Charon's landing

thought.

He threw on a pair of jeans and answered the door. Three men stood in the hallway outside his room, all of them wearing dark blue nylon windbreakers. Mercer knew that the backs of their jackets would read FBI in large gold letters. It was time for the raid on the Hope.

“Dr. Mercer, my name is Dave Fielding,” the agent in the middle said. “I was instructed to pick you up this morning before we moved on the PEAL ship.” Fielding was a solid statue of muscle, sinew, and testosterone, his heavy forehead sloping into strong hazel eyes. Had his chin been any sharper, it would have cut the air.

“Just give me a minute,” Mercer said as he turned away, leaving Fielding and the two other agents at the door.

Mercer grabbed a heavy shirt from his garment bag, buttoning it on the way to the bathroom. As he peed, he licked a dollop of toothpaste from the tube he’d left on the vanity top. Swishing it around his mouth, he zipped up his jeans, washed his hands, then rinsed with a palmful of water. In the mirror, his eyes were equal shades of red and gray.

Fielding and his men waited as Mercer slipped on a pair of socks and laced up his heavy boots. They were out of the room only two minutes after the knock. It was just before 6:00 A.M.

The harbor was only a couple of blocks from the hotel. As they walked to the water’s edge, Mercer wished fervently for a cup of coffee, but it was obvious by the tension in Fielding’s stride that he was eager for the raid. The morning held the unmistakable expectancy of trouble. The holstered pistol under Fielding’s windbreaker wrinkled the material of his jacket.

At the harbor, a forty-foot Coast Guard vessel burbled softly at idle, its gleaming white hull and superstructure slashed by the distinctive orange stripe of the service. Twin fifty-caliber machine guns were mounted in a cupola midway along her foredeck while a half dozen armed sailors cluttered the aft cockpit, their M-16s held tightly, fingers never far from the triggers. There wasn’t another soul at the docks; the big fishing trawlers sat quietly at anchor. The charter and pleasure boats were equally forlorn and abandoned. Mercer had no doubt that fishermen heading for their vessels had been told to take the morning off and bill the lost time to the FBI.

He hoped he was right about PEAL.

Fielding ushered Mercer onto the Coast Guard boat and escorted him to the bench seat running along the transom. The FBI men and the Coasties moved with a rigid efficiency. They had been up for hours, planning for this morning’s raid. For the Feebies, this assault was the payoff for months of dead-end investigation work. They’d been in Alaska for too long, waiting for some action, and this morning it had finally come. Mercer alone knew that the morning raid was meant to be a warning more than anything else.

He was certain that they wouldn’t find anything aboard the Hope. Even if his suspicions were correct about PEAL’s involvement with Ivan Kerikov, they wouldn’t be foolish enough to leave evidence lying around. This morning’s assault was designed, in Mercer’s mind, to be a type of harassment, letting Kerikov know that he was now being hunted. Mercer guessed that Dick Henna realized his intentions last night on the phone, otherwise he wouldn’t be here now, but it appeared that Henna hadn’t fully briefed his men. They seemed ready for a full-scale naval battle. The M-16s had a smooth greasy smell to them.

A sailor in a Kevlar vest and combat helmet cast off the bowline, his actions mimicked by another in the stern, and suddenly they were free of the dock. The helmsman edged the throttles forward and the vessel jumped from the quay. As the boat pulled out into the quiet bay, Agent Fielding sat down next to Mercer, an assault rifle propped between his knees.

The mountains surrounding the bay looked like sleeping animals under their thick canopies of pine and oak, each ridgeline bristling like a badger-hair brush. The air was sharp and clean as it blew across the Scarab-built patrol boat. It caused tears to stream from Mercer’s eyes and brought a little function back to his brain.

The Hope lay dead ahead, gentle swells running sedately along her lemon yellow hull. The empty arms of her portside davit hung over the main deck railing like skeletal arms eager for an embrace. Only a few portholes emitted any light; the rest were just dark spots on her paintwork. She appeared quiet. No one was on the decks this early in the morning, and only a trace of smoke escaped her blunted funnel. A couple of seabirds, puffins or terns, floated just off her stern, scavenging the food scraps the chef had thrown over the side during the night.

“This is kind of unprecedented,” Fielding said over the din of the engines. “As I understand it, you called in this tip, right?”

Mercer nodded. He still wasn’t awake enough to speak. The excitement that held the men enthralled hadn’t affected him.

“I want you to wait aboard this boat until we’ve secured the Hope. We’re not expecting any trouble, but it would be safer if you stayed out of the way. You are more or less an observer, right?”

“Mr. Fielding, this isn’t an invasion,” Mercer said, finding his voice finally. “There’s no real evidence behind this raid, just gut feelings. I suggest that both you and your men calm down a bit. These people aren’t going to offer any resistance other than a few mumbled complaints.”

“Well, just in case.” Fielding unzipped his jacket and unsnapped the safety strap of his shoulder holster. The big Colt.45 was ready for a quick combat draw.

“May I make a suggestion?” Mercer pointed back toward the docks, now two hundred yards distant. “There’re three thousand people in that town, most of them early risers. Unless you want to make yourself into a public spectacle, I think it would be smarter if we boarded the Hope from the starboard side, away from prying eyes. Last night, I noticed that PEAL has two Zodiacs. I didn’t see either of them at the town dock, nor are they on this side of the ship. I’m guessing that they’re tied to a boarding ladder on the far side.”

Agent Fielding looked at Mercer angrily. It was obvious from his expression that he hadn’t thought about this and may have actually been looking forward to storming the PEAL vessel using grappling hooks and ropes. He broke eye contact with a shake of his head, then went forward to tell the helmsman to swing around the Hope and come up on her starboard side.

The patrol boat cut a wide arc through the water, its wake widening into a boiling white fan. Its hull canted over so sharply that the freeboards were only a few inches above the waves. Rounding the stubby vertical bows of the Hope, the agents saw a set of stairs that had been lowered to the water level. The Zodiacs were secured to the bottom landing. On the main deck above the steps, a man watched the Coast Guard boat through binoculars, a rifle held in his other hand.

Seeing the weapon, Fielding and the other agents reacted instantly. Those not clutching their weapons did so, lifting assault rifles from the deck or slipping pistols from holsters. Their actions were so fast that Mercer was startled. Someone tossed a megaphone to Fielding; the agent caught it with his off hand and swung it to his lips fluidly.

“This is the FBI. Lay down your weapon and place your hands on top of your head. Do not move from your position, or we will open fire.” His amplified voice echoed over the water in the silence created by the now idled engines of the patrol boat.

As inertia edged the Scarab closer to the Hope, the agents’ weapons tracked the man on the deck with the precision of anti-aircraft guns. The environmentalist on the research vessel made no move to lower his weapon, though he did let the binoculars dangle from a leather strap slung around his neck.

“Drop the fucking gun. Now!” Fielding shouted.

“You cannot board this vessel,” the man called, his voice small compared to Fielding’s electrically enhanced hails. His accent was French, maybe Dutch. “We are registered in Holland. You have no jurisdiction. We fly the flag of a friendly nation.”

“Asshole, you are in United States territorial waters,” Fielding shouted angrily. “If I want, I’ve got the jurisdiction to blow your boat out of the fucking water.”

His words were punctuated by the mechanical crash of the twin fifties’ bolts being slammed home, their belts of ammunition rattling like chains.

More figures appeared on the deck, most fully dressed, which told Mercer that they had been watching the Coast Guard boat ever since it left the docks. Fortunately, no one else was armed that he could see. The Scarab was nearing the boarding platform. The crew on the Hope leaned over the railing, watching the sleek vessel and the agents.

“Francois, put that gun down now,” a female voice called out. Mercer recognized her instantly. The