Charon's Landing

Alyeska Marine Terminal Valdez, Alaska

The light drizzle had turned into a driving slushy snow in the predawn darkness. It was merciless weather that soaked everything it touched, seeping into Lyle Hauser’s pea coat as he stood on the bridge wing, a walkie-talkie clutched in his numbing fingers. In the glare of the terminal’s powerful spotlights, the sky was an angry swirling mass, churned by a shrieking twenty-knot wind. The seas of Prince William Sound mirrored the ugly mood of the sky, whitecaps slicing through the slag gray water like daggers. Visibility was so poor that Hauser couldn’t see the lights of Valdez nestled across the bay.

“Start of another miserable day,” Hauser muttered to his ship. He lifted the walkie-talkie to his lips and barked, “Status.”

“Green across the board, Captain. Engines are on line, turning at sixty-nine rpms.” Because of its massive size, the Hyundai engine could turn at such low revolutions and still produce over 36,000 shaft horsepower. Enough to move the oil tanker at a nominal cruising speed of sixteen knots. “All hydraulic pressures are up and stable.”

“Visual inspection of the steering gear?”

“Chief says it looks fine.”

While it was maritime law for the steering gear and engine to be checked by the Chief Engineer twelve hours prior to entering the harbor, Hauser wanted a second inspection to put his mind at ease about his new ship. In 1979 the 220,000-ton supertanker Amoco Cadiz lost hydraulic pressure to her massive rudder and slammed into the coast of France, spilling nearly her entire cargo into the English Channel. Since then, Hauser made sure that his gear was given a personal inspection by the Chief Engineer before he moved any of his charges from her berth. The visual inspection may or may not turn up an internal flaw in a weld or a slight tear in a rubber gasket, but it was better than nothing. Yet another of his many superstitions.

“First Officer?”

“Here, sir,” JoAnn Riggs squawked through the walkie-talkie.

Hauser peered toward the twin towers of the manifold system located amidships, nearly six hundred fifty feet away. In the artificial daylight from the dock and at this great distance, Riggs was a tiny figure, visible only because of her bright yellow rain slicker.

“Give the order to cast off bowlines, Bridge ahead slow, please.”

He watched as the massive hemp and nylon rope was slipped from the bollard and drawn into the ship by a mechanical windlass. With the last thread to land removed, the Petromax Arctica was free to begin her journey to southern California.

Belowdecks, the nine-cylinder diesel engine felt the strain of the water as the propeller shaft was engaged and began fighting against the ship’s tremendous inertia. According to Newton’s law, a body at rest tends to stay at rest unless acted upon by another force. Because this particular body weighed 255,000 dead weight tons (dwt), the force needed to move it had to be equally as large. Under her flat stern, the ferro-bronze propeller, a twisted sculpture the size of a commercial aircraft’s wing, ripped at the water, torquing it so that slowly, slowly it began pulling the ship. Though located at the back of a vessel, a ship’s prop works the same as that of an airplane, creating low pressure before the blades and high pressure behind them. They do not push through the water; they pull.

The pistons, each over a yard in diameter, had the power to send a shiver through a ship even the size of the Petromax Arctica. To Hauser, the slight rattle beneath his booted feet was a comforting feeling.

Hauser changed frequencies on his walkie-talkie before speaking again. “Alyeska control, this is the Petro—” He corrected himself quickly. “This is the Southern Cross. We are underway at 2:43 A.M., en route to el Segundo.” Damn name change.

“Roger, Southern Cross. An ERV is standing by for escort duty.”

The ERVs, or Escort Response Vessels, were one of the latest safety features incorporated at the terminal, one of the many changes following the Exxon Valdez disaster. Each tanker that berthed at Alyeska was shadowed by a specialized ship until it reached the Gulf of Alaska. Designed for an immediate response to oil spills, ERVs were equipped with nearly a mile of oil-absorbent material called boom that could be laid around a slick like a floating dam. They also carried drop mats for small spills and water cannons for moving oil across the surface of the Sound. The crews of the ERVs were all highly trained specialists in the field of oil spill cleanup. The 182-foot-long ship that followed the Petromax Arctica down the length of Valdez Bay, actually a twelve-mile-long fjord, was the newest addition to Alyeska’s fleet.

The Arctica was on her way. Captain Hauser was the only member of the command crew with a certificate to guide a fully burdened VLCC through these dangerous waters, so he had to remain on the bridge until they cleared Prince William Sound. He moved into the bridge from the port wing and wedged himself into the master’s chair, a cup of coffee at the ready. His first standing order since taking command was that fresh coffee was to be available at all times of the day or night and each pot was to be no more than thirty minutes old. He was good for at least twenty-five cups per day. He’d been able to break himself of his nicotine addiction, but his need for caffeine would never be shaken.

Already the cruise wasn’t going well. The ship was running flawlessly, but Hauser was having a tough time with his crew, especially JoAnn Riggs. He had spoken to her briefly about the accident that had maimed the former captain but still wasn’t satisfied with her answers. She had been extremely evasive. The remaining officers and the chief engineer appeared competent, but they had not been present when Captain Albrecht had lost his arm and could add nothing to Riggs’ account.

The hours dragged on without incident. The great tanker powered south, her huge bows forcing the water aside rather than cleaving through it. For a ship this big, the stormy seas of the Sound weren’t even noticeable. They swirled around the hull but couldn’t cause even a slight roll.

“ERV to Southern Cross.” The radio call was the first voice on the bridge for the past two hours except for Hauser’s quiet course corrections.

“This is the Cross. Go ahead.”

“Though we can’t see it, the Loran says we’re at the entrance to the Sound. You’re on your own.” The voice over the radio was tired.

The storm that had dumped four inches of snow aboard the tanker at Valdez had not abated. A steady white curtain was drawn against the armored windscreen of the bridge, the snow racing in one direction, then another without a moment’s pause. It was impossible to discern a horizon line between the sea and sky; each was dark and angry. The tanker’s bow lights looked like a dim constellation, far removed from the heated comfort of the spacious bridge.

“Roger that. This is the Southern Cross acknowledging that we have been escorted out of Prince William Sound,” Hauser replied formally. The ship was on her own.

He waited for another ten minutes before taking his leave from the bridge, making certain that everything was functioning properly. He took a slow circuit of the huge compartment, his weathered hands clasped behind his back as he read the dozens of gauges and dials that indicated the ship’s status. As he’d suspected, the ship was running in perfect order. When he’d finished his brief tour, he paused at the exit to the bridge, near the large plotting table.

“Helmsman” — Hauser didn’t recall the man’s name from the hasty introduction just before leaving the terminal — “First Officer Riggs is eight minutes late for her watch. When she arrives, tell her this has been noted on my log. If she hasn’t shown in ten minutes, call me in my cabin.” Hauser had to use the bathroom so badly he couldn’t wait for Riggs to replace him on watch.

Because a modern supertanker operates with just a skeleton crew of thirty, there was a great deal of space for each person aboard. Most rated a private cabin or shared with only one crewmate. The captain, especially, was afforded every luxury. The Master’s Suite was located one level below the bridge and included a large front office, called the Day Room, as well as a sleeping cabin the size of a generous apartment. The carpet was a rich blue pile, thick and soft, and the woodwork around the cabin was of the finest quality, not the cheap commercial paneling found in the other officers’ quarters. There was already a stack of paperwork mounded on his desk that needed his immediate attention. He hated to admit that the job of Master had become one of administrative details rather than saltwater and hard steel. Such was the nature of the business today. Once, captains had been cut from a romantic cloth, heaped with legend and lore. Now they were nothing more than glorified managers buried under bureaucratic paper shuffling.

He kicked off his boots and shed his black worsted wool uniform jacket. He’d stuffed the tie that went with the uniform into a pocket hours before and vowed he wouldn’t retrieve it until the ship was in sight of Long Beach. He’d never felt that discipline aboard ship was maintained by strict dress code. Let the crew be comfortable and they would work better had always been his style of command.

Hauser was finishing in the bathroom when the intercom chimed. “Yes, what is it?”

“Sorry to disturb you, Captain.” It was the helmsman. “First Officer Riggs hasn’t shown yet. I paged her cabin but got no reply.”

“I’m on my way,” Hauser muttered irritably. Riggs’ actions had gone beyond rude. She was showing a serious dereliction of duty.

He threw on his shoes and decided against his uniform coat.

Swinging open his cabin door angrily, he plowed right into Riggs, tossing the smaller woman to the floor in the moment before she knocked. Hauser recovered from his surprise, bending to offer her a hand, a ready apology on his lips. That was when he saw the pistol on the carpeted deck where the collision had knocked it from her grip. Riggs, too, saw the weapon and struggled toward it, her arm outstretched, her fingers crabbing furiously.

He saw a look of murderous rage in her eyes and without conscious thought stepped on her wrist, pinning her hand. Riggs screamed out in startled pain, writhing to twist herself free. He was just about to demand what was happening when a burst of automatic gunfire echoed from the deck above, near or on the bridge. Hauser looked down the hall and saw an armed shadow duck from an emergency exit, dive across the hallway, and fall into the Chief Engineer’s cabin.

Hauser had only moments to react, his mind churning but his instincts forcing him to flight. He couldn’t risk the seconds to scoop up Riggs’ pistol; he just ran. Smashing through an emergency exit, he dashed up the utilitarian stairs, his chest heaving. He paused at the top landing and pressed his ear to the door that led to a short passageway and the bridge.

Trained for and seasoned by danger his entire life, an armed conflict aboard his ship went far beyond his experience. Yet Hauser’s first thoughts weren’t about the situation. He thought instead of his wife, white-haired and wrinkled but still the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. Her grave expression as he boarded his flight to Alaska filled his mind and her almost disapproving gaze galvanized him into action. She’d warned him not to take this command, and suddenly he agreed with her.

Still, he was responsible for the safety of the ship and its crew. The automatic gunfire could mean only one thing. Terrorists were seizing his ship and Riggs was helping them. Thirty seconds had elapsed since he’d first bumped into her, and already he was forming a plan. He had to get to the bridge to send a distress call.

How many more of the crew were working with them? Hauser couldn’t even guess.

The door Hauser was hiding behind was halfway down the hallway that connected the bridge to the supertanker’s main elevator. Once he committed himself, there would be no cover until he gained the bridge; the hall would be like a shooting gallery. Gathering the courage he never recognized he possessed, Hauser took a deep breath, threw open the door, and ran faster than he’d ever moved before.

One of the men assigned to replace the tanker’s name guarded the closed doors of the elevator, the body of a crewman at his feet, shot to death as he tried to escape. He was turned away when Hauser dodged from the emergency stairwell.

The bridge was only a couple of dozen paces away. Hauser had seen the terrorist the moment he committed himself, but there was nothing he could do about it now. A dozen paces to go. The gunman finally noticed Hauser, raising his Israeli-made Uzi machine pistol at the same instant. Four paces. Hauser could hear the subdued ping of the radar repeater through the open bridge door. Three paces.

The hallway exploded. The Uzi opened up like a chain saw, bullets screaming, tearing into the walls, ricocheting into the bridge. The hallway filled with acidic smoke, deafening noise, and the full thirty-two rounds from the weapon’s stick magazine.

The carpet caught a few of the rounds and the left side wall caught a few more but the majority raked across the control panel of the supertanker and slammed into the windscreen, creating round spiderwebs in the inch-thick glass. The helmsman was almost cut in half, two nearly separated chunks of his body crashing to the deck in a widening pool of blood. Hauser had escaped the fusillade by diving the last few paces to the bridge and rolling around the thick wooden pedestal of the chart table.

The leaden sky was still dark, night oozing onto the bridge through the windows and portholes, gathering in the shadowed corners. A bullet had cut a wire somewhere in the tangled maze behind the controls, killing the lights with a blue arc of electricity as the system shorted. The emergency lights kicked on, and an alarm pierced the air shrilly. The murky bridge smelled of smoke, ozone, and blood.

Hauser had managed to gain a few seconds, but he hadn’t escaped yet. There were two separate emergency distress systems located on the bridge console, but he didn’t have time to reach either of them. His only choice was to get out onto the flying bridge where the international orange canister of the EPIRB sat in its bin. If he could reach it and toss it over the side of the vessel, the contact with the saltwater would activate the system and send a distress call over a satellite uplink. He’d worry about his options after that.

Forcing himself to ignore the helmsman’s corpse, he crawled toward the insulated door to the flying bridge, his arms shaking so badly that they almost couldn’t take his body weight. The rank sweat of fear slicked his body, bathing him in a clammy chill. Although he’d spent most of his adult life aboard supertankers, he’d never fully appreciated how wide they were until he was forced to crawl across the bridge of one, the fear of an assassin’s bullet urging him onward.

He made it to the door, his body tensed for the inevitable shot in the back, but it didn’t come. He couldn’t understand what was delaying them. He stretched up from the floor, reaching for the handle to temporary freedom when an unfamiliar voice called out sharply.

“Stop where you are.”

Hauser ignored the order. With a burst of adrenaline he un-dogged the door, throwing his weight against the icy wind that raced across the ship. He fell out onto the snow-covered flying bridge. A pistol cracked three times in rapid succession, the shots landing just inches from Hauser’s slithering form, kicking up tiny geysers of snow and creating glowing hot spots on the metal deck that smelled of burned steel. He moved as fast as he could but with a tired resignation. The flying bridge was a dead end. He was trapped.

The outside visibility was only about thirty feet. Snow, sleet, and freezing rain slanted against him, forced by nature and the movement of the ship into a forty-knot gale. He wasn’t dressed for this kind of weather; the cold and wet soaked through his uniform shirt, and only fear kept him from shivering to death. Hauser knew that he wouldn’t last more than fifteen minutes before hypothermia robbed him of control over his own body. The pistol roared again, the bullet fired blindly into the twisting storm but passing close enough to Hauser to make him duck. Hypothermia wouldn’t have the time to kill him.

Lyle Hauser had never considered himself a brave man. True, he had done things that others wouldn’t, like jumping aboard a burning barge when he was twenty to save a deckhand trapped by the flames. He had always just done whatever he felt was necessary. If others saw his acts as brave and heroic, well, that was up to them. Hauser was just doing his job.

His job right now was surviving. There was only one option, and it would take all the bravery he possessed. He raced to the end of the bridge wing and stopped to pick up the two-and-a-half-foot-tall canister of the EPIRB, but it was gone, the brackets empty. Riggs must have removed it as a precaution when she began taking the vessel. Out of time, Hauser looked over the chest-high railing of the flying bridge. All he saw below was a curtain of white, but somewhere underneath his position was the balcony of the second deck, no more than fifteen feet away. If he could land on that narrow perch, he had a chance of escaping, finding a place to hole up for a while and consider his next move. But if he missed the scant promenade that surrounded the next level down, the main deck was a drop of forty feet, and if he missed that, the North Pacific would kill him the moment he hit.

He stood just above where the flying bridge cantilevered over the side of the vessel. He had to get closer to the center of the tanker before he could jump, which meant getting closer to the men trying to kill him. They were on the bridge, weapons drawn, bright eyes peering into the storm for his shadow to come within range.

He launched himself back down the narrow walkway, his boots finding little purchase on the slick decking. He suppressed a desire to shout as he ran, to give voice to the fear that tore at him like the wind stinging his face. Just as he discerned the red glow spilling from the emergency lights on the bridge, he gathered himself and leaped up to the six-inch-wide railing, scrambling with feet and hands and chest, breaking stride for only a second. Ignoring the oblivion that sucked at him from below, he ran on, pushing each stride when he felt his feet sliding off the ice-encrusted railing.

The armed figure looming out of the snowy night was startled by Hauser’s unusual position. The man’s weapon was held low, ready for a frontal charge; not this tenuous rush at the level of his shoulder. The terrorist began to twist, raising his pistol in a movement as graceful as ballet. Hauser chanced two more paces, stretching himself too far on the last step so that when he went over the railing it was more of a fall than a leap. In an instant, he’d vanished.

On the bridge, JoAnn Riggs took immediate charge of the pandemonium. There should have been no need for violence when taking the ship from the unarmed crew, but it hadn’t worked as planned. Two crewmen were dead, Hauser was missing, and the bridge was virtually destroyed. Riggs’ first act was to cut the alarm klaxons and return the lighting to its normal nighttime luminance. One of the terrorists who’d stormed onto the bridge following the gunfire had already extinguished an electrical fire below the helmsman’s station, and two more had removed the corpse to the other flying bridge. Riggs gave orders that the Chief Engineer, the electrician, and a replacement helmsman be brought up from the crew’s mess where they were being held.

She didn’t try to hide her new position of authority. She ordered both crew and terrorists with equal command. At the back of the room, the terrorists watched impassively as Riggs mustered her crew into cleaning up the mess and reestablishing control of the vessel.

Everyone on the bridge paused for a moment when the door to the flying bridge opened with a blast of raw arctic air. The leader of the terrorists, a granite-faced man known only as Wolf, stepped out of the night. The crew looked at him, silently wondering what this new threat represented. Riggs and the others regarded him expectantly.

Riggs broke the tight silence. “Did you get him?”

Wolf shook the snow from his dark hair and slid the big Sig Sauer pistol back into its nylon combat harness. He spoke with a German accent, his voice brutal and clipped. “He tried to rush me by climbing onto the railing, but he never made it past. He lost his footing and went over the edge.”

“How far down the bridge wing were you?” Riggs asked nervously.

“Nearly halfway. He either landed in the water or fell all the way to the main deck.”

“Take some men and make sure. He can’t be allowed to live.” She turned back to her crew, ignoring their accusing glances. It was clear to them that Riggs was discussing their new captain.

Twenty minutes later, Wolf returned with three of his men, snow clinging to them like glittering jewels. If the weather had made them uncomfortable, they gave no outward sign. When they brushed themselves off, they did it more out of annoyance than discomfort, as if the near-freezing night wasn’t even worth their attention. Riggs knew that they were former East German Special Forces and had trained for conditions much worse than those lashing the supertanker.

“Well?”

“We found no sign of him. The wind and the heat of the oil in the tanks have removed all of the snow on the main deck, so there were no footprints, but a man couldn’t have fallen that far without leaving a blood trail if he crawled away. He must have missed the ship and gone overboard.”

“Good, one less thing to worry about.” Riggs sounded relieved.

“How bad is it?” Wolf nodded at the partially dismantled controls.

The electrician and an assistant were crawling under the consoles. Only their backsides were visible; their heads and shoulders were buried in the wires, circuit boards, and microchips that kept the tanker running.

“So far, it’s not too good. The radar is out permanently, a round shattered the cathode-ray tube and the digital image processor. It’s a complete write-off. We have helm control, but the throttles can be engaged only from the engine room. We can live with that. Our biggest problem is the internal pumps. When the control panel was shot up, a power surge affected the pump control room and knocked out most of the systems. Monitors, gas pressure and ratio gauges, and the pump controls themselves were all severely damaged. We can’t shift the oil within the baffles of the main tanks to maintain proper trim, nor can we tell if the fumes above the ullage line are dangerous. The pumps themselves are fine, but the tank sensors are off-line. We have no way to tell how much oil is in each tank without visual inspections.”

Both Riggs and Wolf knew the importance of this particular system for maintaining control of the ship. Without the pumps, the Arctica could tear herself apart if they encountered rough seas. And when they reached their ultimate destination, the pumps would be critical to the success of their mission.

“Can the damage be repaired?”

“How should I know, I’m not an engineer,” Riggs snapped. “Your trigger-happy soldier boy really fucked us up.”

“He will be disciplined.” Wolf ignored her anger.

“Lot of good that’s going to do us,” Riggs seethed. “I should have him locked in the mess room with the rest of the crew, but we may need him before this voyage is over.” Riggs looked at Wolf pointedly. “But when his phase is done, I want him killed.”

“He is under my command.”

Riggs’ dark expression deepened. “And you are under mine.”

An ironic smirk curled Wolf’s cruelly handsome face. “Yes, sir.”