Charon's Landing (25 page)

“There is a condition attached to this money,” Jan’s benefactor had stated simply.

Voerhoven remembered looking into the man’s icy eyes and seeing death, but it did not stop him from agreeing readily, giving away his soul as surely as if Lucifer himself had made the offer. Ivan Kerikov was a malignancy as deadly as cancer. Through his contacts in Europe, Voerhoven later learned that Kerikov was a former KGB officer turned renegade and was being hunted by the United States, his former Russian masters, and a number of other groups. His reputation for violence seemed the stuff of nightmares.

Within weeks, Kerikov had turned PEAL into a tightly organized outfit, building on Voerhoven’s natural charisma and his unflagging dedication to the cause. Kerikov made possible the purchase of the old survey ship that became the
Hope
and hired a well-respected advertising agency to manage PEAL’s publicity campaigns. Gone were the photocopied flyers stapled to telephone poles around the Low Countries and PEAL’s word-of-mouth recruiting style. PEAL moved to a luxury suite of offices in a downtown bank building, complete with secretarial staff, massive computer system, and enough space for two hundred employees. Within a few months, PEAL’s membership had jumped 1000 percent and continued to grow at a phenomenal pace. PEAL had been a small cadre of dedicated volunteers; now it bloomed into a major force that people paid to be a part of. It took a short time to transform PEAL from an obscure organization on the fringe of the environmental movement to one of the world leaders in ecological preservation.

Kerikov managed all of this with Machiavellian aplomb, never revealing himself to anyone other than Voerhoven but getting results like no one the Dutchman had ever seen before. Kerikov had the ability to make problems simply disappear, and people as well. When a gas station owner was accidentally killed in a fire set by a PEAL crusader, his outraged and outspoken widow vanished a short while later. Kerikov was single-minded and ruthless in his dedication to building PEAL, though he never once gave his reasons. Voerhoven took Kerikov’s money and aid, not daring to question what price he would eventually have to pay for the Russian’s patronage.

Only three months ago had Kerikov finally revealed the condition he had first mentioned when he came to PEAL. Voerhoven was enthralled by the bare sketch of Kerikov’s proposal and was astounded to learn how far the plan had progressed without his knowledge. Kerikov was providing PEAL the outlet for the ultimate act of environmental protest, an opportunity to prevent an inevitable environmental disaster and save an entire ecosystem. Kerikov’s plan would ensure that there would never be another
Exxon Valdez
-type spill and that the Arctic Wildlife Refuge would be beyond man’s ability to ever exploit.

The Zodiac slid up to the
Hope
near the steep boarding stairs. While a crewman on the rubber boat held the craft steady against the platform, Kerikov heaved himself up the swaying steps to the deck of the PEAL ship, moving easily for a man in his mid-fifties.

Voerhoven stood at the top of the landing to greet the Russian. Kerikov made no move to shake hands and Voerhoven did his best to hide his discomfort. This was an unscheduled meeting that Kerikov had called for only this morning. Voerhoven had come to understand that Kerikov did nothing without a specific reason, but he did not know the purpose behind this conference.

“Let’s go to your quarters.” Kerikov knew the ship well and led the way to the spacious cabin that had once been the Officers’ Wardroom.

Voerhoven had taken over the largest cabin aboard the
Hope
when he joined her here in Alaska. The rooms didn’t feel like they were on a ship. The steel bulkheads had been Sheetrocked and painted, and the carpet had been double padded to cushion the metal decking. The two small, rounded portholes were the only indication of the suite’s nautical origins. There were three rooms: a full bath tucked behind the bedroom and an office complete with an oak desk and a conference table big enough to seat ten.

As soon as Voerhoven closed the watertight door, Kerikov grabbed him by the shoulder, spun him around, and slapped him so hard across the face that he staggered against the wall, knocking a framed picture to the floor.

“What the fu—”

Kerikov slapped him again, this time over his temple. Voerhoven toppled to the deck, cutting his hands on the glass shards lying on the carpet. “Shut up,” the Russian said conversationally. “I’ll tell you when you can speak again.”

He moved across the wide room, taking the chair at the head of the conference table, leaving Voerhoven to pull himself from the floor. Kerikov watched Voerhoven with reptilian eyes as the Dutchman slid into a chair across from him. A thin trickle of blood oozed from the corner of Voerhoven’s mouth, but he made no move to brush it away.

“I won’t ask you what you were thinking when you pulled that stunt last night because I know you weren’t thinking at all.” Kerikov’s voice was even and well modulated, but there was an undercurrent of anger clipping each syllable. “I’ve pumped ten million dollars into this operation, built up your pathetic little protest group and worked for more than a year to bring us to this point, and you draw attention to us by killing a truck driver just so you can throw a few sound bites on the evening news.”

“I didn’t kill him — Petromax did,” Voerhoven replied quickly.

“Shut your fucking mouth,” Kerikov snapped. “You may convince the world about your noble cause and the greed of the corporate world, but I don’t care. You killed the driver, Petromax killed the driver, fucking aliens killed the driver, it doesn’t matter. You were there when it happened and were ready to capitalize on it for network television. I authorized your boycott of Petromax gas stations here in Valdez because it lends authority to your cover here. But I didn’t give you permission to carry your crusade beyond Prince William Sound. I’ve got enough problems right now with some copy-cat group burning gas stations in Anchorage. And if I find out you were behind that, too, I’ll tear out your intestines and hang you with them.”

Voerhoven said nothing but he kept his eyes downcast. He would never dare openly defy Kerikov.

“Now that we’ve settled this unfortunate incident, we’ll turn to other matters.” Although the topic had shifted, Kerikov’s menacing tone was still in place. “You were able to secure enough liquid nitrogen to replace the cylinders we lost on the
Jenny IV
?”

“I think we depleted the entire supply in Vancouver and Seattle, but yes, it’s here, in Fairbanks, actually. We managed to get four tons.”

“Six tons were lost when the
Jenny IV
burned.”

“Two tons of her cargo were extra insurance for the mission. That’s a luxury we can’t afford. There just aren’t enough medical supply stores and chemical companies in the Pacific Northwest to give us that margin again. To avoid suspicion, my people from the San Francisco office had to be pretty creative with their cover stories.”

“What did they tell the suppliers?”

“They posed as special effects coordinators for a big-budget action film.”

“Excellent.” Kerikov lit a cigarette.

“Please don’t do that,” Voerhoven said, pointing at the smoldering Marlboro in Kerikov’s hand.

Kerikov looked at him sharply, dropped the cigarette to the floor, and ground it into the carpet with his foot, leaving a tarry black mark. He lit another derisively, blue-gray whorls filling the room. Voerhoven kept his silence. “We’ll have to transport the liquid nitrogen cylinders to the target site in helicopters, and it’ll take several runs. That leaves us more exposed than I like.”

“Enough money will ensure that the pilots keep quiet,” Voerhoven replied.

“It’s not the pilots I’m concerned with; it’s the ground personnel and others at the airport.” Kerikov was quiet for a few seconds. When he finally spoke, his voice was firm and decisive. “Have your people rent a truck and move the tanks northward, to the town of Fox or some other village that has an airport. We’ll have the choppers pick up the nitrogen there, again using the cover of a film company.” We’ll kill the pilots after they’ve transported all of the cylinders. Kerikov kept this last thought to himself.

T
he waves started far out in the ocean, churned up by currents and tides into great sloping mounds of water that rushed across the Pacific at nearly thirty miles per hour, building momentum and force with each passing moment. They were not the surface swells whipped up by stormy winds that were the delight of surfers along America’s Pacific coast. These were pulsating mountains that shifted millions of tons of water as if driven by the very engine of the earth. The
Petromax Arctica
, now called
Southern Cross
, took these massive rollers along her beam, her quarter million tons lifting easily, her deadly cargo shifting so the steel baffles within her tanks groaned. When she took an errant wave head-on, an explosion of white foam and dark green sea would blow over her bow. In the pale afternoon, the collisions looked like torpedo strikes, great plumes of water lashing the deck, each hit sending a shudder through the tanker.

She’d been built for these seas, and despite the seeming violence of the confrontation between ship and sea, she rode them well. Only the larger commercial fishing boats and tankers braved these waters. The endless procession of ferries and cruise ships that sailed to Alaska never strayed from the protection of the Inside Passage, a marine route protected from the ravages of the open ocean by a string of islands that stretched from Vancouver to the Gulf of Alaska.

The tension on the bridge, which was an almost tangible presence, had nothing to do with the deteriorating weather. Since the takeover, every member of the crew regarded the situation with equal doses of fear and expectation, fear for their lives and hope that there would be an opportunity to retake the tanker. When not on duty, the crew was kept in the main mess hall under the watchful eye of at least two guards. Conversations at the long tables were kept to ship’s business and nothing more.

Despite their incredible size, VLCCs are operated with only a tiny crew, twenty ratings and ten officers. And since there were only three key areas that needed monitoring — the engine room, the tank control station, and the bridge — the eight terrorists under JoAnn Riggs’ command could maintain control for as long as necessary.

Riggs sat in the port side Master’s chair, one of the two comfortable seats located on each side of the spacious bridge. Since the takeover, she had sat there braying orders, watching the bridge crew with predatory eyes, and smoking cigarette after cigarette in an unending chain. To her right, a helmsman kept a firm grip on the two levers that acted as the ship’s wheel. When his eyes were not scanning the open horizon, he either studied the digital engine displays or glanced at his new captain. Behind the helmsman, Wolf, the terrorists’ leader, stood against the aft bulkhead, a machine pistol dangling below his crossed arms. Despite his presence, Riggs felt exposed and vulnerable. To hide it, she lashed out at the crew, screaming orders that would normally be spoken in a whisper, forcing them to work extended shifts to repair the damage from the terrorists’ attempt to subdue Lyle Hauser.

JoAnn Riggs was not supposed to be in charge of the supertanker or the terrorists, but due to the misfortune of the ship’s original captain, Harris Albrecht, she found herself in this position. Albrecht should have commanded the ship back to Long Beach and led the terrorist takeover, with JoAnn acting as First Officer. But then he lost a good share of his lower arm and had to be evacuated, forcing Southern Coasting and Lightering to ask Petromax for a replacement because Riggs didn’t have experience in these waters. Riggs had to rework her plan and had intended to use Hauser until the ship was safely away from Alaska, then lock him with the rest of the crew. She would then captain the vessel to their final destination. With Albrecht gone, Riggs’ payment for her involvement had doubled, but she was left as the only officer working with Wolf and his men. The responsibilities were daunting, especially with a crew who were virtual prisoners and many critical systems either off-line or destroyed.

Another wave crashed into the bow a quarter mile away, thick spume rising up nearly to the height of the bridge before slamming back to the deck and racing to the scuppers like a river at full flood. Just as the deck cleared of water, a series of yellow and red warning lights went off all along the control console. An alarm sounded.

Riggs reacted instantly, coming off the chair like a panther. She was at the helmsman’s shoulder before the crewman realized she’d moved.

“What happened?” she snapped, fearing that the wave had stoved in the bow.

“Automatic engine override. The computer shut the main down.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know yet. The diagnostic is still cycling,” the helmsman answered.

Riggs picked up the hand mike for the intercom and dialed the mess hall. “This is Riggs. I want the Chief Engineer and three of his men in the engine room immediately.” She snapped off the button but held the mike in case she needed to issue more orders. “Do we have a fire?”

“Negative. Engine room heat is nominal, and the suppression system hasn’t tripped.”

She looked out the bridge window and was relieved to see that the horizon was clear. Even if they couldn’t get the engine restarted right away, there was little cause for concern. There wasn’t any other shipping in the area, and they had plenty of sea room before the tanker drifted close to shore. Because of the inertia built up by the two hundred thousand tons of oil in her tanks, it would take seventeen miles and about six hours before they came to a stop. After that, they would be at the mercy of the North Pacific.

“Bridge, this is the engine room.” George Patroni, the ship’s engineer, sounded tinny through the onboard intercom. “There’s no emergency. I can have us under way in about an hour, but we’ve got another problem.”

“What is it?” Riggs said, then quickly countered herself. “Belay that. I’m coming down.”