Gates Of Hades

Prologue

55 ^o, 47', 21"' N

173 ^o, 40', 14" W

North of Atka, Andrean of Islands, Bering Sea

June 12, 0618 Hours

The Russian fishing trawler had to have been the source of the SOS. As big as a WWII aircraft carrier, it was designed to catch, process, and freeze tons of North Pacific cod without leaving the fishing grounds. That was why a number of countries had banned these superships: two or three of them could wipe out a breeding ground in days.

But fishing wasn't what it was doing now.

Captain Edward "Easy" Rumpmiller stood on the small bridge of the U.S. Coast Guard cutter Reynolds and studied the massive craft through binoculars. Even in the glare of the subarctic spring sun, he could see there were no nets out. The open hatches to the huge holds were covered in a white cloud of gulls feasting on a catch left available to them. The craft was wallowing in the swell, not under power.

That was the reason for the distress signal, of course.

He grimaced. Damn Russians. Fishing illegally within the two-hundred-mile area claimed by the United States, they had the balls to call the U.S. Coast Guard when something happened to their engines. If the world were a sane place, he'd have authority to at least confiscate their catch to cover the taxpayers' expense in rescuing the bastards.

But it wasn't and he didn't.

So, what good was a territorial limit when it only meant you had to help somebody trespassing in it?

"No response, Cap'n."

Rumpmiller's thoughts on political complexities scattered like a covey of frightened birds as he put down the glasses and nodded to his radioman, Third Class O. D. Peschky. He'd never asked what the initials stood for.

"Try again, all international frequencies."

He wasn't surprised when that didn't work, either.

He sighed deeply, a man put to useless effort. "Blast the siren a couple of times. That should wake 'em up."

Just like the Russians: lose both engines, call for help, and get tanked up on vodka while they waited.

He made a minute adjustment to the binoculars as the shrill clarion echoed across the gray water. Nobody stirring. Bastards must have all passed out. Nothing to do but board, a problematic task since the trawler's deck towered a good thirty feet above his head.

Then he saw it: a rope boarding ladder dangled from just behind the trawler's bow, like the Russkies had anticipated the problem and left it before drinking themselves into a stupor.

"All ahead, prepare boarding party."

Rumpmiller buckled on the webbed gun belt required for boarding operations. He didn't like this one bit. Climbing up a ladder onto a ship in distress should be all in a day's work, but there was something sinister about the trawler, something he could not have explained.

For the first time in years, he slid back the action of his navy-issue Beretta, making sure he had a full load.

On board, the Russian craft appeared as deserted as it had from the bridge of the Reynolds. Huge hatches yawned open, and the smell of fish about to go bad filled the air, along with the raucous protests of birds frightened away from what was probably the only free meal the Northern Pacific would ever yield them. There was no one on deck, nor could he see anyone through the glass of the bridge above his head.

Rumpmiller could not have explained why he used hand motions rather than verbal orders to direct his armed five-man party to split up and search the ship.

Minutes later, Chief Petty Officer Wilson was back, his face white. "Sir, you'd better see this."

"What…"

But Wilson had already turned his back to lead the way, and the light breeze snatched the words into the emptiness of the Pacific.

At first, Rumpmiller thought his original hypothesis about vodka had been correct; in dealing with Russian seamen, it usually was. The men lying in a lake of drying blood, all eight of them, seemed to have two mouths, the lower one set in a grin.

Acid bile rose in his throat as he realized each man had had his throat cut.

For an instant, Rumpmiller thought he was going to be sick. Somehow he managed to swallow, hoping he was keeping his composure in front of the petty officer. "Chief, gather the boarding party and search every inch of the ship. Shoot anyone who even looks unfriendly."

The petty officer started to turn, stopped, and asked, "Even the holds, sir?"

Rumpmiller wasn't about to have his men smelling like overripe fish if he could avoid it. "No, secure the holds. Nothing gets in or out. They can be searched when the ship is towed to port."

Rumpmiller could hear feet running across the steel deck as Wilson's foghorn voice bellowed orders. He swallowed again and felt a little better as he looked around the room. A mess area, he surmised, since a small galley was adjacent. The plastic tabletop was pocked with cigarette burns from overflowing ashtrays. A number of glasses rolled across the floor as the ship rocked back and forth. He had no idea what the ship's full complement would be, but he knew these trawlers were built for a maximum of mechanization and a minimum of manpower. It was possible the whole crew was right here, lying in sticky puddles of their own life fluids.

He shook his head.

Impossible.

If all the crew were here, then who had manned the ship while its crew was being slaughtered like so much beef? Who had sent the SOS; who had put down the boarding ladder?

He stepped over the coaming into the galley. Eight plates were stacked in the stainless-steel sink. A nearly empty bottle stood nearby. He didn't need to read the Cyrillic label to tell him at least part of his original premise was true.

For the first time, he noted the smell of something burned, an odor over the metallic smell of drying blood. Not marijuana. He'd smelled enough of that during his stint on the East Coast, where years ago it had not been uncommon to encounter armadas of bales of cannabis either jettisoned by a pursued dope runner or waiting to be picked up by one. The coast guard had burned enough of the contraband that he would never forget the scent.

Which this wasn't.

More like sulfur, maybe struck matches. Although it was unlikely, the smell was strongest near what looked like a small rock garden in one corner, round white stones surrounded by a pair of very ugly plants. Why would a fishing trawler carry rocks and spindly plants? Maybe the captain wanted it there. Whatever, the stones and plants were not the problem at hand.

Nothing else caught his attention, nothing that might indicate how or why these men were dead and the ship left abandoned.

The question brought on a queasiness worse than he had felt when he saw the bodies. It was as if the killer or killers had wanted the ship and its macabre cargo to be found, wanted to make sure the world noted his or their handiwork.

A message of some sort?

If so, sending the distress signal and leaving the boarding ladder made a certain sick sense.

Very sick.

Even so, that didn't answer other questions, like how had eight seamen been overcome with not even a struggle? He saw no defensive wounds.

Any way he looked at it, the problem would not be Rumpmiller's for long-no longer than it took to radio Dutch Harbor.

Atlanta Journal Constitution,

August 16

MEN STABBED IN NATIONAL FOREST

Chattahoochee National Park, Tallulah Falls, GA:

The bodies of six employees of the Georgia Timber Company were found stabbed to death at a logging site near this mountain resort area yesterday. Police have not released names pending notification of family.

The exact cause of death has not yet been formally determined by the Raburn County Medical Examiner, Dr. Charles Walker, but he speculates some sort ofchemical inhalation played a part, although the actual cause of death appeared to be stab wounds.

"There was no sign of a struggle," Dr. Walker was quoted as saying, "and I can't imagine six healthy lumberjacks standing by while being attacked. Something disabled them."

Georgia Timber has come under criticism from a number of environmental groups in the last year for its cutting of trees in national forests. Company spokespersons declined comment but referred to a previous statement: "Georgia Timber won the bidding competition with the federal government for limited cutting in the Chattahoochee National Forest, and the taxpayers will benefit from careful and responsible removal of replaceable hardwoods."