Havoc

Buffalo, New York

Mercer opened the door of the Cessna Citation executive jet as soon as the wheels stopped rolling. Mist that was almost rain swept Buffalo Niagara International Airport, making the runway lights blur into the distance. Dawn was just a ruddy promise hunkered low against the eastern horizon. He grabbed his leather hand grip but didn’t bother pulling up the hood of his North Face rain jacket. As soon as he stepped from the aircraft, water glittered like jewels in his thick hair.

“Dr. Mercer?” a man’s voice called from the rear of the airport’s general aviation gate.

“I’m Mercer,” he replied and strode across the tarmac, paying scant attention to the multimillion-dollar jets parked all around. A throaty roar swallowed the man’s next sentence as a Boeing 737 hauled itself into the dark sky. “What was that?” Mercer asked as he reached the protection of a glass enclosure that led into the building.

“I said you have a car waiting to take you to the docks.”

“Thank you,” Mercer said and followed the executive jet service employee through the lounge. They walked across the quiet airport and eventually reached an exit. A black Town Car idled at the curb, its driver waiting expectantly in the front seat.

Mercer didn’t wait for the chauffeur to open the door. He did it himself, then tossed his bag into the back and swung himself into the front seat. “Morning,” he said in greeting to the startled driver. “I’m not important enough for the full chauffeur treatment so I’ll ride up front with you.”

“Guy gets off a private jet and says he’s not important, don’t know his place in the world, but it makes me no never mind.” The driver eased the big Lincoln into gear and headed out of the airport complex. Soon they were on Route 33 headed west toward an area of industrial warehouses along the Niagara River.

As the car eased between two metal buildings and onto the dock, Mercer saw a tight cluster of people huddled around the gangway of a large flat-bottomed barge. Above them a street lamp cast their faces in heavy relief. Sitting atop the barge was a crane with a modified smooth silhouette. It reminded him of the low-slung turret of a modern battle tank rather than a lifting derrick. It was tied to a small tug with side-mounted exhaust, so the vessel was no more than ten feet high from the waterline to the top of its radar dish.

Mercer recognized Cali Stowe standing with the people. She stood several inches taller than all of them. When he got out of the car, she looked over and waved. She wore a dark windbreaker and her hair was covered in a baseball cap. Her jeans were just tight enough to outline the lean shape of her legs.

Mercer grabbed his bag, thanked the driver, and approached the group. The drizzle had stopped and dawn was fast approaching. The air remained crisp with the smell of Lake Erie.

“Welcome to Buffalo,” Cali greeted.

It was the first time they’d seen each other since the meeting with Ira Lasko four days earlier, and he had to resist the urge to kiss her cheek. Had they been alone he would have done it.

“Let me introduce you around,” she said. “Philip Mercer, this is my boss, Cliff Roberts.” Because Cali and Ira had a low opinion of the director of the Nuclear Emergency Search Team, Mercer knew he wouldn’t like him either. Roberts had mouse brown hair and indistinct features, except for a pursed mouth that looked as if he’d just swallowed something sour. His stance made certain that his trench coat was open enough for everyone to see it was a Burberry. He didn’t meet Mercer’s eyes when they shook hands, and his grip was limp.

“Pleasure to have you with us,” Roberts said with little warmth. It was obvious he resented Mercer’s presence in what was to be NEST’s highest profile operation when or if word got out about what they were doing.

“I’m glad to be here,” Mercer replied neutrally. “When Admiral Lasko wanted an observer I happened to be available.”

Roberts said nothing so Cali piped in, “And these two characters are Jesse Williams and Stanley Slaughbaugh. They’re part of my regular NEST team. Stan’s a Ph.D. from Stanford and Jesse joined our outfit after babysitting nukes for the air force.”

Mercer shook their hands. He eyed Jesse Williams. “Didn’t you play for the Air Force Academy?”

“Good memory, man.” Williams grinned. “That was fifteen years ago. Missed the Heisman by five votes.”

“I have a friend who, well, he’s a bookie.” Mercer was talking about Tiny. “He said the most money he ever won on a game was when you upset Michigan State in the Cotton Bowl.”

Williams’s smile faded just a tick. “Same game I blew my ACL and any chance of a pro career.”

“And finally this is Lieutenant Commander Ruth Bishop from the Coast Guard,” Cali said, not wanting to hear another insufferable football conversation. “Ruth’s here to ensure we follow the Coasty’s regulations concerning the salvage and she’ll act as liaison with her Canadian counterpart since the Wetherby is pretty close to the border.”

She was a short woman in a Coast Guard utility uniform. Her hair was streaked with silver and there were lines around her mouth and bright blue eyes. Mercer had the impression they were laughter rather than frown lines. She glanced at Cali before saying hello, which made Mercer think the two women had talked about him prior to his arrival.

“Just think of me as your den mother,” she said with a toothy smile that made her glow with warmth. “When you’re not sure about something ask me for permission before you do it.”

“So when I have to pee-pee?”

Her smile deepened. “Ask me and I’ll give you a hall pass. Just don’t make on the Canadians. They’re touchy about that.”

Mercer laughed. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Ruth is also a bit of the local expert on the Wetherby,” Cali added. “She’s made four dives down to her over the years.”

“Not for a few years now,” Lieutenant Commander Bishop admitted.

“What’s her condition?” Mercer asked. Before Ruth could answer, he asked another question. “First of all, why don’t you tell me what happened to her and what kind of ship she was.”

“Okay. First, the Wetherby was a tramp steamer, what’s called a stick ship. She was only two hundred twenty feet long and thirty feet at the beam. She was coal fired, had a single stack, and from what I’ve been able to learn hadn’t seen a moment’s maintenance after she put to sea.” Bishop corrected herself. “That’s not entirely true. She served admirably during World War One on convoy duty but after that she was a derelict waiting to happen.”

“So what happened when she reached Buffalo?”

“The Wetherby put in here on the night of August 9, 1937, where she was picking up some machine parts headed for Cleveland. She was then supposed to go on to Detroit, Milwaukee, and finally Chicago, where Cali said the cargo you are interested in was destined.”

“That’s right.”

“Early morning August 10 she unloaded some fuel oil barrels she’d picked up in Montreal that were supposed to have come down the St. Lawrence on another ship. During the transfer a fire started in the hold. Since no one physically inspected the wreck because she sank, investigators had to go along with eyewitnesses who claimed she was struck by lightning.”

“There’s a problem with their story.” It was a statement more than a question.

“It was raining that day but no one other than the crew in the hold recall any lightning in the area. It’s possible a static charge built up and its discharge ignited one of the fuel barrels, but I’m putting my money on either a longshoreman or a member of the crew smoking in the hold. A dropped match in some spilled bunker fuel and voilà.” She made the motion of an explosion with her hands.

“How many men were killed?”

“Six in the hold, including the Wetherby’s second officer, Kerry Frey. Another man was killed on the dock, a local vagrant well known at the time. Another body was recovered from the river about a mile downstream but he was never identified.”

“No idea who he was?”

“None. Everyone was accounted for. A lot of people said he had nothing to do with the Wetherby because his body wasn’t burned, but I think it’s too much of a coincidence.”

Mercer glanced at Cali. She was already looking at him. “Janissary,” he mouthed but she just shrugged. He turned back to Ruth Bishop. “Go on.”

“As the fire raged out of control, a crane operator on the dock panicked. When he jumped from the cab of his crane, he hit a lever that sent a pallet of fuel drums plummeting back into the blaze. When they exploded a second later, it blew out the side of the Wetherby as if she’d been torpedoed.”

Mercer didn’t say it aloud but he was sure she had told this story many times; her sense of dramatic timing was too good not to be practiced.

“The Wetherby rolled right there against the dock, parting her mooring hawsers as she turned onto her side. Another stevedore was injured by one of the heavy ropes when it snapped back toward the dock. He lost his hand but went on to make a full recovery. In fact his niece is a lieutenant commander in the Coast Guard.”

It took Mercer a second to process that bit of information. “Ah, so that’s how you became interested in the disaster?”

“Uncle Ralph told me this story so many times I had it memorized by the time I was ten,” Ruth admitted.

“So the Wetherby’s on fire and capsized?”

“That’s right. The current took hold of her before she could settle, and she started drifting down the Niagara River toward the falls. Because she was on her side she slipped under the railroad bridge that spanned the river between Fort Erie and Buffalo and also under the nearby Peace Bridge. Eyewitness on the Peace Bridge said that it looked like the river was on fire as she passed underneath, and people at the falls saw the burning oil slick going over and thought it was part of a show. By the time the Wetherby reached Grand Island, where the Niagara splits into the Chippawa and American channels, she’d grounded herself a couple of times, once for nearly two hours before enough water had piled against her upstream side to push her farther toward the falls.

“She finally came to rest just above the northern tip of Grand Island in the Chippawa Channel, and as luck would have it she settled into the deepest trough on the river, a sixty-foot sinkhole left over when the glaciers retreated and created both the river and the falls.”

That reminded Mercer that Niagara Falls had only been in existence since the last ice age, some twelve thousand years ago. That wasn’t even a blink of an eye in geologic terms.

“What was she like when you dove on her?”

“She’s lying on her side and, like I said, in sixty feet of water. The part of her hull facing the surface is in good shape. Freshwater isn’t as corrosive as salt but she’s taken a beating from logs and other flotsam coming down from Erie on the way to the falls. Last time I went down, and that was a good ten years ago, she had an oak tree embedded in her forecastle.”

“What are diving conditions like?”

“Hell,” a voice called out.

“Mr. Crenna.” Cali greeted the stranger, then turned to the little group. “This is Brian Crenna from Erie Salvage and Dredging. He’ll be in charge of the salvage barge and support ship.” Cali made the introductions.

Crenna was a plug of a man standing about five foot six with a hard, round gut and a snarled black beard. He wore company coveralls and steel-toed boots, a hardhat tucked under one of his muscular arms. When Mercer shook his hand, he realized Crenna was missing his pinkie. He also realized that Crenna wasn’t particularly happy about being here.

“Why do you say the conditions are hell?” Mercer asked.

Crenna spat. “Because about a hundred and seventy-five thousand cubic feet of water come down the Niagara River every second. That’s twelve thousand tons. Some places the current runs two knots, some it runs eight. Some days the winds come from Lake Erie, which increases the flow ten or twenty percent. Others it’s off Ontario which slows things a bit. And some days it changes every couple of hours so you never know what you’re going to get. Then there’s the fact that last winter saw some heavy snows so the river’s still in flood. And that sinkhole where the Wetherby got herself lodged is loaded with back currents and whirlpools. If you know anything about diving then you’ll know what I’m describing is hell.” He waited for anyone to speak. When no one did, he added, “And don’t forget if you get into trouble the damned falls are only a couple miles downstream.”

“Yes, well thank you,” Cliff Roberts said in his best bureaucratic voice.

“I named a crazy price to agree to this job,” Crenna said, addressing Roberts, “and you said you’d pay it but don’t for a second think I agree this is a good idea. We should wait until the spring runoff ebbs and we know we’ll have a few good days of weather.”

Roberts pulled himself to his full five foot seven. While he managed an inch on the tow boat operator, he fell far short of intimidating him. “You’ve been hired by the United States Government for a very important mission. We are paying you for your expert advice concerning the salvage operation. Anything else you have to say is merely your opinion and quite frankly I don’t care about it. Do your job.”

Mercer expected Crenna to turn around and walk off again. Placed in a similar circumstance, Mercer would have, after a few choice words. Crenna stood his ground, his dark eyes never leaving Roberts’s, and it was almost as if Mercer could see his mind at work. But in the end he must have decided the money was more important to him than his own feelings about working for a martinet like Roberts.

“You coming with us?” he finally asked.

“No,” the director of NEST said as if the question was absurd. “I’m needed back in Washington.”

Crenna spat again. “Good ’nuf.”

“Why don’t you tell Mercer the plan?” Cali said to dispel the tension and cleanse the air of testosterone. “Mercer just arrived and hasn’t been filled in yet.”

Crenna shot Mercer a dark look. “You another one from Washington?”

“Don’t hold it against me but that’s where I live. I’m a prospecting geologist.”

“Noticed the hands when we shook,” Crenna remarked and glanced at Roberts. “Figured you’ve done some work in your life.”

Mercer knew the type. It was inevitable in his line of work. When on a consulting job, he usually spent equal amounts of time with mine managers and the miners themselves. While most understood the other guys had a job to do, there were always a few on both sides who carried a chip on their shoulder about their own importance. There was nothing wrong with being proud of what you did. Mercer applauded it. What he didn’t like, and what he saw in Roberts as well as Crenna, was disdain for the other side of the management/labor symbiosis.

“So what is your plan, Mr. Crenna?”

“Captain.”

“Captain it is.”

“As soon as my crew arrives,” Crenna began, “we’ll tow the crane under the bridges and downstream to the site. As you can see she’s built low because there isn’t much clearance under them bridges. Once over the Wetherby I’ll deploy the hydraulic anchors to keep us in position, then I’ll send for you all. I don’t want you on the barge until it’s secure.” Cali made to protest but Crenna cut her off. “I’ve got liability issues as it is, so no argument. Once you’re aboard I’ll send down a couple of divers to assess the wreckage and determine the best way in.”

“You’re not going to try to lift her?”

“Can’t risk it if the current picks up,” Crenna said. “The hulk would produce enough drag to pull the anchors off the river bottom.”

Mercer nodded. Crenna seemed to know his business. “Most likely you’ll have to cut through the hull to find the crates.”

“Which shouldn’t be too difficult,” Crenna agreed. “With a little luck we’ll get her open by tomorrow and have your crates on the surface the next day or so. Provided they’re still aboard. It’s possible they were thrown from her when she was being dragged downriver. Which case they’re in the sinkhole at the base of the falls which is deeper than the falls are high.”

Mercer had considered that when Cali first told him she’d found that the Wetherby had sunk on the Niagara River. But even with the possibility that the crates of plutonium ore lay scattered at the base of the largest waterfall in North America, he still considered her discovery the first break they’d had in the investigation.

Professor Ahmad in Istanbul hadn’t returned Mercer’s repeated calls and Ira was making slow progress with the Russian authorities concerning their operation into the CAR. It was also taking time to assemble a team to investigate the stele. Ira had explained everything to his boss, national security advisor John Kleinschmidt, but so far neither had had any luck persuading the Pentagon to dispatch a Special Forces unit into Africa. And now State Department officials were getting involved, citing all kinds of sovereignty issues. Ira had told Mercer that they would probably have to tell the President and have him issue an executive order.

But they got lucky when it came to the Wetherby. Cali had done the research and quickly discovered that the ship had sunk in the Niagara River just north of Grand Island. The wreck was well known in the Buffalo area, and when she’d asked the local historical society, she was given Ruth Bishop’s name as an expert on the wreck. A call to the Coast Guard confirmed that Ruth was the person she needed to speak with.

Ruth told her of her diving experiences on the wreck and helped locate a salvage master willing to take on the job. Cliff Roberts had used his influence to clear the bureaucratic hurdles that cropped up, and just days after learning the Wetherby’s location Cali had everything in place to salvage Chester Bowie’s ore samples.

Mercer marveled at how effortlessly she seemed to pull everything together. Usually an expedition as complex as this, especially so close to a foreign border, would have taken months if not years. He shot her another glance. Now that the sky was growing brighter he could see the red swelling under her eyes and a little furrow between them. She noted his scrutiny and shot him a tired smile, then a saucy wink.

Mercer made a phone call as Crenna’s crew of four arrived, and fifteen minutes later they cast off the tugboat amid a roar of blue exhaust. The international railway bridge was a short distance down the river and from Mercer’s vantage it looked like the tug wouldn’t fit, but he had to trust the captain to know what he was doing.

“Well, I’m off,” Cliff Roberts said as if someone was going to miss him. “Cali, I expect reports every hour once the crane is in position.” He nodded to Mercer and Ruth Bishop and shook hands with Williams and Slaughbaugh. “Good luck to you all.”

He headed for one of a pair of identical rental cars parked next to a black Suburban with tinted windows that Mercer suspected belonged to Cali’s NEST team. Its large cargo area was doubtlessly filled with their equipment. The fourth car was a minivan that had to belong to Ruth Bishop.

“What a wanker,” Stan Slaughbaugh said as soon as his boss was out of earshot.

“You said it, my man,” Jesse Williams agreed.

“Think what you want,” Cali said, “but we wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t pulled a lot of strings.”

“So what do we do now, Boss?” Stan asked, wiping absently at his horn-rimmed glasses.

“I had expected we’d be going out with the barge and staying on site,” Cali replied. “I guess we find a hotel. Any recommendations, Ruth?”

“Who’s picking up the tab?” she asked.

“Uncle Sam.”

“Hyatt’s about the best in the city.”

“Then the Hyatt it is.” She turned to Mercer. “Sorry about having you fly here so quickly. I really thought we’d be going out with the crane.”

“That’s okay. I wasn’t making much progress back home and Harry’s been driving me nuts wondering when he can come back and start drinking my booze again.”

They drifted to their vehicles. Ruth said her goodbyes and said to call her tomorrow if they needed anything, while Mercer set his heavy hand grip into the rear of the rental. Stan and Jesse had driven the NEST Suburban from Washington.

Cali got behind the wheel and told Jesse to follow her. She found the Hyatt on the car’s trip computer and started out. “I don’t think it was the Janissaries who attacked the Wetherby.”

“You said in Ira’s office that you believed they took out the Hindenburg. If they had the ability to blow an airship out of the sky to stop Bowie from delivering a small sample to Einstein, it’s not too much of a stretch for them to destroy the freighter hauling the bulk of the plutonium ore he’d mined.”

“I thought of a problem with my idea that the Janissaries destroyed the Hindenburg,” Cali said with a trace of concern in her voice. “If Bowie took the fastest mode of transportation available at the time to return to the United States, how did a Janissary beat him here so he’d be in place to cause the explosion?”

“Carl Dion told me when I called him that tickets weren’t hard to get on that particular flight. It’s possible that a Janissary was on the voyage.”

“Then why blow it up? All he needed to do was kill Bowie and heave the safe out a window when they were over the Atlantic. It doesn’t make sense that he’d allow Bowie to keep the safe during the flight and then destroy the Hindenburg when she was getting ready to land.”

“Okay, so there wasn’t a Janissary on the flight,” Mercer said.

“Back to my point. How did the Janissaries get someone to America faster than the fastest way possible?”

“Maybe they had agents here.”

“I considered that but I don’t buy it.”

“Okay, tell me why.”

“As far as we know this outfit is strictly interested with protecting the Alembic of Skenderbeg. And all our research so far points to them being confined to Africa and Europe. It wasn’t until Bowie came along that they had a threat from the United States. There is absolutely no reason for them to stage assets here. Not unless the organization is huge, like the Masons or something, and it’s not or we would have heard about it by now. I can see a small secret society lasting a couple of centuries undetected. Not some large-scale organization with recruiters in North America.” She shook her head decisively. “Doesn’t wash.”

“So if there wasn’t a Janissary on the Hindenburg and they didn’t have someone here, then was it the Russians or the Germans?”

“I don’t know. We know the Russians were involved somehow, so it could have been them. They had all kinds of spies in the United States during the thirties. Same with the Germans. Either one of them could have radioed someone to shoot the Hindenburg down.”

“You couldn’t destroy the Hindenburg with anything smaller than a shoulder-fired rocket,” Mercer told her.

“Are you nuts? It was loaded with millions of cubic feet of hydrogen. A small spark and instant firecracker.”

“Au contraire,” Mercer said, sure of his subject. “Hydrogen needs oxygen in order to burn and the ratio is very narrow. Too much or too little O₂ and it won’t catch fire. There would have to have been a sustained leak in one of the gas cells in order for hydrogen to be the culprit, and that would have been noticed by the officers in the control car. Also you can’t see a hydrogen fire. It’s like pure alcohol. It burns clear, and if you’ve ever seen footage of the explosion you can clearly see the flames from the very beginning.

“The latest theories concerning the destruction of the Hindenburg focus on the waterproofing dope used to cover the skin. It was basically a paste made of the same chemicals found in rocket fuel. Some experts believe that a spark from one of the engines landed on the envelope, causing a small fire that quickly grew to encompass the entire airship. It was only then that the hydrogen detonated.”

Cali was silent for a moment, digesting Mercer’s words. “Ah ha,” she said with a wicked grin. “Incendiary bullets.”

“Did they have them back then?”

“Absolutely.”

It was Mercer’s turn to think through the scenario. He could find no flaw in her reasoning about the Russians or Germans or about a sniper using incendiary bullets to ignite the airship’s explosive skin. “You know,” he said at last, “they’re going to have to rewrite a lot of history books by the time we’re done.”