One Helluva Bad Time- The Complete Bad Times Series

by Chuck Dixon

  “That’s my last Zodiac!” he called to the others.

  “We’ll go shopping! Whatever you want is on me!” Lee shouted back.

  “Check hoses. Check levels.” The SEAL was all business now.

  Thumbs up all around. Each man broke a light stick dangling on a lanyard around their necks.

  “On me!” Boats shouted before placing his mouthpiece in his teeth. He adjusted ballast on his DPV and sank out of sight. The others followed.

  The pull of the currents grew weaker as they sank through the dark water and down into a silent world. At a depth of thirty feet, they powered up their DPVs. Each snapped on his headlamp, the beams turning the black sea to dingy emerald. Boats pointed at the GPS pad secured to his wrist and stabbed a finger south. The powerful Sea Jets pulled them forward in the wake of the SEAL leading them deeper into the murk.

  36

  Darla

  To the south and east, the enormous, metal clad box that was Dex-Tan 11 bobbed on an angry sea buffeted by winds gusting to gale force.

  In the three years since its construction, the huge floating rig had acquired a patina of orange rust on the exposed surfaces of steel sheeting that covered three sides of the super-structure. There was no roof. The cage of carbon steel alloy was left exposed to the elements from the top and the open end at one side. Basically, the Taan-financed rig served as a floating boathouse built exclusively to house the Ocean Raj; a vessel no one aboard the rig had ever seen. Jason Taan and his engineers were unaware until it was too late that the garage was actually an up-sized version of the Tauber Tube. It allowed for the vanishing act that took the Raj, and its crew, and passengers to the world as it was seventy million years prior. And took the boss along with it.

  Now the huge barn of a platform sat in the roiling sea, waiting for the Raj to return. Year after year of patient vigil. Many aboard the rig had no idea what precisely they were waiting for. But they were well-paid and well-employed to watch sonar and video monitors set to scan the seas around them. This included an array of sensors that monitored local variations in temperature. In particular, they watched for the sudden drops in temps that would mean that their guest was returning. It was a waiting game. The regular crewmembers were becoming proficient in Spanish from listening to pop music stations out of Panama City. ¿Qué sopá, pelao?

  The crew shack at the aft end was manned by a skeleton crew on two-week rotations. Their only job, most days, was to wait for further orders. They ate and slept on board the rig. For entertainment, there was Wi-Fi and a library of BluRays. For exercise, there was a gym room with a treadmill, stationary bike, and weight machine. During good weather, they could also run laps on the gangway that spanned three sides of the rig atop the massive ballast tanks that kept them afloat. When off-duty, they were helicoptered to Panama City for a two-week respite at the Dex-Tan compound situated in the extensive dry-dock and storage facility owned by the company. The compound was on Margarita Island, and one of many Chinese-owned port complexes at the Pacific mouth of the canal. Dex-Tan was the holding company owned by Jason Taan and the entity to which the rig was registered.

  The tedium was broken that night by the approaching tropical depression. It was upgraded to an early-season tropical storm and given the name “Darla.” According to protocol, the weather conditions required them to move the rig into port. They radioed for a tug out of the maritime center at Embajada de China in P.C. The tug was on its way, a few hours out.

  In the meantime, Jiao-Long Ho, effectively the skipper of this massive, powerless raft, was busying himself with the preparations for their upcoming move. He only had four men with any real nautical experience. The other five men aboard were security, gunmen. But in the current situation, Ho could issue them orders, and they were obligated to follow. He drilled them on the procedures for hauling up the four enormous anchors that held the rig in place. They would need to be raised ahead of the arrival of the tug. Each man was given tasks such as securing gear and making sure hatches were sealed tight. There was much to do before the gargantuan floating boathouse could be taken to safe portage in the lee of one of the barrier islands.

  Ho was an experienced hand, proud of this assignment and determined to do his best to secure his charge. At forty-two, he was well past the age when he would ever be given the captaincy of an actual, ocean-going vessel. After many tests and examinations, the closest he ever came to a commander’s stripes was second mate on the Xiānggǎng lánhuā, at eight-hundred feet in length it was just under Panama dimensions and small by Dex-Tan standards.

  This motorless rig, a sea-going garage for all purposes, was the nearest he would ever come to having the helm. He meant to see his duty through, and the rig safely moored to weather the worst Darla had to offer.

  The satellite weather updates showed the system moving west off the land mass after ravaging the Gulf all the way down from the Yucatan. Rather than losing power traveling over the isthmus, the storm was building. It would be a Cat One hurricane by the time it reached the rig’s mooring. Possibly Cat Two. A mild storm, but one that still posed an existential threat to the structure with its steep flat planes and high center of gravity.

  The reports on his screens and the printouts from Navimeteo nautical weather services assured Captain Ho that the tug would beat the worst of the storm to the rig. They’d have the cushion of three hours or more to get the tug in place and be underway. Even so, the effects of Darla could already be felt. The deck under his feet, in the room he insisted on calling “the bridge,” shifted up and down in an irregular rhythm. A coffee mug and pencils slid off the chart table along with a pile of maps and stack of meteorological reports. He secured them in a bin and stowed them away in a wire frame cage.

  The radio crackled, and a voice hailed him first in English and then in Mandarin.

  “Xia Gang Tuo Three-One to Dex-Tan Ten-One.”

  “This is D-T Ten-One. Jiao-Long Ho, captain. Respond,” Ho said into the hand mike.

  “We can see your lights, Ten-One. We are approaching from south-southeast of your position. Is everything prepared?”

  “Can you give me an estimated time of arrival?”

  “Inside of thirty minutes. We have a following sea at ten knots. It is making maneuvering a bit challenging. We will require directions.”

  “I will guide you in myself,” Ho said. He could see the blip on the sonar on the bearing the Three-One transmitted.

  Switching to the onboard tannoy system, Ho depressed the send button on a mike mounted on the control console and ordered the crew to hoist anchor. He could picture them moving to the gas-powered capstan winches that would draw the weights and the heavy chains off the sea floor. Voices returned to him over the console speakers. Each of the four capstan stations called in. They were freeing the rig in preparation of the tug’s arrival.

  Though a challenge even for experienced pilots on a placid sea, a rig floating free presented less of a danger than if it were chained. The tug skipper and his crew could better anticipate the movement of the huge floating platform as it surrendered to the same sea conditions as the smaller vessel. Chained down, the rig could act as a massive flail, rocking one way only to be whipped back by the weight of the anchors. Free to roll, the tug could match its attitude and bring its prow into the docking notch at the aft section designed for this purpose. Still, a daunting piece of seamanship by all aboard the vessels. Rather than being designed for being hauled, the rig was set up to be pushed across the open sea by a tug craft like the Xia Gang Tuo, a powerful 4000 class maneuvering vessel. The skipper would expertly pilot the prow of his tug into a V-shaped inverted wedge of forged steel set at the platform’s aft section. The big four-thousand kilo-watt engines would power up and move the rig, slow but steady, to an anchorage in a deep-water cove on the east shore of Isla de Coiba.

  “D-T Ten-One to Xia Gang Tuo. Join me on channel two,” Ho said.

  “Roger that. Channel two.”

  Ho slipped on a rain slick
er and secured the hood over his head. He removed a handheld radio from a battery stand and exited the shed. The driving rain did little to cut the sauna heat on the exposed weather deck. Inside the slicker, Ho was instantly greased with sweat. He scanned the horizon to the south, searching for the running lights of the tug. The line between sea and sky was a blur with the effects of the storm and low cloud cover. The lights atop the rig would be visible from the tug’s bridge long before the opposite was true. The smaller tug was still invisible over the curve of the planet even from the height of the deck Ho stood on.

  The deck rolled under his feet, the rig floating free now, turning to port in a motion so slow it was almost imperceptible. The anchors would be aboard by now. Ho held a hand across his brow to shield his eyes from the downpour. The heavy rain created a haze he couldn’t see through. The man at the forward port capstan was out there in the dark but concealed from his view. His eye did catch movement just below him. A dark shape was moving up a ladder on the outside of the port float tanks. No one, not crew or security, had any business on that ladder at this time. Ho felt an anger rise in him, a burning fist in his gut. This was his time to show his masters what a capable officer he could be. And here was someone playing about like a monkey on a sea ladder.

  He leaned well out over the railing to shout at the figure below. A streak of lightning tore the sky in half, turning midnight to high noon for a fraction of second. The sudden glare showed not one but two figures climbing the ladder. Men in slick black suits coming from the sea like ghosts.

  37

  The Waiting Sea

  The Norse started everything with a party. And, with the gathering of the armies, there was reason to celebrate. The makeshift settlement along the Gulf shore was home to families as well as soldiers. Wives and children were encamped there.

  Fires were built and lit. Kegs were tapped. Mountains of salted fish were set on long tables under the starry sky. In their own camps, the native troops roasted wild pigs trapped during an afternoon hunt in the brush-choked dunes.

  Lord Magnussen, a housecarl of the imperial family and cousin to Emperor Gustav back in København, was the highest-ranking official present and de facto supreme commander for the armada and the invasion. A big bastard in a long bear-skin cloak worn over a shining cuirass and striped breeches. His silver hair was worn in long braids banded with gold. He climbed atop a stage of planks and barrels and addressed the thousands gathered on the beach. He shouted words of war and promises of victory that were echoed by criers set among the crowd. He raised a sword that flared in the firelight, and all swords were raised in a forest of blades as the men shared in a shouted oath.

  Then the drinking started and, though he’d sworn “never again,” Dwayne joined in if only to be drunk enough to answer the pleas to sing more ABBA songs to his hosts. He thought again of Caroline. She was never far from his thoughts. The desire to tell her about teaching Swedish pop songs to a bunch of Vikings made him even more anxious to get back to her.

  They ate, and they drank, and they sang. And Dwayne recalled little of it except a brief bare-knuckle fight over a chubby little blonde. He wanted to think the fight was over his refusal to go into a tent with the girl. Some mile-wide fucker with three teeth called him a name, and Dwayne knew his manhood had been called into question. His sucker punch landed with little effect, and they rolled on the sand awhile until Samuel broke it up by dashing a bucket to splinters over the skull of the larger man. Following that, the evening was a fire-lit blur.

  And Dwayne could only remember that much because of the reminder of a raised weal under one eye where a fist or elbow had landed. At least it drew some attention away from his new hangover. He woke on the sand with the sun hanging over the surf, trying to pry his lids open. Samuel was seated by him and offered him a mango from a bowl by his side. Dwayne shook his head and regretted it. The simple motion made his vision swim.

  “What was that fight about?” Dwayne asked.

  “Bjarn’s sister wanted to have sex with you, and you refused,” Samuel said.

  “And he called me a name.”

  “I don’t know how you know that. But, yes, he did.”

  “And I hit him. And he hit me. What did you say to break it up?”

  “I told them that your mate was lost to you and that you took an oath not to enjoy another woman until your sword had tasted blood in battle.”

  “Bet they loved that,” Dwayne said.

  “I saw a few of them weeping,” Samuel said and tossed the empty bowl aside.

  “They don’t happen to have coffee here, do they?” Dwayne massaged his temples and managed only to move the pain from his eyes to the crown of his head.

  “As a matter of fact, they do.” Samuel stood and reached out a hand to help Dwayne up.

  “I’ll take a grande black. Lead the way.”

  The boats were stocked and manned in a remarkably short time. Goodbyes were made, and the boats launched into the surf. Supplies were hauled aboard, and men clambered up ladders and nets to take their places aboard the longboats and men-of-war.

  Horses, cows, and other mounts and livestock were being loaded by crane into the bellies of fat cargo ships. Crates of live chickens and turkeys along with pallets of salted pork barrels and great wheels of cheese. Kegs of ale and spirits as well were hauled aboard each ship. It was all performed with machine-like efficiency under the watch of bosuns roaring orders to the sweating men.

  Dwayne and Samuel joined Njarl and his closest guard in a longboat that was rowed out to the armada, swaying in the anchor chains well beyond the lazy surf. Njarl stood at the prow, anxious to be aboard his dreadnaught. The angry visage of a dragon with splayed claws and spread wings glowered down from the prow as they approached. The ship was the height of a four-story building from the waterline to the gunwales. The long oars were drawn inboard, and boarding nets dropped down the hull to allow the passengers of approaching boats to climb to the main deck.

  “What part of the year is this?” Dwayne said. He nodded toward dark clouds low on the horizon over the gulf.

  “It is maybe a month before the winter solstice,” Samuel said.

  “So, after hurricane season.”

  “The seers chose their goat wisely.”

  After the long climb aboard, Dwayne and Samuel toured the ship. Below the main deck were the three-gun decks with black-barreled cannons tied down tight, and trunnions chocked. Every spare inch of deck space was piled with cannon balls and canister shot secured to the decking under stout nets to prevent rolling. The walls were white-washed, and decks were smooth from a recent sanding; Njarl kept a tight ship. Beneath the gun levels were the ranks of oars and benches for the rowers. They sat now, stripped to their waists in the muggy closeness, and drank watered down vinegar and ate slabs of cheese and salted bread. They bore no chains. These men were not slaves but skilled laborers; well-trained and prized for their experience at the sweeps. In a pitched battle at sea, a captain couldn’t rely on inexperienced oarsmen pulling against their will and self-interest.

  Dwayne knew this from his own experience aboard a Phoenician warship. These old wooden ships took great skill to pilot and maneuver. Every hand at every oar had to be adept.

  Crew quarters were spread through the ship wherever there was room. And there was little room available with a full complement of crew aboard as well as several hundred soldiers and passengers for the next several days' travel. And they might be anchored for weeks off the delta. No one could predict how long the siege of shoal fortresses would take.

  Back in the sunlight of the open deck, Samuel learned that they would be quartered under the shelter of sections of sailcloth strung above the main deck as protection against the weather. They would lie on the deck wherever there was space for them. Samuel had arranged for sheepskin covers and some woven blankets as well as other supplies they might need. That included a rifle and a pistol for each of them as well as a sword and dagger apiece. Dwayne’s outfit, borrow
ed an age ago from the hunter he rode to this parallel existence, was in sorry shape. He traded it for a woolen jerkin, leather belt, and breeches. He kept his sneakers; still the most serviceable footwear available to him. Common footwear was not made for comfort in this time and place. His New Balance cross-trainers were wrapped in fresh rawhide strips and drew little attention other than derision from his hosts.

  Dwayne watched the armada get underway from a forward port rail. Orders were called. Men worked to turn the capstans and draw anchors on board, heavy chains rumbling and clanking. Pulley wheels squealed as sails were dropped and dogged. Curiously, the ships of the Northmen used a tiller to move the rudder rather than a wheel. To steer a vessel of this size took three hugely muscled men responding to the barks of a sailing master relaying the orders of the captain, Njarl, who paced the high quarter deck, gesturing this way and that, giving orders that were called out along the decks in sing-song rhythm.

  Out on the placid Gulf waters, the longboats dropped oars and pulled to bring their prows about to the harbor opening. Each pulled its own long string of mortar barges connected by yards of tarred ropes thick as a man’s wrist and chains of rusted steel. The longboats were the first to make for the open sea, creating way for the men-of-war to come about. The oars were slid outward on greased locks with a tremor that shook the timbers beneath Dwayne’s feet. Fully sixty feet in length and adzed and planed from a single length of timber, the giant oars took a crew of four men each to pull them through the water. From the lower decks, the beat of a drum started up, punctuated by shouted orders from a powerful set of lungs. First port oars worked then starboard and, slow as a minute hand around a clock face, the big ship’s bow swung toward the open sea.

  The big sails caught a seaward wind blowing off the shoreline and filled with a crack and boom. With sails taut and the oars turning steady, the ship made its way to the gulf, bow down and leaving a milky furrow in its wake. The rest of the armada followed suit, falling into a loose arrowhead formation behind Njarl’s ship. The one-eyed housecarl was up in the rigging now, shouting at the ships aft of him. He laughed and shook a fist.