Jack Du Brul - River of Ruin

Harry moved with the speed of a man half his age. “Which ship?”

The Robert T. Change had already passed their position while the Englander Rose was almost directly abeam. “The Rose .”

Captain Patke and Roddy had heard the exchange over the comm link. “What are you doing?” the commando asked.

Mercer ignored him. “Roddy, you’ve got to stop your ship from being deflected by the submersible. Get some crewmen on the deck so they’ll see its propwash and give a warning the instant she fires her motor.”

“Okay. Then what?”

“Liu must need both ships to explode either simultaneously or in a pre-timed sequence, like what they do when blowing up a building. Carefully placed charges are more effective than one big blast. Get away from the Robert T.

Change , even if you have to swim to shore and run like hell. We can’t stop that one from going up, but maybe we can get the Englander Rose far enough away so that when she goes she doesn’t complete her job.”

Roddy’s voice became strident. “Even if you separate the boats by a mile or more, you’re still stuck next to the lock. The explosion will blow it into a million pieces. Liu still wins.”

“Can you think of a way to get her back through the lock?”

“Not quickly,” the pilot admitted, thinking about the dozens of Chinese soldiers they’d slipped past to board the ship.

“I can.” It was the female officer aboard Heaven, the USS McCampbell . She went on to outline her idea. With the pilot boat fast approaching the scaly side of the Englander Rose , there wasn’t time to debate the merits of her plan, only its chance for success. Roddy, who was the most disturbed by her suggestion, agreed that it would work, adding, “Do you have any idea what this is going to cost to repair?”

“Less than if Liu blows the lock entirely,” Mercer said. “Don’t forget I happen to know where your country can get the money to fix it.”

“The Twice-Stolen Treasure,” the Panamanian breathed.

“A fitting use.” Mercer had moved to look through the windscreen as they neared the lumbering freighter. A wash of disturbed water undulated along her Plimsoll mark as she picked up speed after coming out of the lock. Because pilot boats were so common on this stretch of the canal, none of the men standing around her superstructure paid them much attention.

Mercer looked farther up the waterway, where the stern of the Mario diCastorelli was just vanishing around a curve. A towering promontory of granite loomed over the ship where men and machines had once cleaved the path through the mountains. The other shore had been leveled further to a sloping plain that dropped into the water. He knew from what Roddy had told him, the ship would be in the canal’s tightest choke point in about fifteen minutes, a narrow gut at the exact center of the continental divide. There is where Liu intended to set off his explosives-laden vessels.

Between him and the Mario was the dark shape of the second bomb ship, the Robert T. Change .

“Oi!” The voice was amplified by a loudspeaker and came from above the pilot boat.

Harry throttled back to keep pace with the huge ship. Mercer stepped aft, emerging from the cabin onto the small rear deck space. He looked up at the ship’s rail twenty feet over his head, steady rain drumming his upturned face. It was hard to tell but the man with the megaphone appeared Chinese.

“We no need another pilot.” His accent was the same as the guard Foch had knifed in the parking lot.

Moving slightly so the man above couldn’t see, Mercer asked, “Foch, any ideas?”

“We’ve got him sighted,” the Legionnaire said. “As soon as I finish fashioning this anchor into a grappling hook, we’ll take him.”

Foch sat on the deck out of view of the sailor. He worked to replace the heavy chain secured to a foot-wide anchor with rope he’d pulled from a locker. Behind him, two of his men peered through the windows, their eyes screwed into their assault rifles’ scopes.

Mercer turned his attention back to the Chinese crewman. “We had a report that you needed us. It’s not true?”

“No.”

“Let me speak with Guillermo, the pilot,” Mercer bluffed.

“No Guillermo. Pilot is Mr. Lin.”

“Wait,” he cried as if making a sudden realization. “Is your ship the Mary Celeste ?”

“No. That ship behind. You go back.” The guard showed the butt of a pistol.

“I’m ready,” Foch announced.

Mercer dropped to his knees behind the gunwale. “Take him.”

It took just one shot that sounded quieter than the shatter of the glass the bullet had gone through. The soldier had aimed perfectly, compensating for angle, deflection of the glass, and the wind that raced up the canal. The round caught the lookout in the soft part of the throat so that most of its energy was carried beyond his corpse. Rather than fall back, he slumped forward, draped over the rail as if he were studying something on the water.

Foch was in motion an instant later, racing out into the open, the anchor ready to throw, loops of rope hanging from his left arm. Mercer recalled trying to snag the vent stack on the Hatcherly warehouse with Lauren and was amazed at how effortlessly the Legion officer heaved the heavy anchor over the Rose ’s rail.

It hooked in the shelter of one of the overhanging lifeboats on the first toss. Foch handed the free end of the rope to Mercer. With his FAMAS slung over his back, the soldier shimmied up the line using knots he’d tied as grips. Even before he reached the top, Rabidoux was ready to climb, and the others were lined up behind him.

Mercer held the rope steady as one by one the Legionnaires strained their way to the deck of the Englander Rose . So intent on their mission, Lauren didn’t give him a passing glance as she muscled herself up the rope followed by Rene Bruneseau. For a moment Mercer considered taking the trailing end of the rope with him, stranding Harry on the pilot boat, but with what they were going to attempt, they desperately needed the old bastard’s seamanship skills.

“Harry, come on,” he called into the cabin.

Still at the helm, Harry jiggled the throttles until the two craft were perfectly in sync before looping a bungee cord around the wheel to keep her on course. He snatched up his cane and joined Mercer on the aft deck.

Mercer handed him the rope, pointing out that Foch had tied a loop at its end. Knowing what to do, Harry placed his prosthetic leg into the loop and did something behind at his ankle to lock the joint. He held the line steady as Mercer climbed to the looming ship, his assent covered by two of the Legionnaires.

Hands grabbed at him as he reached the railing and they dragged him over. He landed in a heap, swiveling around even as the Frenchmen began to haul Harry up the side of the ship. He added his strength to theirs, and seconds later Harry’s silver crew cut appeared. Harry steadied himself for the final effort and then he was with them. He unlocked his ankle and gave it an experimental flex.

“I feel like a pirate taking a galleon on the Spanish Main,” he whispered, pulling the pistol from the corpse Foch had stuffed behind a ventilator.

“We’ll call you Graybeard the Geriatric,” Mercer teased.

That they had just climbed aboard a ship carrying several thousand tons of explosives hit them all at the same moment. They exchanged nervous glances. A blast of that magnitude wouldn’t blow them apart, or even vaporize them. Such a detonation would atomize them. The concussive force would be enough to render their bodies to their basic building blocks of carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and the few others that made up a human.