Havoc - v4 (22 page)

“Is that important?” Ira asked. “I mean come on, we’re talking ancient history.”

“If we’re only right about Alexander possessing a radiological bomb or dispersal device, then I’d agree, but the Janissaries who nabbed Cali last night act as though the alembic is lying around for someone to find.”

“You told me over dinner that you think that part of the Central African Republic is still pretty hot. I don’t want to send a team in there unless you’re sure it’s important.”

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.

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 was struck by lightning.”

“There’s a problem with their story.” It was a statement more than a question.

“It
was
raining that day but no one other than the crew in the hold recall any lightning in the area. It’s possible a static charge built up and its discharge ignited one of the fuel barrels, but I’m putting my money on either a longshoreman or a member of the crew smoking in the hold. A dropped match in some spilled bunker fuel and voilà.” She made the motion of an explosion with her hands.

“How many men were killed?”

“Six in the hold, including the
Wetherby
’s second officer, Kerry Frey. Another man was killed on the dock, a local vagrant well known at the time. Another body was recovered from the river about a mile downstream but he was never identified.”

“No idea who he was?”

“None. Everyone was accounted for. A lot of people said he had nothing to do with the
Wetherby
because his body wasn’t burned, but I think it’s too much of a coincidence.”

Mercer glanced at Cali. She was already looking at him. “Janissary,” he mouthed but she just shrugged. He turned back to Ruth Bishop. “Go on.”

“As the fire raged out of control, a crane operator on the dock panicked. When he jumped from the cab of his crane, he hit a lever that sent a pallet of fuel drums plummeting back into the blaze. When they exploded a second later, it blew out the side of the
Wetherby
as if she’d been torpedoed.”

Mercer didn’t say it aloud but he was sure she had told this story many times; her sense of dramatic timing was too good not to be practiced.

“The
Wetherby
rolled right there against the dock, parting her mooring hawsers as she turned onto her side. Another stevedore was injured by one of the heavy ropes when it snapped back toward the dock. He lost his hand but went on to make a full recovery. In fact his niece is a lieutenant commander in the Coast Guard.”

It took Mercer a second to process that bit of information. “Ah, so that’s how you became interested in the disaster?”

“Uncle Ralph told me this story so many times I had it memorized by the time I was ten,” Ruth admitted.

“So the
Wetherby
’s on fire and capsized?”

“That’s right. The current took hold of her before she could settle, and she started drifting down the Niagara River toward the falls. Because she was on her side she slipped under the railroad bridge that spanned the river between Fort Erie and Buffalo and also under the nearby Peace Bridge. Eyewitness on the Peace Bridge said that it looked like the river was on fire as she passed underneath, and people at the falls saw the burning oil slick going over and thought it was part of a show. By the time the
Wetherby
reached Grand Island, where the Niagara splits into the Chippawa and American channels, she’d grounded herself a couple of times, once for nearly two hours before enough water had piled against her upstream side to push her farther toward the falls.

“She finally came to rest just above the northern tip of Grand Island in the Chippawa Channel, and as luck would have it she settled into the deepest trough on the river, a sixty-foot sinkhole left over when the glaciers retreated and created both the river and the falls.”

That reminded Mercer that Niagara Falls had only been in existence since the last ice age, some twelve thousand years ago. That wasn’t even a blink of an eye in geologic terms.

“What was she like when you dove on her?”

“She’s lying on her side and, like I said, in sixty feet of water. The part of her hull facing the surface is in good shape. Freshwater isn’t as corrosive as salt but she’s taken a beating from logs and other flotsam coming down from Erie on the way to the falls. Last time I went down, and that was a good ten years ago, she had an oak tree embedded in her forecastle.”

“What are diving conditions like?”

“Hell,” a voice called out.

“Mr. Crenna.” Cali greeted the stranger, then turned to the little group. “This is Brian Crenna from Erie Salvage and Dredging. He’ll be in charge of the salvage barge and support ship.” Cali made the introductions.

Crenna was a plug of a man standing about five foot six with a hard, round gut and a snarled black beard. He wore company coveralls and steel-toed boots, a hardhat tucked under one of his muscular arms. When Mercer shook his hand, he realized Crenna was missing his pinkie. He also realized that Crenna wasn’t particularly happy about being here.

“Why do you say the conditions are hell?” Mercer asked.

Crenna spat. “Because about a hundred and seventy-five thousand cubic feet of water come down the Niagara River every second. That’s twelve thousand tons. Some places the current runs two knots, some it runs eight. Some days the winds come from Lake Erie, which increases the flow ten or twenty percent. Others it’s off Ontario which slows things a bit. And some days it changes every couple of hours so you never know what you’re going to get. Then there’s the fact that last winter saw some heavy snows so the river’s still in flood. And that sinkhole where the
Wetherby
got herself lodged is loaded with back currents and whirlpools. If you know anything about diving then you’ll know what I’m describing is hell.” He waited for anyone to speak. When no one did, he added, “And don’t forget if you get into trouble the damned falls are only a couple miles downstream.”

“Yes, well thank you,” Cliff Roberts said in his best bureaucratic voice.

“I named a crazy price to agree to this job,” Crenna said, addressing Roberts, “and you said you’d pay it but don’t for a second think I agree this is a good idea. We should wait until the spring runoff ebbs and we know we’ll have a few good days of weather.”