Jack Du Brul - Charon's landing

The Arctica was on her way. Captain Hauser was the only member of the command crew with a certificate to guide a fully burdened VLCC through these dangerous waters, so he had to remain on the bridge until they cleared Prince William Sound. He moved into the bridge from the port wing and wedged himself into the master’s chair, a cup of coffee at the ready. His first standing order since taking command was that fresh coffee was to be available at all times of the day or night and each pot was to be no more than thirty minutes old. He was good for at least twenty-five cups per day. He’d been able to break himself of his nicotine addiction, but his need for caffeine would never be shaken.

Already the cruise wasn’t going well. The ship was running flawlessly, but Hauser was having a tough time with his crew, especially JoAnn Riggs. He had spoken to her briefly about the accident that had maimed the former captain but still wasn’t satisfied with her answers. She had been extremely evasive. The remaining officers and the chief engineer appeared competent, but they had not been present when Captain Albrecht had lost his arm and could add nothing to Riggs’ account.

The hours dragged on without incident. The great tanker powered south, her huge bows forcing the water aside rather than cleaving through it. For a ship this big, the stormy seas of the Sound weren’t even noticeable. They swirled around the hull but couldn’t cause even a slight roll.

“ERV to Southern Cross .” The radio call was the first voice on the bridge for the past two hours except for Hauser’s quiet course corrections.

“This is the Cross . Go ahead.”

“Though we can’t see it, the Loran says we’re at the entrance to the Sound. You’re on your own.” The voice over the radio was tired.

The storm that had dumped four inches of snow aboard the tanker at Valdez had not abated. A steady white curtain was drawn against the armored windscreen of the bridge, the snow racing in one direction, then another without a moment’s pause. It was impossible to discern a horizon line between the sea and sky; each was dark and angry. The tanker’s bow lights looked like a dim constellation, far removed from the heated comfort of the spacious bridge.

“Roger that. This is the Southern Cross acknowledging that we have been escorted out of Prince William Sound,” Hauser replied formally. The ship was on her own.

He waited for another ten minutes before taking his leave from the bridge, making certain that everything was functioning properly. He took a slow circuit of the huge compartment, his weathered hands clasped behind his back as he read the dozens of gauges and dials that indicated the ship’s status. As he’d suspected, the ship was running in perfect order. When he’d finished his brief tour, he paused at the exit to the bridge, near the large plotting table.

“Helmsman” — Hauser didn’t recall the man’s name from the hasty introduction just before leaving the terminal — “First Officer Riggs is eight minutes late for her watch. When she arrives, tell her this has been noted on my log. If she hasn’t shown in ten minutes, call me in my cabin.” Hauser had to use the bathroom so badly he couldn’t wait for Riggs to replace him on watch.

Because a modern supertanker operates with just a skeleton crew of thirty, there was a great deal of space for each person aboard. Most rated a private cabin or shared with only one crewmate. The captain, especially, was afforded every luxury. The Master’s Suite was located one level below the bridge and included a large front office, called the Day Room, as well as a sleeping cabin the size of a generous apartment. The carpet was a rich blue pile, thick and soft, and the woodwork around the cabin was of the finest quality, not the cheap commercial paneling found in the other officers’ quarters. There was already a stack of paperwork mounded on his desk that needed his immediate attention. He hated to admit that the job of Master had become one of administrative details rather than saltwater and hard steel. Such was the nature of the business today. Once, captains had been cut from a romantic cloth, heaped with legend and lore. Now they were nothing more than glorified managers buried under bureaucratic paper shuffling.

He kicked off his boots and shed his black worsted wool uniform jacket. He’d stuffed the tie that went with the uniform into a pocket hours before and vowed he wouldn’t retrieve it until the ship was in sight of Long Beach. He’d never felt that discipline aboard ship was maintained by strict dress code. Let the crew be comfortable and they would work better had always been his style of command.

Hauser was finishing in the bathroom when the intercom chimed. “Yes, what is it?”

“Sorry to disturb you, Captain.” It was the helmsman. “First Officer Riggs hasn’t shown yet. I paged her cabin but got no reply.”

“I’m on my way,” Hauser muttered irritably. Riggs’ actions had gone beyond rude. She was showing a serious dereliction of duty.

He threw on his shoes and decided against his uniform coat.

Swinging open his cabin door angrily, he plowed right into Riggs, tossing the smaller woman to the floor in the moment before she knocked. Hauser recovered from his surprise, bending to offer her a hand, a ready apology on his lips. That was when he saw the pistol on the carpeted deck where the collision had knocked it from her grip. Riggs, too, saw the weapon and struggled toward it, her arm outstretched, her fingers crabbing furiously.

He saw a look of murderous rage in her eyes and without conscious thought stepped on her wrist, pinning her hand. Riggs screamed out in startled pain, writhing to twist herself free. He was just about to demand what was happening when a burst of automatic gunfire echoed from the deck above, near or on the bridge. Hauser looked down the hall and saw an armed shadow duck from an emergency exit, dive across the hallway, and fall into the Chief Engineer’s cabin.

Hauser had only moments to react, his mind churning but his instincts forcing him to flight. He couldn’t risk the seconds to scoop up Riggs’ pistol; he just ran. Smashing through an emergency exit, he dashed up the utilitarian stairs, his chest heaving. He paused at the top landing and pressed his ear to the door that led to a short passageway and the bridge.

Trained for and seasoned by danger his entire life, an armed conflict aboard his ship went far beyond his experience. Yet Hauser’s first thoughts weren’t about the situation. He thought instead of his wife, white-haired and wrinkled but still the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. Her grave expression as he boarded his flight to Alaska filled his mind and her almost disapproving gaze galvanized him into action. She’d warned him not to take this command, and suddenly he agreed with her.

Still, he was responsible for the safety of the ship and its crew. The automatic gunfire could mean only one thing. Terrorists were seizing his ship and Riggs was helping them. Thirty seconds had elapsed since he’d first bumped into her, and already he was forming a plan. He had to get to the bridge to send a distress call.

How many more of the crew were working with them? Hauser couldn’t even guess.

The door Hauser was hiding behind was halfway down the hallway that connected the bridge to the supertanker’s main elevator. Once he committed himself, there would be no cover until he gained the bridge; the hall would be like a shooting gallery. Gathering the courage he never recognized he possessed, Hauser took a deep breath, threw open the door, and ran faster than he’d ever moved before.

One of the men assigned to replace the tanker’s name guarded the closed doors of the elevator, the body of a crewman at his feet, shot to death as he tried to escape. He was turned away when Hauser dodged from the emergency stairwell.