Havoc

Mercer silently cursed Ira, though he didn’t believe his old friend was deliberately putting the responsibility for a potentially dangerous operation on his shoulders. He was just being cautious. But Mercer knew the ultimate responsibility would fall on him if something went wrong. Like Serena’s death and the others at the casino. Like Tisa’s and dozens more-he felt the weight of it all pressing down on him. It would be so easy to just tell Ira to forget it, that he didn’t need to send a Special Forces team into the middle of a war zone. He could crawl out from under a little of his guilt. But Mercer also knew it would be wrong.

It didn’t matter if the stele turned out to be nothing more than a marker saying the equivalent of “Kilroy was here.” He had to know, no matter the cost.

“Yeah,” Mercer finally said. “It’s important.”

“Consider it done,” Ira replied with finality.

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