Charon's landing

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 nee 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.