Trident Force (15 page)

Shaking his head, Acosta turned and studied the watch bill posted on one of the bulkheads. Just to make sure it hadn't been changed since the last time he looked at it, twelve hours ago. “Call his quarters.”

“This is Main Control. Is Hensen there?”

“No,” replied an electrician named Swaboda, one of Hensen's two roommates. “He's supposed to be on watch.”

“He damn well is, but he's not here and the second's pissed.”

“He may have swapped with somebody,” offered Swaboda. “He's a little odd. He's always doing what you don't expect.” In fact, both Hensen's roommates knew just how odd their third roommate really was—how he supplemented his income—although neither spoke of it.

“He didn't swap with anybody. He's just not here, so cut the crap. Any ideas where he is?”

“No. No ideas. Sorry.”

“What was that all about?” asked Ivan Singh, the other roommate, as Swaboda hung up.

“The miserable bastard hasn't shown up for his watch.”

“Not only is he a miserable bastard, he's also a stupid bastard,” replied Singh as he rolled over to try to get back to sleep. “Maybe this will be enough to get him canned.”

“Or even better, maybe the fucker fell overboard.”

“That's not very charitable.”

“You don't agree?”

“Of course I agree.”

Ernesto Montalba, the chief engineer, was informed within ten minutes that one of his men was missing. He immediately reported the situation to Arthur Covington.

Damn it, thought Covington as he swung his legs over the side of the bunk in his sea cabin and reached for the light switch with his free hand. In all probability the fellow—who the chief assured him was not always totally dependable—was lying drunk and passed out somewhere. Or sleeping with one of the passengers. Or God knew what else! He'd seen it all over the years and so had Montalba. “When was he last seen, Chief?”

“A little before midnight, Captain. He was in the crew's lounge.”

“When he left, did he tell anybody where he was going?”

“No. He just up and left.”

“Very well. Keep searching.”

Covington then called Dave Ellison, the security guy. “Dave, we've got a missing engineman named Hensen. He was seen a little before midnight in the crew's lounge and not since. He hasn't shown up for his watch.”

“Yes, Captain?”

The son of a bitch didn't sound very alert. Probably hungover, thought Covington. “Unless you already know what he looks like, I want you to look him up in the ship's records. Then I want you to review your video records for the past eight hours to see if you can spot him.” The surveillance cameras only covered part of the ship, but it was worth a try.

“You've got it, Art,” replied Ellison without enthusiasm.

Covington hung up without replying. That was the third time he'd addressed him as “Art,” and, stuffy as it might seem, Captain Covington didn't appreciate it. The slug had been some sort of a cop. Undoubtedly the type that liked donuts by the bag. Ellison's position was one of the few aboard the ship about which he had no say when it came to hiring. The owners reserved that privilege strictly for themselves.

With a sigh, he called the bridge and directed the mate of the watch to stop the ship and to pass the word for Engineman Hensen to contact the chief engineer immediately. He then slipped on a shirt, trousers and bedroom slippers and hustled to the bridge, where he temporarily disregarded the mate's questioning look and leaned over the GPS plot of the ship's past and future tracks.

“This isn't the best night to fall overboard, sir,” observed the mate.

“No, Mister, it's not. None are.” The officer was young, thought Covington. Alert, hardworking and reasonably competent. If only he could be cured of the tendency to point out the obvious at the wrong time.

Despite having had to dodge several large chunks of ice,
Aurora
had been able to maintain speed and had made excellent progress cutting across the Drake Passage. They were now closing in on the Antarctic circle and the cove scheduled to be the first eco-landing. The temptation, considering the foul nature of the Southern Ocean, was to write the man off and continue on before the weather came up with another nasty trick or two.

The fellow might well have fallen overboard right after he was last seen, about four hours ago, thought Covington, his fingers tapping on the keyboard. In that case he'd have fallen overboard over a hundred miles ago. Or he might have fallen fifteen minutes ago. Either way, the chances of his surviving without an exposure suit were absolutely nonexistent. Still, he had to try, even if it meant nothing more than going through the motions. He owed it to the crew, and to the owners and to himself. And to all the other seamen, past and future, who had ever run the risk of falling overboard. He continued tapping rapidly on the navsystem keyboard, correcting the ship's track for the past six hours for prevailing wind and current, thereby generating a course to follow to retrace their path.

He looked at his watch. Another hour or more to dawn. Should he start north now and run the risk of passing the man in the dark, or should he wait and run the risk of not finding him when he'd gone overboard only a few minutes before?

“Ah, Mr. Winters,” he said to the shadow that had appeared beside him. “I want you to call all hands and station them along both sides of the ship and turn on the spotlights. Then we will head north.”

He then sent out a man overboard report.

 

“Mr. Rounding,” squawked the walkie-talkie in Jake Rounding's hand.

“Yes, Chief,” responded the third engineer.

“Where are you?”

“We've just finished searching Storeroom Three Alpha. No sign of him.”

“Okay, Jake. Keep going and keep alert.”

“Okay, Chief.”

Jake Rounding barely knew Sven Hensen, but the engineman's disappearance had the third engineer on edge. He thought of Annie, shot to death by the police in a stupid, meaningless demonstration, and knew that what he had done had to be done. And Hensen had nothing to do with anything. All the same, he felt somehow as if a noose were beginning to tighten around his neck; as if the world were beginning to close in on him.

“What next, Mr. Rounding?” asked one of the men with him.

“The Auxiliary Pump Room.”

“Hensen's a shit, sir.”

“I've heard that before. We've still got to search for him.”

 

“This is it, Mister,” said Covington to Winters shortly before noon. “If he's still alive, he's someplace behind us so we're going to turn and run down the reciprocal of the course we've been running and zigzag a little as we go.”

“He can't possibly be alive, Captain,” said Winters as he watched an Argentine search plane head south along the track they'd just covered.

“I'm well aware of that, but we have to head south anyway, so we might as well continue looking as we go.”

The captain then walked over to the public-address system: “Ladies and gentlemen. Several hours ago I informed you that one of our crew may have fallen overboard and that we were going to retrace our track north in the hope that we might find him. We have now completed our retracing and, unfortunately, have failed to locate him either aboard the ship or in the water. Accordingly, we are about to turn south again and head for our first destination on the Antarctic Peninsula. Along the way we will continue to search, so please keep your eyes open.”

 

“What are your thoughts, Chrissie, about this man who's fallen overboard?” asked the brunette with the microphone in her hand. “Absolutely tragic, wouldn't you say?”

Chrissie, wearing her thoughtful smile, looked at the media person a moment, thinking that she was like all the others, almost exclusively interested in interviewing herself. “I'm with you there, Jen. An absolute tragedy.”

“And whadaya think of the way the captain's handling it? Some people are saying that he's wasting everybody's time by searching as long as he is, while others want him to keep trying. Congressman Evans is in conference with him right now. He's going to make a statement later.”

“Fact is,” answered Chrissie, feeling that by even talking to the brunette she was playing a fool's game with yet another clever fool, “I'm with the captain and I'm looking forward to hearing what the congressman has to contribute.” That, she thought, should end the reporter's efforts to put words in her mouth.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed the public-address system, which had been set to override so it was audible even where it had been turned off locally, “this is Congressman Pete Evans. As many of you know, I represent the tenth district of Connecticut.”

Evans paused, then continued, “As we all know by now a tragic event occurred sometime last night. One of the ship's crew fell overboard—I can only say that the man was a hero, a credit to merchant marines everywhere, and our prayers go out to his family. I want to assure every one of you that I am monitoring the situation minute by minute. I have just concluded a conference with Captain Covington and fully intend to ensure that everything possible is done and is done right. You may count on me to keep you informed and to keep your interests my top priority.”

Pete's a damn ambitious sucker, thought Senator Alvin Bergstrom as he lay in bed, listening to the speech and fondling Linda Williams's left breast. So, for that matter, was Linda. Perhaps even more so. He knew she had less than no real interest in his hairy, warty, tired old body; that what she really wanted was sponsorship of and votes for legislation. Well, she wasn't going to get it. A little bit, maybe, but not all of it. Not from him. He'd undoubtedly dance around praising the noble intentions of those who did sponsor her legislation, but somehow, he would never end up voting for it. Because it cost too much. Because it conflicted with a better bill he was working on. Because any halfway plausible reason. If necessary he'd be sure to be out of town investigating some mega-disaster or other. Sometime, after the cruise was over, she would be told. Not by him, but by Babs. That's what Babs was for. To clean up things like Linda. In the meantime Linda would simply have to settle for his hairy, warty, tired old body.

The senator leaned over and licked that which he had been fondling.

 

Arthur Covington sat at his desk and reread the message. Then he looked up at Mr. Winters. “You
did
read this?”

“Yes, Captain. The company wants us to head north across the Drake Channel again and prepare to receive a helicopter full of U.S naval personnel who are going to conduct some sort of courtesy security inspection.”

“Yes, very gracious of them.”

“Does it mean that they know something solid that we don't?”

“I wish I knew. We don't seem to have any choice but to go along with it.”

“What are you going to tell the passengers?”

“That at the owners' request the United States Navy has arrived to give us a routine courtesy inspection and that there is absolutely nothing to be concerned about.”

 

“What's this all really about?” demanded Congressman Pete Evans shortly before midnight, when he found Mr. Winters standing on the boat deck looking aft through the light but wind-driven snow at the brilliantly lit fantail.

“As the captain explained, sir, this is a routine security audit that the United States now conducts at the request of shipowners.” As he tried to soothe the congressman, Winters wondered just how successful the operation was going to be. Between the wind's violent and unpredictable gusts and the ship's rolling and heaving, he had trouble imagining a happy ending. But, presumably, their midnight visitors were all trained in this sort of thing.

“I never heard of any program like that.”

“I understand it's very new. Maybe they are doing a few trial runs before announcing it.”

“Wendell Gardner tells me there's more to it than that.”

“I can't speak for Mr. Gardner, sir, he works for the sponsors of the voyage, but I'm sure the captain will tell you more—if there is more to tell—when he knows more. As it is, he's satisfied these people are on legitimate official business.”

Before Evans could express more displeasure, a big, orange helicopter appeared out of the night astern and slowly approached, dragging its static wire below it. “Now please excuse me, sir,” said Winters as he started down one of the ladders. “I'm needed on the fantail.”

Feeling both intensely irritated and also a little nervous, Evans looked around. There were maybe a hundred or so other passengers standing there, watching and looking both confused and concerned. He might have expected more, but then it was almost midnight and the weather absolutely sucked. Even Penny had chosen to stay in bed. He did, however, count all three media teams on station.

Evans continued to watch as the helo made its approach. Its static wire clunked on the rolling, heaving deck then slid over the side as the helo was blown away by a ferocious gust. Back it came, lower this time, trying to line itself up over the ship's rolling, pitching deck, only to be shoved away yet again by another gust, from the opposite direction.

On the third approach, a dark figure—Evans would later learn that it was Mike Chambers—in an orange survival suit and with a large duffel bag, could be seen swinging below the helo.

The gust that had been holding the Trident Force leader off the ship disappeared just as the helo had worked its way back over, and Mike swung forward as he dropped rapidly toward the deck. With what must have been a painful crash, he slammed into the rolling steel and stumbled. Even before he could gain his footing, the helo drifted off again, dragging him toward the side. Only at the last minute was Mike able to trip the quick release on the harness.