Charon's landing

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 amp;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.