Charon's Landing

Alyeska Marine Terminal

When Mercer got back to the Operations Building, Andy Lindstrom was in his office, one phone clamped to his head and another one lying off its cradle on a pile of papers, a tinny but strident voice calling from it like an irate Lilliputian. Two workers stood in front of the desk, their heavy utility clothes streaked with crude. Andy saw Mercer standing at the threshold and waved him in. He barked an order into the phone, cut the connection, and scooped up the other, launching into a new set of commands before dropping that one too into its receiver. Instantly both started ringing again.

“Christ, this is nuts,” Andy said, lifting one of the phones. He shouted into the mouthpiece, “Give me a second, will ya?”

Without waiting for a response from the caller, he set the phone on the desk. Ignoring the other ringing telephone, he took a moment to light a cigarette. His ashtray was overflowing with half-smoked butts. He used the glowing cherry of the cigarette like a finger to point at the two workers. “Introduce an instrument pig from Pump Station 10. I need to know the condition of the line between us and the Tanana River. The on-site guys say there’s no external damage, no sign of tampering, but I need to be sure. If you run into a frozen section, cut the pump immediately and call me. I’ll try to scare up another jet heater from the Air Force.”

The two men nodded quickly and left.

“Mercer, I’ve got a problem even bigger than this mess. Go down to the communications room. They’ll fill you in.”

“Andy, I’m going to bed,” Mercer said flatly.

“I need you, man. Without Mike Collins, I’ve got no security chief. I heard that someone was shot at the main gates an hour or two ago, the local police are screaming about that PEAL ship exploding in the harbor, and already oil companies are demanding revised delivery schedules. Alyeska’s board is telling me that I will have the line back up in three weeks, and I don’t even know how bad it is yet. Shit, worldwide crude prices are up three dollars since this morning, and it doesn’t look like they’re coming down any time soon. Help me out, will ya?”

“All right,” Mercer breathed resignedly. He didn’t acknowledge Lindstrom as he strode from the room, his dulled mind thinking that Andy’s new emergency might be another of Kerikov’s fronts.

The communications center was a small office dominated by a built-in counter with several multiline phones, fax, and teletype machines, plus two powerful marine transceivers. Three people were monitoring the fax, the teletype, and the huge radio sets, while a fourth was deep in conversation at a desk phone. Aggie Johnston was standing over by the desk, a cigarette smoldering between her fingers. She ran to Mercer when she saw him enter, pressing herself tightly to him.

“What happened?” she said against his chest.

“Abu Alam is dead. You don’t want to know the details. What’s going on here?”

“A tanker has been seized by terrorists, but its captain escaped. He’s on the phone right now. He thinks the ship is going to be scuttled somewhere near Seattle.”

“Is this another PEAL operation?”

“Mercer, almost the entire active core of PEAL was on the Hope when it exploded,” Aggie said sadly. “All that’s left of the organization are the office workers and the fringe members who used us to be in with the smart European set.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right,” Mercer replied, shamefaced. Until yesterday she had believed in them and their cause, and this morning she had lost a great number of friends and her ex-lover. Under the circumstances, her response was much milder than it could have been. “This is something Kerikov must have planned with another group. What’s the captain’s name?” He directed the question at the woman on the phone.

“Hauser, Captain Lyle Hauser.”

“Has this call been verified? It could be some crackpot.”

“Authentication protocol has been used. Hauser is the captain of the VLCC.” She didn’t protest when Mercer took the handset from her.

“Captain Hauser, my name is Mercer. I’m the acting head of security here at Alyeska. I’m sorry, but I need you to run through what happened again.”

“We don’t have time for this,” Hauser shouted. “Those lunatics are going to sink the ship and cause a slick the size of Lake Superior.”

“Where are you now?”

“Victoria Island, British Columbia, a little town called Port Alice. I was dropped here by the commercial fishing boat that rescued me.”

“Was Seattle the destination of your vessel?”

“No, for Christ’s sake, how many times do I have to go through this with you people? We were headed to Long Beach when my First Officer and a group of terrorists masquerading as workers took over my ship. I managed to sabotage the engines and maybe delay them by a couple of days. The damage I caused forced them to change their plans, so rather than scuttle the Arctica in San Francisco harbor, they chose Seattle instead.”

“Arctica? Is this the Petromax vessel?” Mercer asked, and Aggie looked at him sharply when she heard the name of her father’s company.

“Yes. No. Well, it was. The ship was just sold, but that’s not important right now,” Hauser persisted. “We’ve got to stop them.”

“You’re goddamned right we’ve got to stop them.” Pieces were falling into place, frightful conclusions that Mercer really didn’t want to explore. “Captain, I need to make some calls and then get back to you, but I want you in Seattle as fast as you can make it. Chartering a plane is your best option. But for now, give me your telephone number and stay close by. I’ll be in touch within ten minutes.” Mercer was about to hang up when he remembered something critical. “Captain, the name of the company that bought your ship is SC&L, right?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll call right back.” Mercer cut the connection and dialed Dick Henna’s cellular phone.

As he waited for the connection to be made, Aggie approached, her face lined with concern. “What’s that about Petromax?”

“It’s one of your father’s tankers that was hijacked.”

“But he sold them.”

“Maybe,” Mercer said, then turned away brusquely as the director of the FBI came on the line. “Dick, it’s Mercer, no time for bullshitting. Get a pen and write this down. I need to know if a company called Southern Coasting and Lightering has filed a flight plan for one of their corporate jets from either Sea-Tac Airport or the one in Vancouver, British Columbia, destination someplace in Louisiana. There’s a tanker in Puget Sound that’s been taken by some of Kerikov’s people, and whoever seized it will be needing a quick getaway after they scuttle her. I also need you to arrange some special forces troops, SEALs preferably, to stand by in Seattle. We’ve got just a few hours at the outside.”

Henna tried to interrupt, but Mercer cut him off before he managed more than a syllable. “Dick, no questions, just do it. I’m sure you’ve already heard what’s happened up here. Kerikov warned me that the action against the pipeline was just a distraction. Seattle is about to become a toxic waste dump if we don’t get moving. Call me here when you find out about that plane.” Mercer gave the number taped to the phone and hung up.

“Mercer, what was that all about?” Aggie sank into a chair next to him. He noticed that she had showered and changed into loose-fitting coveralls, the heavy denim cuffed at wrist and ankle and belted tightly around her narrow waist. She looked lost in the baggy outfit.

“Kerikov is dead, but his plan is still in effect. He told me that destroying the pipeline was only a feint. I have a feeling that sinking a tanker is also another piece of his sleight of hand, misdirection to cover something even worse.”

“Like what? And what does this have to do with my father?”

“I don’t know Kerikov’s true aim, nor do I know what your father’s involvement may be, but prepare yourself, because I’m sure he’s part of this in some way.”

“How can that be? He’s in the oil business. Destroying the pipeline or sinking a tanker is the last thing he would want, especially one of his own.”

“You may not believe this, but the very ship now in the control of terrorists is the same one that transported the liquid nitrogen used to freeze the Alaska Pipeline. I suspect your father’s involvement may go even deeper than that. Remember, that was your father’s oil rig we were held on last night, and I didn’t see any evidence that Kerikov had taken it by force.”

She sat silently, her gaze drawing inward as though she did not want to see what Mercer presented. Her body, already appearing fragile in the big coveralls, looked even more delicate, like porcelain.

He turned away from her again, giving her room to think, to believe what could be true. Mercer dialed Dave Saulman’s office in Miami and was told that the lawyer had gone home for the day. He was about to try Saulman’s home number when the phone shrilled.

“Yes, Dick, what have you got?”

“Southern Coasting and Lightering has a charter plane under contract and it filed a flight plan yesterday from Vancouver to Baton Rouge, a Gulfstream IV. The plane is already there, arriving last night from—”

“San Francisco,” Mercer finished for Henna.

“How the hell did you know that?”

“Because that was where Kerikov had intended sinking the tanker, but the captain, who managed to escape, sabotaged the ship. His action forced them to change their plans and target Puget Sound instead of San Francisco Bay. The plane had been on standby in California and was then moved north to Vancouver when the tanker couldn’t make it that far south.”

“What do you know about the ship itself?”

“Not much. You’ll have to get her particulars from the Coast Guard, but, Dick, this is the ship that originally transported the liquid nitrogen that I discovered aboard the Jenny IV. According to a friend of mine, she was just sold to a small tanker company called SC&L but she had been part of Max Johnston’s fleet. She’s filled to the gunwales with North Slope crude, and if they burst her in Puget Sound, it’s going to make what’s happened to the Alaska Pipeline look like spilled milk. How are you coming with those SEALs?”

“I haven’t even started yet. I can’t just order them up like eggs, for Christ’s sake.”

“Don’t get bureaucratic on me. Get hold of Admiral Morrison and tell him you need those men. Lean on the President if you have to — he owes you enough favors.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Henna replied, suddenly catching on to the urgency of the situation.

“We’re probably going to have to launch our assault on the tanker from Victoria. You’ll have to clear this with the Canadian government. I know that they’re our neighbors and all, but they get real touchy about sovereignty issues like this.”

“I’ve already thought about that. You and I need to stay in touch. You’re closest to what’s going on. Are you going to be near this phone for the duration?”

“No, I’m going down to Puget Sound. It’s about a five-hour flight from here, but if I’m to coordinate this, I need to be right on top of it. As soon as I’ve got communications set up, I’ll get back to you.”

“All right,” Henna agreed. “Is this the last we’re going to hear from Kerikov?”

“I wish to God I could say yes, but I doubt it.” Mercer cut Henna off, then dialed Captain Hauser. “Captain, this is Philip Mercer. Have you made arrangements to get to Seattle yet?”

“Yes, I’ve hired a floatplane. The pilot says he can get me there in about two hours.”

“Good. But you’ve got to change your destination to the city of Victoria. That’s where the terrorists will have a boat ready to take them off the ship.”

“Are you sure?”

“SC&L has a jet on standby in Vancouver to take their people back to Louisiana. Once they scuttle the tanker, they’ll want to clear out of the region as fast as possible. I’m looking at the map on the wall in front of me, and the quickest way is a boat from the Arctica to Victoria, then a short helicopter hop from Victoria to Vancouver, and they’re home free.”

Hauser couldn’t fault Mercer’s logic. “Okay, then what?”

“I’m leaving Valdez in a minute, but you’ll get to Victoria about three hours before I do. Wait in the airport’s main terminal. I’ll have you paged when I’ve got more for you.” Even as Mercer was talking with Hauser, he mouthed to one of the office workers to go and get Andy Lindstrom. “I’ve already alerted the director of the FBI about what’s happened so far. Wheels are in motion, Captain. Don’t worry. They won’t hurt your ship if I can do anything about it.”

“Mr. Mercer, it’s not the ship I care about. It’s Puget Sound.”

Aggie grabbed Mercer’s wrist as he was about to dial again. “What are you doing? You can’t go to Vancouver.”

“Aggie, I’ve got to,” he said, knowing that she wouldn’t understand.

“You’re dead on your feet. You’ve done enough already. Let someone else handle this.”

“Don’t you think I want to? But this is who and what I am; this is what I’ve always done. When people say, ‘Let someone else do it,’ Aggie, I’m that someone else.”

“The world isn’t your responsibility,” she snorted.

“You’re right, but that little part I can do something about is.” More than anything in his life, Mercer wanted to walk away from this mess, go someplace far away with Aggie and forget everything. For an instant, he wished he was one of those people who blindly hoped that there were others to fix all those things wrong with our world. He spoke with a tired resignation. “Aggie, I have to go and take care of this, see it through to whatever end there may be.”

She loved him for his dedication but realized that no matter how much that love might one day be reciprocated, he could never be there for her. There would always be something else in his life, some challenge or crisis that would lure him away the way other men were lured away by affairs. Though she wasn’t the type of woman who wanted to possess the man in her life, she knew she wanted more than Philip Mercer could give. And if he became what she wanted, the change would mean he would no longer be the man she had fallen in love with. It was a Catch-22 whose only resolution was to end it now before she became more hurt than she was at this moment. The very thought of stopping their relationship before it even began created a void in her chest, a physical ache that felt as though it could never be filled.

“I understand,” she lied.

“When this is over, I want to… I mean if you and I…” He stammered to silence. “I think you know what I mean. I’ll get in touch with you.”

“Of course,” she said, her emotions in such a turmoil that she couldn’t look him in the eye. But she steeled herself, and when she looked up to tell Mercer that she did not want to see him again, he was gone.

Mercer met Andy Lindstrom just outside of the Operations Director’s office. Without preamble he said, “I need a jet to get me to Victoria, British Columbia, as fast as possible.”

“What’s happened?”

“As I figure it, Kerikov planned to destroy the pipeline and then have some more of his people scuttle a supertanker off the coast of San Francisco. The tanker’s captain sabotaged the vessel so she couldn’t make it that far south. The terrorists are now poised to sink her in Puget Sound. This is Kerikov’s second front. All along, his intentions have been to stop the flow of oil from Prudhoe Bay and then make it impossible to transport it along the West Coast. Following the Exxon Valdez accident, the sinking of a tanker in Puget Sound will end crude movement to California forever. The EPA and the environmental groups would never allow it again. Even if you managed to get the pipeline back in operation, your oil would have no place to go. The destruction of the pipe and scuttling a tanker go hand in hand to block America’s newest and potentially largest domestic source of crude oil.”

Andy nodded. “But what’s the final result? I mean, what is he after?”

“Was after. Kerikov’s dead, but I have no clue what he wanted to accomplish,” Mercer admitted. “For now, all we can do is head off his tactical attacks and hope the final strategy becomes clear when we’re successful. Do you have a plane?”

“Yeah, sure. And you’re in luck. It’s here in Valdez. Alyeska usually keeps it in Anchorage.”

“Call the airport and tell them to get ready for a flight to Victoria International Airport at the best possible speed. Tell them to pick up some food for me too. I haven’t eaten in God knows how long.” He turned to go.

“What’s your plan?”

At the doorway, Mercer glanced at Lindstrom. “As soon as I make one up, you’ll be the first to know.”

Thirty minutes later, Alyeska’s corporate jet, a recently purchased Citation, hurled itself off the runway and turned south for the journey to the greater Seattle/Vancouver area. While heading for the airport, Mercer had managed to grab a change of clothes from his hotel and pack a small bag for himself, including Ivan Kerikov’s pistol. Not knowing how long he would be gone, he’d told the hotel to store the rest of his belongings and check him out of the room. Someone at Alyeska could take care of his rented Blazer.

Pressed back in the supple leather seat of the aircraft, Mercer worked at something Andy Lindstrom had asked him, something about Kerikov’s final outcome. What could be so big that the Russian would consider destroying the Trans-Alaska Pipeline and sinking a tanker as nothing more than mild diversions. There was something he was after, something related to oil obviously, but something that would require America to stop using her own resources.

The answer was so evident he cursed himself for not realizing it sooner. He put it off to his own exhaustion and reached for the phone, checking his watch to see what number he should call. It was eleven in the morning Alaska time, which made it just four in the afternoon in Washington, D.C. Taking a quick gamble he dialed his home number and was about to give up after three rings.

“Hello.” Harry White sounded as though his vocal cords had been filed raw with sandpaper.

“What the hell are you doing at my place, drinking my booze, when you just stole a couple of cases from the Willard Hotel?”

“Tiny was charging me four bucks for a glass of ginger ale. Besides, your pretzels are fresher.”

“I hope you’ve got a huge life insurance policy and I’m the beneficiary, you old bastard.”

“Funny, I think the same about you,” Harry replied.

“Are you on the portable phone?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Go down to my office. I need you to do something for me.” Mercer remembered Dave Saulman saying Petromax had sold two other tankers to Southern Coasting and Lightering, one of them near Japan and the other off the coast of the United Arab Emirates.

“I’m in your office,” Harry finally said after creaking down the stairs from Mercer’s home bar.

“Okay, turn on my computer and scroll through the menus until you come to the electronic Rolodex.”

Mercer waited a few minutes, listening to Harry curse as he fumbled with the powerful computer. The jet engines of the Alyeska plane were a droning whine.

“Son of a bitch. How do you do it?” Harry finally asked disgustedly.

“Use the mouse,” Mercer said.

“No. Not that. How do you turn on the computer?”

“All right, Harry, today is your first lesson in modern technology. There’s a small button on the back of the machine, to the right of all the wires. Can you feel it?” Oil. Petromax. The Middle East. “Come on, Harry.”

“Ah, screw this. I’ll dig out the old typewriter you used to keep in the closet. That’s something I can understand.”

“Not the same thing, Harry. I need the computer.” Mercer had heard on the radio driving back to the terminal from the mini-mole test site that a UAE diplomat had been attacked in London. Connection? Probably.

“All right, all right, hold on here. There, it’s on. The TV on top of the square box is flashing like the neon sign outside a strip joint.”

“Great. Do you see the gray pack of cigarettes on the desk? It’s called a mouse. You move that and it moves the little arrow on the TV.”

“I’ll be goddamned. It does.” Harry was delighted with his accomplishment. “Oh, hey, this is a nice little feature.”

“What?” Mercer asked with trepidation.

“The automatic drink coaster that slides out below the TV. Your highball glasses fit in it perfectly.”

It took a second for Mercer to understand. “No, Harry, that’s the tray for the CD-ROM drive. It’s not a coaster.”

The United Arab Emirates. Few Americans had ever even heard of it. Would they notice if it were suddenly taken over in a coup? As long as oil prices remained stable, Mercer knew the answer was no.

It took a further ten minutes of instruction for Mercer to guide Harry White into the electronic Rolodex, Harry responding like a child every time the computer reacted to his commands. “This thing is great. I’ve got to get one,” he kept saying.

“Now, Harry, I’ve got the Rolodex cross-referenced to geographical locations. Double click the little map of the world, and when the map expands on the screen, double click again near the Middle East.”

“I’ve got it,” Harry said. “Man, just call me a hacker now.”

“You only hack in the morning when sixty years of cigarettes come coughing out of your lungs.”

“Great talking with you, Mercer,” Harry teased. “I’ve got to go now. Tiny’s is open.”

“Very funny. There’s a name there. I can’t remember what it is, but he’s a petroleum geologist working in the United Arab Emirates. Scroll through the list, reading off any name that has UAE written after it.”

Harry read through names. Many of them Mercer didn’t recognize and many more he knew no longer worked in the Gulf. He hadn’t updated his Rolodex in over two years, and the oversight was costing him time.

“Wait. What was that last name again?”

“Jim Gibson.”

“That’s him,” Mercer said triumphantly, remembering the big florid Texan and the brass telescope that traveled with him wherever he went. Mercer had met Gibson in Nigeria years before when both men were working to expand the West African nation’s natural resource exports. Gibson was an oil man, while Mercer had been working on a promising diamond field in the center of the country. Being two of only a handful of Americans in Nigeria at the time, they made it a point to have a couple of drinks whenever they were both in Lagos. Gibson used his telescope to spy on young village girls bathing in a stream near where they were drilling test holes. He bragged that he could spot a pretty girl on the moon if he had to. “Give me the number and thanks a lot. I owe you one.”

“Don’t mention it. I lied to you anyway. Even though I have that Jack Daniel’s at home, I’ve been drinking your Jim Beam.”

“You’re a true friend, Harry.” Mercer dripped sarcasm.

It was midnight in the United Arab Emirates so Mercer had to content himself with a message on Gibson’s voice mail at the Petroleum Ministry, leaving his number on the aircraft in case Jim got to his office early but telling the oil man that he would be back in touch in the morning.

The flight took just under five hours; Mercer allowed himself to sleep only three. He used the rest of the time to organize the counterstrike against the Southern Cross née Petromax Arctica. The nap had gone a long way to revive him, but he wasn’t even close to working at his peak. In the remaining hours before landing, he placed calls to Washington, D.C.; Victoria, British Columbia, where Captain Hauser was standing by; and to Andy Lindstrom in Valdez, who had wisely turned over the responsibilities of assessing the damaged pipeline to a subordinate. One of his calls, to Dave Saulman in Miami, had taken nearly half an hour, but had been worth every minute. Saulman’s research had cast a shadow over Mercer’s plan, but he had no option but to continue.

By the time the Alyeska jet touched down in Victoria, everything was in place. Hauser had a rental car ready to take him and Mercer down to the port, where a SEAL team from the naval base at Bremerton, Washington, was standing by. Henna had said that he’d had to pull in every favor ever owed him to get the President to authorize the use of the team.

“Have the Canadian authorities been notified?” Mercer was still on the phone as the jet taxied to the general aviation hangar.

“Be thankful I’ve gotten as far as I have with our people. Politicians have the memories of five-year-olds and half the attention span. It’s going to take more time to get the Mounties on line too. The Canadians are in agreement in principle, but they want to get their own special forces in place. So far they’ve agreed that the SEALs can have the actual assault, but their men must be on scene as backup.”

“Dick, Captain Hauser suspects that the terrorists are waiting until the tide turns. Then they’ll spill the oil into the Juan de Fuca Strait with the rising water. According to a guy Hauser talked to here in Victoria, the tide turns in about thirty minutes. We’re going as soon as I get to the waterfront, with or without the Canadians. It’s one of those situations when you ask for forgiveness, not permission.”

“Mercer, I can’t allow you to do that. There are international considerations here.”

“You don’t understand. I’m not asking for your blessing — I’m telling you I’m going.” Mercer hung up on his friend just as the pilot spooled down the engines and a ground worker opened the outer hatch. A customs agent was standing with him.

“Welcome to Canada, Bienvenu au Canada. Do you have anything to declare?”

“Yes, an emergency,” Mercer breathed as he dragged himself out of the plane.

Lyle Hauser was waiting next to a Ford Taurus in the parking lot outside the general aviation building. He wore a pair of fisherman’s overalls and borrowed gumboots. His clothes were clean, but his face was unshaven and drawn. “If I had a mirror, I’d bet I look as bad as you do.”

“I’m that bad, huh?” Mercer replied, warming to the captain immediately. “Are we set?”

“Just waiting for you. I’ve been contacted by the naval personnel. They’re standing by in the harbor with one of their assault boats.”

“Have you briefed them about the people who seized your ship — numbers, types of weapons, that sort of thing?”

“I did the best I could. Most of what I know I got secondhand from the Chief Engineer before I escaped,” Hauser said, slipping behind the wheel of the rental and gunning the motor. “The SEALs’ commanding officer told me that they’ve practiced this kind of attack before. He said they have it all figured out.”

“We’ll see about that.” Mercer agreed with Hauser’s less than enthusiastic assessment.

It was only a ten-mile drive from the airport to Victoria Harbor along Blanshard Street, Mercer and Hauser maintaining a companionable silence. Neither felt the need to discuss the outcome if they failed. The consequences were too horrifying to consider.

The sky was a clear robin’s-egg blue with only a few smeared clouds high overhead to stain its perfect dome. While there was a bite to the air, the sun was strong enough to warm everything and give the autumn day a springlike feel. If the crude was spilled, the very air would turn to poison, the hydrocarbons so polluting the atmosphere that even a short-term exposure would mean burned lungs and the very real threat of cancer.

At the docks, the five-man SEAL team was as inconspicuous as a bottle of Scotch at an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting. They stood on their assault boat in body armor, their black outfits blending in with the boat perfectly but looking ridiculous compared to the L. L. Bean shirts and gaily colored jackets of the crowd that gawked at them like zoo patrons. The boat, an evil-looking deep-hulled craft skirted with a rubber pontoon ring and powered by twin outboard motors, looked like an ugly duckling compared with the sleek pleasure craft around it.

“Jesus Christ,” Mercer exclaimed. “The fucking circus is in town.”

He and Hauser moved across the docks as quickly as possible, praying they got to the boat before the Harbor Master spotted the assault craft and decided to investigate. “I can’t believe they haven’t been carted off by the local gendarmerie.”

“Lieutenant Krutchfield?” Hauser called. “I’m Captain Hauser and this is Dr. Mercer.” They jumped down to the boat, their combined weight having no impact on the stable craft. Mercer took a second to shake the young lieutenant’s hand before ordering him to cast off.

Krutchfield’s face was baby smooth, with cornflower blue eyes and a nose so sharply upturned his nostrils resembled the muzzles of a double-barreled shotgun. He didn’t have that hard-edged look of the other soldiers in his team. He looked too eager, more like a puppy looking to be petted.

“Dr. Mercer,” Krutchfield shouted over the throb of the engines. The boat was already rocketing at nearly fifty miles per hour, coming on to plane faster than any high-performance boat Mercer had ever seen. “I heard about what you did last year in Hawaii with another of the Teams, sir. I must say it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

When Mercer didn’t acknowledge the compliment, Krutchfield continued. “It was just our luck that we were in Washington when the call came through.”

“Lieutenant, only one SEAL survived that attack in Hawaii. I’d hold off on your enthusiasm until this is over,” Mercer said darkly. “How far is the Southern Cross?”

“Satellite intel shows her holding a position about forty miles up the Strait. We’ll be there in fifty minutes.”

“Not in this death trap we won’t. They’ll blast us out of the water as soon as they see us coming. Do you guys have any civilian clothing, a disguise of some sort?”

“No, sir. We were briefed that this was a straightforward assault, no need for that sort of thing.” Krutchfield didn’t like having his tactics questioned.

“So much for subtlety,” Hauser said.

Mercer’s entire plan revolved around intercepting the boat meant to pick up JoAnn Riggs and her cadre of terrorists and using it to make their approach to the supertanker. However, even getting close to the pickup boat without tipping their hand would be tricky, considering the conspicuous nature of the SEALs’ assault craft and the fact that they still didn’t know which of the hundreds of vessels in the Strait was the one sent to fetch the terrorists. Without that piece of critical information, they might as well go home and watch the worst environmental disaster in American history on television. “What kind of communications gear do you have aboard?”

“Just this.” The young commando held up a small portable radio, its antenna no more than a blister at the top of the armored casing.

“What the hell is that?”

“Devil Fish, Devil Fish, this is Mud Skipper. Come in, over.” Krutchfield handed the radio to Mercer. “You’re now in contact with the fast attack submarine USS Tallahassee. She’s about forty feet below us and keeping pace all the way to the tanker. You aren’t going to find a better comm center than a hunter-killer nuclear sub, Doctor. Since the alert was put out a few hours ago, they’ve been monitoring marine channels in the area, feeding all contacts into the computer and creating a chart of every ship in Puget Sound. My CO said Admiral Morrison of the Joint Chiefs thought you might appreciate the help. Seems he’s a fan of yours.”

“Devil Fish standing by,” a voice called from the radio in Mercer’s hand.

While Mercer was stunned by the presence of the submarine and just how much faith the Chairman of Joint Chiefs placed in him, he didn’t allow it to affect him as he spoke. He was totally focused on what lay ahead. “Devil Fish, we’re looking for a boat that left Victoria within the hour and is en route to the Southern Cross. She would have made at least one contact with the tanker, a brief message. The key word I’m looking for is Arctica. Do you have anything matching that description?”

“Stand by, Mud Skipper.” A moment later the submariner came back. “Affirmative. A twin screw boat making revolutions for twenty knots left Victoria forty-seven minutes ago, one transmission to the tanker, traffic as follows. ‘Arctica, this is Rescue, en route, ETA 1420 hrs. Confirm?’ The tanker replied, ‘Confirmed.’ That’s all. Active sonar lash shows the target to be thirty-six feet long, eleven wide. Our best guess is she’s a fishing boat or a seagoing cabin cruiser. Over.”

“Roger, Devil Fish. Mud Skipper out.” Mercer handed the radio back to Krutchfield. “It’s going to be tight. We have to take that boat before she’s in visual range of the tanker. Otherwise we don’t stand a snowball’s chance.”

“How’d you know she’d be called the Arctica again? Her name was Southern Cross when I left her.” Hauser was standing next to Mercer in the tiny cabin of the boat.

“I have a good lawyer,” Mercer said without elaborating, then turned to Krutchfield. “Is this as fast as this pig can go?”

“Hell no.” Krutchfield grinned, and the man at the helm dropped the throttles to their stops, the wind on the exposed deck screaming around them now at sixty miles per hour.

Mercer turned back to Hauser and filled him in on what had happened to the Trans-Alaska Pipeline earlier in the day and about Ivan Kerikov. “This is the second part of his plan, sinking a tanker in American waters, polluting the coastline for a couple of hundred miles. Max Johnston was part of this from the beginning, using one of his ships to transport the liquid nitrogen. He knew the ship was going to be scuttled, and to avoid the few billion dollars for the cleanup, he quietly sold his fleet, including the Arctica. He made certain his key people, like this JoAnn Riggs you told me about, remained on board.”

“That’s right. The Petromax Pacifica was to be renamed Southern Hospitality, and the Arabia’s new name is Southern Accent,” Hauser stated.

“You were the wild card, since the Arctica’s former captain, another conspirator I’m sure, was injured and had to be replaced. No offense, but they hired a captain who was at the mandatory retirement age and hadn’t been at sea for a couple years. It would be easy to pin an ‘accident’ on you once you were dead.”

“It doesn’t add up. If Max Johnston sold his tankers, why is the ship still the Petromax Arctica and not Southern Cross?”

“Because early this morning, according to Dave Saulman, my lawyer friend, the sale of Petromax’s fleet to SC&L was canceled. Their ownership reverted back to Johnston, including the responsibility for the two-hundred-thousand-ton oil spill that’s about to occur.”

“I don’t get it.” Hauser looked at Mercer with a blank expression.

“Somehow Kerikov was the money behind Southern Coasting and Lightering, and he planned to double-cross Max Johnston all along. He needed Max’s equipment, the tanker and an offshore oil rig, but didn’t want him as a full partner. There’s still something else at stake that Kerikov didn’t want Johnston a part of. Kerikov kidnapped Johnston’s daughter to ensure that he never revealed his part in this plot. Max would be stuck with the cleanup and couldn’t utter a word about his own complicity,” Mercer replied, then fell silent.

With a hand braced against one of the cabin’s tubular support stanchions, Mercer needed to take time to prepare himself for the attack. If things went according to plan, the SEALs would have little trouble seizing the escape boat and then using it as cover to take the supertanker. Hauser had said there was only a handful of terrorists holding the ship, and SEALs were known to be the best special forces troops in the world. Like their name implied, they were equally comfortable on land as in the water. Taking over a ship, according to Krutchfield, was their stock-in-trade.

On the other hand, Mercer was in no condition to be part of their assault. In fact, he shouldn’t even be breathing right now considering what he’d been through. He was spent. His body was one large aching bruise, and his shoulders, legs, and chest were beaten to the point where he felt light-headed. He had no illusions of himself in a firefight. His reactions were slow, his reflexes dulled by exhaustion. It took him a few moments to notice Krutchfield tapping on his arm.

“Message from Devil Fish,” Krutchfield shouted into Mercer’s ear. “Their sonar says we’re about five miles behind our target and about seven from the tanker. Like you said, this is going to be tight.”

“What’s your plan?”

“Basically, come up next to them, and when we’re abeam, open fire at the same time two of my men jump from this boat to theirs.”

“And if you miss everyone with the first barrage and they manage to radio a warning to the Arctica?”

Krutchfield grinned his boyish smile. He was really loving this. “On my command, the Tallahassee is going to jam every radio transmission within a fifty-mile radius. There’re going to be some pissed off disc jockeys in a few minutes.”

The Juan de Fuca Strait here was wide, more like a broad lake than a strait, forests and cliffs towering on both sides but so far away they appeared to be held at bay by the surging water of the channel. In a different time, under different circumstances, Mercer would have enjoyed the ride. He grimly held on and watched the narrows before them, hoping to spot the telltale wake of the terrorists’ boat. Mercer used the last few moments before contact to borrow some 9mm ammunition from one of the SEALs and transfer it into the clip of Kerikov’s pistol.

“There!” Hauser shouted, his trained eyes finding the distant rescue boat much quicker than those of the younger men. He had a much stronger vested interest in saving the Petromax Arctica /Southern Cross. To the SEALs, this was another hot op, but to him it was personal. She was his ship, his command.

From this distance, the boat was just a white dot on the gray water, its wake like a ghost image behind it. The tanker was still beyond visual range. It was impossible for those on the fleeing craft to see them. The black hull of the SEAL boat was all but lost amid the swells, its unusual silhouette making it all but invisible from beyond five hundred yards. But Krutchfield wasn’t taking any chances. He lifted the radio to his lips as soon as he spotted the boat.

“Devil Fish, this is Mud Skipper. It’s lights-out time. Repeat, it’s lights-out time. Give us seven minutes, monitor, and if there is no contact, jam again until you hear that tanker breaking up. At that point, go to condition Bravo.”

“What’s condition Bravo?” Mercer asked.

“The Tallahassee surfaces, targets the tanker with an MK48 torpedo, and finds out if these assholes are willing to die for their cause.”

Mercer didn’t feel like pointing out that torpedoing the tanker would accomplish the terrorists’ goals for them. But he could not remain silent. “Don’t tell me if you have a condition Charley. I don’t want to know.” He fingered the pistol in his hands, absently clicking the safety.

“Lieutenant, I have an idea,” Hauser said just before they were spotted by the pickup boat. It took only an instant for him to explain and everyone to agree.

They came up to the hurtling craft. She was a fat-hulled pleasure boat, her white freeboards badly discolored by years in the murky waters of the North Pacific, her upper works weathered by the region’s notorious summer rains. She looked tired, and it was no surprise that at twenty knots, her engines were grinding out as much speed as she could muster. Because the terrorist team hadn’t had enough time to make proper arrangements since being shifted from San Francisco, the owner of the vessel was stuffed into a fore storage locker, the contents of his skull adhering his corpse to the fiberglass walls. The men who’d stolen the boat, the crew spirited to Vancouver on Southern Coasting and Lightering’s executive jet to assist JoAnn Riggs, were taking no chances that they would ever be connected to the destruction of the supertanker.

The SEALs’ boat closed the gap between itself and the cabin cruiser so quickly that the navy commandos had to scramble to get themselves into position. Crouching behind the gunwale didn’t offer them any protection if they encountered return fire, but they were invisible as the boat cut into the wake of the cruiser, sluing around until the two vessels were running parallel. Captain Lyle Hauser stood at the helm of the assault boat with Mercer, each looking relaxed in their civilian clothes. Hauser lazily throttled back the twin outboards until both boats were traveling at the same speed, only a few feet separating them, as if to say to the men on the white cruiser, “Hey, look at my new toy.”

On the cruiser, the three men huddled in the flying bridge looked startled when they saw the sleek craft pull up next to them. To allay their fears, Mercer and Hauser waved enthusiastically, smiling as if this were nothing more than a pleasurable afternoon jaunt. Krutchfield and his SEALs were still out of sight.

“What’s the layout?” Krutchfield was crouched behind Mercer, a machine pistol in his hands.

Mercer kept his smile in place as he spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “I see three men on the bridge. Arabs, I’d guess. No visible weapons, but all of them are wearing windbreakers that could conceal just about anything. It looks like there is at least one more in the cabin below. I see movement in one of the small windows. I can’t tell if he has a gun.”

“SEALs, we go in thirty seconds,” Krutchfield called quietly to his team. “Captain Hauser, ease us forward by about twenty feet, and when I yell out, bring us back abeam and put us right against her side.”

Hauser acknowledged the order by grabbing the throttles. Instantly, the attack boat pulled ahead of the cruiser, cutting through the wedge of water that peeled off her bow. Mercer waved again but got no response.

The timing of the SEAL commandos was uncanny. Krutchfield hadn’t even shouted when the boat’s regular helmsman bumped Hauser from the conn and burped the engines, bringing them back alongside the weathered cabin cruiser. The three men on the pleasure boat’s deck turned in unison as they started to overtake the odd-looking craft that had just passed them. But by the time they suspected anything was amiss, three of the SEALs had appeared over the gunwale and opened fire while Krutchfield and another commando leaped the narrow gap between the two speeding craft.

The H&K MP-5s the SEALs carried whined like buzz saws, pouring a hundred rounds into the cruiser in just a few seconds, blowing off pieces of fiberglass and worn woodwork, dicing the three men at the controls. There was a steady pulse of return fire from the boat’s lower cabin, the distinctive chattering crash of an AK-47. Krutchfield’s partner was caught halfway through his leap to the cruiser, the Russian-manufactured weapon stitching across his Kevlar body armor. None of the bullets pierced the vest’s ballistic material, but the hydrostatic shock tossed him into the empty space between the boats, his body vanishing in the clouds of cordite smoke that fouled the air. He hit the water with a bone-breaking splash, but his scream went unheard as the running battle continued.

Another burst from the SEALs tore a jagged hole in the hull around the porthole where the shots had originated. There was a brief scream piercing the sounds of automatic fire, and suddenly it was over. Krutchfield was at the controls of the cruiser, standing proud in an ankle-deep mire of blood and shattered bodies. He cut the engines at the same time as his helmsman slowed the assault boat, both craft hissing to a slow crawl, the echoing sounds of the battle dying away.

Mercer was the first from the SEAL boat onto the cabin cruiser, whose name he saw was Happyhour, with Hauser only a breath behind him. Krutchfield’s other two SEALs swarmed over next, like extras in a pirate movie, their eyes bright with battle lust, their gun barrels hot from the fray. The helmsman arced the assault boat away from the Happyhour, carving a tight crescent in the Strait to pick up their fallen comrade, the powerful motors bellowing like caged animals as he gave them their head. While Krutchfield heaved bodies over the side of the captured boat, his two teammates ducked down the narrow steps to the belowdeck cabin. By the time Krutchfield had finished, they were back on the bridge. One of them, a compact Hispanic with a gap where one of his teeth had been, was wiping his knife against a napkin he’d taken from the galley. Red smears bloomed from the blade’s passage.

“There were two of them, jefe,” he remarked casually, slipping the blade back into its inverted scabbard on his combat harness.

“Shit,” Krutchfield exclaimed. He turned to look over his shoulder at the distant wake of his boat.

There had been five terrorists on the boat. With one SEAL down in the water and the other out to get him, there were only three commandos on the Happyhour.

Mercer knew what the navy lieutenant was thinking and spoke before Krutchfield did something rash. “We don’t have time to wait for them,” he said. “JoAnn Riggs is expecting this boat in a couple of minutes. We don’t need to make her any more suspicious by being late. There were five men sent to pick her up. There are five of us, including Hauser and me.”

“Dr. Mercer, we’ve been trained for this type of sortie; it’s what we get paid for. I understand why you and Captain Hauser are here, but I can’t authorize you to board the Arctica until we have her secured.”

“We don’t have time to argue about this, Lieutenant. Let’s get going. We’ll discuss it on the way, but no matter what, we can’t wait here for your other men.” Mercer knew that Krutchfield would have no choice but to allow him to come along. They were going to need the extra firepower.

“Mercer, JoAnn Riggs would recognize me right away. I’d be more of a liability than an asset,” Hauser pointed out.

“I know. I just thought about that. How about if you follow us about five minutes after we board? We should have the area around the boarding ladder secured by then. Believe me, we’re going to need you if Riggs has already started to scuttle the ship. I don’t know anything about tankers.”

“I thought you said you worked for Alyeska?”

“No, I don’t. I’m here as a favor to Andy Lindstrom, the Chief of Operations. Kind of filling in, so to speak.”

“Oh, shit, we’re in trouble,” Hauser breathed.

“Tell me about it.” Mercer was staring over the bow of the racing cabin cruiser. A half mile ahead, the VLCC Petromax Arctica appeared, her one-hundred-sixty-foot-wide beam making her head-on profile look like a solid wall of preformed steel tucked against the north bank of the ten-mile-wide Juan de Fuca Strait.

While the sight of her unimaginable size was awe inspiring, Mercer couldn’t help but think she looked like a ghost ship.