Charon's Landing

Prince William Sound

Built by Yarrow and Company in 1964 as a Hecla class survey ship for the Royal Navy, the Hope retained her sparse military lines even under coats of garish yellow paint that made her look like an oversized bathtub toy. Her flat bows rode almost perpendicular to the choppy swells, and her stern was equally blunted. She was two hundred thirty-five feet long; two thirds of her main deck supported a three-level superstructure, her squared funnel thrust through the center. There was a helicopter pad on the aft deck, and a garage below the bridge that housed her two yellow Range Rovers. A ten-ton crane angled forward, ready to swing the vehicles to or from shore.

With accommodations for one hundred twenty-three crewmen, she had more than enough space for the twenty-two members of PEAL who crewed her and the up to sixty others who accompanied her on her voyages. Her twenty-thousand-mile range allowed the Hope to cruise anywhere in the world, calling attention to environmental damage. She wasn’t quick, possessing a top speed of only thirteen knots, but the bow thruster running athwartships made her maneuverable. Her three Pax-man Ventura V-12 turbo diesels and her strengthened hull made her safe in heavy ice.

When PEAL had bought her, they had done little to change her interior specifications, leaving in place the two laboratories, the photographic studio, and her large cargo holds. Sea-blue carpet had been laid in all passages and companionways, and her utilitarian gray walls had been repainted in soft pastels of mauve and cream. Many of the interior spaces were covered with posters. The prints ran to a similar theme: entreaties to save rain forests and oceans and endangered species. Pandas and whales were the two most common animals pictured, along with disturbing scenes of industrial pollution spoiling air and water alike.

The most evocative picture hung in the place of honor in the mess hall and was used by PEAL in their ad campaigns. It showed a six-year-old South American Indian boy wearing nothing but a ragged pair of shorts. Behind him, a wall of smoky flames shot high into the air as fire consumed the edge of the Brazilian rain forest. The boy gravely regarded a huge earthmover treading toward him, its driver’s face hidden behind a bulbous gas mask. No caption was necessary.

Because she drew fifteen and a half feet of water, the Hope couldn’t tie up to one of the piers around the town of Valdez. She lay at anchor a few hundred yards offshore and was the largest vessel in Prince William Sound except for the steady procession of tankers running to and from the oil terminal across the bay. She’d approached the coastline only once since arriving in the Sound, so that one of her Range Rovers could be lifted ashore at the ferry terminal.

The ship’s offshore position gave Jan Voerhoven a few minutes to watch his guest being motored to the Hope aboard one of their custom yellow Zodiacs. Despite the bright sun, the air was bitterly cold. An arctic front held all of Alaska in its grip, dropping temperatures fifteen to twenty degrees below normal. The locals were saying that this could be the worst winter in the past quarter century and it was only mid-October. The two men manning the Zodiac were hunched against the frigid gusts blasting across the Sound, their slickers pulled high around their heads, but their passenger seemed oblivious to the weather. He sat stoically in the middle of the inflatable boat, his shoulders squared, his cannonball head held erect. He didn’t even take the precaution of wearing a hat to help preserve his body heat. Voerhoven could easily see the silvered bristles of his crew cut.

Jan Voerhoven had faced nature that way many times in his life, always seeking to feel closer to her, but this man came not to taste nature’s power but to dominate. Even at this distance, Voerhoven could see his arrogance. He looked as though he felt nothing for nature, not her gentle caresses or her harsh torments and seemed almost contemptuous of the cold. Voerhoven felt the bile of hatred building in his stomach, churning and roiling bitterly.

From the time of his very first memories, Jan had always loved the world around him, not the cities and roads and man-made canals of his native Holland, but the natural world, the world of wind and oceans and land. As a boy, he spent hours enraptured by the interplay of the clouds as they ranged above his backyard. He thought nothing could be more perfect than the soil on which he lived. He was ten when he found out it was all a lie.

He learned that his whole country, everything that he’d ever seen in his young life, had been built on land stolen from the North Sea. His teachers had proudly explained that it had been “reclaimed.” Earthen dikes and dams had been built along the coast so that the once fertile seafloor could be drained, cultivated, and developed. The teacher said it was a marvel of human ingenuity and perseverance.

Young Jan saw the creation of Holland as deliberate theft. How could something be reclaimed if they had no claim on it in the first place? At ten, he realized that one of the greatest engineering feats was nothing more than the plundering of an untamed region just for man’s greedy desires. He believed that the Dutch had no right to do what they’d done. He realized that nature had no way of stopping them, no way of protecting her balance as mankind began wrenching her apart.

That day, that very instant, he dedicated his life to pushing the balance back into nature’s favor, to stopping humanity’s unending thirst for the destruction of the planet. He’d been too young to join the beginning of the Green movement that swept Europe, but he kept active during his college years in the early 80s, organizing often violent boycotts and demonstrations while majoring in environmental studies. The halcyon days of his youth were filled with police clashes and tear gas raids, late-night debates and underground newspapers.

He pursued his doctorate more out of an interest in staying around the restless students than any other factor. There was never a doubt that he would teach after receiving his Ph.D., expounding his particular blend of environmental activism and violence. He’d been run from academia four years ago, chased away because his fervent pleas were becoming too radical for even Europe’s liberal academic circles. He was no longer bitter about being censured because that had led directly to the formation of PEAL. Had he still been teaching, he never would have had the time to create the organization that now stood at the brink of eclipsing Greenpeace as the most active environmental group in the world.

The Zodiac was nearing the Hope. Her slick rubber hull knifed through the water with the agility of one of the many otters that lived in the sound. Voerhoven’s thoughts again returned to the man coming to see him.

Voerhoven had dealt with many dangerous people before — neo-Nazi skinheads he’d hired to disrupt his own rallies for greater media coverage, professional arsonists contracted to burn gas stations in Holland and Belgium, and burglary gangs hired to teach PEAL activists how to break into research facilities where animal testing occurred. As fanatical and ominous as these others had been, none could compare to the man approaching the Hope.

Their first meeting had taken place over a year ago. The man had entered PEAL’s cramped office near Amsterdam’s train station, and after the barest introduction, the visitor had laid a bank draft on Voerhoven’s desk. At the time, PEAL had fewer than twenty members, mostly volunteers, and a budget of fifty thousand dollars, much of it coming from Voerhoven’s trust fund. The check had been made out to PEAL in the amount of ten million dollars.

“There is a condition attached to this money,” Jan’s benefactor had stated simply.

Voerhoven remembered looking into the man’s icy eyes and seeing death, but it did not stop him from agreeing readily, giving away his soul as surely as if Lucifer himself had made the offer. Ivan Kerikov was a malignancy as deadly as cancer. Through his contacts in Europe, Voerhoven later learned that Kerikov was a former KGB officer turned renegade and was being hunted by the United States, his former Russian masters, and a number of other groups. His reputation for violence seemed the stuff of nightmares.

Within weeks, Kerikov had turned PEAL into a tightly organized outfit, building on Voerhoven’s natural charisma and his unflagging dedication to the cause. Kerikov made possible the purchase of the old survey ship that became the Hope and hired a well-respected advertising agency to manage PEAL’s publicity campaigns. Gone were the photocopied flyers stapled to telephone poles around the Low Countries and PEAL’s word-of-mouth recruiting style. PEAL moved to a luxury suite of offices in a downtown bank building, complete with secretarial staff, massive computer system, and enough space for two hundred employees. Within a few months, PEAL’s membership had jumped 1000 percent and continued to grow at a phenomenal pace. PEAL had been a small cadre of dedicated volunteers; now it bloomed into a major force that people paid to be a part of. It took a short time to transform PEAL from an obscure organization on the fringe of the environmental movement to one of the world leaders in ecological preservation.

Kerikov managed all of this with Machiavellian aplomb, never revealing himself to anyone other than Voerhoven but getting results like no one the Dutchman had ever seen before. Kerikov had the ability to make problems simply disappear, and people as well. When a gas station owner was accidentally killed in a fire set by a PEAL crusader, his outraged and outspoken widow vanished a short while later. Kerikov was single-minded and ruthless in his dedication to building PEAL, though he never once gave his reasons. Voerhoven took Kerikov’s money and aid, not daring to question what price he would eventually have to pay for the Russian’s patronage.

Only three months ago had Kerikov finally revealed the condition he had first mentioned when he came to PEAL. Voerhoven was enthralled by the bare sketch of Kerikov’s proposal and was astounded to learn how far the plan had progressed without his knowledge. Kerikov was providing PEAL the outlet for the ultimate act of environmental protest, an opportunity to prevent an inevitable environmental disaster and save an entire ecosystem. Kerikov’s plan would ensure that there would never be another Exxon Valdez-type spill and that the Arctic Wildlife Refuge would be beyond man’s ability to ever exploit.

The Zodiac slid up to the Hope near the steep boarding stairs. While a crewman on the rubber boat held the craft steady against the platform, Kerikov heaved himself up the swaying steps to the deck of the PEAL ship, moving easily for a man in his mid-fifties.

Voerhoven stood at the top of the landing to greet the Russian. Kerikov made no move to shake hands and Voerhoven did his best to hide his discomfort. This was an unscheduled meeting that Kerikov had called for only this morning. Voerhoven had come to understand that Kerikov did nothing without a specific reason, but he did not know the purpose behind this conference.

“Let’s go to your quarters.” Kerikov knew the ship well and led the way to the spacious cabin that had once been the Officers’ Wardroom.

Voerhoven had taken over the largest cabin aboard the Hope when he joined her here in Alaska. The rooms didn’t feel like they were on a ship. The steel bulkheads had been Sheetrocked and painted, and the carpet had been double padded to cushion the metal decking. The two small, rounded portholes were the only indication of the suite’s nautical origins. There were three rooms: a full bath tucked behind the bedroom and an office complete with an oak desk and a conference table big enough to seat ten.

As soon as Voerhoven closed the watertight door, Kerikov grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around, and slapped him so hard across the face that he staggered against the wall, knocking a framed picture to the floor.

“What the fu—”

Kerikov slapped him again, this time over his temple. Voerhoven toppled to the deck, cutting his hands on the glass shards lying on the carpet. “Shut up,” the Russian said conversationally. “I’ll tell you when you can speak again.”

He moved across the wide room, taking the chair at the head of the conference table, leaving Voerhoven to pull himself from the floor. Kerikov watched Voerhoven with reptilian eyes as the Dutchman slid into a chair across from him. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the corner of Voerhoven’s mouth, but he made no move to brush it away.

“I won’t ask you what you were thinking when you pulled that stunt last night because I know you weren’t thinking at all.” Kerikov’s voice was even and well modulated, but there was an undercurrent of anger clipping each syllable. “I’ve pumped ten million dollars into this operation, built up your pathetic little protest group and worked for more than a year to bring us to this point, and you draw attention to us by killing a truck driver just so you can throw a few sound bites on the evening news.”

“I didn’t kill him — Petromax did,” Voerhoven replied quickly.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Kerikov snapped. “You may convince the world about your noble cause and the greed of the corporate world, but I don’t care. You killed the driver, Petromax killed the driver, fucking aliens killed the driver, it doesn’t matter. You were there when it happened and were ready to capitalize on it for network television. I authorized your boycott of Petromax gas stations here in Valdez because it lends authority to your cover here. But I didn’t give you permission to carry your crusade beyond Prince William Sound. I’ve got enough problems right now with some copy-cat group burning gas stations in Anchorage. And if I find out you were behind that, too, I’ll tear out your intestines and hang you with them.”

Voerhoven said nothing but he kept his eyes downcast. He would never dare openly defy Kerikov.

“Now that we’ve settled this unfortunate incident, we’ll turn to other matters.” Although the topic had shifted, Kerikov’s menacing tone was still in place. “You were able to secure enough liquid nitrogen to replace the cylinders we lost on the Jenny IV?”

“I think we depleted the entire supply in Vancouver and Seattle, but yes, it’s here, in Fairbanks, actually. We managed to get four tons.”

“Six tons were lost when the Jenny IV burned.”

“Two tons of her cargo were extra insurance for the mission. That’s a luxury we can’t afford. There just aren’t enough medical supply stores and chemical companies in the Pacific Northwest to give us that margin again. To avoid suspicion, my people from the San Francisco office had to be pretty creative with their cover stories.”

“What did they tell the suppliers?”

“They posed as special effects coordinators for a big-budget action film.”

“Excellent.” Kerikov lit a cigarette.

“Please don’t do that,” Voerhoven said, pointing at the smoldering Marlboro in Kerikov’s hand.

Kerikov looked at him sharply, dropped the cigarette to the floor, and ground it into the carpet with his foot, leaving a tarry black mark. He lit another derisively, blue-gray whorls filling the room. Voerhoven kept his silence. “We’ll have to transport the liquid nitrogen cylinders to the target site in helicopters, and it’ll take several runs. That leaves us more exposed than I like.”

“Enough money will ensure that the pilots keep quiet,” Voerhoven replied.

“It’s not the pilots I’m concerned with; it’s the ground personnel and others at the airport.” Kerikov was quiet for a few seconds. When he finally spoke, his voice was firm and decisive. “Have your people rent a truck and move the tanks northward, to the town of Fox or some other village that has an airport. We’ll have the choppers pick up the nitrogen there, again using the cover of a film company.” We’ll kill the pilots after they’ve transported all of the cylinders. Kerikov kept this last thought to himself.