the boat disappeared into a fog bank.
He watched Karla lift her rocket launcher, and he saw the flash when she fired it.
A distant explosion lit up the fog.
A fog horn blared out, and Jeff slowed the boat.
The mist thinned out as the boat idled into a marina. They took the first empty slot. As they sprinted down the dock and up the gangway, Chuck struggled to make sense of the tactics that the RUMAN assassins had used against him. He felt confused and uncertain. He was furious that Robert wasn’t onboard and that he still didn’t know the location of Jin Mountain. He felt like he was still back in the ship, still in the darkness where confusion reigned and danger stalked. But he would fight on until he found the light and brought Lydia home.
CHAPTER 29
Downtown Seattle
Robert stood at his office window, the waters of Elliot Bay spread out below him. He checked his watch and asked his secretary to bring Parcher up on his speaker phone.
“Parcher, what’s going on?”
“The police just left. We called it a robbery and showed them the backup videos of Brandt. They put out an A.P.B. on him.”
“What about the boat chase?”
“They were asking a lot of questions until the chief arrived and shut them down.”
“Good. The man did his job.”
Parcher chuckled.
“What about Brandt’s data?” Robert said.
“We studied the video feed and debriefed the watchers. His stress quotient is dropping.”
“No, you’re wrong. Check the data again. No man’s stress quotient could drop after that kind of attack.”
“The burns from the flame throwers would have broken him, but he slipped past them.”
“Hundreds of millions in funding for our psych ops program and control of the SMW is at stake,” Robert said in restrained anger. “Every man has a breaking point.”
“I know. But Brandt is a hard target. He needs enhancement.”
“Parcher, this psych ops program is going to succeed and win the funding with or without you.” Robert looked at his right hand. “You need to crush Brandt psychologically and then give him a way out of his pain. I want to see him beg us to get back into the game.” Robert pushed the cuticle on his index finger. “We know he had an emotional breakdown after his wife died. He admitted it to Leslie.” Robert moved on to the cuticle of his middle finger. “Every man has a weak point.” He used more force than necessary to push back the cuticle on his ring finger. “Find his.”
CHAPTER 30
Seattle
Chuck caught a bus to downtown Seattle. He made three transfers on the city bus and stopped in several stores. He stood in the windows and watched the street he had just come up. He studied pedestrians, memorizing their faces. He ignored hats and coats, which were easily changed, and tried to imprint on his mind outstanding features—facial structure, body shape, general demeanor. Everything could be altered, but the reality was that people were careless and things got missed.
Seattle had its share of street people, pimps and druggies. Chuck checked their shoes and looked for gold watches. He studied their faces to see if their expressions carried the hopelessness of the homeless or the mischief of the street hustler. He saw no signs of surveillance or familiar faces, so he headed to the Seattle Public Library. It was an impressive facility, a multi-story building with abundant resources.
Settling into a computer terminal, Chuck did an internet search looking for cross-links between Jin and Chinatown, but there were too many hits, none any more meaningful than the others. His information was too general. He’d hit a dead end.
He walked down to the waterfront. As he watched cheerful tourists head for the aquarium, Pikes Place Market, the harbor tour and a dozen other places, he thought of Lydia and how he’d first met her on the coast of Burma, of her fear of the junta government soldiers and then of her excitement at the prospect of coming to America, the land where dreams came true. She had heard so many tales of a better life, better conditions, prosperity and unlimited opportunity. Although she loved Burma, she was tired of living such a hard life. She found the idea of starting over in America irresistible. The hope that had glowed in her eyes was something Chuck would never forget. He could hear her voice even now, her words fluttering through his mind, working upon him like medicine. He had to find her. He had to find Jin Mountain. Chuck knew that Jin Mountain was a code name set up by RUMAN, but he was sure that the name had some relevance to the location. He had a plan.
Back at the library, he found a group of four serious students who wanted to make some extra money. He told them that he was a historian and wanted to hire researchers for the day. When they found out they could make $25 per hour, they looked as if they’d hit the jackpot and went to work in earnest.
Chuck had them do an exhaustive search, skimming dozens of titles on early 20th century immigrants and scanning indexes for the name Jin. Once they had a long list of prospects, he had the students check reference pages for thumbnail sketches of the Jin in question and write down relevant biographical details that would include or exclude them from a possible connection to a mountain in the wilds of Idaho.
After four hours of work, Chuck had seven names. He paid off his student researchers. They were pumped up, and two of them said they had ideas and notes for research papers they had to write. They couldn’t believe they’d gotten paid to do their papers. Now they had money—and even more time. They left the library talking about Chinese immigrants and what restaurant they should go to first. They’d check back in an hour to see if Chuck needed any more help.
Chuck sat down in front of a stack of seven books and began skimming the references. He was on book five when he found one that caught his interest. According to a historian, a Chinese immigrant named Lok Jin worked laying tracks during the expansion of the logging trains in Idaho beginning in 1911. In 1919, Lok Jin quit his job and returned to a remote area where a steam locomotive was left stranded on an abandoned section of track. He had found a mine nearby and planned on working it. Legend had it that he found a mother load of a unique and amazing ore, but the stories were never verified. According to a separate article, in 1919 the Boise Payette Lumber Company left behind a train on an unfinished stretch of track due to a series of devastating landslides and fatal accidents. Chuck tried to find anything that would identify the location of Boise Payette’s abandoned engine No. 21, but what he learned was that in the 1940s all the records of the location of the train
and tracks were destroyed in a warehouse fire.
Another article quoted an immigrant called Caleb Roth, who had worked for Lok Jin for a short time. According to Roth, Jin powered an abandoned steam locomotive by means of a strange rock that glowed in the sunlight, a kind of transparent rock he had never seen before in his studies of geology. Later Caleb left Jin. When he returned weeks later, Jin was gone—and he never returned. Caleb himself died shortly thereafter. This story was passed on, eventually finding its way to an unnamed 20th century reporter in Boise.
According to Jin’s worker’s account, the rock flaked away like mica—and when the sun made contact with these thin sheets, tremendous energy was created. The story said something else that caught Chuck’s attention: whatever mineral Jin found, there was a huge vein of it in a remote mountain if his worker’s account was to be trusted. Jin was sure his discovery could be used to create horseless wagons and steamless trains through solar energy. He expected to become the wealthiest man in the world. After making a small fortune mining gold and gems in the area, Jin told some Chinese acquaintances in Boise that he planned to go to China and return to Idaho with his sons and enough of his clan from the old country to protect his discovery from plunderers. Jin feared that white prospectors who learned of his discovery would not respect his legitimate claim since he was Chinese. Even filing a claim could have been a death sentence. Jin left for China, but on his sea voyage, he contracted tuberculosis and died just after arrival in Shanghai.
