Charon's Landing

Valdez, Alaska

The pounding on the door had the sharp rhythm of machine gun fire, crisp and piercing. Mercer covered his ears for a moment before rolling out of bed. Forgetting where he was, he took the covers with him as he plunged to the carpet, nearly concussing himself against the nightstand. He pulled himself together quickly, moaning as his aching brain reminded him that he was in Alaska — and that he’d had more to drink the previous night than he’d thought.

He threw on a pair of jeans and answered the door. Three men stood in the hallway outside his room, all of them wearing dark blue nylon windbreakers. Mercer knew that the backs of their jackets would read FBI in large gold letters. It was time for the raid on the Hope.

“Dr. Mercer, my name is Dave Fielding,” the agent in the middle said. “I was instructed to pick you up this morning before we moved on the PEAL ship.” Fielding was a solid statue of muscle, sinew, and testosterone, his heavy forehead sloping into strong hazel eyes. Had his chin been any sharper, it would have cut the air.

“Just give me a minute,” Mercer said as he turned away, leaving Fielding and the two other agents at the door.

Mercer grabbed a heavy shirt from his garment bag, buttoning it on the way to the bathroom. As he peed, he licked a dollop of toothpaste from the tube he’d left on the vanity top. Swishing it around his mouth, he zipped up his jeans, washed his hands, then rinsed with a palmful of water. In the mirror, his eyes were equal shades of red and gray.

Fielding and his men waited as Mercer slipped on a pair of socks and laced up his heavy boots. They were out of the room only two minutes after the knock. It was just before 6:00 A.M.

The harbor was only a couple of blocks from the hotel. As they walked to the water’s edge, Mercer wished fervently for a cup of coffee, but it was obvious by the tension in Fielding’s stride that he was eager for the raid. The morning held the unmistakable expectancy of trouble. The holstered pistol under Fielding’s windbreaker wrinkled the material of his jacket.

At the harbor, a forty-foot Coast Guard vessel burbled softly at idle, its gleaming white hull and superstructure slashed by the distinctive orange stripe of the service. Twin fifty-caliber machine guns were mounted in a cupola midway along her foredeck while a half dozen armed sailors cluttered the aft cockpit, their M-16s held tightly, fingers never far from the triggers. There wasn’t another soul at the docks; the big fishing trawlers sat quietly at anchor. The charter and pleasure boats were equally forlorn and abandoned. Mercer had no doubt that fishermen heading for their vessels had been told to take the morning off and bill the lost time to the FBI.

He hoped he was right about PEAL.

Fielding ushered Mercer onto the Coast Guard boat and escorted him to the bench seat running along the transom. The FBI men and the Coasties moved with a rigid efficiency. They had been up for hours, planning for this morning’s raid. For the Feebies, this assault was the payoff for months of dead-end investigation work. They’d been in Alaska for too long, waiting for some action, and this morning it had finally come. Mercer alone knew that the morning raid was meant to be a warning more than anything else.

He was certain that they wouldn’t find anything aboard the Hope. Even if his suspicions were correct about PEAL’s involvement with Ivan Kerikov, they wouldn’t be foolish enough to leave evidence lying around. This morning’s assault was designed, in Mercer’s mind, to be a type of harassment, letting Kerikov know that he was now being hunted. Mercer guessed that Dick Henna realized his intentions last night on the phone, otherwise he wouldn’t be here now, but it appeared that Henna hadn’t fully briefed his men. They seemed ready for a full-scale naval battle. The M-16s had a smooth greasy smell to them.

A sailor in a Kevlar vest and combat helmet cast off the bowline, his actions mimicked by another in the stern, and suddenly they were free of the dock. The helmsman edged the throttles forward and the vessel jumped from the quay. As the boat pulled out into the quiet bay, Agent Fielding sat down next to Mercer, an assault rifle propped between his knees.

The mountains surrounding the bay looked like sleeping animals under their thick canopies of pine and oak, each ridgeline bristling like a badger-hair brush. The air was sharp and clean as it blew across the Scarab-built patrol boat. It caused tears to stream from Mercer’s eyes and brought a little function back to his brain.

The Hope lay dead ahead, gentle swells running sedately along her lemon yellow hull. The empty arms of her portside davit hung over the main deck railing like skeletal arms eager for an embrace. Only a few portholes emitted any light; the rest were just dark spots on her paintwork. She appeared quiet. No one was on the decks this early in the morning, and only a trace of smoke escaped her blunted funnel. A couple of seabirds, puffins or terns, floated just off her stern, scavenging the food scraps the chef had thrown over the side during the night.

“This is kind of unprecedented,” Fielding said over the din of the engines. “As I understand it, you called in this tip, right?”

Mercer nodded. He still wasn’t awake enough to speak. The excitement that held the men enthralled hadn’t affected him.

“I want you to wait aboard this boat until we’ve secured the Hope. We’re not expecting any trouble, but it would be safer if you stayed out of the way. You are more or less an observer, right?”

“Mr. Fielding, this isn’t an invasion,” Mercer said, finding his voice finally. “There’s no real evidence behind this raid, just gut feelings. I suggest that both you and your men calm down a bit. These people aren’t going to offer any resistance other than a few mumbled complaints.”

“Well, just in case.” Fielding unzipped his jacket and unsnapped the safety strap of his shoulder holster. The big Colt.45 was ready for a quick combat draw.

“May I make a suggestion?” Mercer pointed back toward the docks, now two hundred yards distant. “There’re three thousand people in that town, most of them early risers. Unless you want to make yourself into a public spectacle, I think it would be smarter if we boarded the Hope from the starboard side, away from prying eyes. Last night, I noticed that PEAL has two Zodiacs. I didn’t see either of them at the town dock, nor are they on this side of the ship. I’m guessing that they’re tied to a boarding ladder on the far side.”

Agent Fielding looked at Mercer angrily. It was obvious from his expression that he hadn’t thought about this and may have actually been looking forward to storming the PEAL vessel using grappling hooks and ropes. He broke eye contact with a shake of his head, then went forward to tell the helmsman to swing around the Hope and come up on her starboard side.

The patrol boat cut a wide arc through the water, its wake widening into a boiling white fan. Its hull canted over so sharply that the freeboards were only a few inches above the waves. Rounding the stubby vertical bows of the Hope, the agents saw a set of stairs that had been lowered to the water level. The Zodiacs were secured to the bottom landing. On the main deck above the steps, a man watched the Coast Guard boat through binoculars, a rifle held in his other hand.

Seeing the weapon, Fielding and the other agents reacted instantly. Those not clutching their weapons did so, lifting assault rifles from the deck or slipping pistols from holsters. Their actions were so fast that Mercer was startled. Someone tossed a megaphone to Fielding; the agent caught it with his off hand and swung it to his lips fluidly.

“This is the FBI. Lay down your weapon and place your hands on top of your head. Do not move from your position, or we will open fire.” His amplified voice echoed over the water in the silence created by the now idled engines of the patrol boat.

As inertia edged the Scarab closer to the Hope, the agents’ weapons tracked the man on the deck with the precision of anti-aircraft guns. The environmentalist on the research vessel made no move to lower his weapon, though he did let the binoculars dangle from a leather strap slung around his neck.

“Drop the fucking gun. Now!” Fielding shouted.

“You cannot board this vessel,” the man called, his voice small compared to Fielding’s electrically enhanced hails. His accent was French, maybe Dutch. “We are registered in Holland. You have no jurisdiction. We fly the flag of a friendly nation.”

“Asshole, you are in United States territorial waters,” Fielding shouted angrily. “If I want, I’ve got the jurisdiction to blow your boat out of the fucking water.”

His words were punctuated by the mechanical crash of the twin fifties’ bolts being slammed home, their belts of ammunition rattling like chains.

More figures appeared on the deck, most fully dressed, which told Mercer that they had been watching the Coast Guard boat ever since it left the docks. Fortunately, no one else was armed that he could see. The Scarab was nearing the boarding platform. The crew on the Hope leaned over the railing, watching the sleek vessel and the agents.

“François, put that gun down now,” a female voice called out. Mercer recognized her instantly. The combination of natural authority and throaty allure was unmistakable.

“Aggie, we can’t allow them to board us,” the man named François protested. “You remember what the French did to the Rainbow Warrior.”

“Do it.”

While François was talking with Aggie Johnston, Fielding and his men leaped the few feet separating the two ships, their boots pounding against the heavy marine-grade wood as they swarmed up the stairs. In just a few seconds all eight government men were aboard the Hope, screaming orders for everyone to lie flat with their fingers laced behind their heads. Masculine shouts mingled with feminine screams as the FBI men pushed the PEAL activists to the deck. Mercer heard Aggie shout, and he was in action, ignoring Fielding’s order to remain behind. He was on the Hope in a flash, searching for Aggie among the supine figures.

An agent plucked a small automatic pistol from the waistband of one man’s jeans while another trained an M-16 on the man’s head. Along the promenade, a series of plate-glass windows looked into the mess hall. Faces appeared there, then rushed off when they saw their ship being assaulted. Screams of fear and panic could be heard from the interior of the vessel.

“Goddamn it, Fielding, you’re making this worse than it has to be,” Mercer shouted.

Fielding turned to him, eyes glazed with battle lust. “I told you to wait behind. Get the fuck out of here.”

“Like hell I will,” Mercer shot back, striding to where Aggie lay on the deck. He knelt at her side and laid a gentle hand on her back. She lifted her head and turned it until she could see who was behind her.

Seeing Mercer, her green eyes blazed with anger. “You son of a bitch.”

“I just wanted my jacket back.” Mercer smiled and helped her to her feet. Aggie wiped her hands and backed away, as if contact with Mercer had somehow dirtied her.

One agent stayed behind to cover the ten or so activists while the rest entered the superstructure through a bulkhead just forward of the boarding platform.

“Listen, Aggie, this can go a hell of a lot easier if you get Voerhoven on the intercom and tell your people to cooperate.” Even as he spoke, they both heard a high-pitched scream from inside the ship followed by an almost eerie silence.

Suddenly a gunshot rang out, and the prisoners flinched. Several got to their knees.

“Stay the fuck down,” the agent covering the deck party shouted, the barrel of his assault rifle sweeping across the environmentalists.

“Aggie, do it for Christ’s sake.”

“He’s not here,” she said flatly, the enormity of the situation finally reaching her.

“Come on,” Mercer said, grabbing her hand.

He led her into the ship, almost having to drag her along the deserted passageways, guessing his way toward the bridge. He found it up two flights of narrow steps and through a watertight door. Two armed PEAL men were there, training their pistols with unerring accuracy at his head, their fists steady as they gripped the big automatics. Without a gun of his own, Mercer had no choice. He released Aggie and held his hands over his head. Beyond the windscreen, the bay was as smooth as a puddle.

“No,” Aggie Johnston said to her two comrades, “it’s all right. He’s with me.”

They lowered the weapons but regarded Mercer with a mixture of mistrust and anger. Aggie crossed to the communications set and lifted the hand mike from its steel clip.

“Attention.” Her voice sounded throughout the ship. “This is Aggie. Everyone please cooperate. Don’t put up a fight. That’s what they want. Believe me, this is going to cost them a lot more than it will cost us. Just do what they say for now and we’ll have them by the balls.” She snapped off the microphone and turned to Mercer. “You have no idea what you’ve done here. My God, this couldn’t be any better if we’d staged it ourselves.”

“Sorry to beat you to the punch. I hear staging events is a normal PEAL practice,” he mocked, then turned deadly serious. “Where is Jan Voerhoven?”

“I told you, he’s gone.”

Mercer detected a shadow behind her eyes and he realized that she and Voerhoven were lovers. The revelation jolted him. Suddenly, he was very jealous of Voerhoven and that made him angry at himself. He should feel nothing for her, but he did and it hurt. He felt a tremendous sense of loss, though Aggie had never really been his. “Aggie, your trust fund isn’t going to bail you out of this one. Tell me where he is.”

“I don’t know. He left in the middle of the night.”

“I left you about midnight, and he took off a couple of hours ago. Must have been a great reunion.”

“It was better than anything you’re capable of,” Aggie spat.

Standing before him in an oversized T-shirt and an old pair of sweatpants, her hair floating around her head in a wild tangle, her face flushed from sleep and by the action of the past few minutes, she was still the most beautiful woman Mercer had ever seen. Why did it have to be like this, he asked himself, the ache in his stomach growing. Why did they have to face each other as enemies for a cause that was so much bigger than either of them?

He angrily pushed these questions aside, once again burying his emotions under a protective veneer that seemed so much thinner around Aggie than it had been for any other woman he’d known. He didn’t want to think about the consequences if it ever cracked.

Fielding and another agent burst onto the bridge as Aggie and Mercer glared at each other, tension crackling between them like a static discharge. One agent had his M-16 tucked hard against his shoulder, viewing the scene through iron sights. The two PEAL crewmen laid their weapons on the main navigation console, their hands going up.

Mercer ignored the commotion and spoke so softly that it seemed unnatural. “Where did he go, Aggie?”

“Like I would ever tell you.” She raked a hand across her scalp, taming her hair so it settled back against her head. But again that shadow was there; some deep part of her was hurting.

“I’ll tell you right now, Voerhoven doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. Kerikov will crush him and the rest of PEAL when he’s finished here. Your boyfriend is in too deep to realize it. Help me, Aggie. Help him. If need be, I can have everyone on this ship arrested. Those not holding U.S. passports will be deported, and all the American citizens will be charged with whatever I decide. I told you that you’re involved with something far more dangerous than you thought. Last night was your first warning, and I’m not going to give you a second one.”

Dave Fielding had lowered his weapon, his head twisting from Aggie to Mercer and back again. He saw, even before Aggie knew, that she was going to give in.

“He didn’t tell me, all right?” she said angrily. “We went to bed last night and when I was awoken this morning by you and your fascist friends, he was gone. I don’t know where he went. He was acting strangely when we talked. He said something was about to happen, but he didn’t tell me what it was.” Her voice lowered to a menacing hiss. “I hate you.”

“I want to be able to say the same, Aggie, but I can’t.”

Mercer left the room, brushing by Fielding’s agent as if the man wasn’t there, Fielding following a moment later. He caught up to Mercer one deck below the bridge. Grabbing Mercer by the elbow and spinning him around, Fielding pinned him to a wall. Mercer let himself be manhandled. Fielding’s face was reddened, knotted muscles bunching at the hinge points of his jaw as he fought to keep his anger in check.

“What the fuck was that all about?” Spittle bubbled at his lips as he spoke.

“You did your job. Charge the guys who carried guns with weapons’ possession and then get out of my face,” Mercer said tightly. He tried to twist away, but Fielding held him, his meaty hands pressing Mercer’s shoulders against the wall.

Mercer jacked up his knee, slamming it against the juncture of Fielding’s thighs. The FBI agent doubled over, his breath exploding. The pain radiating from his groin dropped him to the deck, his lungs nearly in convulsions. Mercer stood impassively as Fielding tried to ease the agony by massaging his crotch.

“This mission was intended to be a warning,” Mercer said evenly, looking down at the FBI agent. “However, the person I wanted wasn’t here. I can only hope that maybe I got through to someone even more important.”

Mercer looked in the direction of the bridge, a saddened smile on his face. He turned and went below to the main deck, eager to get off the research vessel.

Only time would tell if he’d done more damage than good.

The squawks and calls of the gulls above the Hope sounded like laughter.